Page 66

‘The juju was your waffles,’ I say, and I’m playing with a skipping rope made out of fire, I know, because I’m referring to mine and Malakai’s first date at Sweetest Ting.

Malakai catches on immediately and his brow twitches, eyes glinting. ‘And yet, it was me you couldn’t get enough of.’

Shit. I find myself tucking filthy thoughts in as my gaze drifts back to Meji. Meji was our de-facto big brother in uni, owning the diner Malakai and I–and eventually all my friends–lived in. It was a safe space, a place for us to unwind, feel protected, feel at home,all whilst enjoying culinary innovations – suya burgers, plantain waffles and Supermalt floats, being some of many. The last time I saw him was around four years ago when Malakai and I went to his wedding. He’d winked at us then, told us that we were next.

I pack the mocking memory away and grin at my old friend. ‘This is the best surprise ever.’

Meji presses his hand to his chest. ‘I am honoured by the lie because I know Malakai once surprised you with tickets to that your babalowo book convention.’

‘Um, let’s sit somewhere!’ I steer past Meji’s reference to one of the many romantic things my ex has done for me, and look up at said ex himself. ‘You joining us?’

Malakai runs a hand across the back of his head with some discomfort and shakes his head, barely meeting my eye. ‘Uh, maybe later. I’ve got some work bits to do. Meji, bros.’ He daps the older man up with affection. ‘I’ll catch you in a bit, yeah?’

‘No worries, àbúrò, do your ting.’ He claps Malakai on the back, as I try to figure out, yet again, why the hell Malakai is being so rude. Meji is not only one of his best friends, but a big brother, and he lives a good two hours away– it’s not like he sees him often. Why is he being such a weirdo? And why am I always having to dissect what’s going on in his head? And why can’t I listen to him when he explicitly tells me to mind my own business? I push The Problem With Malakai to the back of my mind as Meji greets my parents before settling into an emptied booth in the back with me.

I beam at him. ‘Meji,?`gb?´n mi. To what do I owe the honour?’

‘Well. The honour is always mine, but I linked with Malakai a few weeks ago and he told me about what you’re doing here. I couldn’t miss it.’ He casts an eye around the room, his gaze lighting up. ‘It looks like it went wonderfully. It’s a beautiful space. And I’m sure, beautiful food.’

The acknowledgement cools my excitement as much as it warms me. ‘Thank you. Your meal’s coming, by the way. My dad’s kind of like you–doesn’t play about people going hungry– but, yeah, I really love how we’ve transformed the place. In an ideal world, I’d love to make it into a joint, you know? Kind of like what Sweetest Ting was for us kids back in the day. A spot to eat, hang out, commune,be.’

Meji dips his hand into a bowl of groundnuts on the table, tosses them into his mouth. ‘OK. And what’s the issue?’

I swallow the telling lump in my throat that always seems to appear when I talk about the restaurant. ‘My parents are selling it. Too expensive to run–you know how it is. Looking to retire. And, realistically, it would be too much for me to do on my own.’

Meji nods thoughtfully, rubbing at his full beard. ‘I hear that. Running a restaurant is not for the weak, but it’s not impossible, with a vision and determination–ah, my friend, cheers.’ A waiter places a plate of suya and a bottle of Supermalt on the table. Meji takes a swig. ‘Did you know that Sweetest Ting has two branches in the southern-eastern region now? Of course, the one at Whitewell will always remain the best because that’s the one you blessed us at, but Alhamdulillah, it’s doing well. And I was actually looking to expand in London. It’s been hard to find a location thatfits.’

My knees and elbows feel like they have heating pads wrapped around them, spindles of sharp warmth rising through me and making tensions relax, and for some reason tears are tickling my eyes. I don’t let them out, not yet. He can’t be saying what I think he’s saying. ‘And I don’t want to start over, not at my big age. I’m getting old!’

‘Please, Meji. You’re a baby boy.’

