Aminah’s hands were suspended in the air as she pantomimed the frames in a screen in which she could apparently see her future as some sort of public relations fixer. I nodded, pulled Aminah’s hands down, and hopefully, with them, her excitement for the idea.
“Alright. Calm down, Olivia Nope. There is no way I’m doing this. Can we go? I’d rather listen to Camila Cabello singing Beyoncé songs acoustically on loop than be around him for one more second.”
Aminah gasped. “Alright, I know emotions are high but, please. Don’t put evil like that into the universe. Our tongues are powerful. We’re Nigerian. We know this.”
I reeled myself back in. Anger had pushed me too far. “No, sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight. My brain is just all out of whack because the girls think I played them for nineties Morris Chestnot.”
Malakai sat up. “You think I look like Morris Chestnut?”
I shot him a withering look. “Has the inflated size of your head made your ears shrink or something? I said not.”
Malakai’s hitched right shoulder and half smile simmered my blood.
“You used him as a reference. You’re clearly thinking of me in the tangential direction of a nineties heartthrob. I’ll take it.”
I rolled my eyes. “Prick.”
Malakai didn’t blink. “She-demon.”
My smile was a pastiche of innocence. “What happened to ‘angel face’？”
“I didn’t specify if the angel was fallen or not.”
I narrowed my eyes and yanked an increasingly waved Aminah up with me, rattled by the fact that I was rattled. I’d had enough.
“Have a nice life, dickhead.”
Malakai smiled brightly and reclined, sipped at his drink. “It will be. As long as we never have to do this”—he gestured at the space between us—“again.”
I paused. Inhale. Deeply. That’s it. And exha— I was picking up the glass of watery remains of my drink. I’d intended to down it, hoped that even in its ultraweakened state the rum would drown my irritation, but as I lifted it up, I found my hand tilting away from me, in the direction of Malakai Korede, so that the cold watery drink trickled down into his lap. He jumped up, eyes so shocked that the light in them sharpened to a blade.
Aminah gasped. So did I. A little bit. I decided the best thing to do was to lean into my actions.
I smiled sweetly at Malakai’s shocked face. “Don’t worry. We won’t be.”
I stalked out of Cuffing Corner, my best friend staggering gleefully behind me, while I made the determination that any mild kindles of warm feeling I had felt toward Malakai were simply the result of looking directly into the enchanted eyes of the Fuckboi Supreme.
Chapter 8
Brown Sugar Show: Archives
Ladies,
I am a believer in the power of moving mad. You know what I mean? When a dude has you so fucked up that he has unleashed the power of a thousand goddesses. Usually it comes with a simple “Fine. Do you, then, innit.” Or a “cool.” That’s my favorite. See, when they move mad the trick is to move madder.
There are, by my calculations, two modes of moving mad. There is the killing them softly approach. The quiet storm. Step back. Cut them out. Leave them on read. Two blue double ticks cooling in the breeze. Give them the time they think they need to breathe so they realize that . . . actually? They can’t breathe without you. Now you got the dude wondering. You got him stressed out. You got him thinking, Why don’t she care? Why is she taking my fuckery so well? Babes, they get shook. The power is flipped over on to you. You will not be a victim and your silence will either force them to confront how they had you fucked up and apologize, or they’ll take it as an excuse to bounce. Either way you’re good, you’re free, the ball is in your court. Either way, you know what you mean to him.
Now, the second mode is moving actively mad. That’s even more powerful and should only be reserved for special occasions, wielded with the most delicate care. You have to be sure of yourself to use it appropriately. We’ve seen it in Jazmine Sullivan’s “Bust Your Windows.” The video for Queen Bey’s “Hold Up.” Okay, our producer Minah-Money is saying apparently I cannot advocate for destruction of property on the radio for whatever reason. Why is she looking at me like that??! Whatever. You get my drift.
Sometimes these men move so mad that they have us moving mad chaotically. They’ve got under our skin. There is power in leaning into that. Embracing our emotions. Show them, peppeh. Make them regret fucking with you—but note that if you decide to go this route, you have to have direction. Purpose. It has to be dosed correctly. Misuse the power of moving mad chaotically and you might end up being the one apologizing, overtaking his official offence so much that you end up being in the wrong. So, be careful with it. Although, if he stays after you’ve poured bleach on his Yeezys you’ll know he’s really into you. If he leaves, he leaves. Either way you’ve displayed your truth.