Yinka, Where Is Your Huzband?

Description

“Yinka is a lovable and relatable disaster—which is to say, she isn’t actually a disaster at all…I adore her.”—Emily Henry, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Book Lovers

“Feel good, funny, and clever, it’s got smash-hit written all over it!” –Josie Silver, New York Times bestselling author of One Day in December

Meet Yinka: a thirty-something, Oxford-educated, British Nigerian woman with a well-paid job, good friends, and a mother whose constant refrain is “Yinka, where is your huzband?”

        Yinka’s Nigerian aunties frequently pray for her delivery from singledom, her work friends think she’s too traditional (she’s saving herself for marriage!), her girlfriends think she needs to get over her ex already, and the men in her life…well, that’s a whole other story.  But Yinka herself has always believed that true love will find her when the time is right.
     Still, when her cousin gets engaged, Yinka commences Operation Find-A-Date for Rachel’s Wedding. Aided by a spreadsheet and her best friend, Yinka is determined to succeed. Will Yinka find herself a huzband? And what if the thing she really needs to find is herself?
    Yinka, Where is Your Huzband? is a fresh, uplifting story of an unconventional heroine who bravely asks the questions we all have about love. Wry, moving, irresistible, this is a love story that makes you smile but also makes you think–and explores what it means to find your way between two cultures, both of which are yours.

NAMED A MOST ANTICIPATED BOOK OF 2022 BY MARIE CLAIRE, PARADE, ESSENCE, MS. MAGAZINE, POPSUGAR, BUSTLE, BOOKRIOT, DEBUTIFUL AND MORE!Praise for Yinka, Where Is Your Huzband?:

“A cautionary tale of the pernicious effects of sexism, racism and colorism upon women of the African diaspora….In the end, what matters most in Yinka is not your marital status but self-love, love of family and a broader sense of connection. And maybe you’ll find something better than a happily-ever-after fairy tale.”
—Mabinty Quarshie, USA Today’s “Rom-Com Roundup: Top January Reading List”

“Fresh, heartfelt, and funny, Yinka is a can’t miss debut that feels like a new classic.”
—Buzzfeed

“The novel depicts the challenge of navigating two cultures, both of which Yinka is a part of and apart from. In her commitment to being her whole self and true to her faith and ideals, Yinka writes a prayer for herself, a rallying cry to which we can all shout, ‘Amen!’”
—NPR

“Yinka, Where Is Your Huzband? was a total joy to read–it’s hilarious, insightful, and so uplifting. Yinka is the most lovable character I’ve come across in a long time–I was cheering her on for every step of her journey.”
—Beth O’Leary, international bestselling author of The Road Trip

“So modern and fresh. Like Bridget Jones, Yinka is a lovable and relatable disaster—which is to say, she isn’t actually a disaster at all…I adore her.”
—Emily Henry, #1 New York Times bestselling author of People We Meet on Vacation

“Lizzie Damilola Blackburn’s debut novel is incredibly relatable for anybody whose family members frequently question their relationship status. In Yinka, Where Is Your Huzband? a thirty-something Nigerian woman attempts to find herself a wedding date and learns some valuable lessons about life and love.”
—Marie Claire

“Turns traditional elements of romantic comedy on its head, discussing love and how it can weave its way between two cultures.”
—The Washington Post

“If…Yinka, Where Is Your Huzband? was to become a TV sitcom, it could run episode after episode, season after season, without losing steam on story material. Cheeky and entertaining, the novel, which spans just six months in the chaotic life of its British-Nigerian protagonist Yinka, packs in a whole lot of cross-cultural drama and social commentary with an easy-going, conversational style. Add romantic and professional mishaps, and complicated relationships among four Black women living in England, two of whom are Yinka’s cousins, and you have the makings of comedic gold.”
—Minneapolis Star-Tribune

“An uplifting and entertaining story you won’t want to put down.”
—HuffPost

“A delightful romantic comedy that refuses to play by the genre’s rules.”
—PopSugar

“A great foray into Nigerian style rom-com territory with a loveable and unconventional heroine. Although Yinka considers herself traditional, this book feels very modern and has great humor.”
—BookRiot

