But now—now was different. She was here; she was reaching out to him. He was seeing her in an hour. A small voice in the back of his head reminded him that there was that whole situation with Okinosho and Kalu, but Ahmed brushed it aside. Nothing was confirmed. He could steal some time with Souraya, which felt like a fucking miracle, really. After Joburg, he’d spent night after night fighting the urge to reach out to her, only the fact that he’d promised her that he wouldn’t holding him back, the desire to be—for her—a man of his word. Souraya was like a mirage, a ghost, and he had no idea how long she’d be in the city. He had to see her. Even after all these years, even after everything they’d been through together, he still wanted her as much as he had when she first walked into that braai. It had been shallow then, superficial, but it had aged into something else, something richer and deeper. Still unwholesome, like everything else about Ahmed’s desires, but developed in that.
Ahmed stepped into the shower and let the heated waterfall drench him, thunder falling from the metal plate in the shower ceiling. He stroked himself, mildly surprised that the night hadn’t been enough, that the thought of her could still coax a reaction from him. Part of it was not wanting to think about anything else, about Machi or Seun or Okinosho or Kalu, or what the fuck he was supposed to do next about that. He didn’t have to think about it. Just a few hours of something else, then he would handle it. After Thursday confirmed.
Kalu would be fine for the next few hours at least; he lived in a secure complex. Ahmed would just have to text him and tell him to stay home, that he was coming to visit him later, or something. Keep him in his flat. Right now, what Ahmed needed was time, just a little more time to clear his head so he could make a plan. Figure out how to placate Okinosho without making an enemy of him, especially since he himself didn’t seem to be in Okinosho’s crosshairs, at least not for now. It was a little too early to head to the Signature and pick up Souraya, but he could drive along the water and just think.
Maybe Souraya could help. Maybe she’d let him touch her again, and he could disappear into her, seek that white space of pleasure, find clarity folded within it. They hadn’t spoken in years, so this was definitely presumptuous, but it was nice to imagine. Ahmed just wanted to look at her, try to remember how her face moved when she couldn’t control it anymore, when everything was too much of a flood. Flood of her over him, flood of him into her, on her. Ahmed stared down at his erection and wondered what to do with it. There wasn’t time, he decided, and he could use it later. He tamped down his thoughts and stepped out of the shower, brushing his teeth before pulling on clean clothes. He grabbed his power bank from where it was charging beside the bed and headed downstairs. Thursday handed him a plate with an omelet and a cup of coffee.
“Ah, thank you.” Ahmed took the plate and a fork but waved the coffee away. “Can you put that in one of those ceramic to-go cups? I forgot I have a lunch meeting.”
Thursday frowned. “You’re not going to sleep?”
Ahmed paused with a mouthful of egg. “You sound like my mother. No, I’m not going to sleep. I’ll be fine with the coffee.”
“Okay o. I’ll get the car.”
“No need.” Ahmed shoved another mouthful of food down. “I’ll drive myself. You go and get some rest.”
Thursday paused. “What about Okinosho?”
Ahmed put his plate down. “Tell Kalu to stay in his house, that I’m coming by soon. And call me as soon as you get a confirmation that this is really happening. I’ll think of something by the time this meeting is over.”
Thursday raised an eyebrow but took the empty plate. “No problem.”
Five minutes later, Ahmed pulled out of his gate. The back of his neck was itchy, like a prophecy was stuck to it, that sense of the inevitable, that something very bad was coming and that no matter where or who he ran to, it was going to find him. What was that thing his father always used to say? Chicken wey run from Borno go Ibadan go still enter inside pot of soup. He grimaced at the memory. If he was the chicken, then all this was water boiling up to his chest, and his flesh was going to start floating apart any second now. If Okinosho hurt Kalu because of Ahmed and his parties, there was no way Ahmed would recover. Even if the pastor didn’t turn his vengeance in Ahmed’s direction, it wouldn’t matter. He would be cut down all the same, because Kalu was—Kalu was supposed to be under his protection more than any guest, any client. Ahmed refused to allow himself to think of anything else Kalu could have been to him, ghosts of a teenage night that had drifted away with the years.
