Page 17

He shifted down the bed, slowly kissing down my stomach. ‘Say it again.’

‘Word.’ I lifted up my hand and clicked like I was at a spoken-word recital. ‘Word,’ through a giggle. ‘Word,’ through a sigh. ‘Wor—’

Became lost.

Chapter 4

Case of the Ex

Bakari

Kiki, babe. I know I said I was gonna come with you to Aminah’s, but I thought about it, and I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I don’t want to put up a front while we’re working through our shit, you know? It’s too hard. I do love you. You’re everything I could want. I think we just need a little space to re-learn ourselves and know how to direct our energies to this relationship for the optimal outcome. There’s a thing we do at work called a ‘unit test’. It’s when the tiniest parts of an app are scrutinised to see if they operate to their best capacity. It’s how we create the best product we can. This is just a version of that. Love you deep and strong Keeks.

P.S. I sent some wine to the venue. Congrats to Kofi & Aminah again.

I squint at my phone screen as I hover at the threshold of the event space, holding it above the case of champagne I’m lugging and hoping the words magically rearrange themselves to ‘so sorry, running 10 mins late babe, see you in a bit’ because Iknowthis man didn’t bail on me just before my best friend’s engagement party whilst talking about our relationship like it’s a fucking app? Why was hislovedeepandstrongenough to engage in mild PPR with me last week when I went to pick up some shoes I left at his (it was fun and fine and scratched an itch), but not enough to haul his very well-defined (he runs) butt here? My stomach swoops in disappointment, too fast for me to catch it, as I place my phone on top of the crate whilst elegantly balancing it on one knee. I need him here. To help me carry the inexplicable case of champagne Aminah ordered to my house, sure, because it would be lovely to celebrate my best friend’s engagement with him, of course, but also because I can’t help but think that meeting my ex for the first time in two-and-a-half years might be a little easier with my fine, rich 30 Under 30 boyfriend –adjacentperson– here by my side. I don’t think it’s such a terrible thing to admit. I need – no, wouldprefer –for my ex to know that I wasn’t languishing in heartbreak while he (undoubtedly) was fucking his way through LA with beautiful women called something like Clover. They probably did yoga regularly and not just after rewatchingHomecomingand deciding that they needed to better their life by booking a discounted beginner’s class for the fifteenth time. Unrelatedly, I did, once, through a burner Instagram account, watch his story and see a girl called Clover tagged. They were having a smoothie.Since when did he drinksmoothies? Her bio said ‘Plant mama’. She was very beautiful and had a very bouncy-looking twist out, and bouncy-looking breasts, and she seemed primarily to live in cycling shorts and crop tops. She had videos teaching women how to open up their sacral chakras. Did Malakai open up her sacral chakra? I tried one of her tutorials and got a cramp.

Anyway, my point is, what’s wrong with wanting to peppeh Malakai small? I try to steady my staggered breathing and calm my fury while I hoist the crate on my hip as it slips against the satin of my bronze cowl-neck dress. It’s fine.Iam fine. In at least two ways. I can do this. I’m a modern, independent woman who doesn’t need a man to vex an ex. The gown clings to the steep and soft inclines of my curves and the bronzy hue calls out the warm tones of my skin; it’s classy enough to be worn in front of aunties, but sexy enough to scatter a man’s mind. More importantly, I know that it makes my bum look magnificent. Like the random case of champagne, I got this.

I gather myself, and make a note to send a picture of what I’m wearing to Bakari.

I step into the room that’s clattering and thudding with movement as servers ready champagne flutes. Table legs scrape the terracotta tiling, adding depth to the throwback uptempo R&B playing through the speakers, welcoming the party in with the proclamation that roses are red, violets are blue.

It’s gorgeous already. I’d scored the rooftop and terrace of a trendy East London hotel that I’d been to for an album listening party. It melds Aminah’s elegance and Kofi’s breezy cool. Panoramic views of the city glow through airy atelier windows and lush chains of hearts cascade from a ledge below the arched ceiling, providing an enchanted feel enhanced by lamps of burnished gold. The luxurious woody in-house scent mingles with toasted-almond notes of champagne and the spicy welcoming warmth of Sákárà’s food. I arranged mini versions of Kofi and Aminah’s favourite foods: dollops of iyán in little pots with égúsí soup dropped on top, wagyu suya meatballs, plantain fritters and fresh puff puff/bofrot (both names used on the menu to prevent intra-West African war) dusted with cinnamon.

All the food arrived at the kitchen thirty minutes before me. I feel a tiny spike of triumph. This isn’t bad considering that I had three (two and a half) weeks to organise and was dealing with a romantic estrangement and endless ‘coffee and a catch-up’ meetings every day with media acquaintances that led to nothing. What they really wanted, of course, was tea and what I want is a job. Of course, I never shared the real reason The Heartbeat is currently no more. I’m Yoruba, and we don’t give people ammunition against us. My PR line, as vetted by Aminah, is this: ‘It was an amicable split with SoundSugar, and I’m just looking for a new challenge now. Yes, I have seen the ad to Kitty St James’s new podcast,The Relationship Rhythm, and, yes, I have seen that her first guest is Taylor Swift! Incredible for her! There’s an audience for everyone,’ finished with a sweet, impassive smile.

SoundSugar really wasted no time in trying to replace me. I wished them all the luck in hell with their bland, dry-as-a-roasted-yam-sandwich pastiche of my show. I would manage to keep this to myself.