‘Ehn, so my wife says,’ he replies with a twinkle, ‘but, still, I have to be practical. I’ve been looking for somewhere that has history, where building footfall wouldn’t be so tough. That wouldn’t be a transition culturally. You know, somewhere that already speaks tous.You know what I mean by ‘us’, ehn? And if say, theoretically, I was taking on an existing restaurant like Sákárà it’s likely that it would be a merge rather than a takeover. I would want to workwithsomeone. Perhaps even create something new. Keep the name, update the menu with Sweetest Ting staples–you know, the plantain waffles, the suya burgers, with Sákárà’s traditional ones.’

Meji slides a thin piece of grilled spiced beef off a skewer with his teeth. A short hum of approval is thrown from the back of his throat as he chews. ‘Although, your dad’s suya really is in tight competition with mine.’ He releases a cragged laugh. ‘And your plans for this place really fit into the evolution I want for my eateries. Live music. Interactive atmosphere.’

‘Meji.’ I lean forward and reach for his hand, barely breathing, scared to believe what’s happening could be happening. ‘Meji, please don’t play with me.’

Meji’s smile widens. He was about thirty-five when we were in uni, and now, eight years older, he looks pretty much the same, eyes only slightly wrinkled at the corners, but still handsome, probably even more, looking like a Naija Mahershala Ali with locs. To me, though, he’s always going to be the guy who looked after us when we struggled to look after ourselves, and it’s a wonder he was able to expand with all the ridiculously discounted meals he gave us when we were studying, with extra freebies thrown in. He’s my big brother in all the ways that count.

‘Now, why would I play with you? I take you very seriously. You’re a big madame, now. A potential partner. Of course, I will bring an offer formally to your parents, but only with your permission. I can buy this place, and run the day to day so you can do your thing, but you can set the tone, use it to run your nights. The name Sweetest Ting don’t matter–it’s the culture. What it represents. Community. And that’s what this place is.’

I get up from my chair and slide to his side of his booth, throwing my arms round him, the heavy spiced scent of oud winding around me with his own arms, tears filling my eyes. ‘Ah,?`gb?´n mi.? ?é gan ni. This means everything.’

‘Ah. Why are you thanking me? We’re about to make money together. I should be thanking you. I need your brains.’

I release him, body fizzing with relief, possibility. ‘You don’t understand, Mej. The timing is crazy. If this had been, like,oneweek later...’ I hold still. The timingisperfect. My smile fades. ‘Wait–you mentioned live music earlier. I never mentioned live music nights to you—’

Meji’s smile freezes on his face as he forces a shrug. ‘Ahn ahn. Do you need to mention it? You’re Kiki Banjo. All you know is music. It wouldn’t be you without trying to do a music thing.’

He waves his hand, laughter stilted. I narrow my eyes with suspicion. ‘Meji. Am I supposed to believe that you just happened to show up a couple of weeks before my parents sell their restaurant with a ready-made pitch by accident?’

Meji relinquishes some of the tension in his shoulders and leans forward, eyes sparkling. ‘Well, it depends. Do you really believe in accidents? Because I really am looking for a location. And I just so happened to mention it to a mutual friend of ours last month.’

My breath leaps with realisation, and I feel warmth gush through me, everything I’d been repressing, dampening down, rushing forward, calling forth feelings to bloom, rivers to flow, suns to shine. I search the restaurant and see Malakai studying something on his tablet with Taré, face focused on his work.

‘Oh my God.’

‘Kiki.’ Meji follows my gaze. ‘Our mutual friend made me promise not to mention his name to you. He was very adamant about it. And I want you to know that I wouldn’t have considered this if it wasn’t a smart business decision. I love you–you know that–but I also don’t play about my money. This is not a handout. This is work. I know you, and what you’re capable of. So does he. He believes in you, so much. He didn’t say that everything you touch turns to gold. He said youaregold.’