Chapter 30
30
Wale_Memoir_Draft1.doc
Target word count: 18,000
Current word count: 16,062
Just over three weeks to go …
I always thought I would be too excited to sleep on the day I got a book deal. And I’m wide awake all right. But it’s adrenaline and anxiety rather than excitement keeping me up. After Wale helped me back into his car, he drove me home while I sat in silence, only managing to utter a few words – ‘I can’t believe it.’ He thought I was still in shock, so he talked instead, filling the suffocating air with his pure joy.
If the stakes were high before, they’re monumental now. A high five-figure book deal with the world’s biggest publisher is any writer’s dream. I have manifested, wished, visualized this very moment. Although I’ve never been in it for the money, I would be able to write full-time for a good number of years.
But what about Wale?
Wale would be so hurt if I published a book that played into his biggest insecurities. Especially now that I’ve earned his trust.
Only a few hours ago, I told him about Seth and how, ultimately, I couldn’t compromise my morals and my values. And now I’m compromising them.
I begin to question myself. My integrity.
After all, it was integrity that led me to tell Wale what happened with Kojo. It was also integrity that prompted me to tell Mayee the truth about Love Drive . So, what was it when I emailed Mayee a copy of The Ultimate Payback ?
Desperation?
Fear?
Relentless ambition?
Am I actually willing to do anything to get published?
I don’t know what to do. There’s so much on the line. And if I tell Wale, would he still want me to write his memoir? I’m really, really invested now.
But, more importantly, I care about him. I love him. I was hoping we would get our second chance.
I think about our kiss.
My tears soak my pillow.
The next morning, I do not feel any better. I am tired to my bones. But I only have a little more than three weeks until I have to submit Wale’s memoir, so I need to put aside my emotions. When I called Mayee back yesterday, she said Dionne wanted to meet me next Monday. Naturally, The Ultimate Payback is going to need a good edit. And while Dionne probably won’t be keen on me changing the plot, she may be more open to me tweaking a few things so that the indirect references to Wale aren’t so damning. But until we’ve had that conversation, I’ll need to somehow avoid seeing him this weekend. Thankfully, I’m going up to Oxford for Rosemary’s celebration lunch on Sunday. Which leaves just today – Saturday. I’m hoping he’s super busy.
I read and annotate Wale’s interview transcript – although it reads more like an outpouring from the heart. I type a few titles before finally settling on one.
People assume that I’m a heartbreaker
The truth is I’ve been heartbroken
I write. For hours. Getting lost in the desire to do right by Wale. I don’t even stop to cook, ordering a LEON takeaway instead. Ten minutes later, I hear a knock. That was quick.
‘Wale!’ I cry after I open the door.
Wale is standing at the entrance with an actual djembe under his arm. With a grin, he slaps the drumhead with his bare hands and sings along to the beat, bending his back a little while bopping his knees. I recognize the song instantly. It’s one of those West African tunes that I used to hear often at my parents’ church.
‘What are you doing?’ I tug him inside before the neighbours complain.
‘Pala lalalala!’
‘Wale!’
‘Blow your trumpet! Pala la la la.’
‘Wale!’
Finally, he stops, but not without giving a few last whacks on his drum. He flashes me a grin. I haven’t seen him this happy.
‘I’m celebrating!’ he says. ‘Tell me. How does it feel?’
Fuck .
‘Um, insane,’ I shrill, rubbing my arms.
‘Yeah, man. It’s crazy , still. Hope you don’t mind me stopping by?’
I bite my lip. ‘Actually, I’m kinda busy working on your memoir.’
‘Temi, fuck that. We need to go out and celebrate. Me, you, Shona and Fonzo.’
‘Wale, I’ve got a deadline—’
‘And you’ve just been offered a book deal. I’m sure you can spare at least an hour.’
If I persist and keep saying no, he’ll think something’s up and start to ask questions. I need to act normal. Well, I need to act as if I’m really excited about this book deal.
‘You’re right,’ I say, twisting my lips into a smile. ‘But give me a couple hours, though, to finish a few things. And whatever you do –’ I raise a finger – ‘do not bring that drum.’
