A darkly comic and bitingly subversive take on love, race and family, Wahala will have you laughing, crying and gasping in horror. Boldly political about class, colorism and clothes, here is a truly inclusive tale that will speak to anyone who has ever cherished friendship, in all its form.
Aftermath
Am I strong enough?
The woman sits huddled in the corner of her bedroom.
Her dress is ruined – the button missing, the belt ripped.
One seam has come apart, exposing her bare shoulder.
She’s clutching a sculpture in both hands. It’s a head, a
little under life-size. She stares into its unblinking eyes, willing
it to come to life. She wants it to tell her that this is not
her fault. That there’s nothing she could have done differently.
That she’s the victim here.
But it’s made of leaded brass. It can’t speak.
With trembling hands, she places it gently on the carpet.
Then, holding the split halves of her wrap dress together, she
clambers to her feet.
Am I strong enough?
She knows the answer. Justice must be done.
She picks up the phone.
‘Help me. Please . . .’
Four Months Earlier
1
Ronke
Pounded yam and egusi? Eba with okra? No, it had to be
pounded yam. But maybe with efo riro. Ronke ran through
the menu in her head as she walked up the hill to Buka. She
knew it by heart but that didn’t make choosing any easier. As
usual she wanted it all.
And as usual she was running late. She stopped at the
cashpoint anyway and withdrew a hundred pounds. The girls
teased her, told her it was an urban myth, but ever since
Ronke had heard the story about Simi’s cousin’s friend getting
her card cloned at Buka, she’d paid in cash.
Ronke had been looking forward to their Naija lunch all
week. And not just because of the food. For the first time in
ages, when Simi asked, ‘So what’s new?’, the answer wouldn’t
be, ‘Nothing.’
She hustled past the Sainsbury’s Local, the Turkish grocery
and the Thai nail bar. The Nigerian flag outside Buka
was looking a little tatty, frayed at the edges. The green was
still vibrant but the white was a dirty beige. Ronke studied
her reflection in the shiny mirrored door, yanked at her hair
to fluff up some of the curls, patted to flatten some down. As
good as it gets. At least once a day someone said to her, ‘I
wish I had curly hair,’ but Ronke knew better – curls meant
frizz, knots and chaos. She pushed open the door and stepped
out of suburban London and into downtown Lagos.
The smell hit her first. Smoky burned palm oil, fried peppers
and musty stockfish. Next came the noise: Fela Kuti
blared out of the speakers, struggling to compete with the
group of three men at a corner table, talking over each other.
And because this was effectively Nigeria, their voices were
louder, accents stronger, gesticulations wilder.
The waiter looked up with a scowl. As Ronke turned to
shut the door, she knew his eyes would linger on her arse.
It felt like home.
She spotted Simi deep in conversation with a striking
woman and felt a spike of irritation. ‘Just us two,’ Simi had
said. The stranger had long toned limbs and glossy brown
skin; she looked almost sculpted. Something about her profile
was familiar and for one heartbeat Ronke was sure she
knew her from somewhere. She blinked and the feeling disappeared.
She didn’t know anyone who showed side-boob at lunch. Or
had such an over-the-top blonde weave.
Ronke tried to tamp down her annoyance as she wove
between the tables towards them. The men stopped talking
and turned to watch her and she realized she was holding in
her tummy.
Simi stood and beamed at Ronke. It was easy to love Simi.
When she looked at you she made you believe you were the
only person in the world she wanted to see. Simi had given
Ronke the same grin the first time they met, seventeen years
ago, at freshers’ week in Bristol. Teeth, dimples, sunshine, joy.
‘Ronks! This is Isobel
– you’re going to love her.’ Simi
spread her arms out in welcome.
I wouldn’t bet on it, thought Ronke. She leaned into Simi’s
hug and fixed a smile on her face before turning to say hello
to the interloper. Still, three people meant three starters.
This Isobel had better be a sharer.
Simi poured her a glass of fizz as Ronke unwound her
scarf. ‘Champagne?’ Ronke asked. ‘We always have rosé
atBuka.’ It’s not forty pounds a bottle, she didn’t add.
Simi nudged Ronke with her knee under the table. ‘Iso’s
allergic to cheap wine,’ she said, ‘and we’re celebrating.’
‘Here’s to my divorce,’ said Isobel, holding her glass aloft,
‘and to friends – old and new.’
Ronke thought divorce was a strange thing to celebrate
but she smiled and clinked glasses.
“‘Isobel beat up a boy on our first day. After that we were inseparable.’”
The waiter plonked three massive menus on the table.
Pages and pages of laminated sheets nestled in faux leather
folders. Ronke adored the old-fashioned, over-long menu,
the notable absence of words like seasonal, local and sustainable,
the bad spelling and dodgy typography. She stroked
her menu and a rush of nostalgia flooded through her, echoes
of long family lunches at Apapa Club.
‘Wetin you people want?’ the waiter asked, glowering down
at them.
‘Another bottle of this.’ Isobel gestured at the empty champagne
bottle. The waiter’s frown deepened.
