The top Ayoola has chosen to wear today is white and backless. Her leggings are a bright pink and her dreadlocks are piled atop her head. They look heavy, too heavy for her to bear, but her frame is straight. In her hands is his phone, where she was undoubtedly in the process of saving her number.
They look at me without a shadow of guilt.
“Ayoola, I told you I can’t do lunch.”
Tade is surprised by my tone. He frowns but says nothing. He is too polite to interrupt a squabble between sisters.
“Oh, that’s okay. I spoke to that nice girl Yinka and she said she will cover for you.” Oh, she would, would she?
“She shouldn’t have done that. I have a lot of work to do.”
Ayoola pouts. Tade clears his throat.
“You know, I haven’t had my lunch break yet. If you’re interested, I know a cool place around the corner.”
He is talking about Saratobi. They serve a mean steak dish there. I took him there the day after I discovered it. Yinka tagged along, but even that could not ruin the lunch for me. I learned that Tade is an Arsenal supporter and he once tried his hand at professional football. I learned he is an only child. I learned he isn’t a huge fan of vegetables. I had hoped one day we might repeat the experience—without Yinka—and I would learn more about him.
Ayoola beams at him.
“That sounds great. I hate to eat alone.”
FLAPPER
When I burst into Ayoola’s room that evening, she is sitting at her desk sketching a new design for her clothing line. She models the clothes she designs on social media, and can barely handle the number of orders that comes in. It is a marketing ploy: you look at a beautiful person with a great body and think maybe—if you combine the right clothes and accessorize appropriately—you can look as good as they do.
Her dreadlocks shield her face, but I don’t need to see her to know she is chewing her lip and her eyebrows are furrowed in concentration. Her table is bare except for her sketchbook, pens and three bottles of water, one of which is almost empty. But everything else is upside down—her clothes are on the floor, spilling out of cupboards, and piled on her bed.
I pick up the shirt at my feet and fold it.
“Ayoola.”
“What’s up?” She doesn’t look around or lift her head. I pick up another item of clothing.
“I would like it if you stopped coming to my place of work.” I have gotten her attention now; she puts her pencil down and spins to face me, the locks spinning with her.
“Why?”
“I would just like to separate my work and home lives.”
“Fine.” She shrugs and turns back to the design. From where I stand I can see that it is a dress in the style of a twenties flapper.
“And I’d like you to stop talking to Tade.”
She spins my way again, cocking her head to one side and frowning. It is odd to see her frown, she does it so rarely.
“Why?”
“I just don’t think it is wise to start something with him.”
“ ’Cause I’ll hurt him?”
“I’m not saying that.”
She pauses, considering my words.
“Do you like him?”
“That’s really not the point. I don’t think you should be seeing anyone right now.”
“I told you I had to do it. I told you.”
“I think you should just take a little break.”
“If you want him for yourself, just say so.” She pauses, giving me time to stake my claim. “Besides, he isn’t all that different from the rest of them, you know.”
“What are you talking about?” He is different. He is kind and sensitive. He sings to children.
“He isn’t deep. All he wants is a pretty face. That’s all they ever want.”
“You don’t know him!” My voice is higher than I expect it to be. “He is kind and sensitive and he—”
“Do you want me to prove it to you?”
“I just want you to stop talking to him, okay?”
“Well, we don’t always get what we want.” She swivels her chair, and continues her work. I should walk out, but instead I pick up the rest of her clothes and fold them one by one, clamping down on my anger and self-pity.
MASCARA
My hand isn’t steady. You need steady hands when you are applying makeup, but I am not used to it. There never seemed to be much point in masking my imperfections. It’s as futile as using air freshener when you leave the toilet—it just inevitably ends up smelling like perfumed shit.
A YouTube video is streaming on the laptop beside me and I try to copy in my dressing-table mirror what the girl is doing, but our actions don’t seem to be corresponding. Still I persevere. I pick up the mascara and brush my lashes. They clump together. I try to separate them and end up inking my fingers. When I blink, traces of black gunk are left on the foundation around my eyes. It took me a while to do the foundation and I don’t want it to smudge, so I just add more.
I examine my handiwork in the mirror. I look different, but whether I look better…I don’t know. I look different.
The things that will go into my handbag are laid out on my dressing table.
Two packets of pocket tissue, one 30-centiliter bottle of water, one first aid kit, one packet of wipes, one wallet, one tube of hand cream, one lip balm, one phone, one tampon, one rape whistle.
Basically, the essentials for every woman. I arrange the items in my shoulder bag and walk out of my bedroom, carefully shutting the door behind me. My mother and sister are still asleep, but I can hear the skittish movements of the house girl in the kitchen. I head down to meet her and she gives me my usual glass of orange, lime, pineapple and ginger juice. There is nothing like fruit juice to wake up your body.
When the clock strikes 5, I leave the house and negotiate the early-morning rush. I am at the hospital by 5:30. It is so quiet at this time of day that one is tempted to speak in whispers. I drop my bag behind the reception desk and pull down the incident book from the shelf to see if anything worthy of note took place during the night. One of the doors behind me squeaks open and soon Chichi is by my side.
It is the end of Chichi’s shift, but she lingers. “Ah ah, are you wearing makeup?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“I just decided to—”