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‘Um, I’m perfectly combobulated, thanks.’

Aminah arches a brow, which I suppose she thinks is knowing, before I see her visibly let it go, pivoting carefully. ‘So what’s going on with the job situation?’

I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose, relieved as I am at the subject switch. ‘Sis, I don’t know. I’ve been looking. I have a conversation with some friends at an online music magazine about an editor position, but it’s still just aconversation.Everyone in my network has been telling me there’s no jobs going, and if therearethey’re applying to them themselves. I dunno. Maybe Bakari was right? Maybe I shouldn’t have quit so recklessly.’

Aminah shakes her head with some disgust, holding a bejewelled hand up. ‘Ew. Never say that in my presence again. You did the right thing. Heartbeat is aboutheartand they wanted to attack it—’

‘Well done.’

Aminah twitches her shoulder in acknowledgement of her own wit. ‘But, yeah, they wanted to make it soulless. You know I’m all about securing the bag, but I know you. This wouldn’t have been worth it for you. I’m proud of you. It was bold, but–’ her gaze flickers in concern– ‘I mean. . . are you OK? Like, for money? Because, you know, it’s tight with the wedding, but we could definitely help. . .’

She broaches it gingerly. Before this podcasting gig, Aminah’s always been morecomfortablethan me, her parents having owned a Nigerian snack empire, and it’s never been an issue– she’s never made me feel a way about it– and when I worked in the restaurant during uni summers she’d come almost every day, keeping me company. One time she’d tried to help, but she almost came to blows with an uncle who clicked his fingers at her to get him more Guinness (shockingly, not Uncle Kole).

I shake my head. ‘I appreciate you, but I’m good. At least for now. I still have a few Black Creative paid panels. The Heartbeat’s cache can carry me for now so I’m not gonna have to sell my clothes just yet—’

‘Ugh, and nineties Black romcom girlies wept, wondering where they would get their brown-leather mini and sleeveless mock-turtleneck crop tops from.’ I stick my tongue out at her and Aminah smirks.

‘I love it. Sultry. And you’re gonna kill it like the boss babe you are.’

‘Thank you, sis. Seriously, though. I’m all good.’

Aminah’s long-lashed gaze searches mine for a few moments. She straightens and nods to herself, seemingly satisfied by what she’s found. ‘OK. Good to know. Because, um, there’s one more thing I need to tell you.’ She drags my tablet towards her across the tabletop, and stares at it, deliberately evading eye contact. ‘Firstly, this is so well organised. You’ve sorted the aso ebi styles by colour! Amazing. What would be the Yoruba version of Marie Kondo? Moji Kondo? That’s what you are. That’s one of your middle names, right? Mojisola.’

I tilt my head. Whatever she wants to say is about to stress me out. ‘Spit it out, Meenz.’

My best friend sighs and clears her throat, pressing her hand against her décolletage. ‘Um, so we’re changing the date of the engagement party. For three weeks’ time.’

My food feels like it’s going to crawl back up my throat. ‘As in twenty-one days?’ As if there’s a chance that three weeks actually means six months, that maybe I’ve gone through twenty-eight years of my life not understanding time.

Aminah nods, her eyes wide. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that’s when my parents are going to be in the country at the same time as Kofi’s. One of my big-mouthed sisters blabbed to them about us having an engagement party and they insisted on coming even though I said it’s just meant to be a gathering of our friends and cousins. I know it’s a lot of stress for you, and, look, I can do the bulk of the planning, obviously, and it’s just meant to be a small, lowkey celebration anyway, so—’

I force a smile out and try to calm the anxiety crawling up my body. ‘Aminah, you’ve got dress shopping, and the actual wedding venues to sort. I said I’ll help you plan the engagement party, and I will.’

Somehow, through prep for job interviews andconversationsand dealing with the fact that, actually, I’m going to be seeing my ex-boyfriend inthree weeksfor the first time in almost three years.It was one thing adjusting to the fact that I’ll see him at the wedding, another to know it would be in two months and an entirely differentrealmto reckon with the fact that I’m going to see him before my new nail infills grow out.

Aminah stares at me flatly. ‘You’re freaking out.’

I laugh so forcibly in dismissal that I end up choking, spluttering on my denial.

Aminah’s expression remains unchanged as she passes me a glass of water. ‘Kikiola, I’ve known you since you still thought it was cool to wear ironic lace chokers.’

‘You wore them too!’

‘Exactly. Our relationship is such that we have been in deeply uncool trenches together. You can’t hide from me.’

‘I am not freaking out. The short notice just ups the pressure, is all, but it’s fine! I got you. My job is to make your life easier in this process, and I know managing two sets of African parents isn’t going to be easy, so let me do this for you.’

‘And Malakai?’

‘Oh, sounds like you got something in your throat too, sis. You’re making a weird sound. Want some of this water?’

Aminah smirks and raises her hand in surrender. ‘OK. I’ve heard. I just love you and want you to be OK.’

‘I love you and I am OK.’ I squeeze her hand. ‘Now save all the mushy shit for your fiancé. Can we focus on what we’re here to do?’

She laughs, the tension lifting from her face as she perks up and shimmies her shoulders in excitement. She’s a fairy whose sole power is to be able to banish any potential annoyance by being ridiculously adorable. The inability to find her infuriating is infuriating.

‘OK,’ she says. ‘First of all, let’s refrain from using “hen do”. Am I an animal? I am not livestock. I don’tcluck.I like “bachelorette”. That’s one thing the Americans did right. It sounds elegant, sophisticated. Now, how do you feel about a renaissance theme?’