After Mum and I have inspected the selfie—it’s a bit blurry, but it will do—I turn to my right to look at Ola. Not just Ola, in fact, but Ola and Aunty Debbie. I can only assume that with Ola attending counseling now, the two of them are making progress too.
“What do you think?” says Ola, looking at her mum before darting a glance at me.
Nana’s fashion show has yet to start, but still, I’m expecting nothing short of “excellent” from Aunty Debbie. For starters, the hall looks a-mazing. Straight ahead is a T-shaped catwalk illuminated with LED lights, and behind that is a massive screen displaying dream-like visuals that move in sync with the pumping dance music. In the front row are VIPs—vloggers, bloggers, O.M.G. Is that Patricia Bright?—and photographers are crouching near the stage, cameras ready.
“Well?” Aunty Blessing says, tilting her head.
We all stare at Aunty Debbie, waiting for her to answer.
“It’s . . . wonderful,” she says at last.
Ola and I clap.
“So do you still think that Nana made a mistake then?” Clearly counseling has given me no filter. “A few months ago, Aunty, you said Nana should have gone to uni—”
“Me?” Aunty Debbie looks flabbergasted. “No, I think you misunderstood. I said it would have helped if she had gone to university.”
Ola and I smirk.
“But I have to say”—Aunty Debbie adjusts her cuffs—“she clearly is an ambitious girl. I’ll give her that.”
“Sooo,” Ola says tentatively. “Would you say it’s not essential to have a degree? That it’s more about having ambition, working hard, not giving up?”
“A degree is still important,” Aunty Debbie quips. Then she softens. “But yes, I suppose, those qualities are just as valuable.”
“And passion.” I turn to Mum, who is distracted by the massive overhead banners with “Nana Badu” printed in fancy gold writing and the logos of her sponsors beneath. Alex helped Nana create the logo when he designed her equally impressive website. Hmm. That’s a thought. I wonder whether he’ll be here today. I haven’t seen him since the lunch of shame.
“What was that?” Mum shifts her attention back to me.
Smiling, I say, “It’s important to do what you love. What makes you happy.”
“Yes.” Mum smiles. “Happiness is the utmost importance.”
“And on that note . . .” Ola scratches her hair. She has returned to wearing a long weave again. “I’ve got an announcement to make.”
“You’re expecting another baby!” Mum says.
Ola snorts. “No. What I wanted to say is”—she takes a breath—“I’m going to become a freelance makeup artist.”
“Wow, congrats, Ola.” I squeeze her shoulders, and Aunty Blessing says, “Well, good for you.”
“I’m good at makeup so I thought, hey, why not. Plus, I can fit it around the kids.”
Mum says, “Good. I’ll be calling you from now on. Any time Kemi does my makeup, I look like a clown.”
We all laugh, except for Aunty Debbie.
“Mum?” Ola places a hand on her mum’s knee.
Aunty Debbie remains poker, and we all hold our breath.
Suddenly, she breaks out in a smile. “So does this mean I get a discount then?”
Ola and I exhale with laughter.
“Hold on,” Mum says. “I want a discount too.”
A slightly out of breath Rachel appears from behind us wearing a white robe, her hair half-straightened. She does the quickest genuflect, then turns to me and Ola. “Nana needs you.”
* * *
—
Backstage the atmosphere is buzzing: people everywhere, some half-dressed and others wearing brightly patterned garments. There are photographers, vanity mirrors, ooh, body art. A strong smell of hairspray punctures the air. Among the hubbub, I spot Nana, on her knees, her face vexed, hemming a model’s lace mermaid skirt.
“Argh!” She drops the pins. “Why the fuck is everything going wrong today?”
Whoa. Nana must be stressed out. She never curses.
“Okay, I need to get ready,” says Rachel. She makes a swift dash to the right. Ola and I ask Nana whether she’s okay.
“No!” She clambers to her feet. “One of the models just canceled. I don’t need this right now. Not on the most important day of my life.”
“Okay, breathe.” Ola demonstrates by breathing in. “Can’t you just get one of your other models to step in?”
“It’s not as simple as that.” Nana sighs. “I want all the models to showcase my collection together at the very end. Great. Now my vision is all messed up.” She blows out her cheeks.
“I’ll step in.”
Nana blinks at me.
“I’ll be the model. Hopefully, the clothes will fit?”
“Yeah, she’s about your size and height. But Yinka, are you sure?” Now Nana doesn’t look as desperate. “Let me at least show you the outfit first before you commit to anything.” She pulls out a garment cover from a nearby rack.
“Oh,” I say after she zips it open. “It’s a . . . swimsuit.”
“A monokini,” she corrects, and she twirls it by the hanger. I eye the tribal prints, the cut-out slits. Ooh, and it’s backless.
“Yinka, are you sure?” Ola is saying while Nana says, “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“No. Hand me that—whatever it’s called. Me and my J-behind are going to rock that catwalk.”
Nana hugs me. “You’re a lifesaver.”
I squeeze her. “No, it’s time for me to be there for you.”
“Hey, make space for me.” Ola throws her arm around us.
“What are we all hugging for?” Rachel says, rushing over.
“Yinka’s our new model,” says Nana as we draw apart. “Quick. Get changed. Then go to hair and makeup.”
“I’ll do her makeup!” Ola volunteers.
As quick as I can, I strip out of my clothes before sliding into the monokini and a pair of heels. “Um, Nana. I’m also going to need a razor stick.”
After I’ve sorted out my bikini line, I hurry to hair and makeup, and en route, I spot Donovan chatting to the other male models. Oh yeah, I forgot Nana talked him into it. The tallest of the bunch, he’s wearing these cool dip-dyed shorts and a red dashiki vest. We lock eyes and he smiles.
At last, and with only one minute to go, I’m standing behind the stage with the other female models. In our bold colors and Nana’s edgy designs, we look both confident and powerful, like African royalty. We embody the strength of Queen Mothers.
Hugging my exposed waist, I crane my neck. Nana is studiously watching a screen that shows everything that’s happening on stage.
“Okay, thirty seconds!” she yells, and everything goes dead quiet. “And remember, guys. Own it.” She gives me a wink.
The music goes on again. The deafening, loud, pumping kind. And after a deep breath, I let go of my waist.
* * *
—
Three minutes. That’s how long the standing ovation went on for, after Nana delivered the fashion show of the year. Three words: she smashed it. Photographers, bloggers and fans are ambushing her as though she’s Beyoncé.