Early on, Aminah had dragged me to a Blackwell Society meeting. （“Let’s just try to be social. For once. See what happens. Kofi said they’re ordering pizza today. If you break out in a rash, I promise I’ll carry you away on my back.”）。 I sat in the back of the lecture hall, legs hunched up against the seat in front of me, listening to the president, Zack Kingsford, half-English, half-Nigerian, fully a prick, fully a snack, asking for donations to rent a place in town for a party （fifty each, far more than would have been needed）。 When a voice called out, “Why do all that shit when we could throw a club night?” I thought that someone else had the precise thought I had at the exact same time, until I realized that everybody in the lecture hall was staring at me and that the voice had sounded eerily like my own. I didn’t come to these things. I barely spoke to anybody outside of the confines of Brown Sugar and so I guess people were shocked to hear me. I was shocked.
Zack stared at me, his eyebrow with a single slit in it arched with curiosity. Zack was president, reigning Monarch of the Mandem, and your position in Blackwell was meant to be defined by whether you wanted to be fucked by him, loved by him, or friends with him. I wanted none of the above and it confused him. He looked up at me from his podium.
“Kiki Banjo. I see you’ve taken a break from bashing men on your cute show to come join us today. You wanna come down? State your position?”
I smiled. “I’m good. You can come up, though.” A snigger rippled through the crowd and I felt Aminah settle into her chair next to me, whispering, “Here we fucking go.” We were only two semesters in but we were already spiritually married and Aminah knew that now I had just exposed myself, there wasn’t any way I was going to back down. She also undoubtedly found Zack’s discomfort delicious.
He was a second-year incumbent—technically against the bylaws of university societies, but who was watching? Zachary Kingsford was used to giving orders, he never received them. He thought his name gave him jurisdiction over all. And technically it did. A middling business studies and sports science student, his place at a top liberal redbrick university was assured by the fact that he was a boon to the university athletic department, a star in the university rugby leagues—that and his daddy was a very rich benefactor. Zack was not smart, but he was slick with words, bolstered by nepotism. He was the perfect politician. He smiled something strained in my direction, hazel eyes glinting with irritation. I’m sure it hurt. He preferred conversations with girls who giggled and said he “kinda looked like Drake.” He was so gassed on that he’d changed his ProntoPic username to CognacDaddy á la ChampagnePapi.
“No problem.” But the vein popping on his temple stated otherwise. “Nothing wrong with a woman being on top. Actually, I prefer it.” The offense was in his predictability.
I rolled my eyes as the sniggers got louder. This was why I never liked to get involved with petty collegiate political shit. It was so needlessly tedious. I nodded slowly. “That was cute. Rehearsing for your future sexual harassment case at the suit-wearing drone job your daddy got for you?”
Zack’s tan cheeks flushed deep. The room erupted, low and rumbling, and Aminah uttered a proud, adulatory “Killa Keeks.” When the noise died down, I managed to speak before he did, still reclining in my chair, boot hitched on the back of the empty seat in front of me.
“All I’m saying is that we don’t need to spend money when we should have our own space for free. Every month on a Friday, we throw a club night. Obviously, open for all, but it will be thrown by us, for us. On our terms. Our music. No bouncers saying we’re not dressed right. Or there are too many of us in a group. We’re treated as guests here. People to fill up quotas. Like they’re doing us a favor. Let’s make ourselves at home.”
The room thundered. So did Zack, but in an entirely different way. Even though he was several feet away from me, I could see he was rattled. Something about his discomfort turned me on. Zack wasn’t used to acting like a president. He’d never really had a platform beyond looking hot. During his second election—the one I was around for—he’d taken a bunch of freshers out to an R&B night （the only one in town） and bought them shots, which helped him win by a landslide. In another context this might have triggered an intervention by the UN, but here, in the instance of collegiate politics, it was a tale of rightful victory, one of generosity, real love for the People. Zack was here for image, not real action.