‘Forget the birthday boy,’ Ceri said. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet. I just know the two of you will hit it off.’
I immediately knew that this person, whoever they were, was black. Not because she’d offered to introduce us, but in the certainty she felt that we would get along.
It was similar to the way my classmates in grad school had asked if I knew their friends from Ghana or Burkina Faso and I’d had to explain that two francophone countries separated Nigeria and Ghana and that we did not even share the same lingua franca as Burkina Faso.
P-Square’s voices crooned the melody to ‘Chop My Money’ from a speaker somewhere and I glanced at Ceri in surprise.
‘It’s so good, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘It’s afrobeats, I thought you’d like it so I included it in the playlist.’
My throat clogged with gratitude at the thoughtfulness of the action.
‘Ego, I’d like you to meet Rodney,’ Ceri announced when we were standing in front of a man so well proportioned, I was convinced he’d been designed and not birthed.
‘Ego. Nice to meet you,’ I said, extending my arm as my skin prickled with a sensation I hadn’t felt in ages. Shyness.
‘Be nice, he’s a good guy,’ Ceri whispered theatrically before scurrying away.
‘I take it you’re from Nigeria?’ Rodney said when she was gone, holding my eyes with confidence. Could he sense the attraction?
‘I take it you’re not,’ I joked in return.
He smiled and I was tempted to swoon.
‘How did you know I was Nigerian?’ I asked, curious.
‘I grew up in South London with lots of Nigerians and so I can tell when I meet one. Unfortunately, parts of the borough have now been gentrified, it’s losing its flavour.’ He said ‘losing its flavour’ in a tone so tinged with poignant regret that I knew I liked him at once.
Ceri wasn’t always right understanding the complexities of my identity, but she was right about Rodney. He was British, a third-generation descendant of grandparents who’d moved from Jamaica with the Windrush generation. He told me that although his grandparents were no longer alive, he worried about the new immigration act that had taken out protection from forced deportation for that generation. I told him the government said other protections existed. Neither of us thought the government could be trusted.
‘Their generation helped rebuild this country after the Second World War, dedicated their lives and this is how they’re repaid. You’re never considered truly British as long as you’re not white,’ Rodney said.
‘Do you feel more Jamaican than British?’ I asked him.
He wasn’t sure, England was the only home he’d known, born and bred. But in England, he felt Jamaican, in Jamaica, he felt too British.
Music played on – an intersection of British pop and rock interspersed with the occasional afrobeats song. Games were ‘roaring’ and competitive and everyone cheered as Iain cut into his cake. Banky W’s ‘Yes/No’ played when Rodney asked for my number, ardently beseeching a lady to be his lover, and I gave it without hesitation even though I was unsure what my answer was.
In 1998, Nigerian songs did not dominate our airwaves, not because we were unpatriotic per se, but because there weren’t as many options, and we still suffered from a Hollywood-induced obsession with everything American, not knowing that one day, it would be cool to be Nigerian.
Zina and I arrived at the party together in almost matching outfits: barely above the knee tube dresses – hers blue, mine red – that would have had our mothers screaming. I pulled at the hem of my dress as we walked in, feeling self-conscious, and Zina slapped at my wrist.
‘Return of the Mack’ was winding down, ‘Doo Wop’ just kicking off, bodies contorted into shapes on the dance floor, drawing closer and closer. A hand waved from the other end of the room at Zina – it was much too dark to make out the face – and she waved back, recognition lighting her own face.
‘Move around, mingle, I’ll be right back,’ she said as she hurried away.
It was like losing your mother in the middle of a busy marketplace, searching for anything or anyone familiar that could direct you to safety. I missed Eriife, she’d always been my companion whenever Zina went off.
Spotting a bar in a corner of the room, I moved quickly towards it. A man who looked much older than everyone else was mixing and pouring drinks, smirking and winking at the drunk girls waving empty glasses, asking for refills. Just beside the bar, where the lights from the disco ball lights barely flickered, was a small cove of chairs, and I settled into one of them, pulling at my dress and muttering how I’d made a mistake in coming.
I did not notice the lone figure leaning against the wall until it moved, then I jumped, startled. He was tall – I could tell that even from my seated position – much taller than I was, and wide, and I worried I was in danger until he smiled, a calming smile.
‘Why not grab a drink?’ he asked, gesturing towards the bar. His voice took me by surprise. I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d expected, but I knew I would never forget it.
‘No, thank you. I’m fine,’ I said, trying to make out his face, then I looked away, conscious of the fact that he was watching me watch him.
‘You look like you shouldn’t be here,’ he said after several minutes of silence.
I did not respond.
Daddy Showkey’s ‘Diana’ came on then, and every corner of the room screamed with the lyrics. The DJ was good, making me grateful for the noise that prevented this strange person from talking to me; I could still feel his eyes roving over my face with interest.
‘So why are you here?’ he asked, persistent, when the song ended and a foreign one replaced it.
I turned to look at him. His eyes were shiny, not the usual white. ‘Because I want to be.’
He smiled, showing equally white teeth. ‘Then you should enjoy it.’
‘Who said I’m not enjoying it?’
‘You don’t look like you are.’
I cocked my head to the side and stared up at him. ‘Are you enjoying the party? You’re in a corner all by yourself monitoring what others are doing.’
He laughed, a deep one that came from his chest. ‘Fine, I concede,’ he said, moving from the wall to stand beside me; I shifted uncomfortably. Placing his glass on an empty seat beside me, he extended his hand. ‘Care to dance? Maybe we can both be of use to each other.’
I stared at his extended hand, suddenly emboldened, drunk on adventure. I grabbed it and allowed him to pull me in the direction of the dance floor.
The music was too loud, the floor packed with sweating bodies but neither of us seemed to notice. I moved because he moved and he moved because I did. How long we were there for, I wasn’t sure. Each song seemed to wind the web that drew us closer, our eyes never leaving each other.