‘Thank you!’ called Ronke to his retreating back. She
tended to overcompensate with waiters. Even rude ones.
‘Isobel is embarrassingly rich,’ said Simi, ‘but she loves
throwing her money around, so I forgive her.’
Ronke laughed in spite of herself. ‘How do you two know
each other?’
‘We met when we were five,’ said Simi. ‘The only half-
Caste kids in our class . . .’
‘Simi! You can’t use that word,’ said Ronke.
‘Oh, come on, this is us. Everybody called us half-caste
In Lagos.’
‘You can’t even think it in LA, unless you want to be sent
on a race awareness course.’ Isobel stroked Simi’s arm. ‘It’s
so good to have my alobam back.’
‘We clocked each other straight away. You know how it is
when you spot another mixed-race person in Lagos.’ Simi
made exaggerated air quotes as she said ‘mixed-race’.
‘Isobel beat up a boy on our first day. After that we were
inseparable.’
‘He deserved it,’ said Isobel. ‘The little shit called you a
mongrel. It was only a little tap.’
‘You knocked two of his teeth out,’ said Simi.
‘He insulted us. Anyway, it worked.’ Isobel smiled. ‘No one
messed with us after that.’
Ronke tried and failed to place her accent. ‘Is your mum
American?’
‘Russian. My dad was working in Moscow, that’s where
they met.’ Isobel placed her hand on Ronke’s arm. Her nails
were electric blue, long and pointy. ‘What about you? I want
to know everything.’
Ronke fiddled with her scarf and glanced around for the
waiter. She hated talking about herself. ‘My mum’s English.
I was born in Lagos, but we moved here when I was eleven.
Have you looked at the menu?’
‘Ronke is the best dentist in London,’ Simi said. ‘And an
amazing cook.’
‘I’m not.’ Ronke wished Simi would stop jabbering like an
overexcited PR. ‘But I do love food. We should order
– they’re so slow here.’
Simi ignored her. ‘She’s practically perfect. Apart from her
dodgy taste in men.’
Ronke clenched her jaw and looked around for the waiter.
Isobel clapped her hands together and beamed. ‘Me too! I
knew we’d get on. I always go for the bad boy.’
‘Kayode isn’t a bad boy.’ Ronke glared at Simi and yanked
at a curl.
‘I love your hair,’ said Isobel. ‘How do you get it to spiral
like that? Is it real?’
Ronke gave Simi one more hard look, then turned to
Isobel. ‘Yes, it’s real.’
‘This isn’t.’ Isobel flicked her blonde mane from side to
side.
No kidding, thought Ronke. She didn’t want to be mollified.
‘Let’s order, I’m starving.’
‘Quick,’ Simi said. ‘If Ronke gets hangry, we’re in for it.
She’ll bitch-slap us with these tacky menus.’
Ronke patted her menu as she swallowed down another
twinge of annoyance. Hanger was a real thing; she’d read an
article about it in the Sunday Times just last week.
‘I’m not doing carbs – well, apart from wine,’ said Simi.
‘Fish pepper soup.’
‘No carbing in a Naija restaurant?’ Isobel’s laugh was high-
pitched and jangly. ‘You’re such a coconut. I’ll have amala
with ogbono and assorted meat.’
‘Jollof rice with chicken for me,’ said Ronke. She couldn’t
bring herself to order pounded yam in front of skinny, glamorous
Isobel. ‘Are we having starters?’ she added hopefully.
Isobel and Simi picked at their food – they were too busy
chatting about the good old days. Their Nigerian childhoods
had been filled with swimming pools, beach clubs, air-
conditioning, drivers and maids. Ronke’s memories were of
noisy family gatherings, power cuts, spicy street food, the car
breaking down and playing clapping games with her cousins
in the dusty courtyard.
Ronke listened as she ate. Simi was wearing a single oversized
earring, which made her look lopsided. Isobel on the
other hand was perfectly balanced – shoulders back, head
held high, blonde fringe perfectly straight.
Isobel pushed her plate away after three tiny bites. Don’t
stare, Ronke told herself, fighting the temptation to spear a
piece of shaki off her plate. Her jollof had been so-so
– she should have ordered the yam. Thank God she was getting a
takeaway.
The waiter dragged himself away from the TV and sauntered
over to clear their table. Ronke watched as he slammed
her empty plate on top of Isobel’s, squishing the black pillow
of amala. What a waste.
“This was the downside of telling your friends everything: it meant they knew everything. Yes, Kayode had left her standing like a saddo at St Pancras, watching the train pull out without them. Yes, she’d been in bits. But if Ronke could get over it, why couldn’t Simi?”
Isobel’s phone buzzed. ‘Got to go,’ she said. ‘My driver’s
here. I’ll get this – my treat.’ She went to the bar to pay the
bill, sashaying past the rowdy men.
One of them, eating eba and egusi with his hands in the
traditional way, paused, licked his fingers and called out to
her, ‘Hello, luscious yellow baby, why don’t you come and
greet us, ehn?’
