“Damn.”
“So now can you understand why I’m so angry at Ola? I didn’t laugh in her face when I found out that Jon liked me, so she shouldn’t have laughed when I told her that Alex liked you.”
“Fair enough,” Nana says. “But Yinka, you’re better than this. You don’t have to stoop to her level. And causing a scene at Rachel’s bridal shower.” She shakes her head.
“Please, Nana, I feel guilty as it is. I’m going to make it up to Rachel. But I don’t regret standing up for myself. Let’s face it, Ola and I have never really been friends. We were only friends by default because we’re cousins. Now we can stop pretending and go our separate ways.” I pick up my phone and resume scrolling.
Nana is quiet for a moment. Then in a low voice, she says, “You’ve changed.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, you’ve changed, Yinka. And not in a good way.”
I scoff. “Sorry, why am I the only one receiving all the blame? I hope you’re giving Ola the same energy.”
“I’ve already had a word with Ola. She shouldn’t have laughed at you. But I’m not talking about Ola right now, I’m talking about you.”
“Oh, please. Enlighten me, guru.”
“You made a plan out of Post-it notes!” she says. “A plan to change yourself. For a man. And you’ve been lying. And stealing—”
“Erm, I’ve apologized for taking your jumpsuit.”
“Look, one thing I know for certain is that the Yinka I’ve seen over the last few months isn’t the Yinka that I know and love.”
As Nana launches into a monologue about the various different ways that I’ve changed, I start swiping through my phone again.
Ooh. He looks cute. Scratch that. I can’t date a smoker.
“Can you see where I’m coming from?” Nana says at the same time that my heart stops.
I squint.
Wait. Is that—is that Donovan?
“Oi!”
Nana snatches my phone and holds it out of reach.
“Give it back!” I yell.
“You weren’t even listening to me, were you?” She ignores my cries and looks down at the screen. “Seriously?” she says, glancing back at me.
“What?” I make a swing for my phone again. “Didn’t you say I should put myself out there?”
“Not like this,” she says.
“Okay, gimme my phone.” I let out a short laugh. “I’ve taken out my weave, which you were so vehemently against. And you took away the one guy I actually liked. Honestly, what more do you want from me?”
Nana looks at me, her lips quivering in shock.
“Thank you,” I enunciate as she slaps my phone into my palm. I glance down and unlock it, going straight back on Hinge to make my point.
“Fine,” she mutters. She stomps out of the room, and I don’t bother to look up. Instead, I relocate the profile.
I wasn’t seeing things. There he is, with his beard and cornrows and those annoying dimples. Donovan. I read his one-sentence statement: You should message me if you can hold a conversation. Typical.
“I’m only doing this because I care about you.”
Nana has burst back into my room. She’s brandishing a white business card. “His name is Francis Kirkland. He’s a professional counselor. My co-worker recommended him—”
“Nana, you’re overreacting. I don’t need to see a counselor.”
Still, she forces the card into my hand as though I’m refusing money. “Call him first thing on Monday.”
“Or what?” I fold my arms.
Nana folds hers too. “Or . . . I’ll move out.”
May
Sod it
MONDAY
Monday, 3 May at 12.09 a.m.
From: Shane, Dave
To: Yinka Oladeji
Subject: Update
Hi Yinka,
Hope you’re well.
I just realized I never got back to you. Apologies. It’s been manic ever since I returned from my holiday.
Sadly, no updates from any of the employers Sarah put you forward for.
Will be in touch if I hear anything.
Cheers,
Dave
Catasift Recruitments
I pause the finale of How to Get Away with Murder and put my laptop down. I stroll to the bathroom while simultaneously opening the Tinder app, plonking my bottom on the toilet seat. After stumbling across Donovan’s online dating profile, I’ve had no choice but to delete my Hinge account. I just pray that he didn’t see my profile. That would be extremely awkward.
I can’t believe I’m on Tinder. （Sigh.） The one dating app I didn’t think I’d sign up for, but here I am. It’s hella addictive. Joanna and Brian were of course in favor when I told them about it last Friday.
“About time,” Brian said as we sat in the All Bar One that I had avoided going to for months.
“Thank you,” I said loudly, sipping my expensive lemonade. I pulled a face. “Nana thinks I shouldn’t be dating right now.”
“What?” Joanna screwed up her brows.
“I know, right! Anyway, how’s the new job?”
From the light in her eyes, I knew she was going to say . . .
“I love it. I love the people. I love the culture.” Joanna listed each thing she loved with her fingers. Then after Brian and I had asked enough questions, we moved on to talk about her boyfriend, Brandon. It seems like they’re very happy.
“And how about you, Brian?” I asked, trying to shake off the weird feeling in my chest. I’m not jealous. I’m not jealous. I’m happy for her.
Brian was still hating his job. And I hated myself for feeling relieved.
“So how are things with you?” he asked, slowly stirring his drink with a straw.
I looked at my phone. “Still job hunting.”
True to her word, Aunty Blessing put me in touch with Terry Matthews, and despite e-mailing him my CV about a week ago, I have not heard back. Aunty Blessing did say that he is a very busy man, but still, I was hoping for something sooner.
Joanna diverted the conversation. “Ooh, how’s Nana? How are plans for her fashion show going?”
I scratched the top of my ear. Since Nana gave me that business card, I’ve been trying my best to avoid her. She thinks that I’ve booked a counseling session when really I chucked the card the night she gave it to me. I just think she’s being overly dramatic. Let’s hope she doesn’t find out that I’m fobbing her off. I’d hate to see her move out. I really can’t afford the entire place alone.
“She’s great,” I said eventually. “Very busy. Understandably.”
I excused myself to the bar and checked my WhatsApp messages. Rachel’s “I’m Getting Married, Biatch” group has been quiet for a while. Not like I’m expecting to hear from either her or Ola. And since then, my main companionship has been my new friend, Tinder.
Ten minutes have gone by, and I’m still on the toilet seat, swiping left.
No. No—hang on. I recognize this guy.
Marcus. Where have I seen him before?
I’m racking my brain, trying to remember why I recognize those blue eyes, when I’m interrupted by an incoming call from Kemi. I feel a pang of guilt.