Wahala, page 10
The steaks were perfect, the bread was bread, the salad was crunchy, Ronke’s vinaigrette was yummy. And of course, she’d brought a tub of pepper sauce.
Simi scraped the burned bits (the top inch) off the potatoes and put what was left in the middle of the table.
‘Yum, just how I like them.’ Martin reached over and shovelled some on to his plate.
‘You’ve invented potato brûlée,’ said Didier, doing the same. ‘You should patent it.’
They all laughed, even Simi. She didn’t have to be perfect, not with this lot. Ronke was right: this felt good, like old times.
‘Next to Kayode,’ said Ronke, ‘you get a Michelin star. The first time I cooked in his kitchen, the instruction manual was still in the oven.’
‘Not fair.’ Kayode smiled and touched Ronke’s cheek. ‘I’d just moved in.’
‘Ah, so Kayode is like ma chérie.’ Didier put his arm around Boo. ‘Lukewarm baked beans in a microwaved potato is her idea of a good meal. If not for me, our little Sofia would starve.’
‘That’s rubbish.’ Boo pushed his arm away. ‘I might not like cooking, but I do plenty of it.’
Simi was not going to let a Boo–Didi domestic spoil her evening. ‘What were you guys plotting on the balcony? You looked furtive.’
‘Well, funny you should ask …’ Martin grinned and raised his glass to Kayode. ‘This lovely man has got three tickets for the Emirates tomorrow.’
‘Ah, it’s nothing,’ said Kayode as the three men clinked glasses.
‘No way,’ said Simi.
‘It’s only a couple of hours,’ said Martin. ‘We have the whole day.’
‘But it’s not, is it? It’s drinks first, drinks during and drinks after – to celebrate or drown your sorrows. By the time you get back you’ll be pissed.’
‘He’ll behave.’ Kayode gave a three-finger salute. ‘Scout’s honour. No pub, straight home.’
‘Let them go,’ said Ronke. ‘It’s good for them to have boy-time.’
‘They’re not boys. Oh, I give up. Go! But do not get blotto and make sure you win. I don’t need a grumpy husband.’ Simi would use the free afternoon to meet Isobel and face the music.
‘I’ll make it up to you,’ whispered Martin. ‘And I don’t care if you can’t cook. I fucking love you.’
ISOBEL HAD TURNED DOWN SIMI’S suggestion of lunch but after a lot of cajoling agreed to a quick coffee. She turned up late, looked sullen and sounded petulant. ‘You look tired,’ she said. ‘And pale. Is that a spot on your chin?’
Simi didn’t take the bait. ‘Not enough sleep. I told you I’d keep him chained up.’
‘You don’t have to lie,’ said Isobel. ‘I know you had a party last night. You invited everyone except me. I guess I’m chopped liver.’
‘It was supper, not a party. And it was Martin’s idea, so don’t be cross. I’m sorry. You know I love you. We all do. Boo was singing your praises all night, twirling around in her jumpsuit, saying what a supportive friend you are. And I’m here now.’
‘Only ’cos he’s at football. I’m not good enough to come to your party but fine to fill an empty afternoon. I get it.’ Isobel scowled. It made her look like her dad.
‘Look, Iso, I’ve said I’m sorry. I don’t know what else I can do.’ Simi forced a short laugh. ‘We’re not in primary school any more. You’re my oldest friend. Come on.’
‘OK, I forgive you.’ Isobel’s tone changed, became huskier. ‘I’m in a foul mood. I got a call from my lawyer yesterday. My ex is coming to London. I’ve got a restraining order but apparently I can’t stop him if it’s for work, and he’s doing a recce for some job. I know it’s pathetic. We’re divorced, I’m safe and I’ve got Vadim. But I can’t bear it. I’m thinking of going to Abuja for the week to escape. Just hearing his name puts me on edge.’
‘That sucks.’ Simi rubbed Isobel’s shoulder. She’d been a shit friend. She knew that Iso always masked her insecurity with aggression. ‘Why do you still use Adams? You should use your maiden name.’
‘That’s worse. At least Adams is anonymous. As soon as people know who my father is, they become sycophantic or jealous.’ Isobel gave a hollow laugh. ‘That’s if they don’t run for the hills. I want to be liked for me. Promise you won’t mention his name to Boo and Ronke.’
‘OK,’ said Simi. ‘They won’t care though.’
‘But still, I’d rather you didn’t. Now enough of me, how did it go with my headhunter?’ Isobel patted Simi’s hand. ‘I told him to pull out all the stops.’
