“So . . . Rachel’s engaged,” says Nana now, rubbing the side of her shoulder, two black ankh tattoos on display.
“And we’re bridesmaids.”
Nana grins. “Guess who’s making the bridesmaids’ dresses?”
I give Nana’s foot a light squeeze. “Well, in that case, I know we’ll look amazing.” I gaze at the opposite wall covered with dozens of sketches and photos of her designs made out of bold wax fabric, inspired by her Ghanaian heritage. “I swear, Nana, you need to leave your job and do this full time. Honestly, you’re so talented. I mean, look at that jacket!” I swing my arm toward a mannequin where a blue blazer with giant shoulder pads and a lapel made out of Kente cloth is draped. “It’s like something out of Black Panther.”
Nana laughs and twiddles her nose ring. “I know, I know. But bills have to be paid.” She slaps her thighs. “Anyways, how was the baby shower? Why did you suddenly decide to bounce?”
“Ah! Where should I even start?” I shuffle until my back hits the wall, and then tell her everything, barely stopping to take a breath. Well, everything except the part when Aunty Debbie said those not-so-nice things about her, and when Ola called me closed-minded.
“Damn,” Nana breathes after I’ve spilled the tea. I’m parched from all the ranting. “Aunty Debbie definitely took the piss. I mean, praying publicly over your singleness. That’s a new low.”
“Thank you!”
“And this guy she wants to introduce you to—”
“Alex,” I say, ready to launch into another rant.
“Remind me why don’t you want to meet him again?”
I stare at Nana, speechless.
She stares back. “You’re single, sooo, what’s the problem?”
“Nana, weren’t you listening? Aunty Debbie em-bar-razed me,” I say, putting on a Nigerian accent. “No, scratch that, she humiliated me and she got my mum in on the act,” I add before she can jump in. “And what would happen if I met Alex and didn’t like him? You think Aunty Debbie wouldn’t kick up a fuss? Puh-lease. Let’s not forget what she did at Kemi’s wedding.”
At this, Nana purses her lips.
“Exactly.”
What happened was that when I had failed to catch the bouquet, Aunty Debbie had made a mad dash to the dance floor, grabbed the mic from the MC’s hands and called back the winner, demanding to know how old the woman was before insisting that her niece needed the bouquet more than she did. When she discovered we were the same age, she snatched the bouquet from the woman’s hands, split it in two and then announced, “Now both of you will get married,” and my three hundred uncles and aunties chorused, “Amen!”
Nana shakes her head. “I see your point. It’s just . . .” She trails off. Bites her lip.
I sigh. “Go on, you might as well just say it.”
“Well, I know you believe in love, yeah. And it’s great that you believe that one day you’ll find it. But don’t you think you actually need to, you know, step out to find it?”
I laugh. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you.” My girl hasn’t had a boyfriend in a million years. Lucky for her, she can get away with it because her parents are those liberal, laid-back types. My mum would have killed me if I’d told her that I had no plans to go to uni.
“Hey, this is not about me,” she says. “There’s a big difference between you and me. I’m okay if I never find love and grow old on my own. I prefer my own company, to be honest.” She points a finger at me. “You are a hopeless romantic. You believe in love and all that ish.”
“And I’ll find it, but not with the help of Aunty Debbie.”
“Then how?” Nana grips her hair, the messy bun sagging even lower. “How will you find a man when all you do is work these days?”
“I have to bloody work,” I protest. “Besides, these last three years I wasn’t focused on getting a man, you know that. But nowww . . .” Do I tell her about Operation Wedding Date? No, too embarrassing. A coy smile slips across my face. “Now I think it’s time for Yinka to get her groove back.”
Nana quirks a brow then leans forward and places a hand on my forehead, as though to check whether I’ve got a temperature. I shrug her off and she laughs.
“Nana, I’m serious! In fact, I’ve got a plan. This coming Friday at Rachel’s engagement party . . . I’m going to speak to a few guys.”
Nana snorts. “I wouldn’t ride all your hopes on this Friday.”
I frown.
“Isn’t it more of a small gathering? I’m sure Rachel told me it’s not a party. Anyway, isn’t online dating easier?”
“That’s my next option. I’ve heard way too many harrowing stories to try that unless I have to. Plus, you know I’m old skool.”
“True.” Nana laughs. “Well, I’m just happy that you’re actually putting yourself out there. I was getting worried that you were still hung up on Femi.”
I fold my arms. “Err, excuse me. I don’t even stalk the guy on Facebook.”
Nana scoffs. “You’re the only person I know who still uses Facebook.”
We laugh, then I start thinking back to my plan. I really do hope there are a few single guys at Rachel and Gavesh’s engagement party—gathering, whatever. But maybe, like Nana said, I should look at other options too.
Samsung Memo cancel
Text Joanna and Brian about after-work drinks tomorrow.
“Hey, Yinka?”
“Huh?” I look up to see Nana fiddling with her many ear piercings. “Don’t tell me you need me to be a mannequin again.”
“No, not that.” She rubs her finger over her Cleopatra tattoo on the back of her left wrist. “The landlady wants to put the rent up.”
“Seriously? That’s insane. I swear you only just moved in about six months ago.”
Nana sighs. “I know, right. Who would have thought that New Cross would be an expensive place to live?”
“Damn. That sucks.”
“Yup,” she says glumly. “So I was thinking . . .” She pushes out her lips. “You know you have two bedrooms . . .”
“Oh, no, please . . .”
“It won’t be forever,” Nana cries. “Please, Yinka. Otherwise, I have to move in with my sister and her three kids. Where would I put my stuff?”
“But it will ruin our friendship,” I whine. “Also, wouldn’t living with me affect your energy?”
“So now you want to be all spiritual.” She hits my knee with a pillow. “Yinka, come on. What’s the real reason you don’t want me to move in?”
I glance down, fake-cough. “You’re messy.”
“Messy?” Nana gasps like I’ve just dissed Beyoncé. Seriously, can she not see the evidence? In addition to her carpet, which could do with a deep Dyson clean, tons of yarn, fabric and plastic bags spew out of every corner. Nana’s sewing table is a mess—you can hardly see her sewing machine—and oh, no, is that old tangerine peel I see?
“It’s called Art,” she says proudly, but even she can’t keep a straight face. “Come on, Yinka.” She laughs. “You’re my last hope. How can I bribe you? I know. You love my cooking, right? Now imagine this. Jerk chicken. Jollof rice. Every night.”