Honey and Spice(43)

Malakai moved closer to me. “Kiki, this is Meji—owner of this fine establishment and my adopted big bro. Adopted big brother by force. Meji, this is my . . . friend, Kiki.”

I waved, and Meji’s eyes twinkled as his smile broadened. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Malakai’s . . . friend. What’s your full name?”

“Kikiola.”

Meji inclined his head in a bow. “Total wealth. Complete wealth. Pure wealth. Sounds about right. You look like royalty. What you doing with this jester?”

My shoulder twitched up with the corners of my mouth. “Charity. A queen isn’t a queen if she doesn’t give back to the needy.”

Meji released a low whistle. “Ho ho! I like her, Malakai.”

Malakai stared down at me, his smile glinting. “Wow. Is that what we’re on tonight? Okay. Cool. Good to know. Enough. Look”—he glanced at Meji, gesturing to the black bag slung over his shoulder—“I’m here to work. And eat. I’m making a film. Free publicity for Sweetest Ting obviously.”

Meji grinned. “Say less. Of course. The pictures you took for our ProntoPic page made such a difference, brother, I appreciate it.”

Malakai looked uncomfortable at the praise. “Nah. It’s nothing, man. It’s the least I could do.”

Meji playfully slapped Malakai’s arm before turning to me. “A good man. He may be ugly but he has a great personality.”

Malakai laughed. “I’m giving you two stars on Yelp.”

The man bowed, then gestured to an area in the corner of the parlor. “Got that booth ready for you. Best one in the house. I usually reserve it for my girl and her girls, but I don’t think she’s coming tonight. She saw something in my ProntoPic inbox she didn’t like. Someone will be with you when you’re ready.”

“Needy?” Malakai’s voice was low and arch as we walked over to the booth.

I slid onto the pink pleather cushiony seat, leaned my elbow on the table, and rested my chin on my fist. “We’re going to eat before we get into filming, right?” I said, ignoring him. “I’m starving. How long we got?”

Malakai shot me a tiny smile, wordlessly sliding the menu over to me. He looked at his watch. “This place closes at two a.m., so a couple hours. It’s almost morning, so technically it’s breakfast time. Check out the plantain waffles.”

“Wait, what?” My eyed widened as I picked up the menu and scanned it. “Plantain waffles with hibiscus syrup and chicken—an option of suya or Southern fried. Akara burgers with yam fries or sweet potato fries . . . beef suya burgers.” It was an American-Naija fusion menu. My mouth watered. There was no space for posing. My obsession was too immediate to subdue. “This is so cool. I wonder if they make the yaji from scratch.”

I looked up to see Malakai was watching me. Heat rushed to my cheeks. I didn’t need him to see me get nerdy over the composition of spice. “Uh. My family owns a Nigerian restaurant.”

“I know. Saw it on your ProntoPic page. And yeah, Meji makes yaji from scratch. Don’t let him hear you questioning that.”

I tilted my head. “So you cyberstalked me.”

“You didn’t cyberstalk me?”

My smile tickled the inside of my mouth as his eyes attempted to tease it out. Denial didn’t seem worth it. After a silent tug of war, I cleared my throat and squinted down at the menu to disguise my defeat.

“Your niece is adorable.”

“Thanks, she is.” I heard the grin in his voice. “My cousin’s little girl . . . I liked that picture of you at the beach.”

I stared harder at the menu. I knew the photo. Barcelona. Aminah’s and my first trip together. I was in an audacious blood-orange bikini that rounded and pushed my cleavage, bought with Aminah’s encouragement. My arms were outstretched and I was looking up and smiling wide. I squinted at the dessert options and released a more-prim-than-I-intended “Thank you.”

“And I’m glad you like the menu.”

I looked up from it, to meet the arched slant of his lips. Despite it, the bright in his eyes was earnest. “I do. How did you find this spot?”

Malakai rubbed the back of his neck and leaned back in his seat. He hesitated for a moment before replying, the default lightness on his face dimming in the shadows. He cleared his throat and leaned forward again, as if gathering what he needed to tell me.

“Uh, so I’d just transferred and was wandering through this part of town looking for something that would remind me of home. It was late, around this time. Anyway, I stopped near here, taking pictures in the middle of the road. . . . The chicken and doner shops look so bright in the night, like beacons. An oasis. Lighthouses. I wanted to capture that. Anyway, maybe I’m an idiot for taking pictures at night in the most policed area in Whitewell.”

Instinctual dread of what was to come cooled me as he continued, voice flat, matter-of-fact. “They pulled up, asked me what I was doing. I said I was just taking pictures, said I went to Whitewell, said I was a film student, all of that. ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘No, sir.’ Didn’t make a difference. I wanted to spit in their faces. I kept it polite. It’s funny”—the wry line his mouth pulled into compounded the fact that it was the opposite—“it was like, the more polite I was the angrier they got. And every instinct in me wanted to fight, you know? But what good would that have done? And it’s not that it hasn’t happened before. Of course, it has. I’m from South. But I really thought I could have a break from that here. Anyway, they wanted to stop and search. I asked them what for and they said I was being aggressive.”