Chapter 11
11
Love_Drive_Draft1.doc
Target word count: 3,000
Current word count: 2,911
After our meeting, Wale introduces me to Aunty Shirley. She was the woman who smiled at me from behind the till when I arrived. I connect the dots – she’s Fonzo ’s mum. I remember Wale telling me she owned Anansi Books when we first met. Aunty Shirley suggests that I interview both her and her husband the following day in the staffroom of his barbershop.
Later that evening, I write a list of questions for Aunty Shirley and Uncle Les. Given Wale grew up with them, it makes sense for me to ask them about his childhood. I order a few memoirs by young, popular influencers for inspiration too. Then, before I get too tired, I set a timer on my phone for two hours. I work on Love Drive , forcing myself to string sentences on to the page, no matter how terrible they are. I’m a bundle of emotions; my mind is unsettled. I feel panicky knowing how much work I have to do. And I feel physically sick whenever I remember that I’m also writing Wale’s memoir on top. I get so hot that my body breaks out in beads of sweat and I have to stick my head out of the window to gulp some fresh air. I’m so annoyed at myself. This could have been avoided if I’d started working on Love Drive months ago. And I can’t stop replaying my meeting with Wale in my head. The way he looked at me when he said, ‘ That I’m scared to love ,’ made me feel as if I was being cut open, exposed. I wish I had broken eye contact sooner. I wish I never held it in the first place. I also wish he was less attractive than he is. He is frustratingly distracting.
The following day, I make my way to Camberwell Green – I have a feeling I’ll be here a lot. I’m following the blue dot on Google Maps until I reach a shop called Crown, its front window plastered with posters of Black male celebrities such as Denzel Washington and Jamie Foxx. The door is open. I can hear lively chatter over the backdrop of the buzzing clippers and a football match playing on the TV.
I step inside.
I’m met with stares.
‘Yuh all right, darling?’ says an older man, holding down a customer’s ear as he shaves the hair above it. He has black skin tags under his eyes and a flat cap.
I’m about to tell him that I’m looking for Wale when the man himself appears from behind a door marked ‘Toilet’. His athleisure is so tight, he might as well be Black Panther.
‘Ayee! Temi!’ he says, striding towards me. He stretches out his arms. I stretch out a hand.
‘Thanks so much for inviting me.’ I offer him a handshake with a look that says, We’re not there .
The barber I spoke to turns to me. ‘Ahh, so you must be the ghostwriter.’
Wale introduces me to Uncle Les, who then tells another barber to take over cutting his customer’s hair.
‘Shirl’s at the back,’ he says, brushing his hands clean. ‘Come, come.’
When we enter the staffroom – a tiny kitchen with a round table and a few chairs – Aunty Shirley is browsing on her phone, her glasses on the end of her nose.
She greets me with a hug. ‘Hello, sweetheart. I see you found the place okay.’
While Uncle Les puts the kettle to boil, I pull out my laptop and phone, reiterating what Wale’s memoir is about. Uncle Les places four cups of tea on the table. We all take a seat.
‘I still don’t know why you went on that stupid show,’ says Aunty Shirley to Wale, who slumps his head down as though he’s being scolded.
Uncle Les smirks. ‘Shirl, leave the boy. He’s young. He wanted to find himself a girlfriend.’
‘What, by going on TV?’ Aunty Shirley sounds incredulous. ‘Wale, mi tell you plenty of times there’s plenty of nice girls at my church.’ This gets another head loll from Wale. ‘And weren’t you seeing a girl before you left?’
Wale and I trade glances, then quickly look away.
‘Err, was I?’ He deliberately scratches his head and laughs.
I resist the urge to say something snarky like, ‘She dodged a bullet.’
Aunty Shirley, clearly not one for BS, sits forward and glares at him over her glasses. ‘Wale, I may look young but I wasn’t born yesterday! Mi know a spring inna man’s step when mi see it.’
‘Ahh, now that explains the weekly haircuts.’ Uncle Les laughs. ‘So, wah happen wit the girl, hm? It never work out?’
Wale jumps to his feet as though his pants suddenly caught on fire. ‘Right. Anyone here want anything from the shop? No? Cool.’ He claps. ‘Temi, I’mma leave you to it.’
He rushes out the door.
Aunty Shirley sips her tea. ‘The boy lie.’
