Shanti, leader of the London Gyaldem, acrylics long, patience short, hair premium Peruvian, attitude premium south London, ran her eyes up and down Malakai’s form, and clacked gleaming claws in his face. “Nah, Malakai. I don’t know if you’ve forgotten who I am but allow me to reintroduce you. . . . I! Am! Not! The! One! To! Play! With!”
I couldn’t help but smile. He was trapped. Maybe my PSA had landed and our girls were recognizing the threat Malakai posed.
He watched her calmly and said something that could have been “I understand that.”
She paused for a second, momentarily thrown off by his placidity, before launching in again. “So if you ‘understand that,’ how can you tell me I have qualities of the kind of girl you see yourself with, and then next thing I know, I see your wrist on Chioma’s ProntoPic stories. How do we have the same qualities? The girl dresses like a bootleg Erykah Badu. She’s an Erykah Badon’t!”
My brows shot up as low jeers and cackles came from the gathering audience. That was a pun I’d used on my show once—but not in that context. As the crowd shifted, I saw that Chioma “Chi-Chi” Kene was stood next to Shanti, glowing and glowering with her waist-length, dirty-blond-brown faux dreads, and a septum piercing. Chi-Chi was head of the Incense and Almond Milk Babes, who I lovingly dubbed the Vegan Cupcakes. They ran the spoken word night, believed that vibes were a state of being, and optimistically brought cauliflower BBQ wings to summer cookouts. It was really a testament to Malakai’s wide-ranging appeal that he managed to attract two entirely different girls, especially since most of the guys that looked like Malakai said shit like “Yeah, Chi-Chi is fine as fuck, but I don’t know about those vegans, man. Where am I gonna take her, if I can’t take her Nandos? Stress.” I was grudgingly impressed.
I knew Malakai was different from most of the guys at the university, but this complicated it further. This man had range. He moved with so much style and flair that he had somehow caused Chi-Chi—one of the most chilled-out, zen girls on campus—to trip so hard for him that she was now rolling her eyes, sticking a wide-spread, heavily bangled, bejewelled hand in Shanti’s face. “Bitch, are your bundles sewn in too tight? Who are you talking to? Don’t you have some poop-diet tea to tout on the internet?”
Well, shit. Chioma might have been vegan but she had a taste for blood.
“Drammaaaa!” The voice of my best friend sang in soprano over some new Skepta, a signal that Kofi had taken over the booth. Aminah passed me a drink as she settled in beside me, leaning against the wall with her own. I assumed that both were courtesy of Kofi. I sipped at my whisky and Coke and ran my eyes across Malakai Korede’s form, his handsome face a midnight lake, barely a ripple despite the storm he had caused. I took a sip of my drink. “Yeah, and I think I know who the director is . . .”
Aminah cackled, shook her head slowly, and grinned. “What a demon!” She bit her lip and assessed him as the girls gesticulated in front of him. He was nodding intermittently but speaking very little. Aminah released a low sound of satisfaction. “Mm. A fine demon—”
His eyes flicked in my direction, like he knew where I was, and glinted sharply as he raised his glass to his lips. If I didn’t know better, I could have sworn he had tilted it in my direction. When he moved the cup away from his lips, I saw that they were slanted at a dangerous angle, a tiny smile I knew was directed at me. My breath hitched somewhere in my throat and before I could get it loose he had torn his gaze away from me, back to the irate ladies in front of him.
My heart had never been compelled into competitive sports by boys and yet here it was, acting like an Olympian, beating like its name was Serena. I’d worked hard to be immune to Wastemen, I’d taken my shots, but Malakai Korede was a new and evolved strain, one that could melt down the usual standard range Wasteman Detectors with the heat of a single glance. I’d done the right thing with my warning on the show. I wasn’t special. He didn’t know me and yet he was looking at me like he did. He wasn’t even turning anything on for the game, none of the R&B smoldering narrowed eyes My Guy utilized. This was just his look. The girls had been in more danger than I’d presumed.
I cleared my throat. “Demons are often fine, MiMi. That’s why they’re demons. They look like angels. But you gotta remember they were cast out of heaven for a reason.”
Aminah smiled. To my relief, she hadn’t noticed the silent exchange. “Alright, Phony Morrison—”