There hadn’t been time for them to be anything other than what they were. Both of them had left, gone to other lives, other straight lives. When Kalu came to his parties and fucked women who weren’t Aima, Ahmed had ignored the wicked little part of him that enjoyed owning a part of Kalu that Aima would never see. He’d watched those women ride the broad expanse of his friend’s body, watched Kalu’s wide mouth fall open, and sometimes Kalu’s eyes would meet his as they came, and a surge of possessiveness would wash over Ahmed. Kalu was his. Afterward, it was nothing. His parties were worlds unto themselves, and they didn’t exist afterward. They couldn’t.
Ahmed gritted his teeth. He was not going to lose Kalu or himself over one stupid incident at a party. There had to be a way to keep it together. Until he figured out what that was going to be, he drove.
eight
Saturday, 12:45 PM
Ola stared into her mirror, her hands careful as she painted a deep-plum lipstick over her full mouth.
Next to the deep glossy dark brown of her skin, her lips looked like a swollen flower, her face a hooded garden. Ola never chose bright colors like pink or coral even though she knew they’d stand out against her skin. That look was too garish for her; she preferred to be rich and matte and luxurious with her makeup, wines and nudes and occasional shimmering metal over her flawless skin. Taking a step back in the hotel bathroom, Ola tilted her face and studied her reflection, the way her eyes were black pools fringed in mink, the hint of cruelty in her bones. She’d never been interested in pretending to be something soft—she knew her beauty was stark and alarming, and she welcomed it. Her dark skin, the lush pillows of her lips, and even her flared nostrils all added up to a face people didn’t always know how to look at. But Ola looked, because she’d taught herself how to.
Some things on her face she’d had to surgically change—her jaw, her chin—because she’d felt they were too masculine, like she couldn’t find the woman she was in them, only what other people saw. But things that advertised her Blackness? Ola wasn’t interested in cutting them away. She never cared when some of the girls challenged her on this, saying if she really felt that way, she wouldn’t wear weave, she’d rock her natural hair.
“Don’t be stupid,” she’d say. “No one can look at this face and this skin and think I’m trying to be anything other than Black as fuck, Nigerian as fuck, African as fuck.” She knew they were all jealous. Girls like her weren’t supposed to look this way and still get to where she’d gotten to.
Ola smiled a petty smile at the mirror, her eyes glittering, and slipped her lipstick into her purse. She smoothed down the silk of her blouse, then ran both hands behind her neck, lifting and fluffing out the weight of black curls that dropped to her waist. It was good to be winning. She checked her teeth for lipstick and hoped that whoever Souraya’s guy was would keep her entertained for the afternoon. With any luck, he’d even be a new client for the girl. Ola always worried that Souraya didn’t work as much as she could, that she spent too much time in her flat doing God knows what. “But what do we work for?” Souraya would say in response. “Isn’t it so we can enjoy ourselves, do what we like? That’s what I’m doing now.”
Ola frowned at the thought. There was no security in slowing down like that, not unless you had savings upon savings, property, things that meant that when you stopped you would never have to go back. Investments. One day she was going to disappear, use her money to reinvent herself, then pop back up with a different job, meet a different kind of man who knew nothing about her past—an artist, maybe—and settle down. On her own terms. Not like her clients’ wives. Shit, her husband wouldn’t even know about her assets; he would never find them or touch them.
Souraya didn’t understand. Yes, she’d been through terrible things—hadn’t they all?—but she had other things working for her that she didn’t even see. The fact that she was cis, that she was mixed, light skinned with that loose hair. Ola scoffed to herself. The girl was literally the world’s favorite type of Black woman. She had no idea how much more dangerous it was to move through the world like this, through a girlhood like theirs while being dark skinned and trans. She had no idea what it took to feel safe after that. Ola was proud, truly proud, of how hard she’d worked to create the world she lived in now, one where she was comfortable and protected. Where she’d made enough money to have all the gender-confirming surgeries she needed, the best recovery suites, how she’d literally built herself from the torn pieces people thought they’d left her in. The thought of her future was what pushed Ola now, and she had so much momentum, she was nearly flying.
