It’s two hours into my sister’s baby shower and so far not one person has said, “So, Yinka, when is it going to be your turn?” Or the classic, “Yinka, where is your huzband?”

Thank you, God!

After going crazy with the party popper emoji and asking Nana what time she’ll reach, I shove my phone into my back pocket. Let’s just hope I haven’t inadvertently jinxed myself by celebrating too soon.

Slouching back in my chair, I stare at Kemi and her friends dancing in the center of her living room: all bumping and grinding, serious expressions on their faces, as though they’re competing in an Afrobeats dancing competition.

I look at those still seated: a red-?­haired woman and another with an eyebrow piercing who must be Kemi’s workmates, and four of my aunties. Like me, my aunties are struggling to finish their plates of jollof rice. It’s far too mild for our palates. I know everyone can’t take spice, but whoever made this didn’t represent us, Nigerians. Succumbing to defeat, I abandon the plate under my chair. When I look up, I spot Mum waddling through the throng of dancers, her wide hips swaying. When she gets to the front, she jabs her fingers against Kemi’s phone, before giving up and swiveling around. Mum still owns a Nokia 3410 so operating an iPhone is beyond her capacity.

“Hello?o! Hello?o!” she cries in a thick Nigerian accent. The thick Nigerian accent, mind you, that she still has, despite having moved to the UK way back in the eighties. “Can I have everyone’s attention, please?”

But the music drowns her out. Kemi and her friends carry on dancing to the song. Except my younger sister goes one step further. As though she has completely forgotten about the massive bump attached to her front, she dips her knees and bends her back and—oh, good Lord. She’s twerking.