Butter Honey Pig Bread

by Francesca Ekwuyasi

She chuckled nervously again. “What will you have? Let me get you something.” “A London fog,” Taiye told the barista. “Coconut milk and honey, please.”

I DON’T NOTICE THE EXTENT OF FAROUQ’S DRUNKENNESS until we’re walking home from Isabella’s engagement party. Each step seems hilariously laborious, and he’s laughing at everything. It takes us more than twice as long to get back as it did to get to Isabella’s place. We walk arm in arm, and thanks to the electronic mix of Fela’s Expensive Shit album, which played in the last moments before we left the party, he’s singing, “Water water water no get enemy e ee” over and over, until we arrive at the gates of our compound.

“Do you think Isabella suffers because she’s closeted?” I ask. “Maybe.” With a broad, red-handled knife, Taiye cuts into the soft yellow-green skin of the pawpaw. A firm push down and the fruit falls open in two even halves, tiny juicy black seeds glistening in the candlelight. “Maybe her brain just doesn’t make enough serotonin, and she needs help,” Taiye continues. “But you know our people. Nigerians don’t get depressed. She really should just pray it away.” She chuckles as she guts the fruit.

“What’s this?” I ask, lifting the lid off a bowl with fleshy chunks covered in a fragrant red paste. “Catfish.” Taiye pours a cupful of brown liquid through a small sieve over a red mug. “Marinating in turmeric, ginger, garlic, and stuff …”

Silence emerges again, as onions caramelize to a translucent golden brown, and then she asks me to add the rice and sauté it for a moment before adding the saffron liquid, three cups of water, and salt. In the time it takes the saffron rice to cook through, the catfish vindaloo is ready, and Taiye has made us black tea with evaporated milk and honey from her hive.

“That is the culture of this firm: honesty, integrity, diligence. We won’t waste your time if you don’t waste ours. I’ve interviewed eight other candidates today, and everyone has been rubbish, barely able to string a sentence together. I see you have a certificate from LSE, and you worked in microfinance, not bad. You’re a bit young. You have a family?” “I do.” Banji leaned forward in his chair. “A wife and twins, they’re eight years—” The interviewer cut him off. “The hours here are long. We have international clients who expect fu—” “Apologies for interrupting,” Banji said. “I’m exceptional at what I do. I may not have done it for very long, but I work smart, I work quickly, and my numbers are flawless. I want this job.” Pleased with Banji’s forwardness, the interviewer took a long pause before asking, “When can you start?” “That depends on the salary.” The interviewer flipped open the paper file on his desk and pushed it toward Banji. There was a work contract with the salary highlighted in yellow. Banji looked down at it, cleared his throat, and then looked up at the interviewer and said, “I can start tomorrow.”

Something you must know is that Kambirinachi and Death were no strangers—no, but certainly not friends, either. Kambirinachi knew Death from before before. And regardless of what Kambirinachi thought about her, or what the world knows about her, Death is not, in fact, a dreary, hooded, scythe-bearing bore. She is a doorway personified, vibrant and hilarious, quite whimsical, actually. But she takes her job very seriously, more diligently than the tides that pull back the ocean’s skirts. She is prompt and focused, and this is what Kambirinachi loathed about her. Having done it herself, Kambirinachi knew that one can deny one’s nature, and she believed that one ought to, sometimes, decline the pull of one’s blood to run its course.

“I don’t want you,” said Death. “I collect only what I’m owed. Otherwise, everything unravels.”

Death had nothing soothing to say, yet she tried. “You have little ones. He lives in their faces, in their blood, too. Look there and be content.”

The whole house grew cold. The windows seemed to shrink and the ceilings rise higher.

On the days she had Hachim, dinner was simple: stir-fried veggies and rice, tofu scramble on molasses seed bread, baked sweet potatoes with tahini and black beans. Hachim was two years into veganism, a choice he made after a class visit to a small pig farm where they learned the origin of bacon. He had come home distraught and determined not to eat animals.

The sultry melodies of D’Angelo’s Brown Sugar met Taiye when she arrived. “I like this song,” she said, as she stepped in through the heavy wooden doors. “It’s … smooth.” “Yeah, I’m trying to seduce you.” Salomé chuckled. “I can’t compete with your cooking, so I’ve enlisted the help of D’Angelo and the other Soulquarians.”

