After a few moments, when the girls had finished preening, Aminah noticed me leaning against the car. “You okay, Keeks?”
“Mm-hmm, sure. I just . . .” I fanned myself even though it was around thirteen degrees. “I need a moment.”
Aminah stepped closer to me, regal in her purple, strapless, pencil-legged Ankara jumpsuit paired with black barely there heels and a compact deep violet gele that decorated her head. She’d gone over to a salon on Eastside to get it tied. She hooked a finger beneath my chin. “I know being here is overwhelming . . . and honestly, for all the shit I gave you . . . it really is tough being here with everything going on. But your plan is so great and I am proud of you and I love you and you look too fucking good to waste this outfit. Blackwell is not ready.”
I’d foregone a coat for the sake of the look, not wanting to sully my yellow two-piece Ankara outfit—covered in majestic blue and red birds of paradise taking flight—with something as tedious as pneumonia prevention. The sweetheart neckline crop top hugged and pushed what needed to be pushed, and my high-waisted skirt cinched and accentuated the curve of my hips. I couldn’t wear a coat over this; it would be an insult to my ancestors.
I smiled. “They’re not.”
“Have you guys finished making out?” Shanti was raising an impatient brow at us as she locked Mariah’s doors. She was in a blush-pink, structured ruro-and-buba-style fit, wide sleeves with geometrical shapes cut out at the hem, the softly glittery blush wrap skirt cinching her waist, gele decorating her head like a crown. Chioma was wearing an elegant jewel-green chiffon Nigerian bubu, cascading to the ground, wide and ethereal, giving her wings.
Chioma waved us over as Shanti said, “Considering I took the time to get each of us special phone ring-lights for tonight, you guys are being very disrespectful wasting precious selfie time.”
Chioma smiled and inhaled deeply as she gazed at the three of us. “I have a good feeling about tonight, girls. Good vibes, good energy. Sweetness and sisterhood in the air. Can you smell that?”
Aminah took a whiff, her expertly highlighted nose tilted up to the early moon. “I can smell weed and . . . suya? Simi may be many things but she snapped with the catering.”
Chioma winced. “As long as the veggie option isn’t carrot sticks and hummus again.”
Shanti playfully rolled her eyes, artistically shadowed to mimic a summer sunset. “Maybe you should grow up and eat meat. You’ve had worse things in your mouth.”
Chioma gasped, and I cackled and linked my arm through hers. “Speaking of, who do you have your eye on tonight?”
Shanti nudged Chioma in placation. “How about AJ? He’s coming tonight, saw it on his ProntoPic story. Doesn’t he play djembes in some post-grad Afrofusion band? Sexy as fuck. Thick muscles. Thighs that could crush a coconut. Pounding those drums with finesse. Imagine how he’d pound your—”
I squealed, “Ashanti?”
Shanti cackled. “Whatever. He’s premium red meat, though.” She shot a teasing look at Chioma. “Not suitable for veggies.”
Chioma shrugged. “Maybe I’ll make an allowance for tonight. Gotta get my protein in somehow.”
Aminah, Shanti, and I gasped in glee before we all collapsed into filthy squawks, heels clicking a happy, haphazard percussion as we made our way to the hotel.
Chapter 28
“I’m still not sure about Simi’s involvement. How do we know we can trust her for sure?” Aminah’s voice was angled with dry skepticism as I situated myself behind the DJ deck on the stage where Kofi had configured a complicated technical setup for live broadcast and ignored the curious looks being thrown my way.
“Look, the pop-up Brown Sugar episode was my idea. Besides, she wouldn’t let me take up any extra attention at AfroWinter Ball, her event, if she didn’t think it was necessary. You know she hates sharing the spotlight. She believes in this. And she’s been really cool these past few weeks.”
Simi had been checking in once a day to ensure I wasn’t bottling it and to also remind me that she doesn’t back losers, and her reputation was at stake too. So, she was supportive like a vaguely emotionally distant aristocratic parent of a perpetually disappointing child. She’d sent out a memo to the Blackwell populace as soon as I’d told her what I wanted to do.
The Teahouse
Wassup, Blackwellians. It’s your girl, Simi, and looks like Kiki Banjo is coming out of hiding to give us some sugar for the tea we’ve all been dying for, with a special Brown Sugar episode at the AfroWinter Ball! Get your tickets now! Proceeds as always will go to the Sickle Cell Foundation. Looks like it’ll be a night of glamour, drama, and mess, and I for one cannot wait. See you there!