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Malakai’s eyes dart to mine in question, asking if I’m OK with this. Everyone on set is watching us now, includingShanti, Chioma and Aminah. Aminah has a slight frown of concern on her face and Chioma and Shanti have looks of complete and utter glee on theirs. If I say no, it becomes a big deal, and it resolutelyis notone. This is just two creative professionals coming together to help get the job done in the most effective manner.

I push out a bright smile. ‘No problem. I’ll try. I mean, I’m not a dancer.’

Aminah rolls her eyes. ‘Are you joking? Your waist swirls like the sweetest cinnamon roll. And we don’t do shyness in our family so I don’t know why you’re pretending.’

I pause. The flippant wave of her hand is more loose than normal. She’s suspiciously lairy.

Chioma pipes up after her, ‘Yeah, I second Meenz. Like, you are a boss on this set: stand in your power, you know, your alpha energy!’ I narrow my eyes, and stare at the drinks–they’re a sweet mocktail concocted to looklike alcoholic drinks, but now I’m suspecting that at some point they spiked them to get things into a festive pre-bachelorette spirit.

I am sure of this when Shanti slaps my butt as I rise with, ‘Get ’em, sis!’

I have no time to focus on this particular irritation because Malakai signals for the music to play as we position ourselves on the marks of the actors. We don’t say anything to each other, can’t say anything to each other–he simply nods at me, and I nod back as his arms slip round my waist, and mine round his neck. This is cool, so cool. I just have to dance with my ex-boyfriend with whom I’ve just realised I have more than non-lust feelings for, in front of everybody I am lying to about having any feelings for him. I try not to focus on the pressure of the breadth of his palm on my sides, nor on the fact that we are face to face, so close I could trace the shape of his lips with my tongue. Instead, I home in on the beat that feels safe to me. I know and love this song; it’s called ‘Solstice’, one of my favourites on the album. This song is airy, feels like summertime, a mix of soul and modern Afrobeats, slowed down, sensual and soon awkwardness melts as my body falls into its rhythm and Malakai falls into mine. I close my eyes to feel it, let the melody sink into my skin, and Malakai pulls me in so I brush his chest.

‘You see,’ Malakai burrs, and his voice reverberates through my entire body, ‘it’s gotta be intimate. Sexy, but not lewd. The hands aren’t trying to hold her down, but give her space to move, whilst letting her know that you’ve got her.’

My eyes flutter open and Malakai is looking directly at me and it makes my resolve to not fall stutter.

‘There are boundaries,’ Malakai says directly to the couple. ‘This is the first date. It’s tentative. We didn’t choreo this, only gave light direction, because we wanted it to feel organic, but, still, focus on those feelings to direct you, like–’ he raises a hand to hold my chin in a way that’s respectful but intimate, light enough for me to want to lean into his grip, for me to feel his fingers press into my skin–‘how would he look at her? Like she’s everything. Like her light makes you bloom.’

His eyes are back on me, dancing with their own light, and I remind myself that this is an exercise, that this is a performance, that I am at work, and also, crucially, this man knows exactly what he’s doing. I remind myself that so do I. I know Malakai, know what tests his control, pushes him to the limit. I nod, and release a sunshine smile.

‘Right, and in turn, you,’ I say, talking to the young woman who plays one half of the lovers, ‘need to remember your power. It’s you that really controls this. You want to slowly unfurl, open up. Lean into your boldness because he makes you feel comfortable to do so, and you let him into your space because you decide that. You’re tapping into your sensuality.’

Keeping Malakai’s gaze, I drag my hands down his chest, letting my fingertips lightly, slightly explore the broad expanse. His mouth twitches before I slowly turn round and move his hands to my hips, keeping the rhythm, my butt very, very lightly grazing the front of his chinos. His hands shift on my hips, his fingers curving ever so slightly in a tightening of grip. I feel his smile in it.

‘And you maybe do a little whisper, pretend to say something slick.’ He bends so his lips are at my ear, the heat of his breath making every cell in my body alert in want despite the audience–shit, is there even an audience? ‘Scotch, you’re playing a very dangerous game.’