Then, after my artful dodge, as the matchas arrive, I would expertly divert the thirst for dirt elsewhere– have you heard that this well-known girlboss memoirist used to have an affair with that internet manosphere hero who wears his trousers so tight it clearly cuts off circulation to his brain, leading him to make takes like ‘drinking from a straw was invented to feminise men’?

They would leave satiated, and I would come across as personable enough for them to keep me in mind for potential job vacancies– but it would still just bepotentialand unfortunately potential is still not accepted tender for rent or mortgage.

I feel a coldness licking at the edge of my consciousness, making the warmth flicker. When Malakai and I broke up, I was determined to overhaul my life in every way I could with a fresh start. The first was a sunrise tattoo on the inside of my forearm, created with dashes, reminding me that the sun was constant, light was constant– I just needed to wait for it. Cliché probably, but every time I looked at it I felt proud that I’d found myself again, that I conjured my own light and, more importantly, that I’d made the ultimate act of eldest Nigerian daughter rebellion by getting a tattoo. I even enjoyed the pain of it: a sort of letting of the heartbreak that had seeped into my blood.

The second way was moving into the one bedroom flat above my parents’ restaurant, the repurposed high-street terrace they’d scraped their savings to buy in the early nineties. We used to live there when I was a baby and moved out when my sister Kayefi was born eight years later– then it was reserved for relatives from Nigeria who said they were going to stay for two weeks and ended up staying for two years. When a great aunt had finally left a month after my split, I saw it as a perfect space for me to nestle into, in which to put my heart back together. I recruited the girls to help me paint my room a jade-white that Chioma assured me represented harmony, Aminah proclaimed as chic and Shanti admired from the sofa, where she sat as we painted, pouring us £6 rosé into mismatched mugs. I transformed the little alcove in my bedroom into a makeshift office, and it was here that I recorded the first Heartbeat episode.

My parents plan on selling the restaurant and keeping the flat, but, still, I need to find a way to continue to pay the remaining mortgage to make it worth it for them. Besides this, I can barely stand the idea of our restaurant potentially being taken over by a start-up eatery called White Men Can’t Jollof, crowdfunded by two men from Devon in beards and flannel, let alone someone else living in the place in which my parents forged a life. The idea of leaving it makes me feel hollow. I’ve made it mine; it’s where I cried myself to sleep and where I healed, opened myself up to love again by having sex for the first time with someone who wasn’thim,tried new Instagram recipes for different variations of ‘smashed potatoes and chicken’, where my best friends piled into and got drunk during my first birthday without Malakai, falling asleep on top of each other on every available surface, and singing loudly to R&B girl-group classics. (Our cover of En Vogue’s ‘Don’t Let Go’ got a heckled, ‘Go off, sisters!’ from an open window.) For the first time in a while I feel a prick of panic at the back of my nose, the heavy threat of a loss of control. If I think too long about the fact that, on paper, I have no job right now, I’ll pass out. This isn’t me. I always have a plan– a path. I grab a hold of myself. In a way, focusing my energy on Aminah’s wedding preparation is a great diversion from a quarter-life-crisis. This past week I didn’t even have time to be captured by Eldest Second-gen Immigrant Daughter syndrome and scroll law-school webpages. Ididlook at some designer slingbacks I could potentially wear in an office before realising that I actually needed a job to pay for them.

‘You’re late.’ The brisk chime of my best friend’s voice cuts into my thoughts, and she appears, seemingly out of nowhere like the preternatural being she is, rushing towards me on a breeze of jasmine, peonies and the argan oil she used on her silk-press.

My breath catches for a reason other than the fact that I am still carrying six bottles of champagne in my arms. I put it down where I’m stood to properly take her in; and, when I do, the sight releases the strain on my heart, and it swells. Her hair falls and frames her doll-like face in loose, bouncy curls, and she looks like a 1940s Hollywood starlet in her cream silk slip and her delicate make-up of deep bronzy warmth, and brown-lined mink lip.

‘You’relate,’those lips repeat, and I can tell by the way they immediately press together that she’s stressed so I ignore the fact that this is her greeting and say, with considerable calm:

‘I’m literally right on time.’

‘Which is late! You’re co-bride, remember! We arrive together! Plus, you were late to the venue viewing earlier this week! And you left early too!’

I steady my breathing and keep my smile fixed. She’s dealing with two African matriarchs– she cannot be in her right mind. I defang with an ease cultivated over ten years of friendship. ‘Well, I’ve been working on this for two weeks and made sure everything was set up so I didn’t think I was needed. I was fifteen minutes late to the viewing because I had a coffee with an editor. You know. For my job hunt. I left early because I had to cover another shift at the restaurant. Remember?’

She blinks, as if being startled out of a trance induced by an alien Bridezilla virus using her body as a host. ‘Oh my gosh. Yeah! How did I forget that? I’m so sorry. I’m just a little. . . frazzled. What happened with the editor? Did she get back to you?’

I shrug. ‘She said she’ll get back to me if they have any openings, but she thinks my “vibe is great”, which is code for she has absolutely nothing to offer me. But anyway.’ I release my slight pique and brush it off with a smile. ‘Can we focus on important things? Like. . . Meenz, do you still have a groom? Because my bro must have dropped dead the second he saw you. Turn round for me real quick.’

As predicted, the disturbance melts off Aminah’s face and she preens and toddles in a circle on her stilettos that just about make her average height.

‘Girl,stahp. Really? I can’t even pretend. Who am I forming for? I do look good, don’t I.’