“So, um, Questlove, Bilal, Common,” she counted the names on her fingers and frowned, trying to remember, “J Dilla—rest in power—um, Mos Def, Erykah Badu, Roy Hargrove, D’Angelo … um, James Poyser, Q-Tip, Talib Kweli, and Pino Palladino.” She laughed on an exhale and clapped her palms together. “These brilliant, brilliant artists formed a neo-soul collective in the late nineties. They produced some of the sexiest, most provocative music to date, in my not-so-humble opinion.”

The two black leather couches tucked in the corner of the room had small stacks of books piled at their feet. Taiye recognized Audre Lorde’s Zami, Patricia H. Collins’s Black Feminist Thought, Christina Sharpe’s In the Wake: On Blackness and Being.

“What do you have?” she asked. Salomé looked into the fridge. “Water, tea, guava juice, soda water, and chocolate oat milk in a juice box.” “Guava juice, please.” “Ice?” “No, thank you.”

“What am I smelling?” “Do you like it?” “Smells incredible.” “Oh, good. It’s kimchi stew with pork belly.” “Ooh, fancy,” Taiye teased. “You made it?” “Um, yes, I definitely painstakingly made an order from Song’s Korean.” She laughed and scratched her head sheepishly. “I am cooking rice from scratch, though. In a rice cooker, but still.” Taiye laughed with Salomé. “But still, well done.”

“Can I help?” “Absolutely not.” Salomé pointed at a padded bar stool at the kitchen island. “You get cozy over there and tell me about your day—um, in one second.” She disappeared into the pantry beside the fridge and returned with two red onions and a small paper bag of cremini mushrooms. She scooped softened coconut oil into a red plastic measuring cup, and then scraped some of that into a cast-iron skillet.

“What are you smiling at?” Salomé asked when she turned around. “You.” Taiye couldn’t help her smile if she tried; her lips were doing whatever they wanted. “Come here.” Salomé walked right into an open-mouthed kiss. She sighed and sank into it, just as the deep bass began its thrumming on D’Angelo’s “Shit, Damn, Motherfucker.” She pulled away halfway through the second chorus.

“Salomé, you’re really interesting.” “I’m really not.” She smiled, both embarrassed and elated by Taiye’s gaze. “I’ve just lived a decade longer.” “That’s not it; don’t be patronizing.” “My bad.” Salomé took Taiye’s hand.

“Tell me.” Taiye held her gaze and smiled that lopsided smile that made it difficult for Salomé to deny her. “Um, well, I was adopted,” Salomé said as she put their plate—licked clean—away at the foot of the bed and fell under the covers beside Taiye. “It was a closed adoption, so I don’t know my birth family.” She placed her head on Taiye’s chest and closed her eyes.

“What’s your adoptive family like?” “They’re very lovely people. Deeply prejudiced, but lovely.” “White?” “Yeah.” “Racist?” “Inherently, but, you know, the well-meaning kind.” She laughed.

“Damn.”

“What happened?” “It was a long process of questioning. I started getting really interested in learning about my Blackness early on, so as soon as I turned nineteen, I applied for and got my call to serve, um, which is like a call to become a missionary. I went to Haiti, met a woman, you know how it goes.” “So, you fell in love and walked away from your faith?” “A little bit.” She chuckled.

“What did you tell them?” “Just that I’d always known that I was queer, and had been prepared to put it away, but meeting this woman who was Black and queer, and liked me back, um, I couldn’t ignore that.” “What did they say?”

“They were devastated. They’re devout, and they’d done everything right by the church, and here I was, throwing a wrench into their whole situation.”

“It’s all good. It’s been so long, and when I got sober and pregnant, I reconnected with my older sister, and have slowly been reconnecting with one of my older brothers who I suspect is closeted, so it’s not entirely sad.”

“What happened with the Haitian girl?” “Oh, we reconnected after I left home and figured out social media, but we just stayed friends. She’s married now, lives in Oakland.”

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” she said.

“Thank you for listening.” Salomé kissed Taiye’s knuckles.

“I’ve been officially Canadian for six years, it’s my patriotic duty to apologize for everything all the time.” “You’re a patriot.” “I am,” she said in a yawn.

