Honey and Spice(34)
Malakai was staring at me, his smile sloping out wide now, rubbing the back of his neck again. He needed to stop it. Not only was it infuriatingly cute, it also drew attention to how thick, firm, and muscular his arms were. Seeing them reminded me of when they were wrapped with my palms, satiny and sturdy and warm beneath them. Was I ovulating? I needed to check my period app. I blinked at him. “What?”
“You fucking with me?”
I stared at him, trying to assess if Malakai really cared about what I, a virtual stranger who had shit-talked him on the radio, thought about him. Unless his game was so ultraevolved that it included insecurity as a disarmament tactic in its package, his need to know seemed real.
“Malakai, if I wanted to fuck with you, I would fuck with you.”
A lady pushing a designer stroller shot me a pointed look, like we weren’t in a public place. We were still in west Whitewell after all. I rolled my eyes.
“I think you know that much about me by now. Like, it’s almost causing me physical pain to say this to you.” I faked a dainty sneeze. “Oh man. See? I think I’m allergic to being nice to you, actually.”
Malakai laughed, a surprisingly delightful, loud bark of a laugh. The air around us was cool but the force of his bellow seemed to push it up a couple degrees. “Thank you. Seriously. Cuts got me into my course. I sent it with my personal statement.”
“What made you want to make it?”
“That barbershop is owned by a man I call Uncle K.”
“Ah. Super K’s Kutz,” I said, recalling the name I saw emblazoned on the storefront in bold white italics against black gloss.
“Right. I kind of half grew up there. Uncle K and my dad were old friends, from when they first arrived in England. My dad moved to Naija for work when I was seven, but before that he used to bring me along for his trims, then he took me for my first cut.” Malakai dropped a half-swaggering smile. “Couldn’t tell me shit on the playground on Monday.”
“Bet all the girls wanted to play house with you.”
“Yeah, but my true calling was football. Didn’t want to be tied down.” Malakai’s rogue grin grew wider at my rolled eyes. “Anyway, when he left, my mum started taking me. When the trim was over, I never wanted to leave. I loved being there—the men were like uncles to me, cousins, big brothers. The music of it, man. The rhythm. The razors, the football, Fuji music, Motown, Highlife, the banter, the debate, even though most of the time I never knew what they were talking about. I shouldn’t have known what they were talking about half the time!” Malakai lit up, the brightness in his eyes so vibrant, it bounced its way over to me, grabbed the tips of my lips, and made me smile.
“I used to kick off so much when it was time to go that eventually my mum started leaving me there with snacks and a juice box while she ran errands. Working there was my first job—officially at sixteen, realistically at fourteen. Sweeping, cleaning . . . running to the chicken shop with food orders. And, whatever was happening outside, or at home, that place was always safe, always warm. And it wasn’t always safe outside. Wasn’t always warm.” I nodded and Malakai twitched a shoulder. He didn’t have to say what he wasn’t saying. “There was always love there. This, like, solid form of community. Someone had a job interview? Cut on the house. A link? Advice from the elders.”
I let a sly smile slip out. “Oh, snap. So that’s how you became such a relationship expert? Listening to the OGs?”
Malakai rolled a low chuckle in his mouth. “I learnt a lot from them, generally. The film—I guess I wanted to capture the energy I felt in that shop.”
A new side to Malakai had just been revealed to me—it was brighter, his eyes glittering with new, fascinating refractions when he spoke about his work, his home. I liked looking at the dispersions of beams. I cleared my throat. “Well. I think you nailed it.”
His eyes shot gratitude at me. “I appreciate that.”
The sincerity singed my guard. “So, um, Dr. Miller mentioned a new film?”
“Oh, right, yeah. Uh, this is going to sound completely nuts but I’m actually thinking of entering a film competition, The Shades of Motion.”
“Woah. That doesn’t sound nuts. That’s so cool. Isn’t it one of the biggest film festivals for new artists in London?”
“Yeah. Even being short-listed opens up huge opportunities. Cuts doesn’t fulfill the requirements so I’ve come up with another idea. I feel like being short-listed would make filmmaking more than just a hobby, you know? Make it feel legit.”
I frowned. “Make it legit? You study it. You’re good at it. I imagine you love it—”
“I love it so much, man. It’s like . . . magic to me. Being able to capture life that way. Bottle it and open it up at the same time. Share it.”
A quiet fell between us. I could feel us both wondering how we got this far into earnest conversation with each other. It was too late to revert to small talk. I wasn’t sure our dynamic ever really allowed for small talk anyway. After a few moments, Malakai started to rub the back of his neck again.
“Uh, so my dad doesn’t exactly know I study film. I mean my degree is technically film and business studies, but still. I’m hoping that by the time he finds out what I’m really interested in I’ll have something to show for it. Something tangible, you know? Just to avoid all the long talk and headache. And maybe prove something to myself too.” He shrugged. “I mean I probably won’t even be short-listed, and I’m definitely gonna be up against more experienced people—”