“Very Bridget Jones-y… full of heart and humor… I just adored it to pieces. I would like to read another book with Yinka. I loved it.”
—BookRiot’s All The Books! podcast

“With poignant themes of identity and independence, Blackburn’s buoyant look at contemporary courtship is a sure conversation-starter for book clubs.”
—BookPage

“Beautifully observed, warm and deeply human, Yinka, Where Is Your Huzband? is a meditation on family and friendship, on love and self-love. Feel-good, funny and clever, it’s got smash-hit written all over it!”
—Josie Silver, New York Times bestselling author of One Day in December

“Yinka, Where Is Your Huzband? is a beautiful, big hearted story about friendship, family, and love. Yinka’s charming voice draws you in and her journey toward self-acceptance will make you stay. A fun and relatable read.” 
—Emiko Jean, New York Times bestselling author

“Warm and fun and sweet, great on female friendships and extended families.”
—Marian Keyes, international bestselling author of Grown Ups

“Blackburn deftly immerses us in the life of a loveable Yinka as she straddles two cultures in her search for a ‘huzband.’ Smart, sophisticated, and fresh this is the ‘girl gets herself’ type of story I love to read!”
—Jayne Allen, author of Black Girls Must Die Exhausted

“A warm, witty, and joyful novel bursting with charm and unforgettable characters, this is a story about friendship, family, romance, and the most important quest of all–loving and accepting yourself.”
—Lauren Ho, author of Last Tang Standing

“Spreadsheets, meddling aunties, and makeovers…Yinka, Where Is Your Huzband? is a delightful journey of a British Nigerian woman longing to find love, and to love herself. Reader, you’ll root for Yinka the whole way.”
—Patricia Park, author of Re Jane

“Lizzie Blackburn writes with a witty tenderness and absorbing fluidity that brings Yinka, the most loveable character you’ll meet, to rich life! I cheered for her, cringed for her, and rooted for her all the way. A fabulously fresh debut guaranteed to warm your heart. Loved it!”
—Lọlá Ákínmádé Åkerström, author of In Every Mirror She’s Black

“Glorious debut! Read it over two nights and loved it!”
—Nikki May, author of Wahala

“What a darling book! Yinka, Where is your huzband? drew me in right away with the banter between Yinka and her overbearing family. It is at times bitingly funny and relatable, I giggled out loud so many times my partner asked me to finish the book upstairs (!). Yinka’s internal struggles to meet the standards and expectations placed on her by everyone else are familiar…. A gorgeous, easy read, but with real depth to its punchy chapters. This book is really just such an extraordinary debut from one of the UK’s sure-to-be rising talents in contemporary fiction. BRAVA!!!!” 
—Lizzy Dent, author of The Summer Job

“A witty, feel-good love story, it centers on a high-achieving Nigerian woman in Britain navigating the maddening world of nosy aunties bearing down on her to get married.”
—Brittle Paper

“Blackburn’s debut is a laugh-out-loud story of self-discovery, set against the world of contemporary dating. Yinka cleverly navigates others’ competing expectations of who she should be, figuring out who she is in the process. Fans of Uzma Jalaluddin and Sonya Lalli will delight in this story of a one of a kind woman learning how to love one of the most important people in her life: herself.”
—Booklist

“A sassy, spirited story.”
—Kirkus Reviews

“Blackburn’s lighthearted tone helps deliver heavy thoughts on colorism, the tension of cultural differences, and the benefits of therapy, as the story moves toward a happy ending on all fronts. This delivers loads of entertainment and a dollop of enlightenment.”
—Publishers Weekly

“Blackburn’s Bridget Jones-esque debut is a sensitive, humorous chronicle of a young woman’s journey of self-discovery….This universal story of a young woman coming into her own contains many elements of Nigerian culture….Readers who like the novels of Marian Keyes and Cecelia Ahern will find much to enjoy here.”
—Library Journal

“This is the romantic comedy for both readers who love rom coms and hate rom comes. It’s clever, smart, and fresh. It’s a great way to kick start your New Year Reading Resolution.”
—Debutiful

“This debut subverts the Strong Black Woman trope, gives a tribute to Black British culture, and tackles issues like colorism and Eurocentric beauty standards. Talk about a book that can do it all, right?”
—Betches

“A smart and refreshing take on the romcom.”
—Ms. MagazineBorn and raised in London, Lizzie Damilola Blackburn is a British Nigerian writer who has been on the receiving end of the question in the title of her novel many times. She now lives with her husband in Milton Keynes, England.
 
