Being Lara (38 page)

But this dress, a Bayo Adegbe silk-lined number, which to Lara represented both Nigerian and British influences, clung to her body appreciatively; and all at once, she felt womanly, confident, and sexy. The touch of shiny gloss infused with crystals made her full lips glow, and her braided hair was teased into a sort of beehive-esque bun; the two curly tendrils at the side of her face made her left eye feel heavy as they connected with mascaraed false eyelashes.

“The car's here. Are you ready??!!” called Sandi, who looked effortlessly beautiful in a long, flowing white Grecian couture number and Fulani silver twist earrings that, according to Lara's website text, were
not unlike those still worn by the Sudanese women of today.

“I'm just so nervous!” screeched Lara, surprising herself, usually so composed and managed.

Sandi patted down an imaginary crease in her dress and smiled. “Who'd have thought it?”

“Certainly not me!”

“This is your day. Enjoy it,” she said, before slipping her hand into Lara's.

“Oh, have the caterers arrived at the hotel?” asked Lara.

“Of course they have!”

“Did you check the menu was what I requested?” continued Lara.

“Yes, silly! Of course, they looked at me like I had two heads, but the food will be as you want it!”

“How do you know what their expressions were like if they were on the phone?”

“It goes without saying! I mean, who has oxtail stew, mashed potato, peas, and okra as a main course. And mo mo, yam fries, and cheese and pickled onions on sticks as side dishes?”

“It's moi moi, actually. A steamed bean cake commonly served in Nigeria and other parts of Africa.”

“Okay, Ms. Knowledge of All Things African. And the cheese and pickle? The jellied eels?”

“All a mixture of who I am!”

“No need to explain it all to me. I get it,” Sandi said, smiling warmly. “Now, deep breath, okay? Everything is sorted out. All you need to do is show up at the ceremony, Ms. Lara Control Freak Reid, that's all. Now breathe!”

Lara remembered the little ten-year-old she once was, a little girl lost, looking for her father in the face of a man who danced and sang in Boney M, looking for her mother in the background of a news report covering the release of Nelson Mandela or in an American sitcom. A little girl lost, but now found.

“Let's do it!” said Lara with faux confidence.

She stopped for a split second, considering. Tap or no tap. Just two? Perhaps it would help. No. No tapping. Not today. “So how do I look?” she asked instead.

“You know you look great!”

“Do I look as nervous as I feel?”

“Why would you be nervous? You'll knock ‘em dead. It's not like the Oscars; you already know you've won!”

“Not the award! I mean … you know everyone's going to be out there. My WHOLE family…”

“Don't worry, you'll be fine. This is your moment, and you belong up there.”

Lara stood in front of the gleaming Mercedes in her shiny green dress as the smart chauffeur opened the door, butterflies backflipping in her tummy.

I have arrived,
she thought. And a few months ago the phrase “I have arrived” would have referred to merely being selected for the Inspirational Businesswoman of the Year Award and finally being recognized by her peers for all the hard work over the years, such knowledge validating and completing her. But now she had so much more.

Sitting in the front row with the other nominees, her mind was racing, and at first Lara didn't hear her name being called, even though she'd known it was coming. She still felt a genuine lurch of surprise when the bouffanted announcer said once again, “The recipient of this year's award goes to Oh-moo laa … erm…”

The woman tried again, before quickly giving up. “Miss O Reid!” she announced quickly as the applause shattered the muted silence. Lara joined her onstage, they shook hands, and she took the glass triangle, smiling warmly as the announcer widened her eyes apologetically with a shrug. The botched attempts at saying her name she'd get used to.

The room fell silent as Lara's gaze turned to her family and friends. That huge, multicolored, flawed, beautiful family of hers: Brian squeezing Agnes's hand, Annie and Keely next to Jason, himself trying hard not to peer down Sandi's cleavage, next to a beaming Tyler, beside Jean, behind Mum who sat next to Yomi shoulder to shoulder—both rigid with nervousness and pride—Dad and Granny silently challenging each other to who could stay awake the longest and one extra grandmother who sat with a straight smile, looking more like Queen Elizabeth than ever.

Lara's family.

“Receiving this award is such an honor…” Lara began, her words like a loud thud as everyone's face turned to her up on that stage. Her sparkling eyes remaining focused on her smiling family, surrounded by a sea of homogenous faces. She took in their strength, soaked up their love, acknowledging the magnitude of this moment as she spoke of the struggles of growing up. Perhaps many in that audience, apart from the voting committee and her family and friends, assumed she meant the “usual angst.”

Lara threw in bits about university, the online explosion and how she'd just missed out, and finally what it meant to be a woman in the workplace today.

And then the best bit.

“There is a Nigerian saying: ‘A child is what you put into him.' And I'd like to thank first, my lovely dad, who has always been there for me. Who taught me so much as we sat among the garden gnomes in that shed, just the two of us! So sorry you didn't get to keep it as your sanctuary away from the wife!” Dad raised his glass as some of the audience looked toward him, slightly confused to see a portly silver-haired man, half awake yet beaming with pride.

