“Kiki, hey—”
Malakai’s father stood behind him, slightly shorter, in a smart, slate-gray wool coat over a white shirt and navy chinos, a business casual demigod. It was as if he were controlling the air in the room, his familiar, handsome face imperious. He pushed his hand into a pocket as he regarded me with gentle curiosity behind expensive frames. I saw the tension in his gaze morph into a calculated amiability.
I forced my voice to sound bright. “Good evening, sir.”
He nodded at me, the gesture almost imperceptible. “Good evening.” He turned to Malakai, voice placid, slipping into Yoruba, “？é i?? ? rě? ?e nítorí ?ni tí o ?e fé s? ayé ? nù ré? Má d’ àbí èmi,” to inquire, “Is that your work? Is this why you’re throwing your life away? Don’t be like me.”
Malakai straightened, his posture somehow both softened by the presence of his father, but also frigid, defensive. “You don’t have to worry about that. And you don’t get to talk about people I care about like they’re not in the room. This is Kikiola.”
“Or? ni wa, sir,” I said to Malakai’s father. “We’re friends,” I repeated, as if to emphasize the point, as if to draw the battle lines, to make it clear that I was present as emotional backup here, if need be.
Malakai’s father studied me carefully before I saw the tiny movement of his mouth that could have been a smile, if you squinted with hope.
I moved further into the room, kept my voice jovial. “We almost weren’t friends, though, he was competing with me for the top spot in class, which was irritating. Then I saw his short film and decided he was worthy competition, which was even more irritating as I really don’t like conceding brilliance to men.” My smile was wide and bright, and the shadows in Malakai’s father’s eyes receded slightly, his expression sitting somewhere between bemusement and amusement.
Malakai’s expression was inscrutable when I turned to him. “I can go.”
He shook his head. “No. No, my dad was just leaving. He has a flight to catch early tomorrow, back to Nigeria. This was a quick visit.”
Malakai’s father rubbed his jaw in a gesture reminiscent of his son. “We’re not finished here.” He hesitated and for the first time I saw a hint of uncertainty in his gaze. His eyes darted between Malakai and me. Malakai just stared at the wall behind his father’s head, jaw taut, fists balled.
His father nodded deeply, more to himself than anyone else. “Take care, son. Lovely to meet you, Kikiola. Help me keep this one out of trouble.”
“I’ll do my best. But no promises.”
He smiled at me, and he looked so much like Malakai in that moment, I almost gasped. It wasn’t a big smile, but it was present, enough to let me know that when it stretched it could hold the same shine as his son’s. “Your Yoruba is good, by the way.”
It was somewhere between an apology and an acknowledgment of something that had nothing to do with my skills in my ancestral tongue. “？ ?é, sir. ìrìn àjò áá dára.”
He patted the left side of his chest in gracious acceptance of my wishes for his safe journey and walked out of the room, leaving a hefty, wealthy, oud-scented breeze behind. It wasn’t till we heard the kick of the shoebox and the slamming of the front door that either of us moved.
The smile Malakai gave me as he took the bag of drinks gratefully was sweet in its effort. The attempt squeezed at my chest. He put the bag on his dresser, then immediately sat on the bed, bending over, his face buried in his hands. I moved next to him, silently sitting down on his plain navy Ikea sheets. He was still, and so I thought the best thing to do was also be still. I stared straight ahead at his If Beale Street Could Talk poster.
Eventually he spoke, his voice muffled by his hands. “How much did you hear?”
“Enough.” I swallowed. “You pissed?”
“Not at you.”
Malakai straightened, his hands dropping to his thighs. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled with a puff of his cheeks. His eyes were red. Malakai pursed his lips and nodded quickly, as if he was hoping the action would make the emotion ebb. He released a humorless choke of a laugh.
“This isn’t how I imagined my girlfriend’s introduction to my dad to be.”
I knew he meant “girlfriend” in the false sense, in our sense, in the nonsense sense. I nudged his shoulder with mine. “Yeah? How did you expect for me to meet him? Over four courses at our engagement dinner at Nobu?”