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I roll my eyes. ‘Please, Malakai, I’m not you.Irespect the boundaries of my relationship. Maybe it’s your own conscience that’s pricking you and you’re projecting, because you’re the kind of guy who lies to his girlfriend about—’

Malakai’s eyes become stony. ‘I never lied to you, Kiki.’

Old hurt stirs, ancient history groaning. ‘You might as well have.’

‘You should have trusted me.’

My nose stings. ‘Yeah, and you should have given me something to trust.’

Malakai stills for a few moments. His jaw holds rigid, and his emotions are packed tight under clingfilm again, muted, compressed. He then nods ruefully, steps back and scratches at his beard.

‘You know, Kiki, maybe we just didn’t know each other well. For example, I didn’t think you were a cutesy heart-emoji person, but you are.’

I blink at the sharp turn. ‘What the hell are you even talking ab—’

‘Your man’s name.’ He says ‘man’ like it’s something fetid. ‘The emoji next to his name. You must really love him.’

I almost laugh at the ridiculousness. It never occurred to me to put a heart emoji next to Kai’s name. Wewerethe heart emoji. He was my whole fucking heart. Kai was enough. The mention of Bakari sits uneasy on me. I do love him. I’m sure I do. Although now, when I think this, there seems to be nothing real for the idea to grip on to, this idea of me loving Bakari. Before, I was able to reach for tangible proof for it to sit on, but now it slips, falls. I find nothing. The idea of my love for him slides on the sleek new memory of Malakai making me come in full view of London. After Malakai and I broke up, it was about eight months before I even considered another man to be a sexual entity.

My phone buzzes, saving me from the answer I was never going to give, alerting me to the arrival of my Uber.

I look up at his face, inscrutable, tense. ‘I have to go.’

He nods, moving aside so I can walk to the door. ‘I’d appreciate it if you let me know when you get home.’

‘Sure. Thanks for the charge.’ I immediately internally curse myself. Why did I have to say it like that? Like he just energised me with his superpowered dick? When I reach the door, I cough. ‘I guess I’ll see you when I see you.’

Malakai’s walked me to the door, but he barely meets my eye as he nods tightly. ‘Yep. It was fun, Kiki.’

And I don’t know why it’s this statement that haunts me on the ride home. It sits on my spirit obtrusively, making my heart itch. I don’t know why it’s this that makes my eyes sting, and the tears fall and for me to sob so hard that my driver, a concerned uncle, hands me a pocket tissue and says, ‘It will be all right, sister. It will pass.’ I hope it does. I don’t know why it hurts. It’s not supposed to hurt any more.

Chapter 7

Sisterhood and Non-disclosures

CONFIDENTIAL:

Dear Kiki Banjo,

You are one of the very few selected guests invited to an exclusive, intimate audience with a critically acclaimed R&B artist. Please sign and return the attached for more details.

‘So beautiful, Meenz.’

‘Stunning, Smallie.’ Damola, Aminah’s heavily pregnant eldest sister sighs in agreement with me, fresh from her babymoon in Turks and Caicos, beaming over the steam of a specially requested cup of herbal tea. Elegant in a camel knit dress, she pulls a tissue from her Kelly, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. ‘These bloody hormones.’

‘Iyawo, Kofi! Looking like an ohemaa for real!’ Laide calls out from where she’s sat next to me on a pink velvet couch, flute of champagne in the air, chunky gold bangles jangling. ‘Turn round for me, sis, pop it small.’

Aminah preens and totters round in a circle on the plinth. She strikes a pose, hand on her hip, the other poised in the air.

‘Yes.’ Laide grins and leans forward to smack her sister’s bum, her leather skirt and oversized jacket squeaking with the movement. ‘It even makes your puff-puff bum look bigger.’

Aminah smirks and does a little twerk and sticks her tongue out, and Laide squawks, ‘Small bum-bum dey shake oooooooo!’

We all burst out laughing, hopped up on free champagne, and the glee of the moment. When they’re not bickering, it’s a joy being an honorary member of the elite Bakare sorority, folded into the way they play, love, tease.

My best friend turns to her mum expectantly. ‘What do you think, Mummy?’

Auntie Rafiat is sat on the opposite corner of the boutique’s padded ivory dressing room in a flowing purple kaftan, perched on a boucle armchair. She tilts her head as she runs her gaze across her daughter’s frame, expression neutral.