Wale feigns disappointment. ‘No? I had a special performance planned and everything.’
‘And I don’t want to go anywhere fancy,’ I add. The last thing I need is Wale splashing on me. ‘Whatever Shona recommends goes.’ I called her last night, so she’s clued-up on everything.
‘Okay, no drums. No bougie restaurants. Anything else?’
I shake my head.
‘Right, I’ll leave you to crack on,’ he says, hoisting his drum under his arm. He lingers at the door for a moment and then he reaches forward to kiss me. I see it coming so I quickly offer him my cheek instead. I refuse to make the next few hours even more agonizing. But from the embarrassed look he gives me after, I think I have.
‘See you in a bit,’ he mutters.
He turns and leaves.
Thankfully, Shona sticks to the brief. We meet at Camden Market – much less stressful than a sit-down meal. It would be even less stressful if Fonzo and Shona stopped walking ahead, but at the same time it’s really sweet watching them bond.
Breathing in a concoction of grilled meat, pizza and fries, Wale and I browse various street-food vendors lined with messy huddles of people. With every turn we take, there is another type of music playing. The buzz is a welcome distraction.
‘Seen anything you like?’ he says as I peer at a stand: JOLLOF MAMA: NIGERIA ’ S FINEST FOOD WITH A TWIST . A sweaty-faced chef is sautéing a steaming pan of prawns, spring onions and chilli seasoning, while a woman in a head tie serves foam takeaway boxes to the customers. On a normal day, I would have gone for something on their menu. Or from the vibrant Venezuelan stall a few yards back. But I’m feeling nauseous. Best to avoid spice.
‘Not yet,’ I say again, wishing the stall a silent goodbye. At this rate, I’m going to end up getting an egg-and-cress sandwich from Boots.
We resume what I hope is a comfortable silence. I’ve managed to field most of Wale’s overexcited questions by reminding him that I won’t know anything until I meet Dionne on Monday. I go back to pretending to study the menus. I’m so conscious about acting normal that I’m finding it hard to relax.
‘Do you know what I’m in the mood for?’ Wale cuts through my hyperactive thoughts. I turn to him. He’s wearing his face mask. ‘Something with lots of tzatziki in it,’ he finishes.
‘Well, you’re in luck. The gods have heard you.’ I nod to the Greek food stall across from us.
‘Hey, Shona! Fonzo!’ I yell.
But Fonzo and Shona are too busy laughing and chatting.
‘We’ll catch up with them later,’ Wale suggests, already making a beeline towards the kiosk.
Just my luck.
I join Wale in the queue. The smell of truffle aioli tickles the inside of my nostrils.
‘The classic souvlaki wrap looks good,’ he says after surveying the list of sandwiches written on the chalkboard. ‘I think I’ll get the one with the halloumi.’
‘Excellent choice.’ I pretend to contemplate the menu.
The vibe is giving awkward first date. This conversation is taking effort.
‘So,’ Wale says after a moment, his hands in his pockets, ‘how did your parents react?’
‘My parents?’ Shit , I should have prepared for this . ‘Um … I haven’t told them yet. I’m seeing them tomorrow.’
Wale’s smile reaches his eyes. ‘They’re going to lose their minds. How do you think they’ll react?’
Truthfully, I hadn’t considered telling my parents until now. ‘Actually, I’m not sure if I want to tell them just yet. They’re throwing a celebration lunch for my childhood friend. She recently finished med school. I don’t want to steal the limelight.’
Wale looks at me as though I’m barking mad. He shakes his head. ‘Temi, man! You’re too modest. First, you didn’t wanna go out and celebrate. Now you wanna delay telling your parents. Pshh . If I were you, I’d be shouting from the rooftops.’
I giggle nervously. ‘I know. I saw the drums.’
He laughs. ‘Hey, remember back in March when it was your dad’s birthday?’
‘I remember my dad’s birthday, yes.’
He squints at me. ‘Well then, you’ll remember that he planned a special family trip to Morocco. You remember that? The one you missed out on?’
