Page 49

Why can’t I talk like somebody who has interacted with humans before? Soraya Sackey squints her eyes in confusion, understandably, because I barely know what I’m saying, flustered by no longer having The Heartbeat to hide behind as my identity, not having a shorthand for success, legitimacy.

She nods slowly. ‘Oh, OK. . .so is that what you’re doing long-term? Producing? What’s your scope?’

Myscope?That’s a great question. What is my scope? Why can’t I scope my scope? I can’t believe I’m embarrassing myself like this in front of a woman with geometrically flawless winged-liner. I want to die. I’m also fairly aware that a production I can’t talk about sounds distinctly made up. My pits prick, and I’m probably about to say something that will make things decidedly worse when Malakai’s cognac voice slides in smoothly, surprising me.

‘So you know how some people have a drink and start bragging? Kiki’s issue is the opposite.’ He gently touches my elbow and it steadies me, lances me of nerves–I’m here and I’mhere.‘She has a drink and forgets she’s a big steppa.’ He glances at me with such a blaze of affection that I feel convictions singed. New credos I set for myself such as One Must Not Get Too Close, and You Are Allowed To Vaguely Fantasise About That Tongue Thing He Used to Do, but These Fantasies Cannot Be Propped Up By Any Warm Feelings About His Person fray around the edges. Malakai continues, effusively: ‘She’s actually a cultural producer, working on art that centres truth and craft–it’s kind of mad watching her work, actually. She’s almost like an artist whisperer and a surgeon at the same time. The way she connects the person with the art and gets them to pull out these. . .intricacies about music and culture. . .I don’t know anyone who does what she does like her. I mean, have you heard her retrospective linking artists like Summer Walker and Jazmin Sullivan to 1930s southern blues artists? Mad.’ I watch him speak, waiting for the joke, the catch, because though I know Malakai was never anything but my biggest fan in our relationship–memory or maybe hurt mitigated that truth because it made our break-up easier to comprehend. I needed to forget that in order to move on, needed to believe that though he wasn’t an innately bad person, he wasn’trightfor me. Yet here I am, reminded that Malakai became a Brandy-esque vocal Bible when it came to singing my praises. He means it too, his words weighty enough to leave comforting, toasty indents on any doubts that I might have.

Soraya’s bemusement melts and she laughs genially. ‘Oh, I haven’t, but I need to check it out, sounds intriguing.’

I find parts of myself returning to me, and I quip, ‘Well, I think it’s sort of grounding for us to know that wastemen are not generationally exclusive, you know? That still, we will rise.’

Soraya grins. ‘You’re doing important scholarly work. So you guys. . .work together?’ She glances at Malakai with mild curiosity, clearly trying to ascertain our connection. Same, sis.

‘Yeah, sometimes. I just point the camera and shoot, though. Kiki kinda adds a gravity to my direction—’

‘Well, that’s true–I’m ready to talk my shit now.’ Soraya laughs as I continue: ‘But Malakai’s direction is seriously beautiful, and it’s really fun for me to play in and find something to carve out of–it’s a great prism to work within as a storyteller, and so much of what I do is broken open by his direction. Really insightful, soulful stuff, finding magic in the mundane, the sacred in our culture. The project we’re working on actually comes out later this year–we’re under a nondisclosure, but it’s the kind of cultural deepdive we do. It’s storytelling and documentation at the same time. We’d love to send it to you when it’s out–if you’re interested at all?’

‘I would love that.’ Soraya sips at her flute of champagne, eyes bright. ‘You know, it’s weird. I always meet someone I wanted to run into whenever M throws one of these.’

Malakai and I share a look, before he turns to her and says, ‘Hmm,’ with such profundity that an obnoxious cackle gets wedged in my throat.

I nod. ‘Yeah, I feel like that’s what M, does, you know– connectspeople.’

It’s brave, but it works, because Soraya’s eyes light up. ‘Right! I dunno how she does it, but she justimpactsart.’

‘That’s so crazy–I was just telling Kiki that. That I think of M as an Impactor of the Arts. Wasn’t I just saying that, Keeks?’ He turns to me, eyes bright and playful, and it takes everything in me to subdue a godforsaken giggle.

‘Mhmm. You were just saying that.’

Malakai turns back to Soraya, asking with a sip of his drink, ‘How long have you known her? M, I mean—’

Soraya squints into the air. ‘Oh, let’s see, there was Edward Enninful’s birthday party. . .and then Diana’s Ross’s dental-care initiative launch party–Ross’s Floss. . .’

‘Oh wow. She’s such a Titan of. . .the industry,’ I say, desperate for the revelation of which industry exactly, because there is no way the word ‘YOLO’ is going to be uttered when a very famous rapper I have had sex dreams about is a metre away from me. He’d been my hall pass when Malakai and I were together.

‘All industries, really,’ Soraya says unhelpfully, and Malakai smiles triumphantly at my flopped investigation attempt. ‘Did you know, she was having a conversation with Kendrick at one of these things, and she says something to him like, “There’s an intrinsic knowledge in our community. It’s ineffable. You know when someone is like us and you know when they’re not like us,” and years later. . .Look, I’m not saying she deserves a credit. I’m justsayingI have a good feeling about the space this conversation is taking place in. She inspires art.’

Malakai and I both hold so still that I can feel the tremors of the hyperactive molecules within him bouncing rapidly, hopped up on the revelation that whoever is throwing this party has influencedrap beef.I don’t know how he’s going to metabolise this information. He might swoon like a Victorian maiden in a romance novel. I look at him and see the effort it’s taking for him to pretend that the sentence that was just uttered has not completely decimated his chill.

‘Anyway,’ Soraya says warmly, unaware of the scattering that she’s just unleashed onto us, ‘it was such a pleasure meeting you both. Let me know your details and we’ll stay in contact.’

We do just that, and Malakai manages to wait till she’s out of earshot before he bursts forth with, ‘She definitely meant Lamar, innit? As in, Kendrick Lamar? Fuck it, this might have to be a joint mission. We need to find out who this party belongs to together, Scotch. I’m serious.’

A tray full of suya sticks passes us by and I grab two and pass him one. We find ourselves walking through the heady throng of enough shiny, successful people to theoretically make me feel nervous, but I don’t care any more. I’m here and I’mhere.

‘We need sustenance, because I feel like tonight could change our lives. When we find out who M is I mean,’ I say as we walk out onto the terrace. Plumes of cigarette smoke mingle with weed and a melange of scents thick enough to choke, but I’m breathing easy in what feels like the first time in a while. The cool evening air nips at the thin mesh of my dress, but it feels refreshing, because I feel warm from the inside, fizzing like all my cells are hopping up trying to taste as much of the night as possible.

Malakai nods. ‘I reckon M probably knows where D’Angelo is and could get him to make another album.’

‘I think M knows what happened in the elevator between Solange, Jay-Z and Beyoncé.’

‘She for sure knows the name of the woman wearing the thong that inspired Sisqo’s genius.’

‘You know what? Maybe M is the friends we make along the way.’

Malakai laughs and it fills me up in such a way that I really don’t need a snack any more, and so maybe that’s why when I take a bite I find myself unmoved. Malakai, however, also looks unimpressed.

‘These are dead, man. Nothing on Popsi Banjo’s.’