 

 

For fans of Jasmine Guillory, Helen Hoang, Linda Holmes, Candice Carty-Williams, Rosie Walsh, Terry McMillan, and other contemporary romance.
 The prayer of the century

Saturday

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.

I chuckle. Ah, man. Such a shame that I don’t see Kemi as much these days. Before she got married, we were in and out of each other’s houses. It’s not been the same the last year.

“Excuse me, everyone!” Big Mama’s twenty-thousand-decibel voice punches through the music. “Can everyone stop what they’re doing, please? Kemi’s mum wants to say something.”

This announcement from my aunt (Daddy’s sister) does the trick. Within seconds, conversations end, phones are tossed away, and, like rolling snooker balls, the dancers disperse to the sides of the room. With one hand supporting her stomach, Kemi penguin-walks to the sound system and switches the music off.

“Thank you,” says Mum, pressing her palms together. “And thank you to all of you for coming to celebrate my daughter’s transition into motherhood.” She swings her head around to Kemi and flashes her a proud smile. “As you know, motherhood is a verrry important chapter in a woman’s life. So, I would like to dedicate this time to praying over Kemi, her huzband and the baby. Now, everyone, please rise to your feet and hold the hand of the person standing next to you.”

A lot of shuffling follows as those who are sitting rise and form a circle with the already standing dancers.

“Don’t look so nervous,” I hear Mum say to Kemi’s workmates, their faces now watermelon red. “If you don’t believe in God, you can just bow your head as a sign of respect.”

I catch the eye of the red-haired woman. I can smell her anxiety all the way from here.

Kemi’s school friends are standing on either side of me, and I reach for their hands as I bow my head.

Mum clears her throat. “Dear Heavenly Father . . .”

What feels like ten minutes later . . .

“I thank you, Lord, for granting my heart’s desire to become a grandma-an “y‡-“y‡. I pray that your love, peace and guidance will be with my daughter in the delivery room. She will be well, in Jesus’ name. Her huzband will be well, in Jesus’ name. The baby will be well, in Jesus’ name.”

“Amen,” we all drone like gaunt zombies.

“I thank you, Lord, for bringing Kemi and my son-in-law, Uche, together while they were studying at the university. I pray that . . .” There’s a stretch of silence; Mum’s voice quivers. “I pray that like my late huzband, Kunle, Uche will be a wonderful dad. Give him long life and good health.”

“Amen,” I say in a low voice.

Mum continues to pray for protection, safety and security. No weapon formed against Kemi shall prosper. My legs are starting to ache and my knees begin to wobble. Then, at long last, Mum says what everyone has been waiting for:

“Lord, answer our prayers. In Jesus’ sweet, holy, precious name we pray.”

The last “Amen” is triumphant.

I open my eyes to see a wave of women collapsing on their seats, each breathing a loud sigh of relief-except for Big Mama. She’s already slumped in her chair, shoes kicked off and legs outstretched. Her toenails look like pork scratchings dipped in red paint. I smile. Big Mama may not be the most decorous of my three hundred-odd aunties-because in Nigerian culture, every African woman who is older than you by at least ten years is by default your aunty, regardless of whether or not you’re blood-related-but still, I can’t help but love the woman.

“Hold on.” She thrusts forward in her chair. “Tolu! You didn’t pray for your eldest daughter.”

Mum, who for the past two hours has been patting her bird’s nest of a weave sporadically as if she has fleas, turns to me with wide eyes. “Oh, yes!” she exclaims, using one hand to hoist up her wrapper, while the other continues to pat her itchy scalp. “How could I forget about Yinka? The investment banker!”

