Honey and Spice(12)
“No problem.” But the vein popping on his temple stated otherwise. “Nothing wrong with a woman being on top. Actually, I prefer it.” The offense was in his predictability.
I rolled my eyes as the sniggers got louder. This was why I never liked to get involved with petty collegiate political shit. It was so needlessly tedious. I nodded slowly. “That was cute. Rehearsing for your future sexual harassment case at the suit-wearing drone job your daddy got for you?”
Zack’s tan cheeks flushed deep. The room erupted, low and rumbling, and Aminah uttered a proud, adulatory “Killa Keeks.” When the noise died down, I managed to speak before he did, still reclining in my chair, boot hitched on the back of the empty seat in front of me.
“All I’m saying is that we don’t need to spend money when we should have our own space for free. Every month on a Friday, we throw a club night. Obviously, open for all, but it will be thrown by us, for us. On our terms. Our music. No bouncers saying we’re not dressed right. Or there are too many of us in a group. We’re treated as guests here. People to fill up quotas. Like they’re doing us a favor. Let’s make ourselves at home.”
The room thundered. So did Zack, but in an entirely different way. Even though he was several feet away from me, I could see he was rattled. Something about his discomfort turned me on. Zack wasn’t used to acting like a president. He’d never really had a platform beyond looking hot. During his second election—the one I was around for—he’d taken a bunch of freshers out to an R&B night (the only one in town) and bought them shots, which helped him win by a landslide. In another context this might have triggered an intervention by the UN, but here, in the instance of collegiate politics, it was a tale of rightful victory, one of generosity, real love for the People. Zack was here for image, not real action.
I could see Zack attempt the math in his head. Public rejection of my idea would look bad. He swallowed awkwardly, nodded. “I hear you. You’ve raised some valid points.”
Oh. I hadn’t realized it was going to be that easy.
“All those in favor of Kiki Banjo taking charge of this project—” Zack boomed across the room.
I froze. “Wait, what? No, no. No, no, no.”
Zack grinned at me widely. Prick. He was smarter than I thought. He was deflecting, hoping that putting the focus back on to me would mean that he wouldn’t have to follow through with it.
“—say yeaaaaaaayahhhhhh.” His voice swept low and deep and picked up at the end of his sentence like this was a call-and-response rap song and not an impromptu appointment into his cabinet.
I started to panic. “This is your job. This doesn’t even count as a proper vote! Whatever happened to democratic integrity?!” My voice was drowned out by the overwhelming sound of an entire lecture hall—around 150 of my peers—saying “yeeeeeahyah.” I swore under my breath.
Zack, the bitch, had smiled and winked at me, arms spread wide as he bowed sarcastically. “Your job now, queen.”
And because I was Nigerian, a chronic overachiever, and proud as shit, I accepted. And, if I said so myself, I killed it: FreakyFridayz became the hottest night on campus.
It was bustling now and loud, but despite the raucousness, the bellow of “Oi. Tia and Tamera!” rang clear and true. Only one person used that nickname for us—due to Aminah and I being as inseparable as twins, though we lacked the syndicated sitcom we obviously deserved. Sure enough, a few seconds later our boy Kofi intercepted us. Kofi was a business student by day, and FreakyFridayz DJ by night. He transitioned from old school bops to fresher beats later in the night, often slipping in his own creations from his side hustle as a bedroom producer.
He bent down to kiss me on both cheeks, then reached for Aminah’s hand to press it to his lips. Kofi’s full-time, 24-7 calling was to feen for my best friend. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, playing her role, swallowing her smile, giving him a little to savor but not enough to commit. Their relationship was one of push and pull, cat and mouse, where one was never really sure who was the cat and who was the mouse at any given time. Kofi was a cute, well-liked Ghanaian prince from south London and Aminah was a Nigerian princess from west. It was a Pan-African diaspora fairy tale waiting to happen, one for the ages, a pending peace treaty for the continuous Jollof Wars, the West African cousin conflict that raged at weddings and birthday parties (“Basmati or plump? I heard you guys put nutmeg in yours; sorry, is it dessert?”). But Aminah was a fellow stush Yoruba princess and, as such, ascribed to our own particular brand of feminism: a man had to earn attention, so when he got it, he cherished it.
I cast an eye around the party, readjusting the chain of my bag on my shoulder. “What’s it saying tonight, Kof?”
Kofi let out an easy grin, looking directly at Aminah. “On mute till you guys pulled up.”
Aminah tilted her head, her wavy tresses falling further down her shoulder. She stepped forward, gently gripping his chin. “So, you missed the sound of my voice?”
Kofi smirked. “The sound of your voice, the sight of your face . . .” His eyes dropped to her lips. Aminah rolled her eyes, pushing his face away as Kofi laughed. I cleared my throat. I loved them both but the sexual tension was getting stuck in my throat. Secondhand sexual tension has a kind of tangy aftertaste.
Kofi glanced back at me, his smile more affable, less besotted. “Nah, seriously, been waiting for you. Can’t start my set without my girls—”