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‘Mhmm, yeah, no, I understand.’ The bell of Sákárà’s door chimes as I rush out, one hand holding my phone to my ear, the other pulling my braids from under my maroon trench. I hoist my suede sack bag over my shoulder– from the eighties, stolen from my mum’s wardrobe– holding on tightly, like it’s some kind of talisman to stop me losing my shit. My mum is a serene queen, but, as I attempt to channel her, the righteous temper I’ve inherited from my father roars. Supressing the urge to call the person on the other side of the line an utter nincompoop, I lift my phone slightly from my ear to check my ETA. I do not need this shit right now. The invite said ‘starts promptly at 8’, and it’s currently 8.05. Thankfully– and bizarrely– the location is only a twelve-minute walk, and I’m moving like Dina Asher-Smith if Dina Asher-Smith was really good at strolling. I adjust the dress I’ve hastily changed into after another last-minute shift.

I thought hard about what to wear to Taré’s gig, knowing there would be people to impress (Skepta), but not wanting to lose myself.I opted for a black, backless, boat-neck, flare-sleeved minidress, sexy enough (Skepta), but casual when necessary. I paired it with seventies-style knee-high tan leather boots with a flared heel, accenting the fit with dainty gold rings peeking out of my sleeves, and my armour– gold hoops.

I look more put together than I feel, power-walking towards the De Beauvoir Town location whilst trying to convince a magazine editor acquaintance that ‘Really, it’s fine that you can’t make the coffee tomorrow. And thanks for letting me know that the music-editor role’s gone to someone in-house. . . But if any roles come up– great. . . OK. . . Thank you. . . The podcast? Oh, I’m not sure if it’s coming back. . .’ since the big streaming company that paid for everything pulled out and I can’t afford to do it all myself sustainably. ‘Yeah, um, a shame. OK. Well, thanks again!’ I add ‘forfucking nothing’ into the crisp evening, shaking my head as I hike past the storefronts I used to know by heart.

I inhale the blue-black late-winter air, upon which, mercifully, the scent of fried chicken floats faintly, holding on for dear life. I try to calm myself down, and the streetlights blink on as if in encouragement. If a local fried-chicken chain is surviving, so can I. I need to cling on to this belief. The editor is the third contact who’s flaked and I can’t help but feel that SoundSugar has put a career hit out on me. I could go back to publishing again, but it would mean almost starting again from the beginning, and now that I’ve had a taste of doing work that isn’t hampered by outside voices, it would be even harder to tuck myself in, make space for playing the game.

But I also don’t have the luxury of fucking around. Now that my parents have potential buyers for the restaurant, they could sell up as quickly as three months and I need to figure out if I’m going to be able to keep this flat as soon as possible, which, right now, is unlikely considering all I’m doing is writing the odd music review on a viral TikTok sensation whose lyrics seem to be AI generated every other week. With my refusal to accept wages from my parents and my sinking savings, there’s a lot riding on tonight aside from watching an artist I admire and potentially pulling a grime legend. The exclusivity of the guestlist could lead to crucial contacts and I’m in desperate need of a lifeboat. My phone chirps, and I look down, feeling anxiety abate slightly at the name.

MinahMoney

Killa Keeks. You can do it! Love you! MWAH (that was for Skepta x)

I remember I can swim.

I saw your river by the road,

As red as your tongue, flowing.

I cupped, lapped, coughed and Vega

Came out, giggling.

I have

You and a verse within,

The galaxy in my bones,

Created from not a thing,

And every

Night I pray,

Let there be light,

Let us be light.

I lust,

Only for the sweet heat,

Under my skin.

Taré Souza– ‘Notes in Exile’

Something is wrong. Upon arrival at the imposing Victorian townhouse, an assistant wearing Carhartt and a bad attitude leads me down a flight of steep wooden stairs and into a plush room that’s suffused with incense. It looks like the powder room of a goddess. The atmosphere is so intoxicating that it dissipates my immediate anxiety surrounding fire hazards. Jewel-toned rugs and handmade artisanal leather poufs that seem to be from northern Nigeria dot around a room that glows amber, with walls painted a rich burgundy.

I put down the lack of crowd outside the house to the fact that I’m late, and attributed the lack of chatter as I walked down the stairs to a reverence for an artist at work. Taré Souza is at the centre of the room, perched on a stool that sits on a small round podium, cradling a classical guitar and accompanied by a man with locs playing djembes. She looks ethereal. A halo comprising a deep wine Afro-puff frames a seraphic face with umber skin that glows in the dim light and a button nose glinting with a ring. She’s in a cream silk bralet, a matching kimono, expertly ripped jeans and a pair of dainty heels. It’s an outfit that says she floats from building into car and back again with her feet barely touching pavement, a graceful R&B fairy.

The only thing that moves is Taré’s mouth, which stretches a fraction, in welcome for me. It’s magical, and it would make me feel like I was the only person in attendance here, even if I wasn’t literally the only person in the audience. I look around to see if there could be more people hiding somewhere in the open space. There are not. Not even a whiff of Skeppy. In front of the stage holding Taré is an empty embroidered pink armchair. I blink at it as my heart drops. The gig is over. I’ve completely fucked it. Maybe it was, like, some kind of experimental performance where she plays one song and everyone dips? Did I miss an email? Did information get lost in Nina’s inbox?

‘I’m so sorry for being late.’ My palms dampen in complete mortification. I put them on my thighs to surreptitiously dry them, but I’m met with a slither of skin and some leather. Hardly moisture wicking. ‘I, um, had to cover a shift managing my family restaurant and we couldn’t afford to shut early. . .’

Why am I babbling to this lady whose voice has made meweep?Why would she care, after I’ve completely disrespected the honour of seeing her perform for the first time in five years?And why am I talking to her directly?

Taré tilts her head and gestures to the seat in front of her. ‘Girl, chill. The show can’t start without you. You’re right on time. Take that sexy trench off and sit. Get comfortable.’