Simi was happy to move things along. ‘He was fantastic, found me my dream job. They want to do a Skype interview next week. But they’re looking for someone with media planning experience, online in particular. I don’t have that.’
‘So you lie.’ Isobel leaned forward so her face was inches away from Simi’s. ‘How hard can it be? You can’t let the perfect job slip away.’
Simi pushed her chair back and took a sip of her coffee. ‘It’s in Shanghai. So apart from not being qualified, it’s in the wrong country.’
‘You’re not a tree. You can move. Shanghai’s wonderful. I’ve been twice. I loved it.’
‘My home’s here. Martin’s here – well, he isn’t, but you know what I mean. Plus, I’m not likely to get pregnant if I’m in China.’
Isobel gripped Simi’s wrist. ‘Darling, you’re on the pill. You’re not likely to get pregnant full stop.’
10
Ronke
RONKE WASN’T GOOD AT saying no, so it was only a matter of time before she caved and agreed to meet Isobel. She picked The Lighthouse, Kayode’s favourite watering hole (live sports on a giant screen). It was homely rather than hip, and would be quiet on a damp Tuesday evening.
When she arrived, Isobel was already there – a dialled-down version in jeans and T-shirt (no side boob), sipping sparkling water (not champagne). She still had the fake hair (red today), but it was in a neat bun (no swishing). Ronke reckoned Isobel’s jeans, faded and distressed, with a gold label, probably cost more than her sofa.
‘I’m so glad you finally said yes.’ Isobel laid a soft hand on Ronke’s arm, her now familiar greeting. ‘I was starting to feel like a stalker. And you already have one of those.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Ronke wondered how Isobel managed to function with those nails. Did she never open a screw top, peel an onion or tap her PIN? ‘Work’s been full-on and we’ve been viewing flats most evenings. I’m sorry.’ She willed herself to stop saying sorry.
‘Relax!’ laughed Isobel. ‘I’m joking. I’m pleased you’re here. I really want to get to know you properly. One-on-one is so much nicer, don’t you think?’ She reached into her bag. ‘Speaking of stalkers, I’ve got you something.’ She handed Ronke a shiny pink can that looked like a teenager’s body spritz.
Ronke took it hesitantly. ‘What is it?’
‘Pepper spray. I got it in the States. You can’t buy it here. I hope you never need it, but if you do, aim for his eyes.’ Isobel mimed squirting into Ronke’s face.
Ronke flinched. ‘Wow! Is it legal?’
‘Not exactly. But we won’t tell anyone.’
‘Well, er, thank you.’ Ronke was sure Isobel meant well, but there was no way she was going to start carrying around an illegal weapon. She buried it in her bag. ‘I’m sure I won’t need it. He’s creepy, not dangerous.’
‘They all start off that way. You need to be careful walking home after work. If you’re ever worried, call me.’ Isobel snapped her fingers. ‘I’ll send Vadim over. Now, what’s this about flat-hunting? Did I hear you say we?’
‘Yeah, Kayode and I are buying a place together. We’ve seen seven so far. The only suitable one went to bids – we missed by a mile.’ Ronke sipped her ginger tea. ‘Kayode wants to look north of the river but my work and friends are here. What we need is a bigger budget.’
‘Moving in together? Sounds serious. Boo said you two were all loved-up at Simi’s party.’
Ronke was under strict instructions from Simi to play down the dinner. ‘It wasn’t a party. But yeah, we’re serious. And happy.’ It was true. She’d never been happier.
‘What does Kayode do?’ Isobel shifted so she was closer to Ronke. ‘What’s his background? I want to know everything.’
‘Well, um …’ Ronke stalled, uncomfortable with this interrogation. ‘He’s a risk analyst, for a hedge fund. He studied Maths in Cape Town. He’s …’
‘I used to live in Cape Town. That’s where I had my stalker.’ Isobel paused, a deep frown on her face. ‘So many men are evil. You’ve got to be so careful.’
‘Kayode’s very protective. He gave me a rape alarm and got one of his mates to fix a camera on my intercom. So now I’m a walking self-defence advert.’
‘You light up when you talk about him. I’m jealous,’ Isobel said with a wistful smile.
‘Don’t be. We’ve had our fair share of ups and downs. I know Simi and Boo have their doubts, but this time they’re wrong. Kayode is the one.’
‘He certainly charmed Boo at Simi’s party.’ Isobel strummed her fingers on the table. ‘It sounds like you all had a wonderful time.’
