Page 48

We stand at the threshold of the tall, wide double doors, the limewashed walls and fine wood floors thrumming with the sound of a sublime DJ mix that marries Kaytranada with afrobeats. The bassline agitates something loose in me. I shrug my shoulders free of my trench in rhythm. That glad gleam in Malakai’s eyes moves in time to it as he offers his hand to take it from me. The coat falls off my body like peel from an overripe plantain and Malakai’s eyes fall with it, down the curving cling of my orange mesh maxi dress, sheer enough to whisper the shadow of a black thong and black bra. I feel full up to the top of my skin, like if you scratch me I’d drip gold. I’m feeling good, feeling like I look good and Malakai is looking at me like I’m what God was thinking of when He proclaimed that all He made was good.

He releases a small smile, shakes his head, murmurs, ‘You’re a danger to the streets.’

And I say, cheeks aflame, ‘Remind the mandem to look both ways.’

And this is OK. It’s OK to confront all that is animal here, look it in the eye and tame it. We’re grown. We’ve already had sex. It went well and ended badly. We won’t do it again.Professionals.Nothing personal.

Malakai rolls out a laugh that unfurls like a red carpet on which my sense glides–God, what is happening? I’m not even drunk–as he takes my coat, steps to the ‘cloakroom’ to the left of the door, a room that is approximately the size of my flat. Two young people in black stand in front of several rails of hangers, handing out tickets. Malakai approaches them and someone with a tray offers me something they say is ‘rum and sumn’. I take two and then I look at Malakai, who has now shrugged off his bomber and I drink. Intoxication twice over. Double cooked.

Something shifted in that car. Something happened when we laughed together.

He didn’t need to change because life is so easy for a man, especially a man with arms as distractingly substantial as his. He’s in all black, and it works on him–black tee, black slim-fit Dickies chinos. Only thing with colour on him is his cross pendant–gold and heavy–and his eyes–brighter and lighter now. I realise that Malakai has been carrying something heavy, because now he’s looking like he’s lost some emotional weight, some weariness from his face. What has he been running from?

I’ve hung back, and Malakai has to look through a wall of moving people to find me, and when he does his eyes spark. I see him actively restrain it as he walks towards me. It’s inexplicable, and the Unsaids still hang, the unargued threatens to choke, but our words have been tripping and falling over and around each other since Taré’s, finding home in the nooks of each other’s sentences. It’s almost, kind of, sort of, like we might be becoming friends again. I can’t figure out if it would be bad. I just need to be vigilant. Colleagues. Professional. Maintaining a healthy environment for my best friend’s wedding.

‘So, whose yard do you think this is?’ he enquires as I pass him his drink. We cast our attention across the wide ‘hallway’ (throughway) lined with a glittering Black diaspora of celebrities ranging from A to B list. An Afrobeat giant, an Afropop starlet, a grime star that Aminah would be very happy to see, a Ryan Coogler muse and a dancehall queen are but a few out of a constellation that is scattered across this bougie shoobz. They are dotted up the broad curved stairway that’s lit up with hidden LED lights, like the steps are leading to heaven or a party within the party. Fame denizens continue to pour through to the open space of one of at least three living areas. They roll out into a garden with an intricate courtyard that from my vantage point looks to be split into two levels.

‘Young Nigerian tycoon. International school accent, somewhere between Valley girl and landed gentry,’ I say as we walk through the throng. We pass a lively kitchen, gleaming white marble with an island that could double as a stage, filled with hors d’oeuvres. I spy a cooking range that my chef’s-daughter eye tells me is worth a smooth £16K and has never really been used domestically.

‘Nah. If they were a Nigerian, we would have seen them by now somehow. They would have made themselves known.’

I laugh as we walk through a large ‘living/entertainment space’– I know this from years of bingeing reality shows about luxury properties. It could also, effectively, be the inside of a luxury club. There’s a booth behind which one of the hottest Afrobeat DJs stands, conducting the vibes, a fully operational bar and plush cream sofas that really, for me, are the biggest indicator of net worth this evening. This is the kind of environment that in the past has made me want to crawl inside myself, not knowing where I fit in, how I got here and, right now, I begin to feel the telling itch.

I look at Malakai and he’s holding himself a little more rigidly now, but when he looks at me, he relaxes a little.

‘How you feel about a Litlympic competition?’ he asks.

The Litlympics was devised at Ty Baptiste’s country-house parties: a series of nonsensical dares and races with no incentive but bragging rights–the punishment was always a shot. A thrill runs through me, hot enough to make my tense nerves recline as I survey the crowd.

‘We race to find out who owns this place through. . .gentle conversation with our fellow guests,’ I suggest. ‘I meantechnicallyit counts as work astechnicallythis is a recce. We’ll check out the garden later.’

Malakai grins. ‘Loser has to say YOLO out loud in conversation to the nearest person with a Grammy.’

My laugh comes out in a sharp burst. ‘You’re fucking evil. OK. Cool. You better not find yourself near Rihanna. That’ll be embarrassing. For you I mean. I’ll thoroughly enjoy it.’

‘Why, because she’ll fall in love with me and my very presence would threaten the peace of a happy home? I dunno, I think I’d make a great stepdad. I’ve always wanted kids–you know that—’

I freeze, and a millisecond after, when his words have calcified in his mind, he stiffens and our precarious peace tilts, the Unsaid unsticking beneath it. Yes, I do know he always wanted kids, because at one point we took it as a categorical fact that we were going to have them together. We discussed names (Sisqo was vetoed by me, Knowles by him).We spoke aboutwhenwe got married, not ‘if’. Malakai said he wanted to walk down the aisle to ‘Int’l Players Anthem’ and when I pointed out that men don’t actually ‘walk down the aisle’ he replied that he didn’t have me down as someone who conformed to traditional gender norms.

‘What next? You’re gonna cook for me every night? Pack my lunch? Welcome to the twenty-first century, Kiki,’ he’d said with a sassy roll of his eyes.

Fuck.

Now, my stomach threatens to feel funny, or it does, actually, if I’m honest, a pang that has notes deeper than nostalgia, which would be bad enough, but, no, this has a tenor of yearning. We were good once. So good. Malakai and I have perhaps friendlied too close to the sun, but I decide to catch a tan instead of let it burn the understanding we have cultivated.

I skip past it with a breezy smile. ‘So we have ten minutes to do the challenge.’ Relief flits over Malakai’s face as I continue: ‘We’re not allowed to directly ask–it has to come up in casual conversation.’

Malakai nods. ‘We meet by the bar.’ He slides his phone out of his pocket. ‘And we start our timers—’

‘Hey– sorry–are you Kiki Banjo?’

I turn round at a light touch of my shoulder to see a gorgeous woman, slightly older than me, with closely cropped hair and angular cheekbones.

‘Um.’ I dart a look at Malakai, who for some reason looks delighted. ‘Yes.’

The woman smiles and puts her hand out for me to shake. ‘I’m Soraya Sackey–an exec at Akassa Productions. Been wanting to meet you for a while, actually. I’ve missed your podcast! I saw your sweet farewell post to your listeners on socials. Have to say I was surprised to see you weren’t coming back for another season, but I’m sure it’s for good reason. What are you up to now?’

‘Lovely to meet you! I know Akassa! Huge fan of your work. Really beautiful cultural archiving and art. Um. I’ve actually been producing a project that I can’t talk about in detail. It’s for a musician. I’m kind of facilitating the creative direction. So. That’s what I’m doing right now.’