Page 54

I woke up at 1.07a.m. to pee. And still, now, if I see 1.07a.m. on a clock I say a prayer. I happened to look at my silenced phone and saw six missed calls from Malakai. Alarm immediately surged through my body. I called him back and what I heard turned my blood into frigid sludge. He was hyperventilating, voice wavering, barely breathing, barely getting words out. Each ragged breath wrapped round my heart and squeezed. All I could make out was, ‘He’s gone.’

Through a constricted throat and what felt like an eternity, I asked who, though somehow I knew.

His voice splintered into tiny fractures as he wheezed terribly, as if all his strength was going into breathing. ‘Dad. . .heart attack. . .sleep.’

I do not remember going to the hospital. All I remember is being there, my dad’s coat–the first one I grabbed–over my pyjamas, seeing him and his mum and his little brother, Muyiwa, all huddled together, a compact bundle of wails. Malakai’s arms were round them both, though his knees were barely holding him up, and by the time I got there Malakai had already packed his emotion tightly away. He talked to the doctors, his eyes bloodshot, his face numb, as his mum wailed her denial. She cried, soul-rattling repeated protestations of ‘no’, willing it not to be so, rejecting reality, calling truth to battle, because there isnoway her larger-than-life husband had succumbed to death;no,they were supposed to go to Lagos next weekend;no,what did they mean?;no,what will her sons do without their father?;no,no,they should take her to see her husband immediately because somebody somewhere was lying, maybe even him... even though she’d been right next to him when it had happened; he was asleep... he was asleep. Muyiwa was racked with sobs, convulsing, but trying to hold his mother as she fought him like he was facts. When Malakai spotted me, he silently took me by the hand and walked me away from them, almost as if he was sleepwalking, shaking his head. He couldn’t stop shaking his head, on autopilot, heavy with denial. It was only when his mum and brother couldn’t see or hear him that he fell so hard against me in an embrace that I tripped back into the wall, and when he wrapped his arms around me for anchorage it was so tight I could barely breathe. It was bone-crushing, desperate, his weight sagging against me as if he couldn’t keep himself up.

I was ready to take it all, everything if I could, all of his heavy, all of his hurt. ‘I got you. I got you, baby.’ My voice shook and broke and we both slid to the floor right there in the hospital hallway.

I sobbed and rocked him as he whispered, ‘How?’, sobbed and rocked him as he whispered, ‘I was supposed to see him today. He was gonna teach me golf. Said no son of his wouldn’t know how to swing. I said, “Dad, that doesn’t mean what you think it means.”’ He laughed, and it sounded sick and strangled and my blood curdled because this could not be, this couldn’t be happening.

I sobbed and rocked him as he whispered, ‘I want my dad, Keeks,’ and this time a single sob came out from him too. ‘I just want my dad,’ he repeated, and then several jagged sobs tumbled out. ‘I never said goodbye.’

With this came a howl, raw and primal, an animal dying. That sound imprinted itself on me, the sound of Malakai’s heart breaking in real time in an irreparable way, in a way I wouldn’t ever be able to fix, his pain lacerating through me.

Now

‘He’s late.’ Aminah’s voice is edged with irritation as she stretches, clad in pink leggings and a purple crop top, pink sweatband framing her ponytail like she’s in aBarbiemovie andStep Upcrossover.

Shanti shrugs as she strolls in through the dance-studio doors in joggers and a sports bra. ‘Weird. Maybe he thought that a mandatory pre-wedding dance class for the bridal party was overkill and chose to do literally anything else?’

Aminah snaps back up from her stretch and rolls her eyes at Shanti. ‘Listen, I am not leaving anything to chance for the traditional wedding. Co-ed dance classes are mandatory so nobody can embarrass me on the day. Groomsmenandthe bridesmaids need to be co-ordinated, like I would hate for the wedding to go viral on Bella Naija for the wrong reasons—’

Laide sips from her large mint-green Stanley cup, and drawls, ‘Since when didyoucare about things like that?’

‘Because! Kofi’s mum said she doesn’t want her son’s heritage being drowned out and so this fusion dance to Nigerian Afrobeats and Ghanaian Afrobeats needs to be perfect—’

‘And I told you,’ Kofi says with practised equanimity, ‘it doesn’t matter, but I love you for the effort.’ He raises his love’s hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to her palm.

Laide rolls her eyes impatiently. ‘OK, sure, but why do those of us who are not rhythm-impaired have to join?’

Aminah hitches her shoulder up, and raises her hands as if the answer is obvious. ‘Equity, Laide! Some of us are good, kind people who care about supporting people with no rhythm!’

‘I dunno,’ Ty says, in his basketball shorts and loose vest. ‘I think it will be kind of fun. Did you guys know that when I was twelve I took ballroom?’ He takes Shanti by the hand, twirls and dips her and all of a sudden she seems to have no qualms.

‘Also,’ Kofi says, putting an arm round his fiancée’s shoulder, ‘it’s just a fun, bonding activity with the wedding party. Get to know each other before the day. Now, respectfully,’ he says, smile bright but eyes stern, ‘will you people get it together? We’ve already paid for the studio time.’

Aminah tilts her chin with a small smile, patting his back. ‘Thank you, baby.’ She walks to the front of the class. ‘Now, before we start, where the hell is Malakai? Everyone needs to be in pairs for this to work—’

Chioma, who has been sitting cross-legged on a plyometric box at the back of the studio flirting withbothof Kofi’s cousins, now gets up, purple harem pants falling around her gracefully as she chimes in. ‘Sorry,you’releading the class?’ Chi’s usually chill demeanour is peppered with uncharacteristic annoyance. ‘You dragged us here on a Saturday morning for a dance class thatyouare leading? When I’m the one with a Free Movement Level 1 accreditation?’

Aminah shrugs. ‘Yeah, who else to set the tone of movement for my wedding? We want sexy, but classy – Kofi, has he picked up yet?’

Kofi shakes his head whilst frowning at his phone. ‘Nah. I’m getting a little worried now–Keeks, have you heard from him today?’

I swallow. ‘Um, no,’ I say, trying to calm my own worry. I’d been in the corner of the studio surreptitiously texting him. Aminah is teetering on an edge and, frankly, I cannot deal with any tantrums that can be avoided. So far it’s been:

the bakery hasn’t got the exact balance of pistachio and rose that she’s needed,

the renowned mixologist she wanted currently has a broken wrist (Kofi said a silent prayer of thanks for that due to his rate) and