This wasn’t the first time I’d been in his flat or in his room; we’d had study sessions multiple times over the past few weeks where we went over each other’s projects. These sessions lead to us eating pizza, watching Twilight, and going through Will Smith’s oeuvre. I’d take videos of Malakai acting out his favorite scenes （Edward first smelling Bella） and we’d take selfies that Malakai would caption with “study sesh with my favorite subject” to the reception of dozens of delighted heart-eye emojis and proclamations that we were #goalz.
This, however, was the first time we’d be hanging out in his room for the purpose of just chilling. This felt different. This was different. There was no set agenda of work, or at least no pretense of an agenda, because, being real, we barely got any work done together. Either way, as I punched the upward arrow by the lift, I began to recognize what Aminah had previously diagnosed as nerves: my belly-borne butterflies flapping chaotically, palms prickling.
Was this a real chill date? I had no idea what “real” meant in our context but I knew that the pounding in my ears felt pretty fucking real.
Was it too late to cancel? I was genuinely hungry, though, and Malakai had promised me that at the very least his chicken would bang.
I steadied myself as the lift doors opened. This wasn’t a big deal.
It was Malakai for goodness sake.
It was Malakai, so I was guaranteed a fun, easy time,
It was Malakai, so there was nothing to be nervous about.
It was Malakai and this was strictly platonic because he did not like me like that.
The door to his flat was left ajar, propped open with a shoebox. Kofi lived in the flat opposite, and Malakai often left his door open so Kofi could come through with ease, borrow some milk, some Maggi cubes. I maneuvered myself through the door, still balancing the crate, when I heard muffled voices coming from Malakai’s room. At first, I thought that he was with Kofi and was about to push his bedroom door open when I clarified that these voices sounded angry. The one that wasn’t Malakai’s was lower and gruffer and had a Nigerian lilt to its bass that made the anger thunderous.
“Malakai, you study film? And you didn’t tell me? I have to find out from your mother that you dropped out of your economics course at one of the top universities in the country, months after the fact—”
“Dad. This is also a top university. Or does it not count because it’s not the same university your friends’ children go to? It’s the top for what I want to do. Which, yes, is film.” Malakai’s voice was now almost jaunty in its affability, but it was askew, a distorted funfair ditty in a horror movie.
“Olalekan, I am in Nigeria building for this family, building for my legacy, being a man for this family! You, too, should learn to be a man. Life isn’t easy. You think it was easy for me after my father died and I—”
I heard Malakai chuckle humorlessly. “Here we go.”
“Yes, here we go. I had to step up and hustle to help my mother provide for my siblings. At seventeen. You make sacrifices in order to be responsible. I like cameras too. Do you think I wouldn’t rather have been gallivanting with my friends, taking pictures, having fun? This is a hobby. You can do a proper, solid degree while doing that on the side. Pictures don’t pay bills. Making films will not pay bills.”
“It could for me. I’m good. I work hard. Isn’t that enough?” Malakai’s voice was low. It sounded younger and there was a vulnerability under the frustration, the hurt in trying to prove he wasn’t in pain. It sliced through me. I should have left. I’d gone past “accidentally stumbling in on his argument” to eavesdropping a few minutes back, but I found myself frozen to the spot, holding the bag of drinks tight to my chest as if Malakai would feel the comfort via transubstantiation.
“And you could work just as hard in economics. I tried to understand when you took time off when . . . what happened, happened.”
“‘When what happened, happened’？ Is that how we’re describing it now? Dad, just say it. When you—”
“Malakai, I am still your father. I admit, I have made mistakes. And yes, you went through . . . something. But we all go through things. When your grandfather, Olalekan Korede, the person you were named after, the hardest-working man I knew, when he died, I found working more useful than sitting around getting depressed. You didn’t even lose someone! Nevertheless, I tried to understand.
“Abi, your generation is different? So, I let you take those few months off for whatever was going on in your head. The plan was that you would make up what you missed in the summer. But you were taking your father for a fool, abi? Olalekan, this is nonsense. Your mother said you needed time to heal. What kind of healing? Healing, kini? What happened was between me and your mother. Is it the healing that made you go mad? Because this is a mad decision, I am telling you now, son. You are being irresponsible. What kind of example are you setting for your brother?”