Chapter 31
31
Wale_Memoir_Draft1.doc
Target word count: 20,000
Current word count: 18,042
Three weeks to go …
It’s just a small celebration lunch .
It’s Sunday and I’m with Shona outside my parents’ house. If I can survive an awkward evening with Wale, I’m sure I can manage the next few hours.
I open the door to a chorus of laughter bursting from the living room. Shona and I didn’t intend to be late, but our train to Oxford was cancelled and the next one wasn’t due for an hour. At least it gave me time to continue working on Wale’s memoir.
Following the glorious smell of freshly made jollof rice, we pass the kitchen, where I catch sight of a massive cake box on the marble countertop.
‘At last! They’re here!’ I hear Mum say as Dad comes over to greet me.
We do the round of hugs, apologizing for our lateness before remarking how good it is to see everyone. Aunty Anu looks just as I remembered only older. Her sons, Junior and Ade, have surpassed me in height and Rosemary, she’s … smiling.
‘Temi! Long time!’ With a squeal, she swoops me into her arms. Her microbraids smell of coconut oil. She’s dressed plainly – a blue sweater and dark jeans – and she isn’t wearing a scrap of make-up.
As she squeezes my shoulders, I remember how bubbly and sunshiney she always was. Maybe I was overthinking the tension between us.
We sit around the dining table, which is overflowing with food. Red Le Creuset pots are full to the brim with mouth-watering dishes, from beef stew to boiled yams. After blessing the food – and giving an honourable mention to Rosemary – Dad floods Rosemary with questions about her time in med school. I’m grateful the spotlight is on her. I still don’t feel ready to share my news.
‘So, Shona, is it?’ Aunty Anu fluffs her rice. Her Senegalese twists look freshly done. ‘What is it that you do, my dear?’
My body stiffens. Maybe I was hopeful too soon.
Shona covers her mouth until she swallows. ‘I work for an events company that puts on music events. But I also have my side hustle as an events planner.’
‘Beats life as an estate agent,’ says Junior with a chuckle, his shoulders bobbing under his tweed shirt.
‘How about you?’ Shona directs her question at Ade before Aunty Anu can ask me.
‘Aerospace engineer.’ Ade says this as if it’s common to build spacecraft for a living.
To my relief, his profession is now the hot topic. Dad has ninety-nine questions; I chip in too so that my quietness doesn’t raise any concern. Even though I do have a proper job now, any mention of it is bound to get Mum and Dad talking about my book.
‘And how about you, darling?’ Aunty Anu offers me a warm smile. She’s giving me one of those ‘I haven’t forgotten about you’ expressions, but honestly, I wish she had.
I mumble my answer. ‘Oh, I’m just doing some freelance ghostwriting work.’
‘She’s writing a memoir,’ Mum puts in proudly. Then in a loud whisper: ‘For a celebrity.’
Rosemary says, ‘Oooh,’ while Shona coughs and pats her chest.
‘No offence to Wale,’ she says, spluttering a laugh, ‘but I’d hardly call him a celebrity.’
Under the table, I whack my knee against hers. But it’s already too late.
‘Wale? Who’s Wale?’ Dad asks.
Junior cries, ‘Wait, are you talking about Wale the rapper?’
‘Wale the rapper is an A-list celebrity,’ Ade says seriously.
Rosemary scrunches her face. ‘Is he?’
To my horror, the siblings begin to debate on the celebrity status of the American Nigerian rapper.
‘It’s Wale from The Villa !’ I finally announce, bringing the dispute to an abrupt end. ‘I’m ghostwriting a memoir for Wale Bandele.’
Dad grimaces. ‘Wait, you’re not talking about that trashy dating show, are you?’
Rosemary cries, ‘Oh, I love that show!’
‘Ohhh, that Wale,’ Junior says.
Aunty Anu, who has been smiling at me the entire time, says, ‘I don’t know who that is but that’s nice.’
I tuck back into my food, my body suddenly clammy and warm. ‘I can’t really share details about it,’ I say gruffly. ‘It’s confidential.’
‘He’s clearly in it for the money,’ Dad says and my head jerks up.
‘No, he’s not! And his memoir is actually inspiring. It touches on Black masculinity and stereotypical assumptions people make about him.’ I must sound incredibly defensive because Shona places a hand on my knee.
‘So, you’re a ghostwriter.’ Ade says the word as if he’s trying it out for the first time. ‘That’s different. I don’t think I’ve ever met one before.’
Rosemary fiddles with one of her tiny braids. ‘Temi used to write stories back at school. Don’t you remember?’ She glances at me. ‘Have you thought about writing a book?’ She asks this airily, as if writing a novel is one of the easiest things in the world.
Still riled up from earlier, I stare at her as she shovels down another mouthful of food.
‘I have,’ I reply.
‘She means she has written a novel,’ Shona clarifies. ‘She actually has an agent.’
‘Oh, wow! That’s awesome!’ Rosemary exclaims with the enthusiasm of a kids’ TV presenter.
‘Nice one, Temi,’ Junior says. ‘What is it called? What is it about?’
I give a quick, half-hearted summary of Wildest Dreams .
Rosemary beams. ‘So, when is it coming out?’
I purse my lips.
‘She’s still waiting to hear back from publishers,’ Mum says, filling in the lull.
‘Well, either way, writing a book is a massive achievement.’ Rosemary grins.
I give her a sheepish, ‘Thanks.’
‘What is it? Only two per cent of people who write a book actually get it published?’ she carries on. ‘Two per cent! How tiny is that!’
My parents are looking at me. I can’t quite read their faces.
‘Yeah, it’s hard to get published but by no means is it impossible,’ I find myself saying.
‘Of course. Absolutely,’ Rosemary says, a hand on her chest. ‘I just read an article about it in the Guardian the other day.’
‘So, what else did this article say?’ Dad reaches for the salad bowl, his interest suddenly piqued.
‘Oh gosh. A lot.’ Rosemary blows air through her pursed lips. ‘The author was saying how you’d be lucky to even sell ten copies and that the majority of authors make peanuts. He said he wouldn’t even encourage his own kids to try and get traditionally published. Only if you can accept a life of rejection and disappointment. Oh, but that doesn’t mean things can’t be different for you,’ she adds quickly, suddenly remembering I’m sat opposite her at the table.
There’s a stifling silence. Cutlery scrapes against plates.
My parents are deeply disquieted. Dad is fluffing his rice back and forth on his plate, Mum is sipping her drink, avoiding eye contact. It’s as though they are embarrassed for me.
Finally, Dad says, ‘Do you have any thoughts on this, Temi?’ His voice is evenly measured. He seems to genuinely want to hear my opinion.
I twist the spine of my glass, the truth teetering at the tip of my tongue. It’s so frustrating. I could stop them worrying with one little sentence.
As though suddenly realizing the awkward position she has put me in, Rosemary says, ‘But who needs money to be happy! And there’s always the option to self-publish—’
‘I’ve already got a publishing deal.’
The impact of my words ripples through the room.
‘I didn’t want to say anything because today is your day. But Ocean Books offered me a book deal.’
There’s a short gasp as Mum’s hand flies to her mouth. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Just the other day.’
Dad jumps to his feet. ‘Come here, you.’ He swoops down and hugs me from the side, showering my head with a flurry of kisses.
Mum scurries over. ‘I can’t believe it! Why didn’t you say?’
A strange feeling unfurls behind my abdomen, almost as if I’ve just accepted an award that I didn’t work for. I push the feeling down. The news is out now.