“So, listen, Kiki puts her hand up to answer a question, and she gets it slightly wrong. The tutor asks her to assess her answer and she pauses. Hesitates. The lecturer doesn’t wait for her to figure it out. She does that sometimes to keep us on our toes. Anyway, said lecturer poses the question to the class. Some dude answers, real condescending with it, you know the kind of shit designed to make Kiki feel like she doesn’t know what she’s doing. The gag is, he actually gets what Kiki got right, wrong. Kiki puts her hand up to answer, and I turn to her like, ‘I got this, boo,’ because I know the answer. So, I put my hand up, as you do.”
I rolled my eyes again. He really was a dramatic storyteller.
Malakai shrugged at the mic. “I say I agree with her point but she got it slightly wrong on these issues—I break them down. Now, bear in mind that I’m sitting right next to her. Mate, the second the words leave my mouth I feel the temperature drop. I’m telling you, that lecture hall was Antarctica. I shivered. Man’s teeth started chattering.”
I heard Aminah snort from where she was sat on the sofa and I scoffed. “Alright. You know what? The Academy Award for Doing the Most goes to—”
“You, Kiki. Because the way you looked at me—I felt shook to my soul. If I now die of hypothermia, what will you say at my funeral?” His voice had taken on an avuncular Nigerian jaunt to accentuate his theatrics.
I smirked. “You had a good run. God bless your soul. Thank you for leaving me your gray hoodie.”
“Wow. You see? Ice queen.”
“Your hoodie will warm me up.”
“Okay. Great. So, after lectures we’re having lunch and I ask her if she’s pissed off at me. My girl says no, she’s fine, she’s cool, asks me to pass the salt. As if she needed any, when she was clearly salty enough.”
I held on to my headphones and cackled. “Wow.”
“Then I say, ‘Look, have I done anything wrong?’ Then what do you say, Kiki?”
He passed me the small bottle of Hennessey and I took a swig, and replied, through a laugh, “‘Do you think you’ve done anything wrong?’”
Malakai let out a long, exaggerated exhale. “I say, ‘I don’t know, Scotch. That’s why I’m asking you.’ Then she goes, ‘Well, if you don’t think you’ve done anything wrong then you haven’t done anything wrong, innit.’”
“My voice isn’t that high—why are you making me sound like road Minnie Mouse?”
“Stay with me now,” he directed his audience, ignoring me. “Two days after this happens, we’re studying together and I’m stuck on a question for a tutorial. The question is under her specialist subject. I ask her for help, and you know what she says? You know what my darling girlfriend says to me? She says . . .” He paused for effect, cleared his throat. “‘Nah, you don’t need my help. You got this. Like you had it the other day.’”
Aminah cackled. I heard her say, “My girl!” She had brought some popcorn and was watching the show with delight. She was crunching very loudly.
Malakai shook his head at me, slow and heavy. “Brutal. Tell me where in that story am I the bad guy? Please. My question is, why couldn’t you have told me you were pissed at me and why you were pissed at me? The drama was unnecessary. I’m baffed.”
I leaned into the mic and arched a brow at him. “You done, babes?”
Malakai released a tiny smile. “No. You also look really sexy when you’re angry and that kind of made it more confusing.”
I knew it was for the show—it had to be for the show—but that didn’t stop my belly from turning upside down.
“Ladies,” I said, pointedly ignoring the way he was grinning at me, goading me. I flipped him the finger and he released a soft chuckle. “You see how they try to distract you? Stay woke. Don’t let them catch you slipping. Let me break down why almost everything that Malakai said was—Minah-Money am I allowed to say it? . . . What was that? . . . Great.
“Okay, so what Malakai just said was bullshit. Really ripe bullshit, from a specific kind of bull: real obstinate, meat too tough. This kind of bullshit is used for the manure that fertilizes the farm used to grow male delusion. Makes it grow big and strong. I read that in NatGeo. True story. Mandem, listen to me. Women don’t want to have to tell you how you fucked up. They want to give you time to figure out how you fucked up. Or admit that you fucked up—sorry, Minah, messed up—because most times, let’s be honest, deep down you know.