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‘All right, well, we went ononedouble date, and, yeah, it got alittlefrosty after you told Kofi that his product-design job is probably gonna be obsolete soon due toAI.Besides, I go with you to all your business socials, and schmooze with you even though your tech bro buds act like my podcast is cute fluff because it isn’t about crypto orAI—’

‘Why do you keep saying AI like that? Like it’s not a thing? AI is a thing, Kiki.’

‘AreyouAI? Is that why you can’t detect how annoying you’re being right now?’

‘Actually, AI would be able to—’

‘Guy,’ I say, my voice uncovering deep Naija iron notes that lend it a lethal warning. My eyes sharpen.

Bakari sighs, and rubs the bridge of his nose, pushing up his hexagon-shaped designer frames in the process. ‘Kiki, what are we even fighting about? I’m not asking you to marry me yet, and– no– we aren’t ready, but we’re functional. We work. We’re happy. We have movie nights and like two of the same TV shows. We make recipes that we see on Netflix shows together. And we had that fun hiking holiday where we had a pretty good time in the cabin, despite The Incident.’ Bakari refers to the ‘Yes, Chef’ fiasco with a totally straight face.

I train my eyes on his to see if he is being sardonic, but all that’s there, of course, is sincerity. When he asked me if I could try saying ‘Yes, Chef’ again in bed without laughing, a few months after The Incident, I had laughed again, thinking he had been joking. He hadn’t been. He then said we should maybe forget the whole kink thing entirely, since it was less ‘risky’.

Bakari softens his voice. My phone is still ringing, which means the person who is calling hung up and rang again. There’s only one person who would do that.

‘Kiki, sometimes I feel like you. . .romanticisethings too much. And I know this is what you do with The Heartbeat, but you know that’s a job, right? It’s a bit, and I love that you provide that escapism for people, but that’s all it is. Escapism. For you too. I mean, isn’t that how you got over your break-up? But you’re not in that place any more and maybe it’s time to let it go. Maybe that’s why you’re stuck.’

There’s a beat of silence and I realise then that I’ve inhaled sharply. I swallow and push something hard and bitter down my throat. I feel my eyes glaze. I silently pick up my phone.

‘Kiki, wait—’

‘My best friend needs me.’

‘What emergency is it now? Someone’s coupled up with someone’s ex onTrysts in the Tropics?’

It is uncharacteristically sassy, but an argument is uncharacteristic for us, so maybe the antagonistic sass is regular for him. I ignore it, not least becauseTrysts in the Tropicsisn’t even on right now– it’s a summer reality dating show. I flip my phone over to see the name ‘MinahMoney’ flash on the screen. With a twinge of guilt, I answer my best friend’s call. For the first five seconds all I hear is heavy sobbing and my chest seizes, my joints stiffen.

‘Minah? Aminah babe, are you OK? Where are you? Talk to me. . .’ I’m already getting up, prepared to be wherever she is, to fight whoever I need to fight, to make whoever made my tougher-than-acrylic-nail best friend cry.

‘Am IOK?’ She’s screeching, hysterical. ‘What do youmeanam I OK?’ Aminah and I have picked up similar habits in our ten-year friendship. Her warm, Lagos-princess-British-middle-class-boarding-school-meets-East-London lilt repeats questions she doesn’t care to know the answer to with a heightened emotion I can’t put my finger on yet. ‘AreyouOK?’ she enquires at an octave that might make Mariah Carey jealous. ‘I am so MAD at you! How could you keep this from me?’

I hear Kofi’s voice chuckling in the background as he says, ‘Baby, do you want to give her a heart attack?’

My mind starts to calculate and equate and translate, and then my heart immediately forgets any anguish it’s in, because now I know what this call is about– my blood knows it– because it begins to fizz a joy that settles my stomach and dissipate my stress, and I start to feel warm as soon as the excitement in the undertone of her voice hits.

‘Keeks. . .’ Her screeches have melted into the sweetest, cutest giggles, the aural version of a butterfly landing on your finger on the first day of spring. ‘Where have you been? Don’t even answer that! I don’t care! YOUR IYAWO IS ABOUT TO BE AN IYAWO, but you already knew that, didn’t you, you beautiful, gorgeous, sneaky, cutie bitch! I would put video on, but um, we’re in a hotel bedroom right now.’

I laugh with unbridled joy that lifts all the heavy I’ve been feeling off my shoulders, and I walk over to a window and lean my forehead on the glass, smiling into the skyline. When we’d been ring shopping together, my only instructions to Kofi were:

To not tell me exactly when he was going to do it because Aminah can read me like a self-help book calledSlay Your Way to Higher Pay: A Guide for Black Women in Business(from cover to cover, and thoroughly) and I would have to avoid and/or ignore her, which would be impossible and disastrous as she would stalk my location and demand to know why I want her dead;

To propose to her immediately after her fortnightly gel manicure (nail colour– Vanilla Beam; nail shape– medium-length, almond).

My laughter bubbles out of me. ‘My bad sis, I just thought it was the kind of thing that Kofi might want to tell you himself.’

‘Thanks, Keeks,’ Kofi pipes up in the background.

‘Any time, bro.’

Aminah faux-groans into the phone, but it does a shitty job of hiding her delight. ‘Ew, whose best friend are you anyway? Let’s be focusing. MAID OF HONOUR! WE’RE GETTING MARRIED! YOU READY?’