Chapter 32 Moyo
Moyo
IT’S BEEN THREE WEEKS SINCE I HEARD FROM NIYI. AND I’M okay. The girls no longer mention him. I’ve been spending every waking hour at the hospital or working on getting more pro bono work approved.
I cashed in the Cupid’s Bow check, bought a new couch (’cause the girls adamantly refused to use the other one, even after I got it cleaned), deleted the app from my phone, and started seeing a therapist for my relationship trauma.
Dr. Whitney and Yaz have been appalled at how much I’ve been working, but they think I’ll get the Clinical Excellence award at the gala tonight. All in all, I’m okay.
I’m staring at my gala dress when the door opens. Anjie’s still in her apron, and Sewa looks stunning in a simple, black, sweetheart-neckline, floor-length gown.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” I ask, taking the wine bottle from Anjie.
“I don’t think I can make it,” she says, and my face falls. “At least not at the beginning. I’m almost done with the final recipe test. I need to nail it before tomorrow evening.”
Of all days for Anjola to have a kitchen-related emergency, it had to be this one.
We squealed when we found out the date for her big event was the day after mine.
But as the weeks neared, it became more and more evident that Anjie, the perfectionist, would need every last second to get ready for her shot on the reality TV show.
I shoo her away. “Run back to the kitchen. I’ll see you when I see you.” I kiss one cheek, and Sewa does the same on the other.
She hurries back into the driveway, Mike’s keys jingling in her hand.
“By the way, I got you a date,” she calls out before entering the vehicle. “Sewa will give you all the details after you get ready. Mwah. Love you!” The door slams shut, and she reverses before I can cuss her out.
Despite their thoughts and well-wishes, I don’t need a date for this event or any event. Niyi is a thing of the past, and I’m taking a well-deserved dating break for peace of mind. I should’ve done this after Cole, but that hiatus would’ve been out of fear and resignation.
Like my dad said on our Christmas Day phone call: “Take your time. It’s never too late for love.” Right before attempting to set me up with some new co-worker’s nephew.
“I promise, the guy is cute, and we vetted his suit.” Sewa drags me back inside to get started on my makeup.
My white dress has a semi-sweetheart neckline and gorgeous, crystal-encrusted piping along the bodice.
The cinched waist lines up perfectly with my natural waistline, and to add to the glamour, I’ve paired it with a white, faux-fur stole.
The best way to attract money from donors is to look like money.
I already have the silver shoes and accessories picked out, so Sewa helps with my hair and makeup.
After an intense wash day, I placed my thick hair in heatless rollers last night.
With Sewa’s help, taking off the rollers is easy, and styling them into a wavy, old-Hollywood-esque style takes us less time than anticipated.
“All done!” Sewa exclaims, and I open my eyes to take in her handiwork. My makeup is flawless, the eyebags from sleepless nights poring over paperwork and intake forms are gone, and I look bright. Most importantly, I look like myself.
“You’re a miracle worker,” I say, hugging her. “Have you thought of doing this professionally?”
“Makeup or styling?”
“Both.”
“It’s on the table. Everything’s on the table till after I rest up and recover from decades of academia-induced burnout.”
“You’ll let me know if I can help in any way?” I ask.
“I will,” Sewa says. “Now, let me show you the guy.” She pulls out her phone, and at another time, I might’ve been moved.
In the photo, he’s in front of a body of water, hair trimmed nicely but still sporting some length.
His honey-brown skin glistens in the sunlight, and his face is all right—robust features, a sharp jaw.
All regular things from a Black man; he’s not special.
“He’s cool,” I say, applying another layer of gloss.
“Cool?” Sewa asks. When I nod, she says nothing more.
“Where’s he meeting us? Here or there?”
Sewa looks me over, taking in her hard work. “Moyo, you are too fine! Again, I can be your date. Since you’re not keen on this guy.”
“As I told you, I’m not keen on any guy, and I said he’s okay.”
“Yeah, yeah. He’s meeting us there.” She checks her watch. “Oh, shit. Where is time running to?”
The Boston Hospital Foundation Gala is hosted in a large conference space next to the hospital in case someone needs to be called for an emergency.
The alcohol at the event is mainly for donors and guests.
The medical staff must always be alert, so instead we sip on sparkling cider and make the donors think we’re indulging like them. No one cashes out like drunk people.
We meet the guy, Alex, at the door. He’s a perfect gentleman, who I can admit looks better in person in his handsome black tuxedo. He’s now sporting a buzz cut with a mustache and a little goatee.
Once we find our table, I leave Sewa and Alex to make my laps around the room.
After spending countless minutes discussing the importance of early intervention across the different domains I work in—language delays, learning disorders, and neurodevelopmental differences like ADHD and autism—numerous donors bring out their checkbooks.
I’m making another lap around the room, watching for breaks in conversation or, better yet, a swarm of donors with too much drink and not enough conversation, when a voice draws my attention.
“You’re even more magnetic in your element,” a cool voice says from behind me, and I come face-to-face with someone I never expected to see. They extend a hand. I, and the countless people around me who stop and stare, recognize their face—it’s Mercury.
“Vinny Carr.” I plaster a smile and shake their hand.
Their smile is wide, every single tooth on display.
They smell divine, a woody yet floral scent.
If I wasn’t so shocked, I would ask what it was.
They have on all black and a jacket with abundant gold detailing.
Their locs are in an intricate bun on the top of their head. They look regal and important.
“Moyo, darling. We’re already well-acquainted. No need for formalities. Call me Mercury or Merc, whatever you prefer.”
Their presence is a surprise, but not an entirely unwelcome one. I scan the room for another face, to no avail. Mercury watches me, their bright smile unwavering.