Ronke froze. Simi tutted. But Isobel was unfazed; she
winked and put even more swagger into her walk as she came
back to the table. She bent to give Simi a hug, air-kissed
Ronke, and then she was gone, the door slamming behind
her.
‘Na wa, o!’ said Ronke.
‘That’s Iso,’ said Simi.
‘She has a driver? In London?’
‘Her dad’s loaded. I mean, proper rich. He was in the government
and in business. Legalized corruption – you know
the type. My dad used to be his lawyer, but they had a big
falling out. She’s been through hell so he’s being ultra-
protective.’
‘What sort of hell?’
‘A dodgy ex-husband. The controlling sort. He told her
what to wear, who to see, how to spend her own money.
Fucked her over. I’m guessing he was violent, but I didn’t
want to pry.’
‘That’s not like you,’ said Ronke.
Simi held her hands up in protest. ‘She was close to tears.
I couldn’t keep pushing her to talk.’
Ronke tried to imagine Isobel crying, but couldn’t. ‘But
she seems so confident, so self-assured, so . . . shiny.’
‘Ronks, you know how it is. We all have faces we put on. I
think her dad came to the rescue – saved her from him.
Hence Boris. The driver-cum-bodyguard.’
‘Boris? You are joking?’
‘OK, I made that up. But Boris suits him – he’s massive
and he’s Russian.’ Simi said the last bit in a terrible Russian
accent and they both burst into giggles.
‘I need to order a takeaway for Boo,’ said Ronke. ‘She’s
having a major strop with Didier. I’m going to hers after.
Come – it’ll be fun.’
‘I’ll pass. I had the oh-poor-me, I-do-everything spiel on
the phone this morning.’
Ronke managed to get the waiter’s attention and reeled off
her order. ‘Jollof rice with chicken stew, no chilli. Jollof rice
with fried beef. Pounded yam with seafood okra, extra hot,
please. Beef suya. Chicken suya. Two portions of dodo. One
moin-moin, please. Oh, and a Buka fish special.’
‘And one espresso.’ Simi gave him one of her high-
watt smiles. He almost smiled back, remembered himself
and went back to surly.
‘So what’s new?’ asked Simi. ‘How’s Kayode?’
‘My dodgy boyfriend?’ Ronke narrowed her eyes. ‘I can’t
believe you said that to someone I don’t know.’
‘Relax. Iso’s one of us. She gets it.’
‘Well, Kayode is fine. Tomorrow we’re going to look at a
flat in Clapham.’ Ronke had been waiting for this. She was
careful to keep her voice level, slipped it in as if it was idle
chit-chat.
Simi took the bait. ‘What? You’re flat-hunting? Together?’
Ronke wanted to stay deadpan but it was too exciting. ‘I
know. And it’s his idea. We spent hours on PrimeLocation
last night and he called the agent to book the viewing. I’m
seeing batik curtains, lots of raffia baskets, wooden floors
just like Boo’s – and a cot.’
‘A cot?’ said Simi.
‘Cat, I meant – cat.’ Ronke blushed. ‘But yes, I want kids.
You and Boo aren’t the only ones allowed happy ever after.’
‘Of course not. But come on, Ronks – we’re talking about
Kayode! He can’t even commit to a weekend in Paris.’
Ronke blinked at the peeling paint on the ceiling. This
was the downside of telling your friends everything: it meant
they knew everything. Yes, Kayode had left her standing like
a saddo at St Pancras, watching the train pull out without
them. Yes, she’d been in bits. But if Ronke could get over it,
why couldn’t Simi?
‘It wasn’t completely his fault,’ she said. ‘I know he didn’t
handle it well, but we’re fine now. Can’t you just pretend to
be pleased for me?’
‘I’m sorry. I just want you to be happy. Let’s start again.
Show me the flat.’ Simi shuffled her chair closer. ‘Please?’
Ronke tapped her phone with a short unpainted nail. ‘It
needs a lot of work, but that’s fine – good even. Like a blank
canvas. I can move into his flat while the builders fix it up. I
thought we could make it more open-plan.’
She jabbed at the phone, scrolling through the images.
‘It has a yard, south-facing; we can have loads of pots. It’s
at the top of our budget and we won’t get it, but . . .’
‘I love it,’ said Simi. ‘You can do a Kirsty, knock all the walls
down and fill it with scatter cushions.’
Ronke laughed. She did have a scatter cushion problem.
There were twenty-six in her little flat. Kayode had counted
once. All in similar shades of cream and silver. With tassels.
With sequins. With pompoms. And one extra special one
with tassels, sequins and pompoms. Kayode called her the
mad cushion lady, but in a nice way. He’d bought her the
extra special cushion. It was the only one that didn’t get
thrown on the floor at bedtime.
Simi chatted with her about houses and builders until
Ronke’s takeaway arrived. ‘Give Martin my love,’ said Ronke
as she wound her scarf round her neck. No lurid comments
from the loud men as they left. Simi hopped into her Uber
and Ronke, weighed down with her takeaway, headed for the
Tube. She hoped Boo would be a bit more positive about her
news.
Extracted from Wahala by Nikki May, out now.
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