“I think he found me on Facebook; let me check his profile.”
“I don’t even know why you have an account on there. No one actually uses it.”
“I like to look normal somewhere. Okay, look.” Souraya tilted her phone to show Ola the picture.
“Oh, shit. This guy is fine! Does he have money?”
“For sure. He’s not the flashy type, but he has. If you saw his clothes, his shoes, everything. Very understated, very expensive.”
“Ooh, I like that type. Usually, they want to show off all their money on you. Perfect.” Ola kept flicking through his pictures. “You should definitely hit him up. You have his number?” Souraya nodded. “Then just send him a message and be like, you’re taking me out to lunch today. Pick me up in an hour.” They laughed and Souraya snatched her phone back.
“I’m actually going to send that,” she said, typing in it. “I want to see how sharp he is.”
“Let’s hope he has sense. Text me when he replies. I have to go, can’t be running late.” Ola kissed Souraya’s cheek. “Start getting ready, sha. You’re going out with or without him.”
“Yes, ma.” Souraya closed the door again and finished typing out the text. She’d kept it almost verbatim. You’re taking me out to lunch. You can choose the place. 2PM. The Signature.
She hesitated before sending it—the encounter with this man in Joburg had been more than a brief encounter, more than an afternoon flirtation. She’d forgotten he lived here, to be honest, and it hadn’t mattered, not when she thought she’d never be back. He’d be stunned to get that message from her, but Souraya also knew he would drop whatever he was doing to see her. Not because he wanted anything from her but because of Joburg, because of everything that had happened there. Or maybe he had changed, maybe he’d turned into one of those men who chafed at the tone she used in her text, who wanted to be difficult, as if it proved anything or did anything. Souraya smiled to herself and sent the text. It was always fun to see how people would react; a quick way of weeding out those who weren’t serious, those who wouldn’t be able to afford her or keep up with her, those who didn’t understand the game or thought they could implement their own kind of game. That’s not how it worked. The world was too big; there were too many people in it to waste time with the useless ones. Souraya wanted to see which one he would be.
She turned on her speaker and started playing some music, tossing the phone on the bed. She was in no hurry to see if he’d reply or to text him again even if he did. Either he would be there in an hour or he wouldn’t. Her day was going to continue regardless. She danced to Kah-Lo as she went through her clothes, trying to pick something to wear, tossing dresses onto the bed. They fluttered down in a cacophony of color, green and marigold, rust, red, smooth cream and bright blue. Everything, she knew, would look good against her skin. She picked up her phone again just to look at her Instagram grid to see if there was a recent color she’d used that she could repeat, pulling the grid a little tighter together. Blue. From a shot of her against a brilliant sky, the post right before the breakfast post. Perfect. She fished out the blue dress and held it up against herself in the mirror, glass stretching from ceiling to floor. It would stop midway down her thighs and it had sheer sleeves banded with tiny intricate buttons at the wrist, hand-embroidered cream flowers trailing along the bodice. Like most of her dresses, it was made of silk. Souraya loved dresses, especially light and wispy ones. They made her feel a breath away from naked; they rode up so deliciously when she walked or sat, and she lived for the feeling of someone else’s hand sliding underneath the hem, slipping up her thigh. One of her clients liked to drive like that, her legs against the leather of his car seat, his hand falling into her as he broke speed limits and pushed her dress up to her hips.
“Your skin is an even finer silk than the fabric,” he’d told her, taking his eyes off the road for a few dangerous minutes just so he could look at her as he said it. He never let her wear anything under the dresses.
But this was a normal lunch, she reminded herself, pulling out some underwear. Behave yourself. She showered again, this time a quick one with cold water just to wake her skin and senses up, then let her face air dry before patting in a toner, which doubled as an essence, made from maple tree sap. After that would be a serum, then her face cream and sunblock. She was lotioning her body when her phone buzzed, jarring the music playback. He had texted back, just a simple line. I’ll be there.
Souraya smiled and texted Ola. He replied. Said he’ll be there.
Lol! Nothing else?
Nope.
I like him already. Look extra hot so you can just scatter his head one time.
Souraya glanced at her face in the mirror and tried to see it as he would, with all these years in between. She still had skin as smooth as a mask, carved cheekbones, the same mouth that he’d begged for in Joburg. She texted Ola back.
Before nko?
She was brushing her hair when Ola’s reply came in and didn’t read it until she was done with her moisturizing routine and about to start putting on her makeup when she picked up the phone to change the playlist. Her friend had filled the message with admiring emojis. I trust you! Madam the madam!
Souraya smiled and didn’t text back.
six
Saturday, 1:12 AM
Kalu stumbled back into his flat with his head still reeling, his key unsteady in the lock, the door swinging like a loose jawbone. The corners were buzzing in the dark. He fumbled his hand against a wall until he found the light switch and hit it, making the bulbs crackle before they popped into brightness.
The whole place felt wrong without Aima, unfamiliar, half-orphaned. His stomach was uneasy, clenching and twisting—he couldn’t tell if he wanted to vomit or needed to eat. When was the last time he had even eaten? Sometime the afternoon before? A salmon wrap from the neighborhood cafe with a green juice. Before he’d taken his love to the airport and given up on her. Kalu slumped into an armchair and let his spine sink into the upholstery. Maybe it could swallow him. His stomach did a particularly unpleasant twist, sidetracking his mind—I should eat something, he thought, then held on to the thought ferociously, grateful for its clarity. A decision. Something to do.
