Page 9

Aminah nods imperiously. ‘None taken. You know how I feel about the institution of thrifting and wearing clothes that could potentially carry evil spirits.’

Chioma is unmoved, and shrugs, ‘Fair, but I always do a sage cleanse for them.’

‘Babes, if you have toexorciseyour clothes before you wear them, maybe you’re doing something wrong.’ Shanti frowns as she chews on some of the peppered fish.

Chioma picks up the pink crystal she has hung on a gold chain round her neck and holds it in Shanti’s direction– I presume to ward off her bad vibes– before turning back to me. ‘Anyway, you kind of said no to theideaof marrying him, which I totally agree with, but knowing the cis straight male ego. . .’

Shanti raises a perfect brow. ‘It kind of sounds like you’ve broken up.’

I rub my temples and lean forward on the table. Aside from not wanting to distract from Aminah’s news, this is precisely why I hadn’t told the gang for a month. My friends– who I adore– simply wouldn’t understand, and would make the situation seem more problematic than it actually is. Whilst sure, fine, it’s technically a fact that after that night Bakari and I decided we needed some space from each other to recalibrate, we both maintained that this was temporary; it was confusion with my career that meant my head wasn’t straight, and he needed to understand that it wasn’t a bug he could troubleshoot. We still share a Netflix account! We know the terms of engagement; we know we’ll be getting back together. The argument had got heated for us,butin the grand scheme of passionate fights it barely hovered above two English people jostling for a place in a queue. Besides, when I went to his to pick up my favourite bra that I’d left there, we ended up making out for three minutes as he said goodbye. Proof that this is not a clean break.

It had happened like this: he’d said, ‘It’s weird without you around,’ and I replied saying that I knew what he meant, even though, actually, though I missed him, it was kind of fine. Mine and Bakari’s romantic relationship is such that we work around each other, our lives overlapping in very specific ways in which we both agree. We don’t do random, sporadic sleepovers– we plan ahead. We don’t ‘hang out’– we have activities. Dinner, co-working, movies. Specifically, movies that he’s read about and confirmed are good before we go. Movies slated to be Oscar-nominated. He wants to be sure we wouldn’t be wasting our time. If any of our friends has a birthday party, the other is not obliged to come. We don’t talk to each other about work unless for a specific reason– an acquisition, for example, or, say, an unceremonious quitting. We aren’t entangled. I’d had that before and not only is it a bitch to extricate yourself, but, when you eventually do, you have to wait for a piece of yourself to grow back. No, this is better. I miss him in a sense that it is weird not to text someone to ask if I should pick up some Thai on the way home.

He continued: ‘It’s like my life algorithm is off. I’m meant to slip on a lipstick on the floor of my bathroom whilst shaving, or tune outTrysts in the Topicswhilst sending an email and I know I don’t like cuddling, but it’s strange stretching out at night without finding you there. And now I might be a cuddling person.’

I thought this was sweet, even though all of this hinted at the sort of comfort a cat gives you. Humming in the background of your life, present for affection when necessary. I’d stepped closer to him to offer a hug of camaraderie, except he thought I was going in for a kiss, so he pulled me in, and I gave in, thinking,What’s the harm?

It was nice, it was pleasant, it was warm– tongues doing what they were supposed to, but politely so (after you, no, afteryou,)– and whilst I did kind of want his hand to slip to my butt I knew he wasn’t an unbridled-passion kind of person. Bakari is measured, and so in his head he calculated that this was the appropriate amount of intimacy for two people who currently need space, but who are still theoretically romantically interested in one another. He was probably right– Bakari estimates most things accurately– except, I guess, when it comes to how offering a job to his girlfriend might affect the dynamic of a relationship.

Bottom line is, as that kiss proved, ‘It’s not a break-up,’ I say now, decisively, spearing my fork into a piece of roasted tilapia.

‘What’s not a break-up?’ My dad’s eyes twinkle with gentle curiosity behind his neat, rimless glasses as he approaches our table with a pitcher of what looks like Chapman, sloshing orangey red with flashes of green and yellow– sliced cucumber and lemon– bobbing alongside ice.

My friends’ eyes pop open in alarm as I reply smoothly, ‘Um. . . the latest situation between JLo and Ben Affleck.’

My father nods with profound understanding as he sets the drink on the table, folding his arms across his blue short-sleeved, button-down shirt with authority. ‘Oh yes. I strongly believe they will sort out their problems. Sometimes you just need to have space to clarify your mind in regards to what you want.’

I smile fondly at Olatunde Banjo, a curious mind who reads everything and anything– including showbiz news– and speaks like a professor. ‘Exactly.’ I shoot pointed looks at my best friends, who are swallowing grins. ‘That’s what I’m saying—’

‘Sometimes you need to grow apart to come back together again stronger. It was like me and your mummy in ’87—’

I arch a brow. ‘Mum told me you broke up for two weeks.’