It’s been nearly an hour since we started the interview, and I’ve only made it to question one: tell me about your relationship with Wale. Let’s just say, Aunty Shirley and Uncle Les are good talkers. They have known Wale since he was a kid – he has been best friends with their son, Fonzo, since nursery. After school, Wale and his brother would hang out and do their homework at the bookshop. Uncle Les and Aunty Shirley shared funny anecdotes, such as how they would often get into Nigeria versus Jamaica debates. The one on how to pronounce plantain (or plan tin as they call it) is still ongoing.
‘And what was Wale like as a kid?’ I ask, sipping the last cold dregs of my tea.
To my surprise, Uncle Les says, ‘Shy. Quiet.’
Really? Wale?
‘He found it hard to stand up for himself,’ says Aunty Shirley, twiddling with her crucifix necklace. ‘Fonzo would often have to jump to his defence. He was a sensitive boy.’
A loud bell rings in my head. People think I don’t have a sensitive side . Maybe I can connect the two?
‘In what ways was he sensitive?’ I ask, typing a note to myself.
Uncle Les and Aunty Shirley look at each other for confirmation on who should speak first.
‘His eyes would well up quick.’ Uncle Les takes off his cap and rubs his balding head. ‘Anytime someone teased him or made a joke, the tears come. Then over time, he’d get so … what’s the word mi looking for, Shirl?’
‘A kettle that would boil and boil without boiling over,’ she finishes. ‘You could tell he wanted to cry, but he just wouldn’t allow himself to. We’d ask him, “What’s wrong? Why you upset?” but he would shake his head so fiercely and insist he was fine.’
‘That was his favourite word,’ Uncle Les says. ‘ Fine .’
I think back to how distant Wale was in the days leading to our break-up. Not much has changed.
‘So, we said to him –’ Aunty Shirley twists her mug – ‘whenever you say you’re fine but don’t feel it, write whatever is troubling you down – keep a journal. You don’t have to share it with us or tell anyone. It’s for your eyes only. The most important thing is to get it down. It’s not good for a young boy to be so pent-up.’
I nod and make a note to ask Wale whether he still has this journal.
‘And what about now?’ I ask, looking back up. ‘Would you say Wale’s still sensitive?’
Uncle Les and Aunty Shirley stare at the ceiling in thought.
‘Well, he a grown man now,’ says Uncle Les with a small chuckle. ‘Obviously he’ll express his emotion different. But I think what he went through, it toughened him up.’
‘What he went through?’ I raise a brow.
‘You know. At home,’ he continues, but then Aunty Shirley puts a hand over his and says, ‘Les, she doesn’t know.’
There’s an awkward silence.
Aunty Shirley purses her lips. ‘Temi, it’s not our business—’
‘Of course. I understand.’ Whatever it is, it must be serious.
I make a point of skimming through my list of questions – ironically, Aunty Shirley and Uncle Les have managed to answer a good number of them – when there’s a chorus of laughter down the corridor.
‘Yo, yo, yo. Look who I bumped into.’ Wale bounds into the room, holding Fonzo by the shoulders from behind.
As usual, Fonzo is dressed Glastonbury-ready: straw hat, pink shirt, thick white socks rolled up to his calves under denim shorts. Funny. You’d think Wale with all his muscles and tattoos was the protective one. It’s true. You really can’t judge a book by its cover.
Fonzo hugs his parents. I’m not sure whether to remain seated or stand. Sadly, our friendship came to a natural end once Wale and I broke up.
‘Temi! Good to see you.’ Fonzo looks genuinely pleased to see me. My body relaxes as he gives me a warm embrace.
‘You guys know each other?’ Uncle Les looks between us.
‘Mutual friend,’ I quickly answer. Then to Fonzo: ‘You look well.’
‘Thanks. You too. How’s things? How’s Shona?’
I suppress a smirk at the mention of my best friend’s name.
‘She’s good.’ The voice in my head cannot resist adding: Still single .
Wale plonks a bag of satsumas on the table. Then he heaves himself on to the counter, promptly jumping off after Aunty Shirley throws him a pointed look.
‘So –’ he looks around the table – ‘what did you guys talk about?’
‘Don’t you worry, my dear. All good things,’ Aunty Shirley says.
Uncle Les looks at me. ‘Temi, we okay to wrap up now? Mi need to head back.’ He’s about to rise to his feet when Aunty Shirley says, ‘So, Wale, how’s prep for the gala going?’ She turns to me. ‘Wale is organizing a fundraising gala for the charity he worked for.’
I bend over to reach for my bag. ‘Yeah, I heard about that.’
