So far I’ve been able to avoid having a direct conversation with Mum, but not for much longer . . .
“Yinka,” she leans over. Reluctantly I bring my gaze back. “Things didn’t work out with Emmanuel, ehn?”
Oh, for goodness’ sake. Are we really going to have this conversation now?
“No,” I say simply. I take a sip of my Supermalt.
“What happened this time, hm?” says Aunty Debbie, rolling her eyes.
“Is now the right time and place to be having this conversation?” Aunty Blessing comes to my rescue as always.
I dart my eyes across the dozens of round tables with guests from both sides of the family. I wish I was sitting at Rachel and Gavesh’s table with Nana.
“And how’s the job search going?”
Aunty Debbie does not know when to stop.
“Fine,” I exhale, remembering to breathe. I try to recall something that Jacqui told me—that I can control how I respond to others. But just as I’m doing so, Aunty Blessing says, “Don’t worry, Debbie. She’s applying for her dream job. Isn’t that right, Yinka?”
I purse my lips. Bummer. I haven’t had the chance to tell Aunty Blessing that I’ve missed the deadline for the Sanctuary job I told her about.
“Well, that’s good,” Aunty Debbie continues. “I’m sure having a degree from Oxford on your CV will help.” She’s saying this to me, but she’s really directing it at Ola.
I shoot a quick glance at Ola. The shift in her face is minute, but I’ve been on the receiving end of harsh words enough times to recognize what hurt looks like. And rather than the usual feeling of guilt I often have when Aunty Debbie puts us in a situation like this, I feel infuriated.
Thankfully, the tension is released by the arrival of Pastor Adekeye, whose mustard yellow suit immediately lifts my mood.
“Tolu,” he says, bending over to speak to Mum. “We are due for another prayer.” He points at item five on the program in his hand.
“Oh, yes,” Mum cries. “Thank you for reminding me.”
She pushes back her chair and scrambles to her feet, when I hear myself say, “Actually, Pastor, can I pray?”
Everyone turns to me, visibly stunned. Except for Pastor Adekeye, who says, “Yes, that would be lovely. Come with me.”
As I arrive on stage, Kemi gives me one of those double-take looks as though I’ve stepped out of the changing room naked.
Pastor Adekeye signals to the DJ to stop the music. “Okay, we have a very special guest,” he says, bringing the mic too close to his mouth. “As you all know, this is Yinka, Kemi’s older sister,” he says, addressing the audience. “Yinka has kindly offered to lead us all in another prayer. So take it away.” He pats my back, then hands me the microphone before stepping to one side.
“Thank you,” I say, not quite into the mic. I survey the hall. The guests are still chatting among themselves, and my tonsils are wobbling in the back of my throat. I’m absolutely bricking it.
I close my eyes. “May we all bow our heads, please.” Thankfully, it doesn’t take long for the chatter to settle. In fact, the hall becomes so quiet that I can hear the thudding of my heart in my ears.
I take a breath and moisten my lips. “Dear God,” I begin. I wince at the sound of my own voice. It sounds jittery and shaky, as though I’m on the verge of tears. “We thank you for this occasion and for bringing us all here today.”
I’m suddenly aware of how tight my gèlè feels around my head.
“We thank you for my sister, Kemi—who I love so, so much. And for her amazing husband, Uche, who’s absolutely perfect for her. We thank you for Chinedu, the latest addition to our family. God, bless them richly and give them good health.”
I get my first chorus of Amens and a hushed, “Yes, Lord,” from Pastor Adekeye. Thank God, I haven’t passed out yet.
“I thank you for my mum,” I continue, “who is the backbone of our family. I love her dearly. God, please bless her.”
Another murmur of Amens. Mum’s is the loudest.
“And I thank you for my uncles and aunties. In particular, my parents’ sisters—Aunty Blessing, Aunty Debbie, Big Mama, and the many others who are in Nigeria and abroad. They have not only looked out for my mum, but also for me and Kemi. God, bless them.”
A third round of Amens. Oh, and a “Hallelujah!” from Big Mama.
“I also want to pray for myself.” If the hall can get any quieter, it has, and tiny goosebumps prickle along the sides of my arms. “Firstly, Lord, thank you. Thank you that I’m alive to witness this day. But I also want to say . . .” I swallow. My heart is now in my throat. I’m like an Olympic diver on the edge of a springboard. “Th-th-thank you for this season,” I finish. No, Yinka, be more specific.
“Thank you for this season of singleness,” I amend.
There are three or four Amens—two of which come from Kemi and Uche. Other than that, the hall is stiflingly quiet. The same silence that you get when a comedian makes an offensive joke and the audience is unsure whether or not to laugh. The back of my ankara bùbá feels sticky, but I power on.
“For many people,” I continue, and there’s a new tone to my voice—confidence—“singleness is something to be ashamed of. It’s something negative, to be prayed away. But I thank you, Lord, for this blessing.” （Cue in the mutters and murmurings.） “Because without it, Lord, I wouldn’t know how to be a better person. How to better love my family. My friends. Myself.” （Kerfuffle and murmurings increase a few decibels.） I hear Pastor Adekeye whisper into my ear, “Yinka, oya, round up.”
Then I hear Mum. She’s near the stage, somewhere to my right. She’s hissing, “Yinka, stop this bloody nonsense. Stop it right now!”
But I’m not done yet.
“Lord—”
“Yinka, get down!”
“If there is one thing I ask of you, it is that I find love only when I’m ready. And when I do find love—which I ultimately know I will—let me be in the position to give and receive it as a more confident, whole person who knows her self-worth.”
There. I’ve done it. I’ve bloody done it. Oops. Sorry, God.
Kemi yelps a mighty “Amen!” and so do a few other people in the crowd too.
“Yinka.” Pastor Adekeye calls my name like a warning.
But I’ve said what I had to say, and I feel incredibly proud of myself. Now all that’s left to say is . . .
“In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen.”
The muttering just about drowns out my closing, with the exception of my dear sister, who’s shouting, “Amen, preach it, sis!”
I open my eyes. It’s just what I expected. Many conferring, shaking heads. A few kissing their teeth. But what I do not see is one person with pity in their eyes. And that makes me feel empowered.
And then I see Ola. She’s on her feet, clapping. Then Aunty Blessing stands up. Jon joins in too. Now Kemi isn’t the only one to cry, “Amen!”—they’re all shouting it. Oh, and now Rachel has joined. Gavesh. And oh my gosh, there’s Nana. Before I know it, every millennial-looking person is on their feet. They’re whooping. They’re clapping. My heart is bursting with joy.