Honey and Spice(28)
Chapter 8
Brown Sugar Show: Archives
Ladies,
I am a believer in the power of moving mad. You know what I mean? When a dude has you so fucked up that he has unleashed the power of a thousand goddesses. Usually it comes with a simple “Fine. Do you, then, innit.” Or a “cool.” That’s my favorite. See, when they move mad the trick is to move madder.
There are, by my calculations, two modes of moving mad. There is the killing them softly approach. The quiet storm. Step back. Cut them out. Leave them on read. Two blue double ticks cooling in the breeze. Give them the time they think they need to breathe so they realize that . . . actually? They can’t breathe without you. Now you got the dude wondering. You got him stressed out. You got him thinking, Why don’t she care? Why is she taking my fuckery so well? Babes, they get shook. The power is flipped over on to you. You will not be a victim and your silence will either force them to confront how they had you fucked up and apologize, or they’ll take it as an excuse to bounce. Either way you’re good, you’re free, the ball is in your court. Either way, you know what you mean to him.
Now, the second mode is moving actively mad. That’s even more powerful and should only be reserved for special occasions, wielded with the most delicate care. You have to be sure of yourself to use it appropriately. We’ve seen it in Jazmine Sullivan’s “Bust Your Windows.” The video for Queen Bey’s “Hold Up.” Okay, our producer Minah-Money is saying apparently I cannot advocate for destruction of property on the radio for whatever reason. Why is she looking at me like that??! Whatever. You get my drift.
Sometimes these men move so mad that they have us moving mad chaotically. They’ve got under our skin. There is power in leaning into that. Embracing our emotions. Show them, peppeh. Make them regret fucking with you—but note that if you decide to go this route, you have to have direction. Purpose. It has to be dosed correctly. Misuse the power of moving mad chaotically and you might end up being the one apologizing, overtaking his official offence so much that you end up being in the wrong. So, be careful with it. Although, if he stays after you’ve poured bleach on his Yeezys you’ll know he’s really into you. If he leaves, he leaves. Either way you’ve displayed your truth.
Stay sweet ladies,
Brown Sugar x
“Rise! And Shine! And give God the glory, glory!!”
I grunted and pulled my covers over my head as my best friend, totally unsurprisingly, took my response as a welcome and opened the door to my room, bounding in. Aminah always entered a room with a faint scent of a light Dior Oud, her signature, so even if I hadn’t heard her voice I would have known she was there. It clouded my room, permeated my Ikea bedclothes. The bed depressed slightly as she sat down next to me and yanked the covers off my head.
“Troublemaker. It’s eleven a.m. and we have brunch plans.”
Shit.
Aminah and I had brunch at Wisteria & Waffle once every month. A student version of the Ivy, it was in town, did two-for-one on cocktails and Prosecco from nine a.m. to three p.m. on weekends, and was supremely social media–friendly in a girl-boss sort of way, with floral walls, an LED light fixture that read Vibes, excellent bathroom lighting, and unreasonably peng waiters, like some kind of culinary version of Hollister. The black tee and fitted trouser/skirt combo the waiters wore seemed especially tailored to elicit thirst—an ingenious marketing ploy to make us order more cocktails, because we did, every time.
There was one waiter who Aminah and I both crushed on in particular, a postgrad: a tall, bearded, cinnamon-skinned spice. He had an Eye of Horus tattooed on his firm forearm that winked along with him when he brought us our mimosas. He was known as AJ but he informed us in a conspiratorial, low voice that we could call him Aaron, a bizarre, but nevertheless sexy invitation I’m pretty sure he extended to all the Whitewell women. Because of this, W&W was also the baitest place to be on a Saturday morning. It would be rammed with respective cliques trying to rejuvenate after a night at FreakyFridayz. That meant it was the last place I needed to be after the previous night’s antics. They kept replaying in my mind, swirling around my head with the alcohol.
We’d got home at three a.m., maneuvering past the death glares that were being thrown my way. Aminah had insisted we had a few more shots at home to cheer me up despite being waved herself, and we dissected what had happened—her gleeful, me regretful. Somewhat regretful.
Was I wrong for pouring my drink into Malakai Korede’s lap? Probably.
Had he deserved it? Almost definitely.
On the other hand, had he helped me stick it to Zack by kissing me like a pirate who’d discovered the real treasure was within his lady love the whole time? Fuck, yes. It was unnerving that part of the reason for my sleepless night was the reliving of that kiss. The thrill that ran through my body when he’d held me close. How it felt like he’d wanted me. How it felt like I’d wanted him. I also had to contend with the fact that the Blackwellian girls all probably thought I was a two-faced bitch. My mind was in disarray.
Less important but nevertheless pertinent: I’d slept in my makeup and forgot to do my skincare routine before bed, so I also had to reckon with the fact that I was likely to break out today. All of this meant that there was absolutely no way I was leaving our flat this weekend.