A select few of her clients knew she was trans, and they paid exorbitant prices for that knowledge, for the privilege of being with and near her. This client was one of them, one of her most lucrative ones, in fact. Ola had been seeing him for about a year and a half now. The man was famous throughout Nigeria, his face looming on signboards and TV screens all over the country, his followers crooning his nickname until nearly everyone had forgotten what his real name was. Thomas Okinosho. Or as a few million people called him, Daddy O, the Overseer of the Rekindled Glory Church of God, which had branches in 175 countries in the world. His net worth was a rumor, perhaps fifteen million dollars, perhaps fifty. Ola was fairly sure it was much more than that—you always had to account for the hidden money, the secret assets. He was married, of course, with five children and a wife heavily involved in his church. Ola never asked about his family life because she didn’t give a shit, and he didn’t offer information because he didn’t give a shit either. That wife wasn’t going anywhere no matter what he did, but after a Snapchat scandal with some Canadian sex workers earlier that year, Thomas had become more guarded than before.
“I don’t have time for the wahala,” he’d told Ola when it happened. “There is too much of God’s work to be done.”
They had been in London then. She bent over to run her hands down the latex thigh highs she was wearing. “Amen, Daddy,” she said, keeping her voice serious. He’d been talking as he unbuttoned his shirt, putting his diamond cuff links carefully down on the carved wooden dresser of the hotel they were staying in, his eyes fixed on her.
“This mantle is truly heavy,” he had sighed. “But I do what I have been ordained to do.”
“I know you do, Daddy,” she’d agreed, through the fall of hair obscuring her face.
“Hmph,” he had grunted. “That’s enough of work talk.” He’d arranged himself in a plush armchair. “Come here.” She’d grinned then and obeyed. She always obeyed. Daddy O didn’t like disobedience, and if his mantle was heavy, his hand was heavier. She’d received a deed to a property in South London the next day.
Ola smiled through her plum mouth at the memory. If she behaved like Souraya, she could have taken off work for months after each visit with Thomas. Maybe even for a year or two. Sell one of her places; it would be easy. But Ola was always worried that she didn’t have enough, that if things were bad she would run out. It felt like she was always being chased, but one day, she knew that one day she would stop running and live. Live even better than she was living now.
She threw a lock of her curly hair over her shoulder and pouted at her reflection. Daddy O wanted to have lunch out instead of in one of his houses, and she was dressed reasonably conservatively for it, going for a bit more of a business look. Not that it really mattered what she wore, anyone seeing him out with a beautiful girl would wonder about his motives. She was surprised he was risking it after the scandal just a few months ago. He seemed to have changed his plans suddenly, texting her that one of his drivers would be coming to pick her up. It was a curt text, so Ola didn’t ask any questions. When the car arrived, she threw a silk scarf around her shoulders and hurried down. She was driven to one of her favorite restaurants, an Italian place with lovely lighting.
Ola walked in, already arranging her face into her most welcoming smile for Okinosho, but she faltered when she saw there was already someone sitting at the table with him. A girl around her own age, with long highlighted hair and, even Ola had to admit, a gorgeously done nude lip. She was wearing glasses that had translucent pink frames, turning over a menu in her hands as she looked through it.
“You’ve brought me a surprise,” Ola remarked as she came up to the table, and the girl’s eyes darted up. The pastor levered the tall bulk of his frame out of his chair to welcome Ola, squeezing her arm with a little more pressure than was necessary.
“Ah, you’ve arrived, my dear,” he said, brushing his cheek against hers. There was a subtle warning in his voice. “This is my goddaughter, Ijendu.” He gestured to the girl and Ola extended her hand across the table.
“It’s a pleasure,” she lied. “I didn’t know you were joining us for lunch.”
Okinosho pulled her chair out for her and Ola sat down, leaving the faint quizzical smile on her face.
“That’s my fault,” he said. “Ijendu wanted to talk to me about some of her business ideas and I mentioned I had to run out to lunch with one of my mentees. Once she found out you work in fashion, well, I couldn’t keep her away.”
Ijendu smiled at Ola warmly. “You look every bit as glamorous as I thought you would. I’m so glad I get to meet you.”
Ola didn’t look at Okinosho in case he saw how irritated she was. “Glad to meet you too.”
