Back in bed, I whizz through my WhatsApp contact list. I stop at the name Emmanuel, take two deep breaths, and click on the video icon. It rings. Again. And again.
After the fifth ring, it dawns on me that I haven’t seen Emmanuel since I was twelve. I try to refresh my memory of him: left ear pierced, caramel skin, chipped eyebrows—yes, because that was the “cool look” at the time, thanks to the likes of So Solid Crew.
By now, I’ve counted the tenth ring. With a sigh, I go to tap on “end call,” when suddenly, the call connects and we’re staring face-to-face.
Okaaay. Player rumors aside, Emmanuel is fit. He has a nice stubble and shape-up, and he has ditched the chipped eyebrow look.
“Yo, who’s this?” he says, his brows twisting like The Rock.
“Hi, Emmanuel,” I say. “It’s Yinka.”
“Yinka?” He looks confused. Not even a flicker of recognition runs across his face.
Oh, God. There’s a sick feeling in my stomach. I’m sure Mum said Emmanuel was waiting to hear from me.
“Yinka,” I say again. “We knew each other when we were kids?” And because Emmanuel’s expression doesn’t change, I add, “You know, the one who you went to Sunday school with? Lived in Peckham.”
“Oh,” he says to my relief. “Oh, so you’re Yinka.” His eyebrows rise. “Okay. My mum did say you might call.”
I smile. “Yes, I am she.” I raise my phone higher to catch a better angle. “This is awkward,” I say after an extended pause. God, I wish I had planned a few questions. “So, how’s it going?”
Emmanuel’s eyes remind me of a chameleon’s. They flicker everywhere but at me.
“Good,” he says flatly. “Life is good. Can’t complain.” I wait for him to ask me the same question, but he doesn’t.
“Great,” I say to avoid another lull. “Life is good too. Can’t complain.”
“Cool,” Emmanuel says.
More silence.
“Sooo . . . what do you do for work?” I say this calmly, but inside I’m panicking. Maybe I caught him at the wrong time.
“I’m a plumber,” he answers in the same mechanical tone.
“That’s handy.” I chuckle. “Excuse the pun.”
Emmanuel doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even chuckle or—throw me a bone—smirk. Instead, his pupils are still busy chasing the elephant in the room.
“Okay. I know this is awkward, me video calling you out of the blue. Would you like me to call you normally? Or maybe another time? Or you can call me in your own time?” I add quickly. “Whenever you’re free.”
Emmanuel sucks in his lips as though he’s in pain and he needs to scream. God, I know this is painful but give me something, man.
“The thing is”—he rubs his neck, laughs a little—“when my mum told me about you, I actually had a different person in mind.”
“Oh,” I say, startled, not prepared for that answer. “Who did you think I was?”
Emmanuel smiles, an awkward smile. He’s still rubbing his neck. “Do you remember that light-skinned girl?” he says finally, and I stiffen. Jemimah was the light-skinned girl that all the boys liked in Sunday school. “Yeah, for some reason, I had in mind you were her.”
“I see . . .”
“It’s nothing personal against you,” he rushes to say, and I have no desire to hear what he’s about to say next. Tears are burning the backs of my eyes and I’m desperate to get off the phone. “It’s just my preference,” he finishes. “But you’re pretty for a dark-skinned girl, though—”
I hit “end call” before the tears come. I’ve heard enough. Suddenly, I’m hyperventilating. Crying like a child who has just broken her toy. I snatch off my wig and toss my phone to one side, not even caring when it bounces off the bed with a thump. I feel so stupid. Humiliated. I’m taken back to the younger me on the playground. I feel . . . ugly.
I thrust myself out of bed, stomping toward my mirror where I’m confronted with my dark complexion. I cry louder. Gasping for air.
I am the problem. I will never find love, because I’m the problem. All along I was wrong. It’s not what I need to do, but who I need to be.
After wiping my face furiously, I pick up my phone then snatch up my car keys. I don’t bother with my wig. I grab my coat and leave.
It takes me longer than usual to reach Peckham. God, the traffic is intense. Thankfully, the hair shops are still open and I rush into the same one I went into a few months back. I head for the skincare aisle, knowing exactly where to stop.
I grab a handful of all types: creams, soaps, gels, lotions—all promising lighter skin. Fair and beautiful.
I head toward the cashier, my arms full, not giving a damn who sees me. There’s a short queue. I stand behind a plump woman, her acrylic nails clutching two packets of weave.
Aware that my eyes are puffy and red, I stare at the floor, relieved to take a step forward every so often. I’m third in the line now. Nearly there.
Then, just as I’m about to step forward, I hear a little girl say, “Excuse me, please.”
When I look at her, my heart swells. She has rich chocolate skin with short kinky hair tied back in pigtails, and as I stare at her, I see . . . I see . . . me.
“Yinka, you’re beautiful.” I’m hearing Daddy’s voice. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Remember, the midnight sky is just as beautiful as the sunrise.”
I look down at my chest, the array of lightening products pressed against my arm. I feel physically sick.
“I said excuse me, please,” the girl says again. I step back and watch her skip past, the hem of her dress swishing above her white socks until she grabs the hand of a man wearing a durag.
What am I doing? I come back to my senses, and a single tear falls.
I scurry out of the queue, apologizing to the South Asian man who yells, “Next, please!” and hurry up the aisle. I stuff all the products back, not caring that I’ve placed them all wrong on the shelves.
Outside, my emotions are overwhelming and for the first time in Peckham, I feel disoriented. I can’t drive. Not in this state. I need somewhere private.
Blindly I make my way to the park where Donovan and I ate chicken and chips all those weeks ago, collapsing on the same bench. I wipe my eyes. Tears fall. Wipe them again. More tears fall. Giving up, I allow myself to cry, making ugly blubbering sounds.
“Yinka?”
I look up. Donovan is nearing me, holding a takeaway box. I immediately wipe my face. For flip’s sake, can’t I go anywhere without seeing this man?
“Hey, what’s wrong?” He rushes over to the bench, casting the takeaway box to one side before wrapping his arm around me.
“Everything!” I clap my knees in exasperation. “Why am I never good enough?”
“Is this about your job situation?” He draws his face closer to mine.
“No. It’s not that. It’s—it’s . . .”
“Family?”
“No, not family. God, I feel so embarrassed.”
Donovan rubs my shoulder, and I feel his strong gaze on me. I keep my eyes fixed on my thighs, which have stopped shaking.