Honey and Spice(14)
This wasn’t any of my business, and I wasn’t in the mood to face Simi. I was on a mission—Disturbance Detection—and yet, despite myself, I snorted.
Simi turned a fraction, bum-length water waves swishing elegantly. Simi, of course, was beautiful, the kind of beautiful that had always been told it was beautiful: smooth butterscotch skin, with a sweetness that didn’t quite seem to sink into her personality.
“Kiki.” Her hand was flicked out, a Gucci number hanging off the crook of her arm, her Unfriendly Black Hottie energy dialled to ten. “Can I help you? Is there a reason you’re minding my business instead of yours as a pretend club manager?”
I sighed and smiled. “Funny you talk about people minding their business when you literally have a gossip porn website. Didn’t you split up three couples last week?”
Simi rolled her eyes. “I’m a truth teller. It’s my duty as leader in our community.”
“Uh-huh, and we thank you for your service, Sly News—but as a leader, could you maybe be less of an agbaya to the First Years—”
Simi’s smile froze on her lips, swiftly translating the Yoruba for “bully.” Her eyes narrowed as she eked out a smile that was uniquely bellicose in its beauty. “Me? Agbaya? I’m as gracious as can be. Do you see me talking about how your braids and your nose ring look dated like you’re tryna do Edgy Black Girl by force and you should live a little and get some bundles? No. Did I call you Poetic Injustice? No!”
I grinned to myself. Do I use questions as a means of passive-aggressive attack?! Yes!
I bent my voice to match her faux sororal sweetness. “Thank you so much for your restraint, Simi. I feel it. I appreciate it. And, I mean, it’s not like I said that your leopard-print body-con with those shoes makes you look like a forty-five-year-old Real Housewife of Lekki married to an oil-and-gas man who takes his ring off every Friday night. . . . We’re on the same page!”
Simi’s face froze as if she’d taken injectables like the fictional Lekki Housewife. As she went to reply I cut in. “Simi, FreakyFridayz is supposed to be an open space. They’re freshers. You remember what it’s like. I mean I get that it was a while ago for you but—”
“Settle down.” Simi narrowed her strip-lashed eyes. “I’m a year above you—”
“It’s hard. The least we can do is let them know that they can come here and turn up without being terrorized for a ratty sofa.”
I glanced at Head Fresher, stood frozen in the booth, eyes wide—stuck in stasis, trying to decide whether it was safe or not to move. “I like your dress.”
Head Fresher released a small, hesitant but pleased smile and tugged at her dress, self-consciously. “Th-thanks. Um, I love your show by the way. Your ‘Fresh So Clean’ episode where you gave fresher tips on dating and broke down the kinds to avoid? Lifesaver. Stopped me double-texting a guy who called me the wrong name when we were making out.”
I murmured something about being glad it helped, because although I was comfortable behind a mic, the spotlight made me uneasy in my skin, something I had a knack for forgetting until I was under it. Inconvenient. I cleared my throat and turned to Simi, who was still, her face prettily blank, but I saw the wheels turning. Luckily my social life was quiet enough to deprive her of ammunition. I was safe. Even with this knowledge, I still felt a chill that almost impressed me.
After a few moments she nodded slowly, tilted her head to her squad. “Let’s go. Some postgrads invited me to a house party tonight. Might be more our level.”
Free now, I turned away from the small stir Simi had caused toward a tidal wave. Drama was mounting. And it was coming from a throng stood a few meters from me. A smile slipped out and my brows shot up as I approached. I knew I smelled something savage.
Malakai Korede. Or rather, Shanti Jackson. Our resident beauty blogging queen was standing in front of Malakai Korede, clapping in his face as she told him about himself, her lilac faux-fur cropped jacket falling off her shoulder, flicking her flowing ombre locks to the side dramatically as she read him. “Malakai, you need to explain what the fuck is going on. Do I have ‘mug’ written on my forehead or something? Is that why you think you can pour bullshit into me and I’ll allow it or what?! Let! Me! Know!”
Each word was punctuated by a clap, and yet Malakai, unlike any other guy in his position, didn’t look ruffled, didn’t retaliate, didn’t tell her she was moving mad. He watched her calmly, as he leaned against the wall, his eyes genuinely intent, like he was really listening to her. He was a developed player in the game, the final boss you encounter after defeating them all. He knew how to mimic a Good Guy so closely that to the untrained eye you wouldn’t be able to tell otherwise. He was a top tier knockoff, and obscenely, he looked good doing it.
He was dressed in a fitted white T-shirt that showed off strong clavicles perched on shoulders that were athletically broad, sloping deltoids that slid into arms that almost put my waist-to-hip ratio to shame, pronounced even underneath the denim jacket he was wearing over his top. A gold chain, which sat sublimely between delicate and thick, dipped into his shirt, glinting off his dark skin. He was a very well crafted, perfect uni boyfriend. Artisanal. This wasn’t a high-street mimicry of a Prada bag. No, Malakai Korede was like the Dior Saddle bag my auntie Wura had got me from her travels (a Turkish market) last year. If you looked closely, you would see that it actually read Dirr, but it was such good quality that its fakery was near undetectable.