The fridge had leftovers in it, jollof and beans, cold soup, and a green packet of moi moi. His mother insisted on sending food over with her chef all the time, as if he or Aima didn’t know how to cook. By the time things started cracking apart with Aima, she had decided that his mother was doing it to poke at her, to say in quiet honey-coated ways that Aima didn’t even know how to take care of her son. Kalu had tried to convince her that his mother wasn’t thinking that, wasn’t saying it in carefully layered Tupperware containers filled with fried rice and chicken stew, but Aima wouldn’t listen. At some point, she wouldn’t even touch the food herself, leaving it for Kalu. “After all,” she said, “you’re the one she’s making it for, not me.” Mealtimes became strained and Kalu started eating out more, grabbing quick bites on the go. The evenings when they’d sit at the table together faded out of their calendar, and Kalu kept moving, kept avoiding until she was gone.
Plantain. He could fry plantain. Yes. A decision.
But first, something to drink. He opened a cabinet and poured himself a water glass full of vodka, then pulled out a bunch of plantains from his pantry. They were still firm and yellow, only a few brown patches forming on the skin, not too soft yet. He and Aima used to argue about this all the time. She wanted them overripe, almost like mush, soaking up oil when fried. Disgusting. One more thing he wouldn’t have to deal with anymore. Overripe, oversweet, almost spoiled. Maybe their love was like that, just spoiling from being kept on a shelf for too long. Kalu chopped off the ends, squeezing that bit of raw plantain into his mouth and chewing, washing it down with vodka as he skinned the rest of it, cutting it into diagonal slices.
The one thing Aima had converted him to was frying them in coconut oil instead of groundnut oil and using as little as possible, so he poured out a restrained puddle in the middle of the frying pan and watched it, hovering his palm over the spreading clearness until he could feel the heat on his skin. When the oil was hot enough, before it started smoking, he slid in the slices, whipping his fingers back as they sizzled, avoiding the splatter. He watched the slices turn golden with a detached concentration, emptying his mind of everything else except the changing color on their flesh, the creases of the paper towels he was folding to soak up the oil when they were done, the smooth ceramic of the dinner plate as he brought it down from the shelf.
If he thought about each step, then he wouldn’t think about the night, or about the man he’d thrown to the floor, or about Ahmed’s face close to his, his breath like a breeze. That last image intruded, forcing its way into his kitchen, reflecting off the steel countertops. Kalu shook his head, emptied and refilled his glass, then pierced the pieces of plantain with a golden fork, part of a set Aima had insisted on buying. The oil hissed as he flipped the slices, and Kalu tried not to think about the girl at the party. If he thought about her, then he’d have to think of all the other girls, the ones he didn’t know, the ones Ahmed had thrown so callously in his face. And if he thought about that, if he let all that potential pain and fear and horror creep into his head, Kalu was fairly sure that he would go mad. Had he even saved the one girl? Had he even done anything worth doing? Once they threw him out of the room, what had happened? Everything must have continued; he was nothing, just a hiccup in the night, a speed bump that they crushed down into the rest of the road. He strained the plantain out from the oil, emptying the slices onto the paper towels, then grinding pink sea salt over them. Another of Aima’s stamps on his life. It was strange to have a life that was his, just his now, no longer shared. The hurt was like a monster wave frozen in the moment before it crested and breaks, just waiting and threatening with its shadow.
Kalu ate the plantain while it was still hot, standing up in the kitchen with his hip against the counter and the oil searing his tongue. He tossed the plate into the sink when he was done, hard enough that it chipped off a corner, and turned off the kitchen light, grabbing the bottle of vodka as he stalked into the bedroom. He was getting angry again and he didn’t know why. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since Aima had left. Left, can you imagine? Thrown away all their years together as if it was nothing. He pulled out his phone and texted her best friend, Ijendu.
Did Aima land safely?
He’d thought Aima would have texted him herself when she arrived but if she didn’t want to, that was her problem. At least someone would tell her that he was asking around, since she had gone and turned them into strangers, relying on secondhand news. He wasn’t expecting Ijendu to reply—it was almost two in the morning—but his phone vibrated almost immediately.
Go to sleep, Kalu. Aima is fine.
Kalu looked at his phone and thought about the empty kingdom that was their bed. I can’t sleep, he replied. Why are you awake?
I was talking to her.
So she had texted Ijendu but didn’t want to text him. The pain that lanced through his chest was fine-tuned and sharp, a precise laser. Maybe talking through Ijendu was the best way to talk to her. Tell her I miss her.
He could see the bubble that showed she was typing, but Ijendu’s reply was slow to come.
No.
Please. Kalu paused, then sent another text. Come over. I fried plantain. Maybe they could hang out. Maybe she’d tell him more, like what Aima had said, how she was feeling, if she really hated him, why she didn’t even look back when she walked away. He almost added the truth, that he didn’t want to be lonely, but that seemed too much, too desperate.