‘It wasn’t a party,’ Ronke said dutifully, trying to hide the fact that she was thrilled. Had her friends finally accepted Kayode? She really hoped so.
‘Whatever. I can’t wait to meet him in the flesh,’ said Isobel.
BEING SMUG TEMPTS FATE AND karma’s a bitch. It was half past ten the next evening and Ronke was about to go to bed with a book when her phone pinged.
Hey baby … I’m on my way. We lost. I need cheering up.
She hadn’t expected him – he was watching the game with his mate Toks. But Ronke did the usual – out of her baggy tee, into her camisole, off with the scrunchie (lots of hair-tugging as she tried to turn bedlam hair into bed-hair), on with the lip balm.
Kayode was drunk. Not falling-over drunk, but drunk enough. Ranting on about what a shit day he’d had, how the ref was a cheat, how Arsène’s tactics were all wrong. ‘You couldn’t fix me something … could you?’ he added.
‘Beans on toast?’
‘I’ve been dreaming of your whore’s spaghetti.’
And like an idiot she was flattered. ‘Pasta puttanesca coming up. I’ll put the kettle on – you look like you could do with a coffee …’
Before she’d finished, he’d opened the fridge, grabbed a beer, wandered through to the living room, turned on the TV and started flicking through the channels. ‘You need to get Sky Sports,’ he said, plonking his feet – still in shoes – on to her glass coffee table.
He wasn’t here to be with the woman he loved. He was here for food. Because there’s a limit to how many takeaways anyone (even Kayode) can eat. And you don’t get sex with a kebab.
Ronke pushed the word ‘doormat’ out of her head and put a generous fistful of spaghetti into a pan of boiling water (salty as the sea, like Nigella said). In another pan, she warmed slivers of garlic in a glug of home-made chilli oil and melted in a few anchovies. She stirred in capers, fresh chopped chillies, sliced black olives and a jar of tuna (not a tin, the best albacore). Whore’s pasta wasn’t meant to have tuna in it, but Kayode was a real man and couldn’t possibly survive a vegetarian meal.
Ronke couldn’t cook for one, to be honest she struggled to cook for two, so she had a small (medium) bowl too. Which meant that her new intermittent fasting regime was blown. Still, she’d stuck to it for two whole days, longer than most of her diets.
Kayode grunted when she handed him the bowl.
She sat beside him on the sofa. ‘Did I tell you Rafa and Luca are flat-hunting in—’
‘Sshhh, I’m trying to watch this,’ he said, mouth full of pasta.
After she’d cleared up, he pulled her on to the sofa. ‘I can’t stay. I’ll have to go after. I don’t have any clean shirts here.’
‘After what?’ Ronke tried to wriggle out of his arms.
‘Oh, come on …’
‘No, I don’t want to.’ Ronke pushed harder but he was too strong. ‘I’m not some booty call.’
‘Come on, babe.’ He manhandled her so she was underneath him.
‘Stop – let me go. You’re hurting me! Get off.’ Ronke struggled to free herself. ‘What is wrong with you? Why are you being such an arsehole?’
Kayode staggered to his feet and fell against her little bookcase. The picture of her parents clattered to the floor.
‘I don’t need this shit.’ Kayode picked up his jacket and slammed the door so hard the walls rattled.
Ronke cleared up with shaky hands. She picked up the frame to find the glass shattered. One of the shards pierced her finger and she dropped it to the floor – she didn’t want to leave a bloody fingerprint.
She kicked her special cushion under the bed. He’d come for food and a fuck. And when he didn’t get what he wanted, he’d fucked off. She might as well be a whore – at least she’d get paid. She lay awake fuming, too angry to sleep.
ANY OTHER TIME, A MORNING at Fifi’s with Boo for company would be the perfect way to start a day off. But Ronke was in a foul mood. She was tired (she’d finally cried herself to sleep at two). She didn’t want to talk about what had happened last night. Certainly not to Boo.
And anyway, this whole weave idea was daft. Boo had lovely hair – glossy, smooth waves, no frizz. It was long too, way past her shoulders. Ronke’s stopped growing once it hit her chin. Boo was the queen of the ponytail – topsy-turvy pony, messy pony, half pony, loose pony, side pony, high pony – anything to keep her hair out of her face.
Now, out of nowhere (well, out of Isobel’s head), Boo wanted a weave. Not any old weave though – she was set on a full-on blaxploitation/Pam Grier/Foxxy Cleopatra Afro. Ronke wondered if Boo would shave off her eyebrows if Isobel suggested it.
