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It isn’t until a tear drips off my chin and lands on my chest that I realise I’m crying, and it isn’t till I lean back and look at my reflection in the window that I notice I am beaming, a silly wide grin taking over my whole face, my eyes dancing. I notice Bakari quietly clearing the table behind me, avoiding looking at me. I swallow and focus on the singular joy of my best friend getting married to the love of her life and say, ‘I’m more than ready.’

It isn’t until I hear Kofi in the background, chuckling and murmuring, ‘Shit, you lot think you’re the only besties in the world. Let me call my best man. He’s been waiting on standby,’ that my whole body tenses with aftershocks of an old apocalypse in this new world of mine.

I realise that my assertion is a bold-faced, egregious lie.

Chapter 2

Sending You Forget-Me-Nots

‘Let me get this straight,’ Shanti says, pointing a fork at me like a dagger and tilting her head to the side in deceptively gentle inquisition. Her brown Indo-Jamaican curls curve like question marks, enquiring in sync and her extended lashes bat in a way that inform me that she’s about to come for my neck. ‘Your fine tech-billionaire boyfriend offered to fund your life, and you said “nah, I’m good”? With all due respect, sis, you’ve lost your fucking mind. Like, I’m actually worried about you. You’ve taken your social-justice warrior shit too far. You’re not Angela Davis, you know. No one with a Soho House membership cantrulybe a socialist. Rest.’

I baulk at this. ‘Um, actually, I got given a year’s free membership because I did that talk last year!’

Shanti releases a smug smile. It’s beautiful, and somehow always manages to offset the potential of meanness with the warmth of her heart. ‘My point is no one is perfect and sometimes you gotta chill a little and take one for the team. And byoneI mean a private jet.’

Aminah’s doe eyes roll in sync with mine, shaking her head as she elegantly pushes a pile of smoky jollof onto her fork with her a knife. ‘Ashanti abeg, chill on my babe.’

I throw a smile of gratitude at my best friend as she continues with, ‘He’s not that fine.’ She smooths a hand over her sleek ponytail and pushes it across the shoulder of her oversized tweed blazer, an action that really serves to display the Jupiter-sized rock on her finger. ‘Nor is he a billionaire. I googled him this morning to double check—’

I place my flute down on the table. ‘Seriously?’

Aminah’s eyes widen prettily in protest, an indignant pixie with her round, button nose and heart-shaped glossy lips. ‘I’m not saying he isn’t good-looking, Keeks– he is. For a skinny man. He looks like LaKeith Stanfield but cleaner. I’mjust sayinghe’s not good-looking enough to be doing allthis.Like, who does he think he is, undermining your ambition like that?’

I chew on my reluctant smile. Only Aminah could do a smooth save like that.

‘OK. Thank you. Regardless, can we keep our voices down when talking about this?’ I furtively look across the scattered Saturday lunchtime crowd of Sákárà.

Spritely late-winter sunlight streams through the open shopfront facing the East London high street, illuminating the cosy utilitarian interior of satin-smooth black laminated metal tables and azure velveteen dining chairs– virtually all of which are empty. It’s not that I fear what the patrons of my parents’ restaurant would have to say. There are precisely two. One of them is an UberEats driver collecting an order and the second is my uncle Kole, sat at the table closest to the bar with a Guinness and engrossed in a spirited debate about the state of Nigerian politics with my father. Dad’s leaning an elbow on the faux marble bar, calling people ‘utter nincompoops’ whilst gesticulating passionately with his free arm like he’s conducting the merry band of Yoruba drummers in the giant acrylic painting that hangs behind him.

