“And I’m thirty-four,” I interject.
“I know. Now let me finish,” he says with a laugh, and I signal for him to continue. “Some of our friends met their people at thirty-five. Even my close friend, Dayo. You know your Uncle Dayo, abi?”
He pauses to give me time to remember. It’s laughable he thinks I would forget his best friend, who was a fixture at Christmas parties and held the best (and my only) sleepovers.
“Of course I remember Uncle Dayo.”
“Ehen, see Dayo met Halima when he was forty and she was thirty-five. That’s even older than you.”
My eyes widen, but the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. My parents might’ve met early, but they didn’t get married or have me till their mid-thirties. And Uncle D is older than them.
“See, I shocked you.” He cackles, and I join in. “It wasn’t too late for Dayo, and it’s not too late for you, ?m? mi. Just be brave.”
His ear-to-ear smile is infectious. I smile back at him. My tears have dried up and the lump in my throat has dissolved. Talking to my wonderful dad always does the trick.
“In fact, maybe you can set those dating apps to a Nigerian man since you won’t accept my proposal to set you up. You know Iya Faridah has a nephew about your age,” he begins, and it’s his typical monologue about all the people he knows with single sons or nephews. I tune him out. Although I love my dad, being set up by him is the last thing I’ll do. It might take a while, but I’ll figure something out.
“I’ll think about it,” I say when he’s done, and he lights up.
Shit.
“So, I can send your number to Mama Tope?”
My brain conjures the image of the older woman with four sons who constantly terrorized the estate with marriage-minded comments. Her oldest two should be in their late thirties, but I think the one I had a crush on is already married.
“No!” I quickly lower my voice. “No.” I can’t yell at my dad. “I meant, I’ll think about finding a Nigerian man over here. You don’t have to do anything, and please do not send my number to anyone.” I narrow my eyes at him. If I’m not firm, I’ll get random messages from people I’ve never spoken to who are interested in making me their wife. Besides, I recently met a Nigerian man. TheCupid’s BowNiyi guy.
“Okay, O! If you change your mind, text me. Many people would love to meet you.”
The doorbell rings, and my phone shows it’s 2:30 p.m. The girls are right on time for brunch. Shocking.
“Are those my other daughters?” Dad cranes his head to the left as if he’ll be able to see the door.
“Yes,” I say before yelling towards the door, “It’s open!”
Anjie walks in with a sheet pan, and the smell of jollof rice graces the room. The mixture of thyme, peppers, bay leaves, tomatoes, and goat meat stock always hits. Sewa, beside her, holds a bottle of champagne. They walk past me to drop the items off on the kitchen island.
“My girls!” Dad calls out.
Anjie plops down beside me while Sewa goes to lock the door. “Mr. A. Kilon poppin’?” she says, brandishing some hand signals she knows nothing about.
“Anjie-panjie.” My dad mimics her movements. What is wrong with those two? “Nothing, oh. Just dealing with this crybaby.”
“Dad!”
“Moyo, inside voice, please,” Sewa says softly as she nestles into the space beside me. “Good aft–I mean, evening, Mr. A. How are you?”
Sewa’s always been the polite one. And having only briefly met my dad in person during commencement weekend, she’s never fully acclimated to his playfulness. Even though I’ve told her she can loosen the reins, she remains cautious. But I get it, because Nigerian elders.
“Sewa, sweetie, if this one can stop giving me a heart attack, I’ll live to see my grandchildren—”
I gasp.
“Ignore her. Tell me how your PhD is going.”
I extricate myself from the lovefest to set up the kitchen for brunch. On Sundays, it stops feeling like I live alone. And this Sunday, after spending the last several experiencing my entire emotional range, I appreciate the community I do have.
I grab several plates, champagne glasses, and the wings I made and set them on the counter beside Anjie’s best-selling jollof. I return to the sappy scene right out of a Hallmark movie and hear them wrapping up with one final word from my dad.
