Honey and Spice(11)

Now, we stood outside of the cliques and the Blackwell industrial complex. We were a core unto ourselves, Brown Sugar lending 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 from loneliness. I had Aminah and I had Brown 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 were from-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 be us that 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 too old 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 of Brown Sugar and so I guess people were shocked to hear me. I was 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 rippled through the crowd and I felt Aminah settle into her chair next to me, whispering, “Here we fucking go.” 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.