Page 59

The break has allowed me a moment to soak in all we’ve done, and a warm sensation begins to swell within me, something like pride, excitement, like I’m on the precipice of something big. The tingle starts in my fingers and works itself up to my brain. Granted, I did not sleep last night and I am on two coffees, but still. Something cements in my mind.

‘Uh oh.’ Aminah climbs out of the booth to sidle up to me. ‘I know that look. Killa Keeks got a plan. What you thinking? We could just nab the clothes right? Like, she wouldn’t notice.’

I grin. ‘Well, as a producer on this project, I do have some jurisdiction. I’ll chat to the stylist.’

‘Ay! King Keeks! It’s good to have a best friend in high places.’ Aminah smacks my butt before throwing an arm round my neck. Things were momentarily tense between us after her mandated wedding dance class, but she seems to be in a better place now; we’ve relaxed back into our rhythm and it’s a relief.

Laughing, I say, ‘But, no, that’s not what I was thinking. Doesn’t this place look good like this?’ I gesture to Taré, ethereal with her band, the people around the tables. ‘What if,’ I say, watching Shanti and Chioma pounce on Taré’s MUA, who’s just come out of the bathroom, ‘what if this were real?’

Aminah frowns as she scans the room. ‘How you mean? Is this a mass hallucination?’ She gasps. ‘Do you think the CBD oil Chi gave us all to relax earlier did this? I knew it was a bad idea, like even coffee makes me psycho.’

I turn to her, feeling my skin sing with a promise that Aminah’s weak grasp on the efficacy of CBD cannot abate. ‘Well, yes, also, you have an oat-milk flat white every day, but anyway, I was thinking, imagine a world where Sákárà did live music nights? Every Thursday, a midweek pick-me-up. I could host. Established acts, newer acts, whatever. Everything is changing around this place, in life, but how about we restore it to how it used to be? But better. Updated.’

Aminah nods, her cute little flicked-bob wig shimmying with the movement. She looks like a Dreamgirl, effortlessly angelic in her russet mini smock dress. Her eyes, though, are narrowed with the shrewdness of a PR maven.

‘Obsessed. You can call it Sákárà Sounds?’ It’s been a while since Aminah and I have been in sync like this, with her wedding schedule and my working on the project, so her no-questions-asked understanding feels like a high.

I smile and link my arm through hers. ‘I love it. And–theoretically–how about we make it on a Sunday? That way we can broaden the audience. The young post-church crowd.’

‘And the heathens,’ says Aminah.

‘Well, I was going to say non-churchgoers.’

‘Well, you would say that. You’re a heathen.’

‘I go to church!’

Aminah stares at me. I cough.

‘Online,’ I clarify. ‘Sometimes. Whatever. I’m spiritual, OK! You can’t judge me. You haven’t even picked a religion yet.’

Aminah shrugs. ‘Being bi-religious is my Yoruba birthright. God knows my heart. You look beautiful, by the way. Mashallah.’ Her face is completely straight.

I swallow my smile and shake my head. ‘Anyway. My point is: we can expand our pool of patrons.’ The excitement coursing through my blood slows a little to make space for reality. ‘That being said, I don’t know if I have the money for that. In fact, I’m pretty sure I don’t. Like, it would up revenue, but to even start it off. . .and this job isn’t even permanent. Also, my parents have already lined up buyers.’ Panic slowly begins to set in, battling with the hope I’ve been feeling. ‘Shit, how am I gonna do this?’

‘Do what?’ Malakai’s affable, gravelly voice makes me choke on air.

‘Oh, I got you the thing you call coffee, by the way. Hazelnut and vanilla syrup. Half hot milk. Completely disgusting.’ He hands me the cup, branded from the coffee shop two doors down. Even when things are frosty between us – which is almost always – he always places my order with his. Our fingers brush as I take the coffee, and my body trills obnoxiously.

As a producer, most of my job happened before the shoot and I have a logistical manager running everything on set, but Malakai’s job has really just begun, so despite both of us being here from 6a.m. we’ve barely interacted. While this has been good, it’s clear that it’s heightened my sensitivity to his presence because the word ‘thanks’ comes out slightly choked, and I forget to make a jab about how his love of black coffee is a sign of masochism. He looks so unfairly fine, having removed his green overshirt to reveal a crumpled grey shirt that’s the perfect balance between loose and fitted, and allowing me the full scope of his arms, exposing the taut bulk and the light smattering of hair on them. He has a slightly worn look on his face from being up since around 5a.m. prepping, but his eyes are alive, bright. I know that being on set is his drug and I get a second-hand high from it. It swirls within me, relaxes my spirit, but now those eyes are looking at me quizzically and I realise that I haven’t answered his first question.

Shooting me a look that screams,‘The hell is wrong with you?’, Aminah answers for me. ‘Uh, well, Newbie,’ she says, still shooting bemused looks at me while I attempt to compose myself, ‘Kiki has had the genius idea of doing a sort of Soul Sunday here. Live music, every week. Sákárà Sounds.’

Malakai smiles, sparkling with enthusiasm, almost as if he never told me to stay out of his life. ‘Yeah? That’s sick. A great idea. With you hosting, right?’

Why is he acting like he gives a shit? Is this some weird extended performance? Technically, this is really none of his business, and the terms we’re on are decidedly not good, but displaying that to Aminah would be an immediate tell that something happened between us. There’s also the fact that his interest is warm, licking at my own excitement for the idea.

I shrug, pretending the idea sits lightly on my mind and isn’t presenting itself more and more as a lifeline. ‘Theoretically, yes, but it’s not going to be an open mic night. It would be a lounge. Building culture from the music.’

Malakai’s eyes glitter, and his smile broadens. ‘That’s amazing, Scotch.’ He casts an eye out across the room. ‘With a similar set-up to this, right? Intimate. Homely.’

He gets it, of course. He always gets it, and it makes me incandescent with rage at the injustice, because why must the (seemingly) only man who seamlessly slides into my psyche be an emotionally reticent headache?

His gaze glints, and I feel sweaty in my mini pink wide-necked iro and buba-inspired outfit, despite its ventilating wide sleeves, short wrapper and light lace. The heat between us flares again, undeniably, loud. It’s the strangest thing. The air between us is sticky with the Unsaid, choked up with smoke from our crashing, our burning, and yet this pull between us always rises and floats above it, glowing.

I cough. ‘Well, this is just kind of a pipe dream. My parents have three offers on this place. They’ll probably be deciding within the next fortnight, and there’s no way I’ll be able to run Sákárà full time even if I still had the funds. So.’

‘You don’t have pipe dreams, Kiki. You have, like. . .various realities marinating. You have visions of your future and you know exactly the flavours you want.’ He says it with a certainty that settles in me like it belongs there, fortifying my own surety, because he’s right–I know he’s right–but, still, the belief sends a tingle throughout my entire body. I need to get off this ride, but I don’t even know when I climbed on again, have no idea how I got strapped in. I feel Aminah’s eyes start to swivel between us suspiciously, and I’m grateful for the interruption of one of Taré’s assistants Serenity.