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Chapter 27
From: Dr. Miller
Subject Line: A Notice
Ms. Banjo,
I have heard about a recent ruckus on campus and I know you have exempted yourself from class for the last two seminars. I want to send you a pertinent reminder: You are an intelligent, powerful young woman, and any situation that makes you feel lesser than is deceptive. Your power is in your truth. Stand in yours. Be loud in yours. The numbers for your show have dropped, but I am proud of what you have done with your voice regardless. I am also proud of your contribution to Mr. Korede’s film. I have seen the rough cut. It is beautiful. You make a wonderful team.
I hope to see you next week in class.
Warmly,
Dr. M
I was going to vomit. I’d been fine on the drive down with the girls—morethan fine—all of us singing loudly, badly, to my playlist. It was fun, possibly one of the most fun times I’d had in uni, and for forty minutes I’d forgotten about things like heartbreak and social pariahdom. But it was clear to me now that those feelings were just hibernating till we pulled up to the car park of The Pemberton, where I was faced with Blackwellians stepping out of cars, dripping with sauce, posing for the cameras and poised for drama. My plan had kept me steady until this moment, balancing me out when I considered that showing up to the biggest social event on the Blackwell calendar might be too exposing and undoing for me. I told myself that there was too much at stake for me not to do it, and yet here I was, nauseous, palms and pits prickling, frozen by the car as the girls buckled shoes and did last-minute spritzes of setting spray and perfume. I was receding into myself again.
I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready to see Malakai. He was hired to film, so I knew logically he would be here, but emotionally I couldn’t comprehend the idea of seeing him. I’d missed him so bad that every time I saw something that reminded me of him I felt an alarming twinge in my chest. Turned out everything reminded me of him.
After a few moments, when the girls had finished preening, Aminah noticed me leaning against the car. “You okay, Keeks?”
“Mm-hmm, sure. I just...” I fanned myself even though it was around thirteen degrees. “I need a moment.”
Aminah stepped closer to me, regal in her purple, strapless, pencil-legged Ankara jumpsuit paired with black barely there heels and a compact deep violet gele that decorated her head. She’d gone over to a salon on Eastside to get it tied. She hooked a finger beneath my chin. “I know being here is overwhelming... and honestly, for all the shit I gave you... it really is tough being here with everything going on. But your plan is so great and I am proud of you and I love you and you look too fucking good to waste this outfit. Blackwell is not ready.”
I’d foregone a coat for the sake of the look, not wanting to sully my yellow two-piece Ankara outfit—covered in majestic blue and red birds of paradise taking flight—with something as tedious as pneumonia prevention. The sweetheart neckline crop top hugged and pushed what needed to be pushed, and my high-waisted skirt cinched and accentuated the curve of my hips. I couldn’t wear acoatover this; it would be an insult to my ancestors.
I smiled. “They’re not.”
“Have you guys finished making out?” Shanti was raising an impatient brow at us as she locked Mariah’s doors. She was in a blush-pink, structured ruro-and-buba-style fit, wide sleeves with geometrical shapes cut out at the hem, the softly glittery blush wrap skirt cinching her waist, gele decorating her head like a crown. Chioma was wearing an elegant jewel-green chiffon Nigerian bubu, cascading to the ground, wide and ethereal, giving her wings.
Chioma waved us over as Shanti said, “Considering I took the time to get each of us special phone ring-lights for tonight, you guys are being very disrespectful wasting precious selfie time.”
Chioma smiled and inhaled deeply as she gazed at the three of us. “I have a good feeling about tonight, girls. Good vibes, good energy. Sweetness and sisterhood in the air. Can you smell that?”
Aminah took a whiff, her expertly highlighted nose tilted up to the early moon. “I can smell weed and... suya? Simi may be many things but she snapped with the catering.”
Chioma winced. “As long as the veggie option isn’t carrot sticks and hummus again.”
Shanti playfully rolled her eyes, artistically shadowed to mimic a summer sunset. “Maybe you should grow up and eat meat. You’ve had worse things in your mouth.”
Chioma gasped, and I cackled and linked my arm through hers. “Speaking of, who do you have your eye on tonight?”
Shanti nudged Chioma in placation. “How about AJ? He’s coming tonight, saw it on his ProntoPic story. Doesn’t he play djembes in some post-grad Afrofusion band? Sexy as fuck. Thick muscles. Thighs that could crush a coconut. Pounding those drums with finesse. Imagine how he’d pound your—”
I squealed, “Ashanti?”
Shanti cackled. “Whatever. He’s premium red meat, though.” She shot a teasing look at Chioma. “Not suitable for veggies.”
Chioma shrugged. “Maybe I’ll make an allowance for tonight. Gotta get my protein in somehow.”
Aminah, Shanti, and I gasped in glee before we all collapsed into filthy squawks, heels clicking a happy, haphazard percussion as we made our way to the hotel.
