Page 9 of Honey and Spice

Chapter 4

An Afrobeat song was playing, skipped beats and melodies that smoothed around waist and hip, cajoling them to come out, come play. I wanted to come out, come play—or at the very least not think about New York or some irritant getting in the way of it. A rugged, low, sexy West African mandem voice pleading with babygehl not to kill him with that load she’s carrying (the load, if it wasn’t clear, is her butt) was pulsating through the speakers and mingling with the crisp autumn night. Aminah and I, positioned as the babyghels, moved through it, hips swaying, heels clicking against the asphalt as we walked the path to our gritty student bar, shabby on the outside, but the hottest rap video club on the inside. To us, anyway. Everything we did as Blackwellians, we did as a pastiche of the luxe life.

Aminah and I walked with linked arms into the party, through the small, loose crowd that was kissing, laughing, smoking by the open back door of the little room annexed behind the Student Union. It parted to make way for us. Aminah and I weren’t popular or unpopular, we justwere.Though previous experience had made me wary of making friends, Aminah and I formed a natural unit.

We were placed in the same hall in first year and met four days after we moved in. We were taking out our bins at the same time one morning, both in our PJs—which happened to both be jersey shorts and tanktops—hair wrapped in satin scarves. We gave each other polite, silent nods and smiles, acknowledging the intrinsic kinship derived from makeshift pajamas and Black womanhood, when a toga-clad drunken straggler who looked like his name was Chad, or possibly Brad, swayed past us in the courtyard, releasing fumes of alcohol. Like we could sense what was coming, we exchanged a glance. He smirked at us and called out, “Oi, Destiny’s Child! Shake what your mama gave ya! Show me if I’m ready for this jelly!” As if in rehearsal, both of us immediately dropped our trash bags and started cussing him out in sweet, tight harmony. ChadBrad started to sway away, startled, alarmed, but alcohol had slowed down his motion, so he had ended up staggering like a poisoned rat. This allowed Aminah to step forward and yank the hem of his toga, ignoring his yells and leaving him naked bar a pair of boxers. It was then I realized that I was in love. She smiled and I immediately beckoned at her to toss the toga to me. She did, trusting my instincts, probably encouraged by our riveting rendition of “Who the fuck do you think you are, you prick” earlier. I caught the reeking bedsheet between my thumb and forefinger and tossed it into the giant wheelie bins outside our building. We both immediately ran inside the glass doors, falling over ourselves, wheezing, grabbing each other for stability. She said to me that day, “You’re my friend by force now. I really don’t have the energy to go and make any more, so shall we just see how this goes?” And so we were friends by force, and I was grateful—I wasn’t sure I would have found the courage to be her friend without her declaration. I’d come to university bruised.

Now, we stood outside of the cliques and the Blackwell industrial complex. We were a core unto ourselves,Brown Sugarlending us immunity from being too involved, and because of that, we found ourselves acting as intermediaries, ambassadors, and impartial judges when called upon. This found us some respect, if not exactly warmth. It worked for me: I didn’t need to be too involved. I didn’t need a group; I didn’t want to be entangled in friendships that were just ways to run away fromloneliness. I had Aminah and I hadBrown Sugar,and that was my community. I wanted to get my degree, secure my future and leave. That didn’t mean that I couldn’t have a good time along the way.

The bar was steamy and dusky, smelling like Hugo Boss, fruity body sprays, Brazilian bundles toasted straight, and the chemically floral-scented mélange of hair products. Grease, spritz, gel, and mousse used to primp to perfection. Amber and umber lights lit up the dark and saw twilight and sunset finding a home in heavily moisturized brown skin, making it glow with delicate force. The music seemed to make the walls of the old university bar pulsate, like it wasn’t already thrumming with the energy of around a hundred-odd kids overstuffed into its every crevice and cranny, waved on cheap vodka and dark liquor and arrogance, the kind of arrogance you get intrinsically when you’re young and fine. Guys with sharp shape-ups. Girls in dresses that flaunted their curves. Both feeling confident that they were likely to find someone to feel them as much as they were feeling themselves.

