“Force of habit. How is she?” I carried on creeping into the turquoise living room and lay facedown on the cream leather sofa, burying my face into similarly colored cushions that were covered in smears of dark-brown foundation.
“Tired, fam. They’ve got her working nights in the nursing home in Camberwell, then she has to go straight to her day job at the Maudsley.”
“And when exactly does she sleep?” I turned my head to look at her and was faced with a television that filled the whole wall across from me.
“She gets to nap, I think, when the old people are sleeping, but, like, she doesn’t actually sleep sleep, if you get me. ’Cause she’s on call. But she’s been doing this for years, so she’s used to it. How’s your—” Kyazike hesitated.
“How’s what?” I asked.
“Sorry. I was about to ask how your mum was.”
“I’m sure she’s fine. Probably still trying to grow a spine,” I growled, my mood plummeting fast.
“Is she, er . . . she still in that hostel?” The only time Kyazike went into any conversation with trepidation was when she asked about my mum.
“I don’t know,” I told her firmly, wanting to shut the conversation down. “Last thing I heard was whisperings about a court case.”
“Mad ting. Anyway, let me tell you about this date I went on,” Kyazike said, desperate to lift the mood. “Have you got the stuff?”
“When you say ‘stuff,’ do you mean the snacks?” I said, chucking the bag over to her. “I’m not your dealer.”
Kyazike reached in for the Cheetos and started munching on them. “Fam, let me tell you. I was at work the other day, and—oh! I beg you, do me a favor.” She jumped up and left the room. I picked up the remote and turned on the sixty-inch TV. The brightness nearly blew my eyes out.
“New TV big enough?” I called out.
Kyazike walked back into the living room. “It’s not like we’re gonna be able to buy a house in London, is it? We’re in this council flat for life, fam. You think my mum can get a mortgage? And African family rules say I’m not leaving until I’ve got a mortgage, and we all know that ain’t happening. Might as well spend our money on things that will make us happy.”
“Yeah, or things that will make you blind,” I said. “It’s as big as the room.”
“I beg you take my weave out?” Kyazike handed me a razor blade. “It’s long overdue, and my hairdresser will charge me just to unpick the string.”
“Have you got any Blu Tack?” I asked, holding the blade carefully between the nails on my thumb and forefinger.
“What for?” she asked, confused.
“If I squash the blade in some Blu Tack, it won’t slice my fingers when I hold it,” I said knowingly. “I’ve learned from my mistakes. I’m evolving.”
Kyazike went over to a shelving unit and lifted the Ugandan flag that hid various compartments holding various things. She rummaged around.
“There you go.” She threw a packet at me and sat on the laminate floor between my legs. I got to work on the weave as Kyazike flicked through music channels and settled on MTV Base, our historic favorite.
“Right, so listen, yeah.” As the most beautiful person I’ve ever laid eyes on, and with a consumer-facing job, Kyazike gets asked out on a daily basis. More frequently than daily. By the hour. Her dark skin is the richest, softest I’ve ever felt; her dark, sharp eyes are framed by fake eyelashes that enhance their shape; and the rest of her features, so well-defined and delicate, make her look like she has royal ancestry.
Her relaxed hair has been short since secondary school, but these days she prefers to buy a “sixteen-, eighteen-, or twenty-inch Brazilian weave at ￡350 a pop.” She, and the men who frequently slide into her DMs, describe her body as “thicc”; ultimately, she is a black girl body goals. Long, delicate, slim arms and legs, a tiny waist, big, firm breasts that sit high on her chest, and a firm, round bum that doesn’t jiggle like mine when she walks. “It’s that gym life, Queenie,” she said every time she caught me comparing my heavy limbs and soft stomach silently. “You can tone up. Anyway, body ain’t everything.”
“So I must have been serving some any woman who’s counting out her pennies, and I look in the queue behind her and the buffest guy ever is standing there waiting,” Kyazike started energetically. “I’m trying to get this woman to hurry up in case he goes to Sandra next to me, but she’s taking tiiiime so I tell her that my computer has frozen and she needs to go to the next window.” She paused to chomp on her Cheetos.
“So anyway, the guy comes to my bay. He’s so buff, he’s light-skin, he’s got these hazel eyes, and his hair? Waves, fam, like the ocean. The eye contact is strong and he’s biting his lip when he’s chatting to me, so I know he’s feeling me. But then I check his accounts: minus four hundred pounds in his current, six grand in debt on his credit card. Queenie, I just bid him a good day and let him pass—”
I stopped hacking at the thick string holding the weave in place. “But this could have been ‘the one,’ Kyazike. What if you fell in love? You could have financially guided hi—”
“Financially guided who? Excuse me, Queenie, I cannot be with someone in that much debt. I have a lifestyle that needs sustaining. My Mr. Right cannot have minus money.”
“All right, all right, sorry.” I carried on trying with my task, putting the razor blade down and trying to disentangle the string with my fingers.
“So. Behind him is some small guy. Looks Ghanaian. He’s aight.” Kyazike shrugged. It didn’t matter that I was looking at the back of her head; her body language was as expressive as her face. “Not as buff as my man before him, but still, he’s passable. Anyway, I check his account, and my man has cash money. I’m talking six figures, fam. No credit cards, no minuses in sight. So we chat, and he slips me his card, tells me to call him. I look at it, he’s called Sean, I see that he works in finance, cool, but told him that I don’t call guys, they call me. You know what I’m saying?” I would never have the self-esteem to know what she was saying.
“I wrote my number on the back of his card and handed it to him. That night, he calls me, telling me he’s going to take me out, treat me like a princess, telling me how he knows what a girl like me deserves, and how he’s going to give it to me, all that. So I’m like, aight, cool—can you pass me a cushion?”
I passed Kyazike a cushion and waited as she slid it under her bum. “So we arrange to go out on Sunday just gone. Are you still with me?”
“Yep. Just got to concentrate on this bit, it’s a bit tricksy,” I said, peering into the maze of canerows, black string, and weave.
“Don’t cut my hair, you know. I don’t have much after the relaxer’s burned it out,” Kyazike warned me. “Okay, so, before the date, I text Sean and I ask him where we’re going,” she continued. “He tells me it’s a surprise, so I’m like, okay, fine, but I need to know so that I’m properly dressed, innit. He still doesn’t tell me, so I think, okay, it must be a surprise. He must want to take me somewhere fancy. He tells me he’s coming at four, so I get in the bath at one, I soak myself in oils and that so I’m smelling all nice, I straighten my hair, give it a little twist at the ends with the curlers, and listen, my makeup is on point, Queenie. Now, remember, this guy has money, so I slip into my black Balmain dress and I wear the Louboutin thigh-high boots. I’m not ramping with him, you know.”
She paused to eat some more Cheetos. “So I’m sat there ready and waiting at four, where is he, please? Not here. I’m giving him five more minutes until I go and take my makeup off. He turns up at three minutes past. Wasting my time.” Kyazike kissed her teeth. “He texts me to say he’s in the car waiting outside. Lemme just go wee.” Kyazike stood up, putting all of her weight on my thighs as she did. She stretched her legs, and hobbled to the bathroom.