“Don’t look at me like that.” She crosses her arms.
“Like you’ve lost your mind? I will keep doing that because a hundred-fucking-thousand isn’t chicken change.”
“I know!” she whines.
“So, you’re regretting not signing up?”
“Not at all. You know regrets aren’t my thing,” she hurriedly corrects.
Now I’m utterly confused because if she didn’t sign up and isn’t regretting it, then why is she here? I cock my head and wait for her explanation.
“Someone signed me up. And I don’t want to do it,” she reveals.
“Why?”
“Moyo, how am I supposed to know why the mystery person signed me up? If I knew who they were, I’d ask,” she snaps, voice dripping with enough sarcasm to flood a small country. She reaches to pick up the pint of semi-melted ice cream. “Sorry, that was snippy. I’m a little overwhelmed and stressed.”
After knowing someone for all your adult lifeandall of your teenage years, it’s hard to be surprised by their moods. Despite being the most serious of us all, Anjie’s mood has always been all over the place. Once,during our first year of secondary school, we went three weeks without talking. It was miserable, but over time we learned to communicate through grunts and glares.
“It’s okay,” I say, and rub circles on her palm, tracing the age spots from our many years braving the Lagos sun without sunscreen. “But I meant, why don’t you want to do it?” Her silence lingers for a few beats. “Talk to me. What’s really going on? ’Cause it can’t simply be food.”
Anjie pushes the pint away with her other hand and sighs deeply. “It’s reality TV.”
“Oh.”
“See?” She jumps up. “You hate the idea of me on reality TV. You know I can’t control my tongue.”
“I never said any of that,” I interject, but the whole idea does stun me. Anjie doesn’t have the bubbly personality needed for those kinds of shows. She finds them abhorrent. This explains why she didn’t sign up.
“I’m gonna be so screwed,” she moans.
“You’re the best chef. You’ll be fine,” I say in my most soothing voice and reach for her hand once more. We sit there a second, and I wait for her breathing to regulate before I speak again.
“Do you have to go alone?” I ask quietly.
“We get to bring one person along from our restaurants.”
“Mike?”
“Who else would it be?” she deadpans. Mike, the man I’m almost certain is in love with Anjie, has been her pastry chef since the beginning.
“Asked him yet?”
“He doesn’t know. I’m still trying to get out of it.”
“Because it’s reality TV?” I ask, and she nods. “A hundred-freaking-thousand dollars would do so much for you,” I whisper.
“I know…” She trails off wistfully, looking at the ceiling.
“It does seem fortuitous that you were signed up,” I say, and she shoots daggers at me. “In fact, someone would call that fate.” I wink, and she hisses.
“Stop stealing my lines. Fake spiritualist.” She eyes me but then mouths a solemn “thank you.” She rises from the rug and moves to shake out theworries—a thing we usually do to end our heart-to-hearts—but I stop her ’cause I’m not done.
I lift myself from the ground and look her in the eyes. “Anjola, darling. I have been your friend since we were prepubescent kids. I have seen you at your worst—”
“Are you talking about the three-week fiasco? It’s been decades.”
“Like I said, at your worst, and I’ve seen you at your best. Which was yesterday, today, and will continue tomorrow. You’re hilarious, brave, and talented. You’d be amazing on TV. And I hate to think I’ll have to share you with the rest of America, but I’ll manage. Don’t let your insecurities stop you.” I give her my most reassuring smile and squeeze her palm.