This was our kingdom, where we came to unwind, escape, put our defenses down every Friday after a week of our housemates, Ellie and Harry, asking us where we werefrom-from.This wasn’t the main student union party, where we had to have our shoulders braced and brows pre-arched as certain people who were so used to having access to the whole world couldn’t comprehend the cordoning off of one little peninsula and dropped “nigga” like the “-a” wouldn’t curdle into an “-er” in their mouths when they were rapping along to Kanye. If we got into a fight, it would beusthat got kicked out, like we were the ones who started it—like this particular fight hadn’t started a long, long time ago and it was proven, irrevocable, historical fact that we weren’t the ones to throw the first punch. Nah. None of that at FreakyFridayz.

When I first arrived at Whitewell, the only events we had were overstuffed house parties in the home of a grad student who was far tooold to be rubbing shoulders (etc.) with freshers, a few town hall meetings, where people just discussed what happened at the last house party, and a Black History Month talent show that consisted mainly of us having to sit through mandem’s mediocre raps and bad spoken word. We were the only society on campus with no demarcated space. No land, no stake. The RugbySoc had the bar on Wednesday afternoons, the Young Conservatives had their afternoon tea parties on Thursdays, and the Whitewell Knights had their gin and (C)oke nights there on Tuesdays.

Early on, Aminah had dragged me to a Blackwell Society meeting. (“Let’s just try to be social. For once. See what happens. Kofi said they’re ordering pizza today. If you break out in a rash, I promise I’ll carry you away on my back.”). I sat in the back of the lecture hall, legs hunched up against the seat in front of me, listening to the president, Zack Kingsford, half-English, half-Nigerian, fully a prick, fully a snack, asking for donations to rent a place in town for a party (fifty each, far more than would have been needed). When a voice called out, “Why do all that shit when we could throw a club night?” I thought that someone else had the precise thought I had at the exact same time, until I realized that everybody in the lecture hall was staring at me and that the voice had sounded eerily like my own. I didn’t come to these things. I barely spoke to anybody outside of the confines ofBrown Sugarand so I guess people were shocked to hear me.Iwas shocked.

Zack stared at me, his eyebrow with a single slit in it arched with curiosity. Zack was president, reigning Monarch of the Mandem, and your position in Blackwell was meant to be defined by whether you wanted to be fucked by him, loved by him, or friends with him. I wanted none of the above and it confused him. He looked up at me from his podium.

“Kiki Banjo. I see you’ve taken a break from bashing men on your cute show to come join us today. You wanna come down? State your position?”

I smiled. “I’m good. You can come up, though.” A snigger rippledthrough the crowd and I felt Aminah settle into her chair next to me, whispering, “Here wefuckinggo.” We were only two semesters in but we were already spiritually married and Aminah knew that now I had just exposed myself, there wasn’t any way I was going to back down. She also undoubtedly found Zack’s discomfort delicious.

He was a second-year incumbent—technically against the bylaws of university societies, but who was watching? Zachary Kingsford was used to giving orders, he never received them. He thought his name gave him jurisdiction over all. And technically it did. A middling business studies and sports science student, his place at a top liberal redbrick university was assured by the fact that he was a boon to the university athletic department, a star in the university rugby leagues—that and his daddy was a very rich benefactor. Zack was not smart, but he was slick with words, bolstered by nepotism. He was the perfect politician. He smiled something strained in my direction, hazel eyes glinting with irritation. I’m sure it hurt. He preferred conversations with girls who giggled and said he “kinda looked like Drake.” He was so gassed on that he’d changed his ProntoPic username to CognacDaddy á la ChampagnePapi.

“No problem.” But the vein popping on his temple stated otherwise. “Nothing wrong with a woman being on top. Actually, I prefer it.” The offense was in his predictability.

I rolled my eyes as the sniggers got louder. This was why I never liked to get involved with petty collegiate political shit. It was so needlessly tedious. I nodded slowly. “That was cute. Rehearsing for your future sexual harassment case at the suit-wearing drone job your daddy got for you?”

