Page 13 of Two’s Better

“Remember when your family moved to Abuja when we were eleven and we didn’t see each other at all for like, five years?”

“Right. Yeah. I remember.”

Uzezi and I had practically grown up together. Our fathers had been best friends in university, and had coincidentally started dating our mothers, who had also been best friends. They’d gotten married practically at the same time, gotten pregnant at the same time, with our fathers working at the same architecture firm, our mothers in the same bank, while our families lived literal houses apart on the same street.

We were so close and had known each other for so long I sometimes forgot about those five years we’d literally been in different states, after my father had decided to test out the big city, with the plan for Uzezi’s family to join us over there eventually.

My communication with Uzezi hadn’t been great those first two to three years apart—spotty phone calls, usually only on Christmas and New Years if one or the other family was unable to visit; occasional, brief, unserious text messages on birthdays and other holidays; and tagging each other in memes on social media—but, surprisingly, our friendship hadn’t suffered for it. As we’d gotten older, we’d gotten better at it, until, somehow, he’d become that one person I could truly be myself with.

“Then my family also eventually moved,” Uzezi continued, “and our dads threw a party to celebrate the merger of their companies.”

“Ah, yes,” I said with a fond laugh. “The party where you tried to drown me.”

“You know what—”

“Am I lying?”

“I did not try to drown you, Ofure; come on.”

“What would you call dunking my head underwater when you know I can’t swim?”

“We were in the shallow side!”

“You ruined my hair.”

“And therein lies the crux of the problem.”

We stared at each other. Then burst out laughing. How many times had we had this playful argument? We could laugh at it now, but at the time, I’d been so upset at my ruined hair that I’d burst into tears. Humiliated not at his dunking, but the fact that he’d witnessed what at the time I’d thought was a “girly, overly emotional” reaction to “just” some hair—yeah, I’d had some internalised misogyny to work through—I remembered ignoring him for days afterward until all his numerous apologies had sufficiently soothed my hurt ego. Good times.

“I’ve never told you this ...” Uzezi turned serious again. “But the reason I dunked your head in the water was because … well. When I saw you walk out wearing that gorgeous orange two piece—” My lower belly did a funny thing. I remembered that bikini; it had been my first one, one I’d had to beg and cry and plead for because my mother had thought bikinis were too “mature” for a sixteen-year-old. She’d relented only after I’d told her it was all the rage amongst all my mates, and did she want me to be the odd one out? “—for the first time, I saw you not just as my best friend but as ... a girl. An attractive girl. I almost didn’t recognise it was you at first; I was too busy ogling and drooling.”

“Ah. And so, instead of trying to confront your awkward teenage boy feelings,” I deadpanned, ignoring the way my lower belly was still doing that funny, fluttery thing, “you decided to dunk my head in the water.”

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it? Can confirm: after that, I definitely only saw you as my best friend.”

“I guess I can’t blame you for trying.”

I felt more than saw his left hand move, landing boldly on my right thigh. My breath caught. I was wearing a glittery, sea green, fitted long-sleeved mini dress with a cowl collar. As we’d laid down, it had slid a few inches up my thighs, and Uzezi’s hand had landed right at the point where the dress ended and skin began.

“All right?” he asked, his voice low.

I tried not to squirm. I felt the warmth of his palm on my thigh all the way to my marrows. “Yes. No. Maybe.” The darkness had to be doing something to me because I was suddenly finding it hard to breathe. “I don’t know. This already feels weird.”

“Hm.” Something about that rumbly sound had my lower belly dipping deliciously.

I blinked.

Huh?

The hand on my thigh squeezed lightly. He shifted forward on the pillows, slowly, like he was waiting for me to stop him. I didn’t. Our eyes were locked, and maybe it was the comfort provided by the darkness, but all my worries abruptly disappeared. I was reminded that this was my best friend—I didn’t see him as a brother or other relation, but neither did I see him like I did any of my other friends. He was simply ... Uzi. A category all on his own. Why would kissing him be weird?

My eyes fluttered shut when his face was about an inch away from mine, my heartbeat thundering like an African drum.

My belly dipped again when our lips met, soft and sweet.

I immediately felt something—like a match igniting inside me—but he pulled back after the gentle peck before I could push forward to explore that feeling. My eyes fluttered open. My heart hadn’t stopped pounding.

“Well,” he breathed. His eyes looked so dark. I tried not to stare at the soft curve of his mouth. Had his lips always been that full, that pink? His beard had been so soft, too. “That was ... nice.”