‘So, you’re following me on Insta. Noted.’
My head snaps up.
Wale’s lips are twitching, a smirk teasing his lips. Actually , I saw the post on The Tea Lounge , I want to say. But then I remember what he said about his mental health and staying away from gossip blogs. ‘All part of the research,’ I say instead. ‘And your page is public.’
‘Well, you’re invited to the gala,’ he says. And then he carries on looking at me as if he wants me to verbally accept his invitation. This time I look away, but I can feel his gaze still lingering on the side of my face. ‘I think you should come,’ he says finally. ‘You can mention it in my memoir.’
I take off my glasses and rub my lenses. ‘Okay.’
‘So?’ Aunty Shirley slices through our exchange. ‘How is it all going?’
‘My bad,’ Wale says, shaking his head. He scratches his ear. ‘Yeah. Fine.’
In unison, Aunty Shirley and Uncle Les turn to me as if to say, Told you .
‘You got catering sorted?’ she presses. ‘DJ?’
Wale slides a hand down the back of his neck. He’s wearing his guilty face. ‘Well, um, not yet,’ he says. ‘Soon, though.’ He smiles. ‘Still waiting on a couple of quotes from suppliers.’
Aunty Shirley’s eyes widen as if she’s about to choke. ‘Good Lord, you haven’t got long, child. The gala is in a few weeks! Let me sort out catering. That’s my good deed for the month. I’ll talk to a few people this Sunday.’
Uncle Les leans sideways. ‘Not Sister Diane, though.’ And in a hushed voice, he adds, ‘Her curry goat too dry.’
Aunty Shirley winces. ‘Yes, you’re right. Okay, that’s catering sorted.’ She claps her thighs. ‘What else?’
‘DJ.’ Uncle Les puts his cap back on and, with a wide grin, waits expectantly.
Aunty Shirley shakes her head slightly. ‘Don’t,’ she mouths to Wale.
‘Obviously, Fonzo can help take photos,’ she says, swiftly carrying on.
‘Already on it,’ Fonzo says. ‘A couple of students in my class have volunteered to help out too.’
Wale pinches his nose and pretends to get choked up. ‘You see, this is why I love you, guys.’ He goes over and stoops down to give Aunty Shirley a kiss on the cheek before patting Uncle Les on the shoulder. He stops abruptly when he gets to Fonzo. ‘Not sure about you, mate.’
Fonzo kisses his teeth. ‘Cha, man! Come here.’
I watch them laugh and hug like brothers, trying to memorize every detail. What Wale has is beautiful; it’s clear he sees these people as family. I wonder what he went through growing up? Maybe it would explain why he’s not so close to his parents, why he doesn’t like to talk about them as much. I’m so deep in thought that I don’t even realize that I’m openly staring at Wale until he catches me looking at him. I glance away too quickly and instantly regret it.
‘Anyone know a good – Sorry. One sec.’ Wale pulls out his buzzing phone. ‘Hey, Greg. Wassup?’ His expression changes. ‘Yup … Sorry. Will do that now.’ He ends the call. ‘Guys, let’s take a photo real quick,’ he announces suddenly. ‘My agent said I should post a pic on the gram.’
Fonzo gives him a slant smile. ‘Falling behind on the algorithms again?’ he says. ‘Okay, let’s do it in the barbershop.’
Aunty Shirley, Uncle Les and Fonzo head out the door. Wale waits for me, his chest broad as he stands with his hands in his pockets. ‘Useful?’ he says.
‘Very,’ I reply, trying not to look at his pecs. ‘Debrief later this evening if you’re free? Over the phone, I mean.’
Wale pushes out his lips in thought. Again. Distracting. ‘Hmm,’ he says. ‘It depends on what time. I got a club appearance, you see.’
‘Hah! And you say you’re not a celebrity.’ I shake my head. ‘And jheeze, I didn’t mean that late.’
Wale laughs. ‘Gosh, remember when we used to do that in the early days? How did we even function the next day?’
He says this innocently but my gut feels like it’s been sucker-punched with the force of a cannonball. I remember we used to speak on the phone nearly every night. We would talk until the sun came up, mainly about randomish and hypothetical scenarios – ‘ Would you drink toilet water for a million pounds? ’ (Apparently, Wale would.) I miss those days. I miss us.
‘My bad,’ Wale says, studying me tentatively.
I remember myself and brace a smile. ‘Shall we go?’
And with that, I walk ahead of him out the door.