And then Pastor Adekeye wakes up from his daze and grabs the mic from me. “Okay. Thank you, Yinka, for that, ehhh . . . very untraditional prayer.” Then quickly, he adds, “But we still pray you find a huzband, Amen.”
The majority of the hall say, “Amen,” and that’s okay. They’re not wishing bad on me. But it feels absolutely friggin’ amazing to have spoken for myself for once.
The music, as requested by Pastor Adekeye, resumes playing, and when I turn around, Kemi is right there to give me the biggest hug.
“I’m so proud of you, sis,” she whispers.
Tears prick my eyes. But I swallow them away, knowing who I have to face next.
Mum is at the foot of the stage, her arms crossed, chest heaving. I can hear her muttering in Yoruba, then—
“What is wrong with you? Have you lost your mind? Have you bloody lost your mind?”
Aunty Debbie scurries over, and not far behind is Aunty Blessing.
“How embarrassing,” Aunty Debbie keeps saying. “Yinka, you know you embarrassed the family up there, don’t you?”
“Okay, let’s not actually embarrass ourselves by making a scene.” Aunty Blessing’s no-nonsense voice carries weight. Aunty Debbie looks over her shoulder and hisses something under her breath.
All the while, Mum just glares at me.
“Come with me,” she says.
* * *
—
In the private room where we left our belongings earlier, Mum is pacing up and down, repeating, “Why now?”
I stand there waiting. I feel ready for it.
At last, Mum stops. “Yinka. What did I do to you for you to be treating me like this, ehn? Why would you embarrass me in front of all my friends?”
I take a breath. “Mum, what did I say that was so embarrassing? Was it calling singleness a blessing? Because if so, in what way is that embarrassing?”
Mum’s expression twists into disbelief. Usually, I wouldn’t have said this aloud. Usually, this is something I would have said in my head. But how long must I carry on like this? Playing it safe? Replying with silence? If there is one thing the chairwork has revealed to me it is, boy oh boy, do I have a lot to say. If I can stand up for myself in front of three hundred people, I can do the same in front of one.
“Yinka, all we have done is pray for you. Why don’t you want to settle down, ehn? Why won’t I pressure you? You’re no longer a young woman. Shebi, you want to end up like your Aunty Blessing?”
“So is this what you’re scared of, hm?” I’m not yelling but there is a power to my voice. “Me ending up like Aunty Blessing, or is it me ending up like you?”
“What?” Mum looks incredulous. It’s as though I’ve just renounced my faith or told her I’m going to be a stripper. My heart quickens at the sight of her expression, but I press on.
“Daddy.” My lips are trembling now. “Why don’t you talk about him?”
“What are you talking about? Yinka, please. Don’t insult me.”
“No, you don’t, Mum,” I cry. “Whenever I ask you about him, you tell me I ask too many questions or shrug me off.”
Mum scoffs and laughs. “You want to insult me today.”
“See. You can’t even deny it, can you?” Tears are gathering now as I remember what I said during the chairwork exercise. My heart is beating so fast.
“Mum,” I say, my voice quivering. “Mum, look at me, please.”
She just about turns her head.
“You’ve never mentioned how it felt to lose him,” I say. “To be a single mum. To no longer be a wife. You’ve never mentioned what it was like to have your future changed.”
Mum folds her arms, but there’s a shimmer in her eyes, as though she’s holding back tears too.
“Mum,” I say again, “do you fear I’ll be alone just as you are now?” My voice is weak, but the message is clear.
All at once, Mum breaks down, yelping loud sobs, tears gushing in thick streams. She yells Daddy’s name. “Kunle! Kunle!”
“Oh, Mum.” I go to her. Hot tears fall as I wrap her into me. We cry loudly. Neither of us in a position to comfort the other. Although this is comforting, I realize. It hurts seeing Mum break down, but we’re actually hugging. I can’t remember the last time I’ve hugged Mum like this, if at all.
“I just want you to be happy,” she says into my shoulder through a snuffle of sobs. “I had to be strong for you and Kemi. I had to be strong.”
For a while we just cling to each other, neither of us knowing what to say, swaying slightly. During the exercise with Jacqui, I spent twenty minutes speaking to an invisible Mum, and yet this moment of silence feels much more uplifting. As another tear rolls down my cheek, slipping through the corner of my lips, I realize how freeing it is to say what I think. To stand up for myself. I realize how much less of an effort it is to be my authentic self, as opposed to trying to be someone else. I love this feeling. I love this Yinka. I can get used to her.
June
Own it
FRIDAY
RACHEL
Exactly one month to go before my wedding!!!!!!!!!
Original Destiny’s Child reunited!
YINKA
Can’t wait!!!!!!! Woop! Woop!
Think we need a new name though
Girls, any suggestions?
OLA
Ooh, what about Bride’s Beaches
Get it?
YINKA
Haha
Or . . .
The Support Bras?
Lool
NANA Orrrr
We can just use an acronym
How about . . .
NORY?
OLA
YORN? Lool
RONY?
YINKA
I know! I know!
How about . . .
ORNY
OLA
LMAOOOOOO
I’m dead
NANA
I actually choked on my drink
RACHEL
I swear Yinka
You’re the queen of lame jokes
If someone had told me at the beginning of the year that I would be sitting next to Mum at Nana’s fashion show taking selfies, I would have laughed in their face. Seriously. And yet, that’s what we’re doing. Smiling, cheeks squished up together and trying to stay in the frame.
After Mum and I had a good cry in the private room at Chinedu’s christening party, we agreed that it was best to talk tomorrow at her place after church. The following day, we flicked through her wedding album and Mum talked about Daddy and how romantic he was. I can see now why she is so keen for me to have that too. We also talked about Aunty Debbie—Mum agreed to have a word with her—and how it feels to be compared to Kemi.
“Okay, I’m sorry,” Mum said, a hand on my knee. “From now on, I will be more mindful of what I say.”
And finally, my big announcement: that I’ll be following my heart and pursuing a career in a charity organization. Mum’s views on charity jobs has not changed, but she warmed to the idea when I told her about the better work-life balance.
“Does this mean you will have time to find a huzband?” she said.
“Mum.”
“I know, I know. I’m just joking.”
I haven’t found a job yet. But I’m not going to give up until I do.
Aside from job hunting and spending more time with Mum and Kemi, counseling has been going well, and the insight I get about myself only continues to grow.