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I release a brittle laugh. ‘Thankfully, not mine.’

Taré grins. ‘I like you. He needs someone around to humble him.’ She turns to Malakai, asking, ‘She’s a vibe, right?’

He barely looks at me, voice brusque. ‘A delight.’

Celestial appears again to whisper into Taré’s ear. Taré nods in response, and turns to Malakai and I.

‘OK, I have a twenty-minute Zoom call that I gotta take right now–the joys of being independent is that nobody can do this shit for me—’

‘Wait–is this building your office?’ I ask as she floats up, kimono flowing behind her.

Taré shrugs. ‘Well. Potentially. I rented it for the week because I wanted it to be accessible to you. I asked your agent the easiest place for you to travel to. It’s handy too, because there’s a studio in the loft. A musician used to live here. If you say yes to my offer, I can rent it for three months and can make it our base.’ She smiles at me as I process this information. ‘No pressure, though! I’ll be back in about twenty. Think it over. And feel each other out! Chemistry is important!’ she calls over her shoulder.

I wait to speak till I hear the click of the door that follows Taré and Celestial leaving.

‘So, obviously, this situation is untenable. You have to turn it down.’

Malakai blinks at me before breaking into rolling laughter.

‘What’s funny?’

‘You, Kiki. Your entitlement is hilarious. I rate it, actually. If you don’t back yourself, who will? But, in any case, I’m not turning shit down. Why don’t you?’

I fly forward in my seat, incensed by the inanity of the question. ‘Um, because Ineedthis. I don’t have my podcast, I just found out that SoundSugar haveblacklistedme and my parents are selling Sákárà so, even if I wanted to quit it all and just continue the family business like this is some cute made-for-TV movie, I can’t! And plus, what the hell do I look like quitting my dream job because of a man?’

Malakai stills, humour fleeing from his face. ‘Your parents are selling Sákárà? Shit. I’m. . .man, I’m sorry to hear that.’

Too many feelings simmered to the surface and now too many truths have spilled out without permission. I play with the idea of shutting the line of conversation down, but Malakai’s face is intent, earnest, free of cockiness, and I can tell it’s despite himself. I lean back in my seat, and swallow, pushing a braid from my face, lowering my eyes so I can get it all out fast without the words touching my heart.

‘It’s not a big deal. Business has been slowing down for a couple of years now, and it’s getting too expensive to run. They want to move to Lagos. They deserve to rest and I’m happy for them—’

‘But it’s still hard.’

My gaze snaps to his, and his eyes are confident in their read. Malakai has cut through my script–the one I tell myself and others–with a truth I’ve run away from. I’ve tried to strip sentiment from fact, because what good is it? Even if I wanted to keep Sákárà, how would I pay for it? Run it? Intellectually, I also get why they want to sell. They’ve made the money they needed to and there are endless opportunities for catering businesses in Lagos, a city where no one needs an excuse to party– birthdays, funerals, christenings, a Friday. Everything is a reason to jaiye– chop life or life will chop you and, while we’re at it, chop food, because what is life if not good food and eating it with people you can laugh with, dance with? It would be a practical business decision at their age, regardless of slowing business.

I get it, they see me and Kayefi as their true legacy, and after Mum’s health scare years back, they want to take life easy. They don’t need to revive a struggling business, so why should they? But for me the restaurant was more than a business, a conduit for our survival; it’s a testament to my parents’ ability to spin gold from grit, the way the restaurant would fill on Sundays after church, on Eid, the home away from home for international students, a way for people to connect with their roots over a soup, swallow and Supermalt special. Many a raucous AFCON viewing took place there, and in the nineties there wasdancing.A real old-fashioned dance floor whilst dining, a live band that played Palm Wine highlife, Jùjú music, throwback Motown covers, some African gospel depending on the occasion.

At seven years old, I would sit on the counter and watch the romance unfurl: the flirting, the easy glamour of the women with their fresh press and curls. Red lips smirking, smiling, kissing their teeth in prelude to a potential kiss, heavily perfumed, waists curving in a way that was both sexy and royal, aware of their sensuality, but being careful not to be lewd, because, after all, they were praying women, God-fearing women. And the men would lean on the bar and spit game by saying they were being murdered by beauty, in fact their smiles were slitting their throats as they spoke. And there would be fights too, when, for instance, the man who claimed he was being killed by fineness turned out to have a wife at home. If we were lucky, she would rock up to the restaurant to show him what it would mean to really be killed. Sákárà was a place to commune, and even though our people are scattered now, they still exist. I know they do. The people who want to laugh and dance and eat at the same time. However, I had no idea how to present that to my parents without sounding like a child who doesn’t want to move house.

To Malakai’s statement, I shrug. ‘It is what it is.’

Malakai’s brow quirks in scepticism of my nonchalance, but he says nothing before nodding carefully. ‘And, uh, I heard about The Heartbeat, but I had no idea about the blacklisting thing. That’s fucked. It was great work.’

I pause, unable to resist asking, ‘You listened to it?’

‘Only on nights where I couldn’t sleep without listening to the dulcet tones of your voice.’

‘Dick.’

A dry smile curves Kai’s lips. ‘Believe it or not, Kiki, I didn’t want to listen to a podcast loosely referencing our break-up, but I read stuff around it. I know it was incredible. It’s you. That’s what you do.’

Malakai’s face is largely without effect, muted emotion saying the words free of sentiment, but his eyes are trained on me, and I see a light fighting to get out. I’m trying to remember that I was mad about something, but I can’t grasp it. It never occurred to me that Malakai would find the break-up difficult. I mean he got to go to America and live his dreams, unencumbered. I’ve latched on to Malakai’s gaze, and just as I see a shift, a softening, there’s a shuttering over.

He looks away and sips his drink before saying, ‘OK, cool. So you need this job. I do too.’ I catch myself, try to reclaim all the shrunken parts of anger I had moments ago and shoot back, ‘Why? Aren’t you the Hollywood wunderkind? Matthew Knight’s protégé? You’ve gone clear.’

Malakai pauses, runs his eyes over me as if trying to assess the safety of this interaction, and I see his gaze, seemingly unknowingly, snag briefly on the bare skin exposed. Unfortunately, my body reacts with no heed to the precarity of the situation, my pulse skidding, the slither of thigh between the hem of my dress and my boots skittered with goosebumps. I cross my legs, as Malakai, having apparently concluded that it’s safe to proceed, leans forward, legs spread and elbows on his thighs, and looks into his drink. The movement brings him closer to me, wafts his scent to me, his heat. I raise my chin as if in defiance to the residual (disappointing) lust I still feel towards him.

‘You know, his showMotownwas my idea? I pitched it to him. Developed it with him.’