For a moment, I’m slightly swayed. Nana is an amazing cook.
I throw her pillow back at her. “I’ll think about it.”
Can I have tap water, please?
MONDAY
History Ctrl+H
Recently Closed
How to approach a guy at the bar without looking like a complete weirdo—Elle
“I can’t believe they actually prayed for you,” says Joanna, hand over her mouth, spluttering laughter. “Like kumbaya prayed for you.”
It’s seven in the evening and I’m standing near the bar with my favorite colleagues, Joanna and Brian, at our usual after-work spot—All Bar One. As always, the place is buzzing. With Operation Wedding Date now in action, I’ve worn my best white blouse and tucked it into my black A-line skirt from H&M. I did consider the bare legs look, but it’s too cold. Joanna, on the other hand, is wearing a figure-hugging pencil skirt, and what, for her sake, I hope are nude tights.
I met Joanna about five years ago after she ever so kindly passed a wad of tissues under my toilet cubicle, when silly me forgot to check the tissue dispenser beforehand. We quickly grew from stall mates to good friends, and thanks to her working in PR, I’ve seen Jorja Smith live. Brian joined my team last year as a graduate analyst and during his first week, my manager Louise gave him an earful—“You’re here to work, Brian, not to chit-chat.” Feeling sorry for him, I invited him out for coffee with me and Joanna, and since making the introduction, they’ve become inseparable. I call them JoBrian whenever I’m feeling lazy （which is often）。
“Man. Sorry, babe,” says Brian, visibly distressed. He slings his gray blazer over one shoulder. “You have it worse than me. When I came out to my mum, she only said, ‘Well, I better put the kettle on.’ And she’s a Roman Catholic.”
We laugh.
“Welcome to my life,” I say, projecting my voice over the buzz of chatter as more and more people in smart shirts and loose ties pile into the venue. There are loads of men here, but no one has caught my eye, which is a bit rubbish given that the article I read earlier suggested making “smoldering” eye contact （whatever that means）。 To make matters difficult, most of the men are drinking in huddles and some are being annoyingly shouty. And what if they work for Godfrey? Dammit, I didn’t think about that. Would that make things awkward?
“That’s the thing with coming from a Nigerian family.” I drag my eyes back to Brian. “They forget that love is a process. That you need to fall in love first, not just meet a random guy and decide he’s the one to marry.”
“Are you going to meet this Alex guy then?” Brian clearly hasn’t been listening.
“Of course not.” A man brushes by and nearly yanks my arm off.
“Why not?” Brian pushes up his glasses. “He sounds like a catch, sooo—”
“Don’t encourage her!” Joanna flicks her fringe away from her eyes. “If she gets with Alex, then what about Derek?”
I put down my drink so that I can properly scowl at her.
Ever since I told JoBrian about Derek, I’ve had to put up with them constantly saying, “He’s the one.” It doesn’t help that they both know what he looks like—my fault, showing them Derek’s Facebook photos. Why did I do that again?
Derek and I go way back. We attended the same Sunday school at All Welcome Church, but we became proper friends when we were eighteen and both studying hard to get into our first-choice university. We provided each other with moral support, hung out in the library together. I thought our relationship was platonic, but then one day, Derek showed up at the bar while I was having a pity party with Kemi over my breakup with Femi. I spent God knows how long talking to him. He was a shoulder to lean on. Literally. Then, when Kemi was in the toilets, he said in a low voice, “Yinka. Femi may not want you, but . . . but I do.”
I jerked up as if he was a spider. Then, as now, I saw Derek as a nice guy but still Derek. Zero chemistry. I’ve just never seen him in a romantic way.
“I like you, Yinka,” he said, just about managing to hold eye contact.
My stomach twisted in knots. I knew how painful unrequited love is and how it feels to have your heart broken. So rather than telling him how I really felt, I said, “Derek . . . I just got out of a relationship.” And thankfully, he didn’t say anything else.
I haven’t seen him in a while now. Hmm. Another reason why I shouldn’t attend All Welcome any time soon.
“Yes!” Brian turns to Joanna, mouth wide. “How could I forget our beloved Derek? Yinka, I kid you not, you would make a beautiful couple.”
Clearly, I must have forgotten that I’m with my white friends because in true Nigerian style, I swing a hand over my head, clicking my fingers, repeating, “God forbid. God forbid,” like Mum does.
Brian and Joanna stare at me.
I clear my throat and reach for my drink. “Besides, I’ve already got a plan for how I’m going to get a man.” I watch Joanna’s brows flicker with interest.
“A plan?” she says, bobbing her straw in her glass.
“Ooh. Tell us more,” Brian adds.
“It’s no big deal,” I say. “I just plan to, you know, put myself out there a bit more. Maybe talk to a couple of guys at my cousin’s engagement this Friday. If that doesn’t work then, I dunno, maybe try online dating or something—”
Brian’s mouth falls open. “You’re not even on Tinder?! God, Yinka. No wonder you’re bloody single.”
I take a slow sip of my G&T. “Apparently, the guys on there are only after sex.”
“Is that a bad thing?” Brian smirks. “Just kidding. Though I’m not going to lie to you, you have to do a bit of weeding. But don’t forget! I found the love of my life on Tinder. Ricky and I are going two years strong.”
“Hey, I’m not the only one that’s single,” I point out, nodding to Jo.
Brian shoots Joanna a playful glare. “Oh, I’m on to her too.”
“I’ll stick to my paid online dating sites, thank you very much.” Joanna knocks back the rest of her wine. “My theory is this—if a man is happy to pay to search for love, then surely he must be after a serious relationship, right?”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “But that doesn’t stop them from being bad dates.”
Brian gasps. “Ohmigod, yes! Remember that time when Jo got catfished?”
While Brian recounts the date that Joanna had a few months back with an FBI-looking IT technician who refused to take off his sunglasses, I spot a chiseled Black man making his way from the men’s toilets. My brows rise. He is definitely not a Godfrey employee, because as a Black minority, I’m convinced that I know all the Black people in the office—and trust me, I definitely would have remembered his face.
Brian is still talking as I sneakily watch the man weave through the crowd. “Hey!” I’m suddenly thrown forward after someone knocks into me from behind.
“What a moron.” Brian raises his voice. “Aww, look. Your drink’s all over the floor.”
“Let me get you another.” Joanna rummages in her bag.