Zack’s tan cheeks flushed deep. The room erupted, low and rumbling, and Aminah uttered a proud, adulatory “Killa Keeks.” When the noise died down, I managed to speak before he did, still reclining in my chair, boot hitched on the back of the empty seat in front of me.

“All I’m saying is that we don’t need to spend money when we should have our own space for free. Every month on a Friday, we throw a clubnight. Obviously, open for all, but it will be thrown by us, for us. On our terms. Our music. No bouncers saying we’re not dressed right. Or there are too many of us in a group. We’re treated as guests here. People to fill up quotas. Like they’re doing us a favor. Let’s make ourselves at home.”

The room thundered. So did Zack, but in an entirely different way. Even though he was several feet away from me, I could see he was rattled. Something about his discomfort turned me on. Zack wasn’t used to acting like a president. He’d never really had a platform beyond looking hot. During his second election—the one I was around for—he’d taken a bunch of freshers out to an R&B night (the only one in town) and bought them shots, which helped him win by a landslide. In another context this might have triggered an intervention by the UN, but here, in the instance of collegiate politics, it was a tale of rightful victory, one of generosity, real love for the People. Zack was here for image, not real action.

I could see Zack attempt the math in his head. Public rejection of my idea would look bad. He swallowed awkwardly, nodded. “I hear you. You’ve raised some valid points.”

Oh. I hadn’t realized it was going to bethateasy.

“All those in favor of Kiki Banjo taking charge of this project—” Zack boomed across the room.

I froze. “Wait, what? No, no. No, no, no.”

Zack grinned at me widely.Prick. He was smarter than I thought. He was deflecting, hoping that putting the focus back on to me would mean that he wouldn’t have to follow through with it.

“—sayyeaaaaaaayahhhhhh.” His voice swept low and deep and picked up at the end of his sentence like this was a call-and-response rap song and not an impromptu appointment into his cabinet.

I started to panic. “This is your job. This doesn’t even count as a proper vote! Whatever happened to democratic integrity?!” My voice was drowned out by the overwhelming sound of an entire lecture hall—around 150 of my peers—saying “yeeeeeahyah.” I swore under my breath.

Zack, the bitch, had smiled and winked at me, arms spread wide as he bowed sarcastically. “Your job now, queen.”

And because I was Nigerian, a chronic overachiever, and proud as shit, I accepted. And, if I said so myself, I killed it: FreakyFridayz became the hottest night on campus.

It was bustling now and loud, but despite the raucousness, the bellow of “Oi. Tia and Tamera!” rang clear and true. Only one person used that nickname for us—due to Aminah and I being as inseparable as twins, though we lacked the syndicated sitcom we obviously deserved. Sure enough, a few seconds later our boy Kofi intercepted us. Kofi was a business student by day, and FreakyFridayz DJ by night. He transitioned from old school bops to fresher beats later in the night, often slipping in his own creations from his side hustle as a bedroom producer.

He bent down to kiss me on both cheeks, then reached for Aminah’s hand to press it to his lips. Kofi’s full-time, 24-7 calling was to feen for my best friend. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, playing her role, swallowing her smile, giving him a little to savor but not enough to commit. Their relationship was one of push and pull, cat and mouse, where one was never really sure who was the cat and who was the mouse at any given time. Kofi was a cute, well-liked Ghanaian prince from south London and Aminah was a Nigerian princess from west. It was a Pan-African diaspora fairy tale waiting to happen, one for the ages, a pending peace treaty for the continuous Jollof Wars, the West African cousin conflict that raged at weddings and birthday parties (“Basmati or plump? I heard you guys put nutmeg in yours; sorry, is itdessert?”). But Aminah was a fellow stush Yoruba princess and, as such, ascribed to our own particular brand of feminism: a man had to earn attention, so when he got it, he cherished it.

I cast an eye around the party, readjusting the chain of my bag on my shoulder. “What’s it saying tonight, Kof?”

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