I looked back at Aminah, who was assiduously monitoring the comments on the Brown Sugar page on her tablet, eyes focused behind her designer glasses. She had been skeptical of the idea at first because of the anticipated drop in listenership but now she smirked and whispered: “They feel very good about that.”
The faint uproar from outside the building confirmed it. We grinned at each other.
“Well, alright, then. Anyone can run, of course, but right now I have some people who would like to put their case forward. And in the coming weeks anybody who would like to put their name forward for cabinet positions can come state their cases, right here, on the show, if you all agree to an election. But for now, I would like to introduce presidential candidate Adwoa Baker; events secretary candidate Shanti Jackson; student liaison officer candidate Chioma Kene; and press officer candidate Aminah Bakare. We’re not gonna let the Wastemen win.”
I sat back, spun my chair around as Adwoa—who had been sitting next to me the entire time—started her manifesto with a rousing bellow of “What’s good, Blackwell.”
On the sofa, Shanti, Chioma, and Aminah all grinned widely, thumbs up, hands put together in reverence, in celebration of a new era. I looked up at the camera Malakai was pointing my way with a grin. He’d wanted to film it just for my records, “to remind yourself how sick you are, in case you ever forget.”
“Oh my gosh, Kai.” I was beside myself with glee as I let myself into Malakai’s room, slipping my sneakers off. “On the way here I saw the Whitewell Wailers doing a melodic a capella rendition of ‘Niggas in Paris’ on the quad but instead of ‘niggas’ they said ‘suckas,’ as if that would make it any less of a hate crime. Anyway, instead of saying ‘marry Kate and Ashley’ the lead nerd goes, ‘marry Kiki and Ashley.’ And winks at me. I know you’re sad you missed it, which is why I recorded it for you. Man, you are so lucky to have me in your life.”
Malakai scooped me up at the door and kissed me hello, and despite its default knee-weakening properties, I tasted something amiss in the kiss. He released me and gave me a smile that tried in earnest to reach his eyes before he sat on the bed, pulled me onto his sweatpants-covered lap. “I really am. And I’m not surprised that you have Glee Club nerds serenading you in the middle of campus. Show me the video.”
I pulled back a little. We had an ongoing competition about who would catch the most egregious showcase from a Whitewell performing arts club in the wild. Last week he’d seen an operatic version of Beyoncé’s “Brown Skin Girl” performed as a show of intersectional-feminist-solidarity by a bottle-tanned girl called Imogen and was moved to hysterical tears. This reaction was underwhelming to say the least.
I frowned and held his chin. “What’s wrong?”
Kai dropped his eyes to my lips in an act that was more avoidance than lust. “Nothing, I’m just pissed you beat me—”
“Kai.”
“Seriously, Scotch, I’m good.”
I swallowed, stoically accepting one of my worst fears realized. “Okay, Malakai, if you’re suddenly not into this you have to say. This is your out—you don’t have to spare my feelings.”
Malakai’s eyes snapped sharply to mine, brows creased with incredulity. “Woah. What? Scotch, nothing like that.” He kissed my shoulder. “Never like that. How could you think—”
“I don’t know what to think because you’re not talking to me. I know something is up,” I said, even as the surge of hot relief washed over me, detangling the preemptive knot in my belly. I released the breath I hadn’t even known I’d been holding, but I still sensed something askew.
Malakai cleared his throat, reluctantly bringing his eyes to mine. The glint of vulnerability in them pierced my chest. “It’s really not that deep. I just, I, uh, told my dad that I got that summer job as a runner at the production house. And he said he couldn’t believe I was passing up working at his office in Lagos to be a glorified houseboy.”
Malakai released a hollow, gruff laugh as I rubbed his back, my heart cracking a little just as I knew his own had. “And I don’t even really know why I told him. Why what he thinks still matters to me. Why I think that if I win the Shades of Motion competition, or at least get shortlisted, then maybe he will begin to take this shit seriously. Me, seriously.” He shook his head, rubbing a hand across his face. “It’s pathetic really. Can we just forget ab—”