Aminah and I walked with linked arms into the party, through the small, loose crowd that was kissing, laughing, smoking by the open back door of the little room annexed behind the Student Union. It parted to make way for us. Aminah and I weren’t popular or unpopular, we just were. Though previous experience had made me wary of making friends, Aminah and I formed a natural unit.
We were placed in the same hall in first year and met four days after we moved in. We were taking out our bins at the same time one morning, both in our PJs—which happened to both be jersey shorts and tank tops—hair wrapped in satin scarves. We gave each other polite, silent nods and smiles, acknowledging the intrinsic kinship derived from makeshift pajamas and Black womanhood, when a toga-clad drunken straggler who looked like his name was Chad, or possibly Brad, swayed past us in the courtyard, releasing fumes of alcohol. Like we could sense what was coming, we exchanged a glance. He smirked at us and called out, “Oi, Destiny’s Child! Shake what your mama gave ya! Show me if I’m ready for this jelly!” As if in rehearsal, both of us immediately dropped our trash bags and started cussing him out in sweet, tight harmony. ChadBrad started to sway away, startled, alarmed, but alcohol had slowed down his motion, so he had ended up staggering like a poisoned rat. This allowed Aminah to step forward and yank the hem of his toga, ignoring his yells and leaving him naked bar a pair of boxers. It was then I realized that I was in love. She smiled and I immediately beckoned at her to toss the toga to me. She did, trusting my instincts, probably encouraged by our riveting rendition of “Who the fuck do you think you are, you prick” earlier. I caught the reeking bedsheet between my thumb and forefinger and tossed it into the giant wheelie bins outside our building. We both immediately ran inside the glass doors, falling over ourselves, wheezing, grabbing each other for stability. She said to me that day, “You’re my friend by force now. I really don’t have the energy to go and make any more, so shall we just see how this goes?” And so we were friends by force, and I was grateful—I wasn’t sure I would have found the courage to be her friend without her declaration. I’d come to university bruised.
Now, we stood outside of the cliques and the Blackwell industrial complex. We were a core unto ourselves, Brown Sugar lending us immunity from being too involved, and because of that, we found ourselves acting as intermediaries, ambassadors, and impartial judges when called upon. This found us some respect, if not exactly warmth. It worked for me: I didn’t need to be too involved. I didn’t need a group; I didn’t want to be entangled in friendships that were just ways to run away from loneliness. I had Aminah and I had Brown Sugar, and that was my community. I wanted to get my degree, secure my future and leave. That didn’t mean that I couldn’t have a good time along the way.
The bar was steamy and dusky, smelling like Hugo Boss, fruity body sprays, Brazilian bundles toasted straight, and the chemically floral-scented mélange of hair products. Grease, spritz, gel, and mousse used to primp to perfection. Amber and umber lights lit up the dark and saw twilight and sunset finding a home in heavily moisturized brown skin, making it glow with delicate force. The music seemed to make the walls of the old university bar pulsate, like it wasn’t already thrumming with the energy of around a hundred-odd kids overstuffed into its every crevice and cranny, waved on cheap vodka and dark liquor and arrogance, the kind of arrogance you get intrinsically when you’re young and fine. Guys with sharp shape-ups. Girls in dresses that flaunted their curves. Both feeling confident that they were likely to find someone to feel them as much as they were feeling themselves.
This was our kingdom, where we came to unwind, escape, put our defenses down every Friday after a week of our housemates, Ellie and Harry, asking us where we were from-from. This wasn’t the main student union party, where we had to have our shoulders braced and brows pre-arched as certain people who were so used to having access to the whole world couldn’t comprehend the cordoning off of one little peninsula and dropped “nigga” like the “-a” wouldn’t curdle into an “-er” in their mouths when they were rapping along to Kanye. If we got into a fight, it would be us that got kicked out, like we were the ones who started it—like this particular fight hadn’t started a long, long time ago and it was proven, irrevocable, historical fact that we weren’t the ones to throw the first punch. Nah. None of that at FreakyFridayz.
When I first arrived at Whitewell, the only events we had were overstuffed house parties in the home of a grad student who was far too old to be rubbing shoulders （etc.） with freshers, a few town hall meetings, where people just discussed what happened at the last house party, and a Black History Month talent show that consisted mainly of us having to sit through mandem’s mediocre raps and bad spoken word. We were the only society on campus with no demarcated space. No land, no stake. The RugbySoc had the bar on Wednesday afternoons, the Young Conservatives had their afternoon tea parties on Thursdays, and the Whitewell Knights had their gin and （C）oke nights there on Tuesdays.