A flood of warmth rushes through me at the familiar sight, quickly abated by a sobering coolness licking at the edges of my reality. I hadn’t told my parents about my issues with Bakari because that would necessitate telling them that it was because he offered me a job, and then they would askwhyhe’d offered their eldest child a job– practically ensnaring her to a life of servitude to a man. That is not what they came to this country for. Though my parents know I stepped back from the podcast, what they don’t know is that my savings are fast dwindling and my job search is getting increasingly frantic. I’m applying for any and every job vaguely in media. Last night, I applied for something called a ‘dream alchemist’ at an ad agency, which Ithinkhas something to do with copywriting, but I can’t be sure. Idoknow that they have a contract with an alternative-milk company and came up with the tagline: ‘Get your nut. It’s good for you.’ So maybe they need me. In any case, on account of not wanting to worry my parents about the exact degree of my joblessness just as they’re about to sell up the restaurant and retire, mine and Bakari’s situation needs to be kept under wraps.

‘Well–’ Chioma’s already soft sing-song voice lowers even more as she slices into her moin-moin, and she shrugs– ‘why would him being a billionaire be a draw anyway, even if he was? I think your decision was admirable. As we know–’ Chioma waves a relaxed hand in the air, her multiple dangling bracelets creating an extra percussion for the DeBarge song emanating from my dad’s ‘Eighties Groove’ playlist, which is sliding out of the restaurant speakers– ‘there’s no ethical way to be a billionaire– and yes, Shanti, that includes your favourite make-up mogul—’

Shanti pointedly pierces her fork into a piece of fried beef, holds it up and smiles innocently at her vegan best friend. ‘All right, Erykah Badon’t, I don’t see you complaining when I give you freebies.’

Chioma bites at her smile, recognising Shanti’s playful teasing immediately. ‘First of all, ErykahBadon’tis an oldie.’

‘But a goodie. A classic,’ I chirp.

‘And secondly,’ Chioma says with some triumph, ‘just for that, I’m gonna wear a nude-pink lip with no brown liner, a cheap wig from a beauty-supply shop, throw it up on Instagram and caption it #ShantiShowedMe.’ Chioma concludes with the hashtag that many of Shanti’s 25,000 Instagram followers (and counting) use when employing the style and beauty tips and tricks she gives in her bite-sized videos.

Chioma has had her hair in deep auburn locs for years now, but, still, Shanti gasp-cackles at the threat to her nascent influencer empire.

‘You’re so wrong for that because youknowthat as someone who has been on my Instagram grid multiple times you’re an outward representation of the @ShantiShines brand and I can’t have you out here looking like you’re the Black For Hire that goes on right-wing panel shows talking about how people need to get over colonialism.’

I snort. It’s been almost a decade since Aminah and I coalesced with Shanti and Chioma in uni, two friendship pairs from various sides of a sororal social spectrum, joining forces. We were peace and love and South London fire meets Naija girl acerbity– couture and thrifting, unified with the sisterly ability to roast each other and a willingness to kill for each other if necessary. We’re wildly different, and it works, a symphony and rhythm unto ourselves. It fits; we click.

Aminah smirks while pouring more of the champagne my dad brought out especially for us. ‘Look, I’m all for Shanti doing promo for the billionaire make-up mogul if she gets me that unreleased bronzer in time for my wedding. Anyway, we’re missing the point of this.’

I readjust myself on my seat with some relief, sitting up, glad we can return to the reason for this Blackwell Baddie Brunch, which wasn’t just to dissect the dire state of my romantic life, but also to plan the events for the coming months: hen do, engagement party and various miscellaneous things that are under my jurisdiction as Maid of Honour, Deputy Bride and Head of the Bridal Committee as my full and proper titles assigned to me by Aminah dictates.

I clap my hands together. ‘Exactly.’ I drag my tablet across the table. ‘When is everyone free for bridesmaid dress fittings?’

Aminah shakes her head. ‘Imeantwe’re missing the point that you’ve broken up with your boyfriend—’

I prickle in my black square-neck bodysuit, suddenly feeling warm, despite knowing my dad keeps the thermostat at an even 20 degrees. ‘We haven’t broken up—’

Chioma tilts her head thoughtfully. ‘Um, whilst you know how I feel about the institution of marriage– no offence, Aminah.’