‘I couldn’t afford to go. I told you that.’
The line moves forward. We take a few steps.
‘But you said your parents offered to cover your flights and hotel, and yet you still turned them down—’
‘Okay, where are you going with this?’ I fold my arms.
‘Hold up. Let me land.’ We take another step. ‘Now, you told me that you didn’t wanna go for two reasons. One: you wanted to avoid being interrogated about your choice of career – to become an author. And two: you felt guilty that they were still covering for you and paying for things. Well, now you have an opportunity to tell them that your plan worked. You took a risk by not going down the traditional route and you achieved your wildest dreams. Excuse the pun.’ He laughs.
With a faint smile, I think back to that conversation. We were lying in my bed, my head on his chest while his fingers twirled in my natural curls. He tried his hardest to persuade me to go to Morocco, but I was convinced I wouldn’t enjoy it.
‘You’re right,’ I say softly. ‘Deep down I know they’re proud of me but I always struggled to shake the thought that they’re desperate to say “I told you so”.’
Wale places a hand on my shoulder and my body tingles from the touch. I’m transported back into his car again. ‘Trust me.’ His dark eyes bore into mine. ‘They’re proud of you.’
My heart squeezes. That word again. Trust .
‘Next customer, please!’
Somehow, we’ve reached the front.
We place our orders – I go for a simple rice bowl. The woman tells us there’ll be a ten-minute wait, so we’re each given a pager. We stand off towards the side. Neither of us is saying anything. And I seem to be transfixed by a watermelon-patterned tote bag on the shoulder of a lady who is walking by.
‘Let me call Shona,’ I say finally.
‘I get it. It’s awkward.’
My heart jumps to my throat.
Wale pulls off his face mask. ‘Should we … talk about yesterday?’
I stare at him.
‘Ohmigod, Wale from The Villa !’ a female voice cries.
We turn our heads. Two South Asian women are gawking at him.
‘Mind if we get a selfie?’ the one with glasses says. She’s already got out her phone.
‘Yeah. Sure,’ Wale replies with a small smile.
The women get into position. I make myself useful by taking a few shots. I hand the glasses-wearing woman back her phone. She studies the photos.
‘You know, I wasn’t a big fan of you on the show,’ says the other woman while her friend continues her inspection.
Wale lets out a startled laugh. ‘Thanks. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t be either.’
‘I love what you’re doing now, though,’ the woman says. ‘I look after my nan. She has dementia. God, it’s hard. Thanks for raising awareness. I donated the other day.’
Satisfied with their photos, the women thank both me and Wale and go on their merry way. Wale and I turn to each other, stunned.
‘Hm. Maybe I don’t need this any more.’ He holds his face mask as though it’s a dirty diaper and throws it in the bin. He turns to me. ‘As you were saying …’ he prompts after a short moment.
‘I wasn’t saying anything.’
‘Yeah, I know. You were being awkward. Do you regret it? ’Cause I don’t.’ His brows knead together as his eyes search my face, questioning.
Without meaning to, my gaze makes a swift descent to his lips and then, quickly, I bring it back up. He can’t read my mind. Otherwise, he will kiss me and I’ll feel even worse knowing I’m keeping this big secret from him. I just need Monday to hurry up and be here already. I need to know from Dionne how much of The Ultimate Payback I can change before I can tell Wale about it.
Wale, reading into my silence, says, ‘Aight. Cool,’ with a slow nod.
‘No, I don’t regret it. It’s just …’ I don’t know where my words are heading.
‘You wanna keep things professional?’
The low thrum of disappointment in Wale’s voice makes my eyes sting. Every part of me wants to be in his arms. I want to kiss him senseless, tell him that this isn’t what I want for either of us, and beg him to please ask me the question again on Monday, my answer might be different.
I hope.
Bitter guilt rises in my chest like poison in a syringe. I swallow. ‘I just need time … to think things through. Properly.’
Wale looks at me in silence. He’s absorbing what I’ve said. Then he smiles, gentle, as if it took effort. ‘Noted.’