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I inhale deeply. ‘So Taré Souza’s invited me to what Ithinkis a secret gig?’

Aminah’s eyes widen in glee and she squeals, before looking around the restaurant and hiss-whispering, ‘Oh my gosh, yes! That’s amazing! I meanduh,of course, why wouldn’t you be on her radar? You’re her number-one ride-or-die stan.’

Taré Souza, an R&B and soul artist, came onto the scene when I was in my second year of uni, and I immediately found kin in her music. She had a six-track soul R&B EP calledSun in Mereleased through Soundcloud. It seared through my skin and wrapped itself around a heart that was learning love. It was Lauryn Hill nodding at Sade and hugging Lala Hathaway and spudding Jazmine Sullivan with something new and crisp on the way, a softness that was razor-edged, love expressed like it was a knife that could cut through pain or simply cut you. It was a melancholia that was whimsical, joy that was visceral.

And as I muddled my way through life, falling stupidly in love and getting heartbroken and falling cautiously in love trying not to get heartbroken, so did she, getting signed, touring around the globe for it, her star rising as I grew into myself and she grew as an artist. Critics called her a wunderkind. Then her artistry shifted slightly, leaning into the athleticism she learned as a child gymnast and becoming a fully fledged popstar with choreo, the music getting lighter in theme and heavier in production, her audience widening. She was on the cover ofRolling Stonethat year, her most recent album,Glow in the Dark, was rumoured to have been a shoo-in for Best Pop Album at the Grammys, when abruptly, just when she seemed to be on the precipice of superstardom, Taré Souza disappeared.

All her socials went dark. She withdrew her album from award submission despite the inevitable consternation of her label and new, hungry vampiric fans who fed off her eccentric personality, people who looked nothing like her, who would insist that they had a ‘Taré Souza’ living inside them when they did something they thought was quirky.

People wondered about her safety, her sanity, wondered if she was pregnant with her manager’s child, and then her Instagram account popped back up with a single message, white against a black background, with her trademark tongue-in-cheek frankness:Seeking Freedom. BRB. Keep my spot warm, or don’t. I’ll burn my way back in anyway.

And from then– though she might be seen in LA clasping hands with a chiselled Magic Mike-franchise cast member, or readingAll About Lovewith a blunt propped in her pout on a beach in Barbados, or in the background of a Met Gala afterparty having a drink poured in her mouth by Megan Thee Stallion– she was never, pointedly in the spotlight. Then last year she dropped a free poetry ebook out of nowhere, no promo, no interview.Notes from Exile. She posted the cover on Instagram and linked it in her bio. It was illuminating, stripped bare– and moved me so much that I covered it on The Heartbeat. I was happy for her– though the latest music she’d released had been fun, it seemed kind of incongruous to who she started out as, a musician whose melodies gave me some sort of sacred guidance for everything I felt.

Now it seems like she’s finding herself again.

When my agent had got the email, I had no idea what to expect, but a thrill ran through me. Maybe the selectively reclusive artist was planning a full comeback, and she wanted me to cover it somehow? I could use it to leverage myself into editorial, pitch it to a few publications. That was the practical side of it, the ‘I need a fucking job’ side, but I was also an unabashed stan, curious to know what she’s been up to for the past few years, what she would perform, what her presence could mean for the landscape of music.

I’m as nervous as I am excited, and getting to share it with Aminah stabilises me a little. She isn’t as big a fan as I am, but she enjoys her music enough, a balance of ‘moody girl R&B’ (me) and ‘shake bum-bum bops’ (her). Technically, though, I wasn’t even allowed to share the fact that it existed to her, the invitation contingent on signing an NDA. I figured that best friend privilege would override an NDA. I pray that it holds up in court.

‘Man, this would be so good. See how God is blessing my girl. When Allah says yes, nobody can say no!’ I smile at her remix as she continues: ‘Taré hasn’t had a public appearance in years and she invites you? This will definitely open up opportunities for you. I’m so gassed, sis!’

I’m cautious still, pushing a crouton across my near-empty bowl thoughtfully. ‘Let’s see. I mean what if she still thinks The Heartbeat is a thing?’

Aminah is unmoved, and she raises her brows, hoists her shoulders up in an unspoken command that I should gather myself. ‘OK. And so? The Heartbeat isyou.You make it pump. You finesse it. You Killa Keeks it. Don’t waste this opportunity.’ She waves a butter knife in my face. ‘Or I’ll make you wear. . .’ She pauses, drops the knife with frustration. ‘Damn it, I was going say I’m gonna make you wear an ugly colour as your bridesmaid dress, but you look good in everything.’

I snort. ‘My bad.’

‘Like, I would have got away with it too if it wasn’t for your meddling beauty. OK, I’ll make you walk down the aisle with Kofi’s shiny-suit cousin at the wedding. Remember when he told you he puts thefinein finance? And have I told you he’s started a podcast? Called Money Talks. I’m sure he’ll want to tell you all about it.’

I cackle and throw up my hands in surrender. ‘Shit, yes, OK! Opportunity won’t be wasted. You arewicked.’

Aminah beams in triumph. ‘I think you mean the wickedest. Now, you sure you can’t smuggle me in? Tell them I’m your emotional-support bad bitch—’

‘Well, that’s kind of exactly what you are.’

‘And that should really be enough.’

‘Right? But, nah, they were very clear that if you bring a plus one you won’t be allowed entry. Apparently, it’s a “specially curated guest list by Taré herself”.’

Aminah sighs. ‘Fine, if I can’t come, youhaveto tell me all about it. Obviously, I won’t tell anyone, but if you don’t gist me I might die and that would be terrible for Kofi.’

‘I solemnly swear to let you know if Skepta is there.’

‘Thank you. That’s all I ask. Oh, and because you’re single now, if he is actually there, you have to take one for the team—’

‘And by one you mean. . .’

Aminah’s face is grave, void of a stitch of humour. ‘You know what I mean, Kiki.’

I smile widely. ‘I’ll do my best. For us. For you.’

Aminah pretends to choke up before raising her glass. ‘To sisterhood. And non-disclosures.’

I clink my drink with hers, settled, warm, as I giggle, full of fermented grape and love. Whatever happens, no matter what happens, I will always have this. ‘To sisterhood. And non-disclosures.’

Chapter 8

High Esteem