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Aminah’s smile wavers. Laide clears her throat and sits back down next to me, crossing one thigh-high patent-leather booted leg across the other. The designer’s assistants facilitating the bridal fitting seem to sense a shift in the air, because they wisely announce that they’re going to get another bottle of champagne.

Finally, Mrs Bakare’s shoulder twitches in reply. ‘Well, my dear, if you like it, it’s fine.’

Oh,shit.

‘Oh, shit,’ Laide whispers under her breath.

Damola begins to rub her temple. Several expressions ring across my best friend’s face, but hurt chimes the loudest. Her eyes glimmer.

‘So you hate it?’ My heart tugs. Her voice is softer, younger.

Auntie Rafiat scoffs and purses her lips, painted wine today. ‘Oreoluwa, you’re always so dramatic.’ She’s using Aminah’s middle name? I buckle up. A long day’s about to become longer. We’ve been here for two and a half hours trying on dresses and this is the first that my extremely particular friend has unequivocally loved, her eyes glittering the moment she set eyes on her reflection. My skin begins to prickle with stress. I sip more of my champagne.

Laide mutters to me, ‘Yo, where’s the lady with the other bottle?’ as she turns to peek through the curtain next to us.

Auntie Rafiat continues: ‘Where did “hate” come from now? I said if you like it, it’s fine.’

I can see the effort of Aminah restraining her eyes from flicking up to the chandelier in the dressing room. Her respect for her mother battles against her intolerance at being tested. ‘Mummy, just say what you want to say—’

Auntie Rafiat is impatient. She repositions herself on her seat, and folds her hands across her lap. ‘Wòó,Oreoluwa, ma stress me. Fï mí sí ‘l?. I’ve said all I’ve wanted to say. You look nice, ah!’

‘Nice.’ Aminah’s voice is deceptively gentle. I see the frustration simmering under her surface of placidity. ‘I see. When Damola tried on her wedding dress you cried!’

Auntie Rafiat swirls her wrists with open palms in a gesture of innocent bafflement. ‘I don’t understand. Must I cry every time?’

‘Yes!’ Aminah literally stamps her foot. ‘If Laide ever gets married, I bet you’ll cry when she tries on her wedding dress!’

‘My dear, I will cry because it means that Allah has performed a miracle.’

Damola snorts in sync with Laide’s gasp.

‘Um, why am I in it?’ Laide rises in protest, gestures to the room. ‘Can we please focus on Mummy not liking Smallie’s dress because she thinks it’s slutty?’

Aminah’s eyes widen. ‘Excuseme?’

Damola groans. ‘Laide, what’s your actual problem? Aminah, don’t mind her. Can you guys chill? You’re stressing the baby—’

‘Who is the “you guys”?’Auntie Rafiat’s sharply drawn brows rise to the edge of her coifed hair.

Damola sighs. ‘Sorry, Mummy.’

With an eye roll, Laide sits back on the couch. ‘Anyway, isn’t it better that the baby knows what it’s getting into? It probably loves the excitement since all you let it listen to is dry-ass Beethoven.’

The normally– relatively, for a Bakare–impassive Damola kisses her teeth. ‘Um, “them” notitand there was aNew York Timesstudy that shows classical music stimulates intellectual growth in embry—’

Laide shrugs and waves a hand in the air. ‘Whatever it is. If you don’t play that baby some Victoria Monét or something. Besides, why doesn’tThe New York Timeshave a study saying that playing Fela for babies stimulates intellectual growth, huh? He’s a classic tous.’

‘Hello!’ Aminah damn near screeches. ‘Can we go back to the matter at hand, please? Mummy, what do youreallythink?’

There’s silence. I stay very still in the hopes that maybe I might disappear. Eventually, Mrs Bakare lifts an imperious shoulder. ‘I just think that you should have gone to the boutique I suggested. This one is too. . .’ She makes a facial expression that is somewhere between a pout and a scowl. The sentence is complete. Aminah squints at her mother, and I see the quiet seething. She glances at me and I discretely move my hands down in a placating motion, mouthing, ‘Beyoncé Countdown.’ She swallows, nods and I see her recite the lyrics in her head, eyes closed, breathing meditatively. Eventually, her eyes flicker open calmly, and she smiles serenely at me before turning to her mother, speaking evenly.

‘Mother. The other boutique is two times the price of this already very expensive one, and, besides, this is a Black-owned boutique that I took time to research. You only want me to choose your boutique because your friend’s daughter also got a dress from this boutique and you don’t want it to look like you’re doing “follow follow”, but I like this dress.’

Aminah’s mother pauses for few moments before she blinks slowly. ‘I don’t know why you’re making all this noise. I said it’s fine.’

Aminah’s nostrils flare, and I immediately rise up, stand in front of the plinth, taking her hands in mine, and looking at her in eyes that are already tearing up. ‘Meenz, you look beautiful. Seriously. The dress is everything on you. Your dream dress for when you marry your dream man.’

Risking the wrath of Mrs Bakare is made worth it by the grin Aminah gifts me. She squeezes my hands, raising her shoulder to her chin. ‘Thank you, Keeks.’