Heads swoosh in my direction and despite my attempts to avoid eye contact with my aunties, I can tell they’re grinning at me encouragingly. No matter how many times I’ve told Mum that I work as an operations manager in an investment bank, she still gets it wrong. Whether she does this due to pride or because it’s easier to explain, I’m still unsure. And to be fair, it’s the first thing that most people assume whenever I tell them I work for Godfrey & Jackson. No one ever thinks of the operations team, the unsung heroes who work in the back office, and work through all the processes to settle each banker’s trade. (Okay, operations may not sound glamorous, but it’s still a solid job, and I’m proud of it!) Anyway, whatever the reason, Mum sure does mention my profession as an “investment banker” a hell of a lot more than she mentions Kemi’s job as a drama teacher-though not to the extent to which she gloats about Kemi being married or having a baby, of course.

“Yes! God has blessed me with two daughters. I should pray for them both.” Mum claps. “Oya! Everybody, rise to your feet. We have to pray for Yinka.”

The groans are somehow both quiet and yet loud enough to fill the room.

“Ah, ah! What is all this gr-gr-grumbling?” The remark comes from Big Mama, of course. And yet, while everyone is reluctantly rising to their feet, she’s still sitting comfortably like she’s on a throne. “If Yinka’s mum said she would give twenty pounds to everyone who is standing, would you be moaning the way that you are now? Abeg! Get up, my friend. Don’t you know it’s good to pray?” She kisses her teeth. “Nonsense.”

The woman with the eyebrow ring snatches her jacket from behind her chair and stomps out. “This is too weird,” I hear her mutter as she marches past me toward the door.

The red-haired woman looks desperate to leave too, just not as brave. I give her a rueful smile.

“How about I pray?”

A familiar voice makes my brows shoot up. I turn around. My heart plummets. Standing at the doorway is none other than Aunty Debbie.

“Funke, what time do you call this?”

Mum is the only person to still address her younger sister by her native name.

“Did it not say two o’clock on the invitation that I gave you, ehn? Seriously, you take ‘African time’ to the next level.”

Aunty Debbie tuts and pulls off the huge Chanel glasses that have been sitting on her heavily contoured nose.

“Tolu. I live all the way in Hampstead, you know.”

A ripple of suppressed chuckles fills the room and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Yes, Aunty, we all know that you and your husband make a tidy sum thanks to your flourishing property investment business. You don’t have to constantly remind us.

“The drive took over an hour,” she drawls in her best attempt at a “British” accent which she tends to put on and take off like a coat. “That reminds me”-she folds her glasses, hanging them over the V-neck of her white silk blouse-“will my Porsche be safe outside?”

Mum’s mouth hangs open. Big Mama kisses her teeth.

“Debbie, Peckham isn’t how it used to be, you know,” pipes up Aunty Blessing, the oldest of the three sisters. Unlike Mum and Aunty Debbie, Aunty Blessing has what I call a BBC newsreader accent, one she developed over her thirty-plus years of being a barrister. “In fact, the place is pretty much gentrified.”

“Gentri-what?” Mum looks confused.

Kemi butts in before they start arguing. “Mum, I thought you wanted to pray for Yinka?” She folds her arms over her protruding stomach, then cocks her head at Aunty Debbie. “And Aunty,” she says with a small laugh, “Don’t worry. Your car is safe outside. Uche and I have lived here for close to a year, and no one has nicked our Ford Fiesta.”

“Well, who would want to steal- Never mind. Anyway, Tolu, let me pray,” says Aunty Debbie, and immediately my stomach tightens with dread. “We could all do with a change of voice, yes? And besides, I’m late.” She fluffs her wig. “The very least I can do is pray for my niece.” She flashes me a wide smile. I return to her a tiny, begrudging one.

I haven’t forgotten what you did at Kemi’s wedding, I think, scowling at her as she closes her eyes.

“Dear God . . . we thank you for the life of Tolu’s eldest daughter, Yinka Beatrice Oladeji.”

I feel a tug at my right hand as the lady beside me pulls hers away.

“Sorry,” I whisper. I must have been clenching her fingers.

“We thank you for the excellent job you have blessed Yinka with, and the house she bought a few years back. She is quite an exemplary woman and has achieved some remarkable things.”

My hunched shoulders relax. Okay. This isn’t too bad.

“Lord,” she continues. “We’ve not long entered the new year-“

“New year,” Mum echoes.

“And the Bible says that through you, all things are possible-“

Mum claps. “Yes, Lord!”

