Honey and Spice(10)
I sighed. “Dr. Miller, I hope I don’t sound arrogant here, but I know what I’m doing with Brown Sugar. I’m good at it. Can’t I figure out some other way to boost ratings?”
Dr. Miller’s coppery-brown tinted lips pulled into a subtle smirk. “Kiki, it’s not arrogant to know what you’re good at. It’s arrogant to think you don’t need to grow. Find out what more you can do for your people. I know you’ll find a creative way to do it. I mean, every seminar you find a way to call Percy the same thing using different words.” She sipped her coffee, hiding her tongue in her cheek.
I tried to balance my elation that she believed in me with the fact that she was basically asking me to do the impossible. Brown Sugar was my space. Yeah, I shared it with other people, but I was safe behind it. Inviting other people’s opinions meant it was likely to fall out of my control, become messier. It meant I could mess up. I wasn’t in the habit of doing that.
Dr. Miller smiled widely. “What a sweet look of torment on your face. Look, I have something fun that could help. The student in my other seminar—”
Ah, my nemesis.
“—is working on a new film. I’m their personal tutor too. They came to me asking if I thought the film was a good idea, and I do. They’re just missing something, and I think talking to you would help them. Likewise, I think you talking to them might help you come up with ideas to reach people. They’re personable, friendly—”
“Dr. Miller, are you saying that I’m n—”
“You’re a delight, Kikiola, but people use consultants in media all the time. This student is bright and sharp. They’re also new, so I think you would be able to help them settle in. This person is different from your fellow seminar students, they’re more . . . your wavelength. You’ll work well together—”
“Oh, so they’re Black?”
Dr. Miller ignored me, possibly because answering that question would have risked her suspension. “I’ll email you some of their work. I think you’ll find it interesting.”
I rubbed the bridge of my nose, prickling a little at my phantom academic nemesis. I wondered if she could pull off sideboob? Probably. It was tragic, perhaps, but school was my thing, my skill at it an anchor, and now, apparently, I needed a helper to achieve my goals.
Dr. Miller’s amber-brown eyes filled with warmth as she assessed me. “I want you to go to New York for this program, Kikiola, and I really want to be able to give you the best shot of getting there. Give it a chance.”
I wasn’t sure if Dr. Miller really liked me or secretly hated my guts. Why go out of my way to entangle myself with other people when I was doing fine by myself? This was my fault for choosing a liberal arts university in England. Who does that? It’s not even the norm and now, because I didn’t choose to do biochemistry or law like a good Nigerian daughter, I had to suffer through some kind of holistic abstract learning experience with a stranger?! Put me through a tort tournament, please. Maybe this was actually my parents’ fault. Their understanding and relative liberalness gave me the freedom to opt for a degree I’d enjoy rather than one that would set their mind at ease. Quite shortsighted of them to value my happiness. Being a lawyer wouldn’t even have been that bad. Sure, my soul might have become a calcified husk, but I would look great in a formal pencil skirt. I have a great butt.
“The deadline for the application is January. You have plenty of time. I’m looking forward to what you come up with for Brown Sugar.” Dr Miller silenced any potential questions by putting her coffee down for the last time. “That’s enough for today. Enjoy your student party tonight. And thank you for not bringing me a flat white.”
“It wasn’t my pleasure at all.”
She lifted her empty cup in salute.
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 just were. 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 tank tops—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.