“In a similar manner, there is a tall, hot, dark presence in Whitewell that has our ladies moving hectic. Giving them the shakes, making them snappy, dehydrated, and irritable. Be wary of the Wasteman of Whitewell, sisters. It’s cuffing season and feelings are infectious, I get it, but get your immune system up, take your shots （I myself am partial to bourbon）， listen to Meghan Thee Stallion twice a day, and take your antihistamines to ward off the dusty. Because you know what I think, ladies? It’s time to flip the term ‘player’ on its head. This thing called romance ain’t a one-player game. Let’s reclaim our power.
“Wastemen are aptly called so because they waste our time. Waste our energy. On purpose. They sell us dreams and then take them away, so we end up chasing them as if it was ever a reality. They’re bad at communication, texting us good morning every day and then leaving us in the cold of blue ticks when we ask them where they’re at, leading to us jumping to conclusions, and let me tell you, that kind of cardio isn’t good for our hearts. It takes us away from us. Wastemen are thieves. What was it that my king D’Angelo said in his parable of a bop ‘Playa Playa’？ They rob you of your glow, queens. See, that time and energy that they take from us could be used for realizing our power. Stop us from seeing how beautiful we are from soul through to skin, because he has you wondering why you aren’t enough. Now ain’t that a bitch? If you ask me, I think we should be bigger bitches.
“Sisters, I’m not suggesting anything radical. Just that we take our control. The game will always be the game, but make sure you’re at least an equal player. At best, a better one. Call it karmic restitution. Make them sweat you and don’t ever let them catch you slippin’。 Until next time, stay sweet, ladies. Yours always, K.”
Chapter 3
“Ms. Banjo! You’re early.”
I smiled as I entered Dr. Miller’s office. She dusted some brownie crumbs off her fingers. Somehow, the action was elegant, in line with the dreads wrapped up in an ochre headscarf, large crescent bronze earrings, and the brown-plum sheen of her lips. I plopped myself on the chair by her desk and threw my satchel on the floor. “Which is why I’m your favorite student.”
“It’s not appropriate to have favorites.”
“So you admit it, I am your favorite.” I passed her the flat white I’d picked up with my latte from the campus coffee shop, Beanz.
My most hallowed female authority figure, aside from Beyoncé and my mother, adjusted tortoise-shell frames on a flawlessly composed blank face. “I’m technically not allowed to take anything from students. I absolutely cannot drink this.”
She motioned at me with a single finger—capped by a gleaming, wine-colored nail and bearing a hefty, intricately designed silver ring—instructing me to put the coffee down on the desk. “It’s wonderful how I just found a flat white on my desk, randomly. Can’t let it go to waste.” She picked it up, took a sip, smiled. “Thank you.”
I hitched up a shoulder. “For what?” I held up my coffee cup and smashed it against hers in a toast to tutor-student boundaries.
Dr. Miller and I weren’t thrown together as a mentor-mentee duo by chance. I studied politics, media, and culture and she taught an intertextual media and culture module. She also happened to be the only one of the two Black lecturers in the entire institution of Whitewell who looked after undergraduates. The second was a man who once gave a speech to the boys of Blackwell during Black History Month on how the best way to avoid trouble was not to look like trouble （no saggy trousers, no looking Black）。 Earlier statement revised: Dr. Serena Miller was the only Black lecturer in my university.
I decided that she had to be my mentor in my first year, in my third seminar. During a class discussion on the cultural power of social media crossed with art, where I cited Lemonade as an example, a Barbour-wearing boy called Percy, who I once heard describe the class as community service for him （“the diversity stuff looks good on the CV”）， interrupted to inform me that the visual album was an example of “convoluted fluff pandering to identity politics and contributing nothing to society at large.” I opened my mouth to call him an uncultured, narrow-minded, racist prick but thought better of it and instead practiced some breathing exercises I’d learned from my favorite YouTube lifestyle channel, The Chill Life with CoCo.
“Don’t you feel like” （Deep breath . . . inhale . . . exhale . . .） “you’re speaking from a rather limited sphere?” （Seriously, Kiki, deep breath . . . exhale.）