Chapter 21 Moyo
Moyo
“DID YOU LIKE THE MOVIE?” ANJIE ASKS AS SHE PUTS TOGETHER a special, post-Thanksgiving Day brunch. She only treats us to “soup and swallow” for brunch when it’s a special occasion or after significant time apart. With Sewa returning from visiting family in DC, it counts.
“I did,” I respond.
“And he was nice?” Sewa follows up.
“Yeah, he was respectful and didn’t try any nonsense.”
“Moyo,” Anjie says above the sound of rummaging through cabinets, “he doesn’t sound boring to me. Abi Sewa?” She looks at our copper-haired friend, who for the first time in weeks, looks refreshed.
“Someone that showed you a whole planet. I don’t know if boring is a word I’d use,” Sewa agrees.
“Exactly. I don’t get the problem,” Anjie reiterates.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. This response is not entirely unexpected because, even while thinking about it and retelling the story, I have to admit that it was an okay time.
It wasn’t a knock-your-socks-off, run-to-gossip-with-your-friends kind of date.
But it was all things I should’ve been obsessed with.
That diner—when I remember the name—is a perfect girls’ night option.
The drive-in would be fun to revisit on a solo movie date.
I enjoyed both things, but there’s something about Maxwell that didn’t click.
Anjie reappears, holding a tray with three bowls, and Sewa and I watch intently, waiting to see the food combo she’s blessed us with this time.
Anjie sets the tray down, and the yellow soup with green flecks and various cuts of meat stares back at us.
My stomach grumbles in approval. It’s been a while since Anjie made ègúsí and eba, but it smells perfect.
The earthy, roasted-nut scent wafts into my nose, and my stomach roars to life.
Before we dig in, Anjie dips back into the kitchen to retrieve a bowl of water to cleanse our hands. We each wet our right hands and dig into the eba Anjie made to accompany the soup.
Mid-scoop, Anjie says, “You still haven’t shared the problem with this Maxwell.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot about that. Was it the driving distance?” Sewa inquires.
The thirty-minute drive wasn’t a nuisance, and I respond accordingly.
“The diner food wasn’t good?” Anjie prods.
“The fries were regular fries,” I begin, and Anjie is about to leap. “But! Their milkshakes were superb. Best I’ve ever had.”
“They’re lucky I don’t make milkshakes,” she grumbles.
“You’re so unserious,” Sewa cackles. “You can’t even drink them, professional Pepto Bismol consumer.”
Anjie huffs. “Lactose intolerance is a real thing.”
“It wasn’t the food,” I say, still laughing a little.
“I’ll take you guys to the diner once I remember the name.
It was—” I pause, words evading me as I try to articulate my issues with Maxwell.
Then a lightbulb goes off in my head. “Okay, I’m explaining why the original Scream is the best one, yeah? ”
They both nod. Red palm oil from the soup coats their fingers, creating a stark contrast to the white balls of eba halfway to their mouths.
“And he agreed. He simply agreed,” I proclaim.
After that first incident, on our walk back to the diner after the movie, we shared our differing opinions on Psycho.
Every time, regardless of what I said, Maxwell readily agreed with my rebuttals.
I’m always right, and I admire when people know that.
But having it just accepted felt like a cheap date cop-out.
Opinions always differ and I love hearing varying perspectives.
With nonconfrontational Maxwell, as sweet as he was, it felt like he was saying things to appease me.
It made me wonder, did I get through to him with my crystal-clear opinions, or was he looking through a crystal ball and agreeing with whatever he thought I wanted him to say?
Anjie pivots towards me and touches my hand with her clean one. “I’m still lost, darling.”
I draw a deep breath. “There wasn’t any chemistry.”
Anjie furiously shakes her head. “If it was chemistry, you would’ve said that.”
“I think I get her point,” Sewa says, coming to my rescue. “You know, Moyo likes to fight—”
“Ignore her,” I say.
Sewa kisses her teeth. “As I was saying, she likes to fight. Therefore, this guy going with her every whim must’ve been exhausting. Poor Moyo, finding a man who listens and admits where he’s wrong.” Her sarcasm could fill a dam.
“It’s not the admitting part. You guys aren’t understanding me,” I lament.
“It’s the mental battle—the engagement—the discussion you like,” Anjie summarizes.
“Exactly!”
“We got you, babe. We just like to have a little laugh,” Sewa says.
I muster as much faux solemnity as I can. “One day, by the grace of God, you guys will become serious.”
“You first,” they say simultaneously, and then high-five. Despite the fact that I’ve known Anjie longer, she and Sewa have this incredible ability to gang up on me as if they share one brain cell—sometimes, I fear they do.
“As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted,” I say, giving Sewa a pointed look, “I didn’t get the intellectual stimulation I like. So, to me, there was no spark.” I shrug.
Anjie stands up dramatically. “Breaking news, a Yoruba woman wants a man to be able to fight her before she can fall in love with him.”
“I’m going to eat in my room,” I say, lifting my bowl.
Their whines and objections make me sit back down.
Sewa says, “It’s okay. We get it. Everyone has a thing that gets them going. Yours is needing to get into a verbal grudge match, and that’s okay.”
“I’m never disclosing anything ever again,” I mumble.
“See you next week for Moyo’s date rundown?” Anjie asks Sewa, and she nods dramatically, causing braids to fly in her face. She sputters when one sticks to her glossed lip, and I cackle as I watch her try to dislodge it without using her hands. My enemies always experience turmoil.
“When are you going to tell the app?” Anjie asks when things quiet down.
The question catches me as I’m halfway through conquering a piece of meat, so I put up a finger. “Already did. I also told Maxwell I didn’t feel the same when he asked for a second date,” I respond after chewing.
“Oh, you weren’t feeling him at all,” Sewa says.
I almost feel bad, but after writing down the things I want in a partner, it was clear that, even though Maxwell ticked most of the boxes, he would never scratch the itch I desperately need, and that’s okay. He’s a great, thoughtful guy who’ll find someone more his speed.
“All they have to do is find someone you can spar with who’ll eventually give in. Piece of cake,” Anjie says.
The reluctant smile of my latest sparring partner flashes through my head.
“Yeah, I’m sure there’s someone out there…” I trail off in deep thought. I hope there’s someone on the app who gives me the level of stimulation and care I’ve come to enjoy. Someone other than Niyi.
Why can’t I be with him again? I think.
He’s my coach, and he’s not part of the plan, I answer myself.
But he makes me feel more alive than any part of the plan has, and he doesn’t have to be my coach. I can always screw the plan or ask for a new coach. My mind fights back, trashing my excuses.
The last time I completely disregarded a plan, I was young, idealistic, and hopeful. Now I’m not as young and slightly less idealistic, but am I hopeful? Taking another risk in the name of love scares me, but Niyi’s unwavering presence makes me want to be brave.
His unsolicited acts of kindness, basically bullying me to accept help, make him different from any man I’ve known.
Cole certainly never volunteered to help with anything, and at the time I was okay with that, because I’m the one who takes care of people, not the other way around.
Well, my parents and my girls look out for me, but maybe I should expand that list to one more person.
The Saturday he spent here ticking two items off my list—reorganizing my movie collection and ironing—gave me more time to prep for my successful meeting with management.
The meeting was all me, and I’m one step closer to my funding now, but Niyi’s help reduced my sleepless nights that week.
That partnership is something I could get used to.
He is something I could get used to.
New plan: Fire Niyi as my coach and take another leap. Hopefully, this time it goes my way.