“Mercury, can I interest you in donating to the early intervention fund for Black children?” This is the first time this evening I have mentioned the specifics of the fund. White donors can be finicky when they learn their money isn’t going to their demographic.
Before they can answer, the hospital’s CEO taps into the microphone.
“Unfortunately, that’s my cue. Please excuse me, Moyo.” Mercury walks off before I register their words.
“Good evening, everyone, and thank you for joining us in raising money for children’s healthcare at this year’s Boston Hospital Foundation Gala,” the CEO says, and applause fills the room.
He drones on about the importance of research and development in advancing medical practices and technology.
He also goes off-script and announces the staff recognition award super early.
Typically, it’s done towards the end of the night.
“This year, we’ve decided to bestow the Clinical Excellence award earlier because a special guest has graciously offered to present a grant to this year’s recipient,” he announces, and the crowd livens up.
The buzz among the staff is incredible. Yaz’s words come to mind, and for a second, I imagine winning it.
But I’d never win because of who I am and, most importantly, how much pushback I give the administration.
“To present the award, I call on our sponsor, Vincent Carr.”
I can’t believe my ears. As if we’re connected, my eyes find Sewa’s.
“No way,” she mouths, and I gesture, “I know, right?”
Accompanying Mercury is a gorgeous woman, who I’m guessing is Venus. She holds the massive check, looking radiant in her mustard dress.
“The name’s Vinny, not Vincent, by the way,” Mercury says, and the CEO turns redder than rodo.
“My family and I”—Mercury begins and gestures to Venus, who grins—“are very interested in improving people’s lives, especially those of children.
Changing lives requires a lot of money, expertise, and most importantly, time. ”
I look around for the Master of Time himself, but I only see Sewa, my blind date, and surprisingly, Anjie coming towards me.
The girls put their hands on my shoulders, and I kiss the backs of their hands.
I’m no longer checking for Niyi. These two are my pillars.
Come rain, come sun, they’re always here.
The guy they set me up with, whose name I’ve already forgotten, gives me a curt smile.
“We cannot give these deserving children more time or expertise; you’re the professionals in the room,” Mercury jokes, and everyone—except us—laughs on cue.
“But we can donate money.” Another round of laughter.
“Along with my lovely cousin, I’m happy to present this year’s Clinical Excellence award recipient with a check for one hundred thousand dollars to invest in their practice. ”
The “wows” in the room are hushed, but they echo. Mercury pauses to give people time to collect themselves.
“Hopefully that is enough to impact some change in this world,” Mercury says.
After my first year at the hospital, I knew not to get my hopes up about winning the award because they would never give it to a person like me—headstrong, always pushing back against admin, and focused more on patient satisfaction than productivity.
This year is no different, but getting money towards my work sounds like a dream.
There’s so much I could do. Too much research on pediatric developmental issues is focused on white children, and there’s barely anything on the Black children of the world.
But with access to funds like this? I could do surveys and adequately compensate people.
I could open a clinic.
Once the idea enters my mind, it’s a done deal.
A clinic to better serve minority populations in Dorchester and Roxbury, where most of my pro bono clients have been from.
Fuck the need for insurance or for patients and their families paying out of pocket.
Or even worse, fighting red tape. A free clinic is what I’ll build if I get the money. It’s decided.
“Without further ado, since I can see you’re all vibrating in your seats”—Mercury pauses for the wave of laughter, nervous this time—“the grant recipient, for her stellar work, as recommended by her peers and bosses, is Dr. Moyo Adegbite.”
It doesn’t register as my name till Sewa nudges me and Anjie says, “Girl, get on stage.”
Anjie and Sewa practically carry me to the stage, where I hug Mercury and Venus.
“Thank you,” I say, addressing the crowd.
The spotlight makes it hard to see anyone below the stage.
“This is an honor. I’m so grateful to Cupid’s Bow for this incredible donation.
This money isn’t only for me but for the nurses, psychologists, OTs, PTs, SLPs, neurologists, psychiatrists, and everyone else I am most likely forgetting because of my nerves and this bright spotlight,” I say, and the crowd chuckles.
“I can’t wait to brainstorm ideas and use this money to serve our wonderful clients and offer our services to those who currently can’t afford them.
Again, thank you.” This time, my gratitude is directed towards the two celestials.
Once I’m out of the spotlight, I am greeted by my girls and the guy.
“You were amazing up there, and now you have a shit-ton of money!” Anjie squeals.
“It’s work money, it’s not mine. But yes, it is a lot!”
“Knew you were going to win.” Sewa beams. “Pay up.” She gestures at the new guy, who reaches into his wallet and pulls out ten dollars.
“You can’t help yourself, can you?” I laugh.
“I like easy money,” Sewa says with a shrug.
The four of us make our way back to our table. The girls walk ahead while the guy, the one Sewa called Alex, lingers behind with me. He spends most of the time watching me accept congratulations and cheers from people as we walk to the back of the room.
“Congratulations! Your friend Sewa talked you up,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. Like Niyi used to do.
“Thank you. But you should know that if you let her, she’ll take you for everything you own.”
Alex moves closer, allowing me to hear him better above the mingling room. “How about you? Will you let me take you out sometime?”
He’s smiling at me with his nice suit and his nice manners, and he’s sufficiently mingled with the overwhelming women I call family. But something is missing.
“I’m still getting over someone,” I say. This is the first time I’ve admitted it to someone other than my friends.
“Sewa also mentioned you might say that.”
Why is that girl telling everyone my business? Might have to murder her after this.
“But, when you’re ready, I’d love to take you out sometime,” he persists, and I can’t even be mad. I hand him my phone, and let him put his number in.
Good old-fashioned dating might’ve been the way all along. I don’t know when I’ll be ready, but I like knowing all hope isn’t lost.