I lick my lips, making sure my voice hides within the music. ‘You started it. I’m finishing it.’

‘And there I was thinking that finishing is a team effort?’

My eyes immediately round, and I attempt to press an irrepressible dirty smile back into my scandalised mouth. Every single time I feel like I’ve lost the Malakai I thought I knew, a glimpse resurfaces, brighter than ever, more irresistible than ever–and Ihaveto resist, because every time I feel like I can touch it, it slips away. It’s a mirage.

Taré’s squeal falls between Malakai and I, splitting us apart, and we both remember where we are, what we’re here for, who we are–people who have no business looking at each other like this, touching each other like this.

‘Yes!Yes! Exactly this! Push and pull.Intimacy.’ Malakai coughs, and gestures to the couple. ‘OK, so if you could just—’

Taré shakes her head. ‘Oh no. No, no, no.’ Her long, shimmering hooded cape drifts behind her as she comes up to us, holds both of our hands. ‘It has to beyouguys. Are you kidding me? You can’t teach that!’

Malakai throws a panicked look to my widened eyes, and he says, ‘Well, I mean, I have to direct.’

Taré waves a dismissive hand. ‘Please. You can act and direct at the same time. You’re pretty, but you can manage both. I’m sure we’ll have an outfit that will fit you—’

I shake my head, feeling increasingly frantic, because I might not survive doing that again. ‘Well, the thing is, Taré, I’m more of a behind-the-scenes kind of person.’

To this, Aminah pipes up furiously, ‘Kikiola, no you arenot!You’re born to be centre stage!’

Oh, she’s definitely drunk. Her voice sounds looser. What’s going on with her? My annoyance and worry clash, but I have no time to interrogate either because Taré claps her hands in agreement.

‘Exactly. Kiki, I have no time to argue. I want this project to be the best and you are the best choice in this moment. Get in costume, please.’ Taré’s voice has adopted an I’m Technically Your Boss tone she rarely employs. The only other time is when she insisted on us all having a ‘replenishing nap’ before continuing to discuss concepts. Malakai and I exchange a look, and I read him easily; he’s down if I am. I sigh and rub the crease between my brows. How did we get here? This place where I am about to slow-dance with my ex-boyfriend in front of cameras for my job? How can I demolish that road so I never have to cross it again?

I smile sweetly. ‘Of course. Anything to help!’

‘Sorry–did you know that your dad can sing?’ Aminah leans in to ask me as she watches my father take to the dais with Taré, singing ‘Lifted’ by the Lighthouse Family, one of his favourite bands primarily, I’m sure, because one half of the duo is a Yoruba man. My dad has a running database of all Yoruba people with a modicum of fame. Recently he informed me that the latest owner of Red Lobster was a man whose family hailed from a town next to the town where my family is from.

‘We could be cousins. Looks like restaurant-running is in the family!’ he’d said. My dad didn’t actually know what Red Lobster was before the CNN Africa news item, but that didn’t stop him from deploying it as a fun fact to anyone who would listen. I grin at the sight of my dad and his now best friend, Taré, who is struggling to get a hold of the mic, and cast my gaze to the rest of the restaurant. It hasn’t felt like this in years; as a thank-you for using the restaurant, my mum and dad organised a wrap dinner for cast and crew, and Sákárà feels like it’s come alive. There’s raucous conversation and laughing, plates clattering, glasses full of my dad’s Chapman clinking, my mum, for some reason, having an intense conversation with Malakai just by the bar (why isthathappening?). Aside from that bizarre last part that demands further investigation, this is how it’s supposed to look: vibrant, full-up, the set design breathing a new vitality to the space. My chest feels loose at the sight, and a pang immediately tightens it up again. It’s aset.This is temporary. It’s all going to be dismantled and this place will soon belong to people who have ‘live, laugh, love, wine’ in their social media bios.

I push a smile out and turn to where Aminah’s sitting next to me on our table. ‘I mean, don’t tell him that. He already thinks he missed his chance at being the next Fela because his mum told him playing guitar was for vagrants. If that’s the case I’ve got Beyoncé’s breath-control because I can send voice notes while on minute five of the cross-trainer.’