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“Like coffee. ‘Keeps you up all night.’”
“I think I said that coffee also gives you the shits.”
“‘A snack, abeverage.’”
“I’m not hungry anymore.”
Malakai laughed and its force knocked out a few thousand more defenses.
The restaurant was balmy and vibrant, the sweet-and-spicy golden-fried scent of indulgence warming our faces as we entered. It was a marriage of a nineties Missy Elliott video and something out ofGrease. The glossy black-tiled walls were spangled with silver specks as if trying to approximate the starry night outside, and above us spotlights were embedded in the black ceiling (little pastiches of Malakai’s eyes—I’d never seen a dark so bright). Black booths with magenta pleather lined the walls, and a large flat-screen TV hung against the furthermost one, where a Donell Jones video played. It was extra in the best way, reminding me of fur coats and sunglasses in a club: superfluous, deliciously decadent, a stunt.
It was the coolest place I’d seen in my time at Whitewell, and it seemed strange that Malakai had discovered it in the two months he’d been here. People our age and maybe a little older sat in booths, or on swiveling pink stools in front of marbleized black poseur tables, laughing, talking, bouncing their heads to the music, restrained by their owncool, or stepping up, arms up, fully dancing in their spot, freed by it. This was grounded glam, puffer jackets over body-cons, jewelry layered over joggers that were punctuated with crisp creps. It had the elegance of a queen’s court.
Malakai ushered me inside, but I hung back, choosing to soak it all in, follow his lead. He walked in with a calm confidence, an urbane gait, not like he owned the place but like he belonged, comfortable in his skin. He nodded and smiled at a few people seated in the booths, spudded a few guys, threw out a fewwhatsgoingonmansand walked up to the glass counter. He leaned over to clap hands with the guy behind it, an older-than-us-but-youngish man with the sleekest shape-up I’d ever seen, an earring, and a bright pink shirt sportingSweetest Tingon it.
Malakai smiled at him. “Oga, how fa?” he said, slipping into a Lagos-boy accent that suited him. It was frankly obscene that his sexy came in layers that became more exposed the longer I spent with him.
The olderish guy released a spirited grin. “Aburo, we dey.”
His eyes drifted to where I stood and his grin melted into a warm smile. He wiped his hands on a white cloth, threw it over his shoulder, and leaned on the counter. “Now, who is this queen?”
Malakai moved closer to me. “Kiki, this is Meji—owner of this fine establishment and my adopted big bro. Adopted big brother by force. Meji, this is my... friend, Kiki.”
I waved, and Meji’s eyes twinkled as his smile broadened. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Malakai’s...friend. What’s your full name?”
“Kikiola.”
Meji inclined his head in a bow. “Total wealth. Complete wealth.Purewealth. Sounds about right. You look like royalty. What you doing with this jester?”
My shoulder twitched up with the corners of my mouth. “Charity. A queen isn’t a queen if she doesn’t give back to the needy.”
Meji released a low whistle. “Ho ho! I like her, Malakai.”
Malakai stared down at me, his smile glinting. “Wow.Is that what we’re on tonight? Okay. Cool. Good to know. Enough. Look”—he glanced at Meji, gesturing to the black bag slung over his shoulder—“I’m here to work. And eat. I’m making a film. Free publicity for Sweetest Ting obviously.”
Meji grinned. “Say less. Of course. The pictures you took for our ProntoPic page made such a difference, brother, I appreciate it.”
Malakai looked uncomfortable at the praise. “Nah. It’s nothing, man. It’s the least I could do.”
Meji playfully slapped Malakai’s arm before turning to me. “A good man. He may be ugly but he has a great personality.”
Malakai laughed. “I’m giving you two stars on Yelp.”
The man bowed, then gestured to an area in the corner of the parlor. “Got that booth ready for you. Best one in the house. I usually reserve it for my girl and her girls, but I don’t think she’s coming tonight. She saw something in my ProntoPic inbox she didn’t like. Someone will be with you when you’re ready.”
“Needy?” Malakai’s voice was low and arch as we walked over to the booth.
I slid onto the pink pleather cushiony seat, leaned my elbow on the table, and rested my chin on my fist. “We’re going to eat before we get into filming, right?” I said, ignoring him. “I’m starving. How long we got?”
Malakai shot me a tiny smile, wordlessly sliding the menu over to me. He looked at his watch. “This place closes at twoa.m., so a couple hours. It’s almost morning, so technically it’s breakfast time. Check out the plantain waffles.”
“Wait, what?” My eyed widened as I picked up the menu and scanned it. “Plantain waffles with hibiscus syrup and chicken—an option of suya or Southern fried. Akara burgers with yam fries or sweet potato fries...beef suya burgers.” It was an American-Naija fusion menu. My mouth watered. There was no space for posing. My obsession was too immediate to subdue. “This is so cool. I wonder if they make the yaji from scratch.”
I looked up to see Malakai was watching me. Heat rushed to my cheeks. I didn’t need him to see me get nerdy over the composition of spice. “Uh. My family owns a Nigerian restaurant.”
“I know. Saw it on your ProntoPic page. And yeah, Meji makes yaji from scratch. Don’t let him hear you questioning that.”
I tilted my head. “So you cyberstalked me.”
