* * *
—
The first thought I have as we draw closer to my house is, How can my car be blocking my neighbor’s car when hers is not even there?
I turn to look at my friend. “Nana, what’s going on? And I was really looking forward to volunteering tonight.”
“Oh, please,” she says. “You just wanted to spend time with Donovan.”
“What?” I push open my front door, ready to list the one hundred and two reasons why I can’t stand that man, when I hear a hum of chatter.
“Oh, God. Someone’s in the house.” I grip onto Nana, my heart thumping.
But when the door to the kitchen swings open, I’m surprised to see Rachel.
“Finally. What took you so long?”
My shoulders go slack. God, I’ve missed her.
“Now before you say anything—” Rachel holds up her hand, then stands aside. Ola is sitting at the breakfast table. “I’m not here to play mediator but my wedding is in two months. And according to Nana, neither one of you has called the other. Since I’m not going to take sides, the best I can do is get you in the same room.”
Slowly, I walk into the kitchen and stand across from Ola.
“Nana and I are going to step outside, and the two of you will talk.” Rachel places Nana’s key on the counter.
I watch Nana lead the way out of the kitchen, and just before Rachel goes, she squeezes my shoulder.
I turn to Ola. She looks . . . sad.
I feel an urge to apologize and be done with it. But then I think, no. We need to have a proper conversation.
So I sit on the opposite chair, and I pretend that I’m in Jacqui’s room again with its turquoise sofa and warm lighting and the yucca plant in the corner, and feel something stir within me. Then I start to talk. I tell Ola that I’m sorry that I outed her secret and for all the mean things I said. I tell her how I feel like I’ve been paying the price for her mother’s behavior toward her and how it feels to walk on eggshells and be blamed for every one of our fallings-out. I tell her how much I miss her. The cousin who would stick up for me, even over something as trivial as being short-changed by 50p.
By this point, Ola is holding back tears. I place my hand over hers and stroke her knuckles.
“We haven’t been open with each other for years, have we?” I whisper.
And for the next several minutes, Ola pours out her heart and I listen, never once interrupting or letting her hand go. She tells me about her marriage and how she feels like a wife only by default—because if she hadn’t got pregnant then she and Jon wouldn’t be together. She tells me about how hard it is for her to trust anyone—she’s constantly watching Jon’s every move—and how this has strained their marriage. She tells me that Jon is always reassuring her that he loves her, and yes, the picnic proposal did happen, but she didn’t tell anyone about it because she doubted his love.
“Despite all Jon’s reassurances,” she sniffs, “I couldn’t help but think that he loved me as the mother of his children, not the love of his life. And then, when he told me recently that it was you he’d liked way back when, I felt so insecure. Why do you think I ditched my weave?” She pulls her tightly coiled ponytail. “I know it sounds silly, but I’ve never had much confidence. Even when I was a kid. I think I have my mum to blame for that.”
“I know the feeling,” I admit, and my voice wobbles. “Though it’s more about whether or not I’m in a relationship. You know, my mum compares me with you too.”
My lips are trembling now. My heart aches. Sod it. I get up and throw my arms around her.
“I’m sorry,” we keep saying. We wipe each other’s eyes and cheeks, only for tears to fall again. I’ve wanted this for so long.
“Look at us, blubbering like two grown babies,” Ola says, and I laugh. “Oh, yeah.” She sniffs. “I heard about your redundancy. Are you okay?”
I take a deep breath before explaining why I lied.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I would have done the exact same thing. No way I’d risk a lecture from my mum!”
We laugh again, then her smile vanishes.
“I’m such a mess,” she whispers, staring blankly straight ahead. “Jon, he deserves better.”
During the silence, I stroke her hair, not in a rush to speak. Eventually I say, “Ola, don’t take this the wrong way but . . . have you considered counseling?”
In your own time
FRIDAY
Psalm 139:14—I praise you because I’m fearfully and wonderfully made
Phenomenal woman, that’s me
Today, Jacqui’s wearing Adidas Superstars—white shell toe trainers with three blue stripes on the outer side. I’ve just been telling her about my great week and how I’ve repurposed my dozens of Post-it notes to write words of affirmation to myself, including my favorite poem “Phenomenal Woman” by Maya Angelou. They’re all stuck up on my bedroom wall shaped in a heart. I also tell her about my decision to change careers. Yes, I missed the Sanctuary job deadline, and I’m still gutted about that, but I’m not going to give up. I want to work for a charity.
“I have to say,” says Jacqui, adjusting her pashmina, “you do seem chirpier this week.”
“Thanks!” I flash my teeth.
“Now, if it’s okay”—she looks down at her notes—“there’s something you mentioned last week that I would like us to discuss today.” She pauses briefly.
I shift. “I know what you’re going to say.” I sigh. “You’re talking about that comment I made, right? How I thought that Femi wanted someone better . . . someone lighter.”
Jacqui snuggles in her chair. “Are you happy for us to start there?”
I run a finger over my thigh, feeling Jacqui’s gaze on me. There’s no easy way to tell her that I considered lightening my skin. But like Donovan said, you only get out of therapy what you put in.
“I have this belief . . .” The tears are already collecting in my throat. “This belief that the reason why I’m still single is because . . . I’m not beautiful enough. You see, for years”—I allow a tear to fall—“I’ve searched for someone who looks like me, with my complexion, my figure, my hair, to be the chosen one. But when I look at all the famous Black men, their wives, their girlfriends, they don’t look like me.” I reach for a tissue, pulling the pointy end while what feels like anger rumbles in my chest. “Let’s face it, Jacqui. The women who grace magazine covers are usually light-skinned, Latina or white. In music videos, they are the desired ones. Light-skinned women are seen as more beautiful. Full stop. In fact, only a few weeks back, this guy told me straight to my face that I’m not his preference. And do you know what his consolation prize was? Well, at least I’m pretty for a dark-skinned girl. It broke me, Jacqui. It broke me. And that’s why . . . and that’s why . . . and that’s why I considered lightening my skin.”
My confession roars out of me. I put my hands to my face. I’m shuddering. Crying loudly.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I dab my cheeks with my scrunched-up tissue, but it’s so badly crumpled and wet, it’s useless. A hand falls on my shoulder.