“So, with this in mind, Lord, I pray that this year will be the year . . . the year that Yinka finds her huzband.”

What the-

I glare at Aunty Debbie, who has paused for a hot second to allow everyone to say their Amens. Obviously, Mum and Big Mama’s are the loudest, and they raise their arms to the ceiling as though any second now my miracle husband will descend.

I grit my teeth.

“Lord,” Aunty Debbie rattles on. “Yinka is thirty-two-“

“Thirty-one,” I mutter under my breath.

“There is no reason why, at the age of thirty-two, a woman of her caliber should still be single.”

“God forbid!” Mum inserts.

“In the same way you brought Kemi a huzband, Lord, bring Yinka a huzband of her own. Don’t delay your blessing. Bring him this year.”

The loudest Amens come from two other “aunties” standing in front of the sofa-one, vigorously shaking her head, the other mouthing her own prayer. Some of Kemi’s friends are sucking in their lips to hold back a laugh, but one isn’t as tactful and snorts.

I inhale to stay calm.

“Sorry,” Kemi mouths with a pitying expression on her face-which I’ve grown accustomed to a lot lately.

This isn’t your fault, I want to tell her. I mean, all you did was fall in love with a guy you met at uni who you got married to at twenty-five. And yes, I would have had a lot less pressure to settle down if you hadn’t got knocked up during your honeymoon in Costa Rica and waited, I dunno, maybe another year or two? But everyone finds love in their own time, and yours just happened to be before mine. My time will come. I know it will.

While I try to telepathically say all this to Kemi, Aunty Debbie starts up again.

“Lord, bring Yinka a good, good huzband. A man who is God-fearing, tall and educated-“

“Okay, in Jesus’ name we pray, Amen.” The interjection comes from Aunty Blessing, and I resist the urge to hail her.

But never one to take hints, Aunty Debbie doesn’t wrap it up. Instead, she remains silent, tilting her chin toward the ceiling, eyelids firmly closed. The silence is so uncomfortable, a few of Kemi’s friends begin to twitch.

“Lord,” she declares finally, waving a hand in the air as she does at All Welcome Church when she catches a whiff of the Holy Spirit. “Do what only YOU can do. Intervene, Heavenly Father. Intervene! In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen.”

Everyone utters, “Amen,” all eyes wide open. And who are they staring at? Me, of course. The lady with red hair now looks as though she’s about to cry, and one of Kemi’s friends says loudly, “Gosh, man.” Two aunties in front of the sofa are busy chanting, “Ëm’n n’ ˜.rœk—. Jsœ!” which, despite my basic knowledge of Yoruba, I know translates to, “Amen in the name of Jesus!” Mum is still striking a Rafiki. And Aunty Debbie . . . well, she looks delighted.

I want to punch a wall. I am desperate to leave but I can’t. Not when everyone is watching me. To my relief, the music resumes and Aunty Blessing gyrates to the center of the room.

“Isn’t this supposed to be a party?” She’s swinging her head from side to side. “Come on, now!” she yells at our awkward faces. “You’re not about to leave me dancing solo.” She pulls Kemi, twirling her around, then begins to do God knows what with her hips.

“Heeeey! Heeeey!” She’s mimicking Kemi’s dance moves from earlier; when the chorus comes in, it doesn’t take long for Kemi’s friends to gravitate toward the center. They wail the wrong words over the pidgin English lyrics, their bums never failing to miss a beat. I exhale for what feels like the first time in the last hour.US

Additional information

Dimensions	0.8400 × 5.3600 × 7.9500 in
Imprint	Penguin Books
ISBN-13	09780593299029
ISBN-10	0593299027
Author	Lizzie Damilola Blackburn
Audience	General / adult
BISAC	FIC027250, FIC049020
Subjects	romance novels, contemporary romance, husband, romance novel, gifts for her, romantic comedy, books by black authors, contemporary romance books, fiction books, FIC049020, women gifts, romantic novels, african american books, romcoms, interracial romance, yinka where is your husband, where is your husband, romance book, family, romance, love, fiction, romance books, novels, beach reads, chick lit, women, FIC027250, Summer reads, gifts for women, books for women, womens fiction, book club recommendations, black authors best sellers