“And my two best friends, Sandi and Tyler. One has taught me about love, the other taught me how to
be
loved.” Sandi rolled her eyes as Tyler threw a loving wink.

“To my English gran. I can't wait to get to know you better over another one of your fabulous Madeira cakes—sorry, Mum, the best I have ever tasted!”

Laughter and a smile from Grandma.

“To my Nigerian granny—you are the wisest, most amazing young woman I have ever had the privilege to know. I love you, Granny, and even though it took long enough, I'm so glad I have you!” Granny waved back regally, loving the attention in that room.

“And last, I'd like to thank my two mums sitting in the back over there—”

The heads of strangers shot to the back table, plucked eyebrows scrunched at what they had just heard. And that's when Lara paused, composed herself, and then spoke. “Mum, you gave me all the support I could ever need. When I wanted to become an astronaut, you said I could do it. When I wanted to become a ballerina, you said it was possible even though I have really big feet.”

Laughter.

“And when I wanted to fly, you said, well if that's what…” She felt a wave of self-consciousness as a tear struck out of nowhere. “You said if that's what you want to do…”

More laughter.

“You also gave me discipline—and admittedly, I didn't really like that bit!”

More audience laughter, except for Mum who had the “I'm about to tear up” look.

With Lara's own tears mingling with a smile, she continued. “You gave me boundaries that allowed me to feel secure. Loved. I had so much love. What else does a child need?” Lara's voice broke, and then she turned to Yomi. “And you, my other mother… I can't thank you enough for having me. Giving me a shot in life and allowing me the chance to grow up in the most wonderful and fantastic environment.” Yomi blew her a kiss.

“And thank you for that really good gene pool. If Granny's skin is anything to go by, I'll be fine. She looks like a teenager!” The audience erupted into louder guffaws while Lara's two mums sat side by side, not holding on to each other, but bonded by an invisible force that promised to bind the three of them together, forever.

Heads were shooting back and forth with animated expressions, while Lara lapped up the round of applause, enjoying the sensation of not feeling “weirded out” at presenting her unusual family to the masses.

She was Omolara Reid, an almost thirty-one-year-old Inspirational Businesswoman of the Year, standing on a stage marveling and rejoicing at what had become. What
she'd
become. This moment, the pinnacle of everything. All the years of her life finally fitting in together, like a Connect Four game—finally. Making some sense and at last completing the picture that is
Omolara Reid.

As her speech ended, the applause increased, but she blocked out the sounds and instead focused on her mother whispering something into Mum's ear just before the two of them tentatively embraced, both capturing Lara's gaze at the very same moment, as they came up for air.

Lara wished for a camera, a recording device—something to capture the moment. But she smiled instead, realizing the memory and every great feeling it invoked would be stored in her heart forever.

It doesn't matter how I got here.

It's what I do with my life from now on that matters.

Now, that's a mantra.

L
ove and absolute thanks to:

God.

Grace and Sheila—the strongest, most beautiful and inspirational women I have ever known. This book is a work of pure fiction, but in the real world, you have both allowed my true story to gracefully unfold and lead me to now.

Michael … for your words of delight (“You wrote a book?! Wow!”), the plaque, the clock, and your insightful encouragement.

Jen (Pooley) and Esi (Sogah) … for the belief and saying
yes.

My four brothers, relatives, friends, colleagues, readers, and ANYONE who has ever taken the time to buy/borrow/review my books, sent me an e-mail, or just said a kind word. I am and will always be appreciative and humbled (and slightly aghast that people actually read my books!).

Lastly…

No cupcakes were harmed during the writing of this book—they were eaten.

It's probably an understatement to say “I love cakes,” but I love cakes—and eating a piece of my nan's cake, always reminds me of a huge part of my childhood. Fairy, rectangular, circular, iced, or plain; birthdays, weekends, or just … because. There's always time for cake.

It's also my belief that not much beats being handed over a sticky icing bowl, knowing a tummy ache is probably inevitable … but just not caring!

1 cup self-rising flour

1 cup margarine

1 cup caster sugar

½ teaspoon baking powder

4 eggs

2 tablespoons milk

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a large bowl, mix together the above ingredients.

Line an 8-inch tin with margarine and greaseproof paper (finished with a bit of margarine on the top to smooth).

Pour the mixture into the tin and bake at 350 degrees for just over one hour (depending on the oven).

½ cup margarine

¾ cup icing sugar

Mix well until light, fluffy, and delicious!

When the cake has cooled, split it in half.

Smooth the butter icing mixture onto the inside of each section (add a layer of jam if you like).

Smooth the remaining butter icing onto the roof of the cake. Leave to harden. Then you're done!

(Serves: 1 to 8—depending on just how much you want to share!)

In Nigeria, when a new baby is forty days old, Puff Puff is handed out in celebration. During Christian wake keeping, it is also handed out to mourners, typically a day before the funeral.

To me, Puff Puff is simply delicious! A spongy, round doughnut that, with every bite, takes me back to being a nine-year-old, running around the yard as the aroma of frying Puff Puff filled my nostrils, knowing I would soon get the call to “Come and take!”