Ronke remembered the moment Boo had announced this existential crisis weave at Simi’s dinner party, ten days before. ‘You’ll hate it,’ Ronke had warned. ‘It will be all over your face. You’ve never even had plaits. You do know your hair gets cornrowed first?’
‘I want a change,’ Boo had said. ‘Isobel says she feels like a different person every time she changes her hair.’
She must have a multiple personality disorder then, thought Ronke.
‘So can your hairdresser do it?’ asked Boo.
‘Yeah, ’course,’ said Ronke. ‘Fifi can do anything. But it takes hours. At least three, maybe four. You’ll have to go in the week; it’s mayhem at the weekend.’
‘You’ll come with me, won’t you? I’d be too nervous on my own; I wouldn’t know what to ask for. I don’t even know what hair to buy.’
Ronke loved going to Fifi’s and she loved Boo, so of course she said yes. But now she wished she hadn’t. She wanted to hole up with a tub of ice cream and Location, Location, Location. By the time she got out of the Underground at Balham, she’d had eight missed calls from Kayode and five texts.
I’m sorry. x
I’ll never drink again. I’m ashamed of myself.
Ronke. I love you. I’m sorry. You’ve got to forgive me.
Please answer the phone. I’m worried. Let me know you’re OK. Please?
Where are you? I’ve tried work, you’re not there. Please tell me you’re safe, I’m panicking. PLEASE REPLY.
Ronke called him back.
‘Ronke! Are you OK? I kept thinking about that oddball who’s been texting you. I was starting to panic. I don’t know what to say. I’m a complete idiot. I can’t believe I scared you. I’m so sorry.’ Kayode’s voice was shaky.
Ronke’s mood lifted. He was grovelling. And anyway, he hadn’t scared her. She’d been angry but never frightened. She wouldn’t tell him that though. ‘I didn’t get any sleep, and I’m still upset. I can’t talk now. I’m meeting Boo.’
Fifi had lived in England since she was fourteen but had managed not to assimilate any English habits. She wore native clothes – bright hand-woven Kente fabric made into figure-hugging skirts and tops. Her hair was in intricate narrow embossed cornrows that zigzagged around her head and met in a high bun with plaits spiralling down her back. She had a strong Ghanaian accent with a proverb for every occasion, and a tendency to mix up pronouns – ‘he’ could refer to a woman or a man, it was potluck. She listened to West African pop, loved Nollywood movies and was religious – the born-again, speaking-in-tongues, hallelujah-Jesus-is-risen kind of religious. And Fifi loved to gossip. She didn’t care who it was about, she wanted all the details.
Boo stopped Ronke at the entrance and pointed at the sign. Banana Braids by Fifi.
‘What?’ said Ronke.
‘A bit racist?’
Ronke tipped her head. ‘Huh?’
‘Banana boat?’ said Boo. ‘You know. Banana republic? Monkeys?’
Ronke burst out laughing. ‘Boo, you are so culturally illiterate. Sometimes I think you live under a rock. Banana braids are famous. Alicia Keys had them in her “Fallin” video. It’s not racist. Well, it wasn’t till you said it.’
Boo scrunched her face. ‘It’s a bit of a dive.’
‘It’s not Vidal Sassoon, but she’s the best – I promise.’ Ronke gestured for Boo to go first. Boo hung back. ‘Come on, don’t be such an ajebutter.’
‘A what?’ said Boo.
Fifi opened the door. ‘Akwaaba. Sister Ronke, you are welcome. Please enter.’
‘Hey, Fifi.’ Ronke pushed Boo through the open door.
‘Hello, ma, you are welcome, ma. Please come and sit, ma.’
An hour later, Ronke was eating kelewele – soft plantains fried in palm oil with peppers, ginger and garlic, having her usual deep-conditioning hot-oil treatment. Her hair was covered in thick greasy moisturizer, piled up on her head and wrapped in a plastic cap. Rivulets of oil had escaped and dribbled down her face and neck. Ronke was supposed to stay under the steamer hood – the heat made the conditioner penetrate – but it got in the way of eating and talking.
Boo picked at a tub of jollof rice. She’d chosen it despite Ronke’s hushed warning (she didn’t want Fifi to hear) that Ghanaian jollof was not a patch on Nigerian jollof. Fifi had finished cornrowing Boo’s hair – step one in the weave process.