My father looks confused by my clarification, heavy brows furrowed. ‘And so? Separation is separation. I thought I was going to die. I was sweating at night like I had malaria. I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. My whole body was just weak. I even went to the doctor. Dr Lawrie in Camberwell. He looked at me like I was mad and said malaria-carrying mosquitos were “quite rare” in London. Anyway, I had no choice but to believe that my affliction was love.’

My friends’ trapped giggles burst forth at this admission as my potentially Oscar-nominated father raises a hand to his bald head, feigning distress at the memory. ‘I grew up in that fortnight. Realised I couldn’t live life without her. In fact, my body rejected the break-up. She was fine, though. Saw her at a friends’ party the following week with a new hairdo. She asked me why I was looking skinny. I just had to beg her.’

The weight of affection bends my lips. In my mum’s version of the story, she convinced her friend to have a party just so she could bump into my dad. She got her hair cut especially for the occasion, borrowed her friend’s miniskirt. I, of course, would never divulge this. It could contribute in dismantling an intricate system that stush Yoruba women have built for generations, using cunning to move to men without showing their working.

Aminah sighs and rests her chin on her laced hands. ‘Man, you and auntie are couple goals. I can only pray me and Kofi are like you guys some day.’

My dad chuckles. ‘Kofi is a smart young man. I’ve seen you two together. He knows when to be quiet. You’ll be fine. Just don’t be afraid of the work. Love each other enough to do the work. The biggest mistake people make is thinking a relationship should be easy just because loving the right person is easy. Yes, love is sweet, but it also needssteel.Gumption.’

My mind snags on this and my own smile stiffens.Love each other enough to do the work.I tried. I’m sure I tried. Didn’t I try? Why didn’thetry? And I am sure, so sure, almost sure, I’m thinking of my relationship with Bakari, until a face emerges in my mind’s eye. A strong, majestic nose, full lips, eyes that could look at me and discombobulate my vestibular system. Not Bakari. No. Dread– panic– crawls up my nervous system. Ever since Aminah announced her engagement, it’s as if the tangible prospect of seeinghimhas shaken me up, unearthing long-ignored questions that are sharp enough to pick at the plaster I’ve pasted over buried memories. It’s absurd. I won’t be seeing him for almost a year, and even then he is thepast.Bakari is my present. Ish. As previously stated, we still share a Netflix account. My dad’s voice interrupts my burgeoning emotional spiral as he surveys the near-empty dishes on the table.

‘I hope you ladies enjoyed your food?’ he asks, as he does every time my friends eat here, as if he doesn’t personally oversee the cooking of their food, making the fish extra spicy for Shanti, the smoky jollof even smokier for Aminah and ensuring the moin-moin is totally vegan by making a special batch with vegetable stock instead of beef for Chioma. He doesn’t do alterations to his menu for just anybody– ‘Do people think I just cook without thinking? Am I afool? Is this a drive-thru?’– but he loves to indulge my friends as if they’re adopted daughters. He nods with contained satisfaction and a dollop of pride as my friends gush over his dishes, like they always do. ‘Good. Well, I’m glad that my food kicks.’

I suppress my smile. ‘It “bangs”, Daddy.’

Dad is nonplussed as he blinks at me, confused as to why I would think he would give a shit. ‘Ah, bangs, abi, punches? Ki lo kan mi? What’s the difference? I’m just glad you all ate well.’ He nods at me and squeezes my shoulder. ‘Your mother’s waiting for me to pick her up at home so we can go to Grandma Akinyele’s seventieth birthday party. Thank you for covering general management for the rest of the day– I know it’s a Saturday and you should be out there shaking a leg—’

I haven’t worked in Sákárà since just after uni, but these days we’ve been short-staffed– business has been slow since the demographic of our stretch of high street has shifted. A Gail’s has replaced the old phone-repair shop where Mr Abdi fixed my smashed phone screen for free when I was twenty-two. A cheese-and-wine shop has nestled into the place where Ms Eunice used to tell us, with a straight face, that she was out of jerk chicken. There’s a SpiritCycle opening a couple of doors down, which is especially insulting because it’s a knock-off of another brand of workout class where you ride a stationary bike as someone shouts at you. The faces that walk past the storefront now have less variety, evidently less interest in hearty Nigerian food and wear more athleisure. All of this means less customers, less income, staff cutbacks and more of me helping out where I can.

‘Dad, it’s fine.’

My dad frowns at me gently, tilting his head to the side. ‘But are you sure? Because I can still get your uncle Kole to do it. . .’

I cast an eye at one of my dad’s oldest friends, who in the past ten minutes has managed to completely pass out whilst sitting upright, nodding himself awake with his own snores every few seconds.