“According to our mother, I started sleepwalking after our father died. She thought I was searching for him in my sleep, but, you know, she’s funny sometimes. We had an aunt, really just a distant relative who came to live with us. She came with her partner, this alcoholic guy we called Uncle Ernest. He was a real disgusting person. I couldn’t stand the sight of him. It’s like I could never really see his face, it just kept, like, shifting or flickering … I … we were small, like eleven or twelve, I’m not sure … I was under Kehinde’s bed, reading a book to her or something; the power was out. And he came into her room. I don’t think he knew I was there. He attacked her. He tried to rape her.” Taiye tried to control her breathing.

She choked, and Salomé moved to hold her, wound her arms tight around her. Taiye continued, despite the tightening in her throat.

“I have these memories. They are muddy, but sometimes I get these glimpses. I think I heard him—” her breathing bypassed her attempts at control and picked up a panicked pace.

Deep sinking devastation wound tight in her gut. “I swear I didn’t remember. I barely remember now, but I think I knew … somewhere inside inside, I think I knew. Am I not truly sickening?”

Salomé looked at Taiye, stunned.

“You don’t have to apologize for anything.” She held Taiye’s clammy, shaking hands in her own. “He—” “I can’t catch my breath,” Taiye wheezed. “I think you’re having an anxiety attack.” Salomé’s voice was gentle. “Breathe with me, okay?” She took a slow, exaggerated breath, and Taiye mimicked her. Then slowly let it out. They inhaled and exhaled in sync until Taiye calmed down.

“You have no reason to apologize.” Salomé stroked her face. “I’m so sorry that happened. My heart hurts for you. It’s not your fault. You know that, right?” But Taiye was silent.

THE MORNING THAT FOLLOWED OFFERED A PROMISE OF LIGHTNESS.

The electric kettle refused to switch on, so she set a small pot of water on the stove to boil, and then searched the cupboards for tea. Salomé’s tea collection was impressive. She had bags and boxes of loose-leaf English breakfast, South African rooibos, lemongrass, lemon verbena, herbal blends that Taiye didn’t recognize, licorice root, valerian root. Most of them with labels from the tea shop where they’d first seen each other. Taiye selected a matcha, and with a quick peek in the fridge, found some coconut milk. A rummage through the cutlery drawer proved fruitful: she found a small whisk and was frothing bright green matcha in hot water and coconut milk, just as a groggy and topless Salomé joined her in the kitchen. “Hey,” she said. “Good morning.” “Morning.” Taiye smiled and continued to whisk.

Taiye nodded. “I don’t think I want to talk to you about that for a bit.” “Fair enough.” “It’s all good. But hey, remember what we did before I cried on you and had a panic attack?” “Yeah, that was dope.” “It was. Let’s do that again.” “You’re trying to change the subject.” “I am.” “It’s working.”

“I, um, I’d like to keep doing this,” she said, “um, with you … if you’re into it?” Taiye chewed slowly, relishing Salomé’s shyness. “Even after my freak-out last night?” “Yeah, even after you expressed emotions like any other human being would.” Taiye laughed at this, took another bite. “No pressure at all,” Salomé continued. “I’m just having a great time, and I wanted to say it out loud.”

“Your lover in Montreal,” Taiye said. “What’s her name?” Salomé didn’t flinch. “Her name is Angharad.” “What’s it like between you two?” “It’s good, we’ve known each other a long time.” “Why non-monogamy?” “Monogamy hasn’t worked for me.” “What would it look like, you and me?”

“With the freedom to see whoever else you’d like, well, um, except my students or colleagues.” “That’s your only boundary?” “My only non-negotiables, yeah.”

“I like you.” “I know.” “I’d like to keep seeing you.” Salomé smiled and relaxed into her chair. Later that night, back in the quiet of her place, Taiye turned to Our Lady and confided, “I don’t think I’ll be the same.” After her? “Yes,” she replied, wishing there would be no after.

Taiye’s least-favourite vice, the brittle glass beast that is Envy, she reared her fragile head when Salomé spent a couple of weeks in Montreal, presenting at a decolonial Black feminist conference, and visiting Angharad. And Taiye, instead of tending to this particularly unyielding creature of her own concoction, scorned and suppressed it, until it imploded.

Taiye nestled into Salomé, ignoring Our Lady’s suggestion that she simply tell her: I feel jealous. This is new for me. She closed her eyes and basked in the affection of Salomé’s warm hand, stroking her cheek. The first week of Salomé’s absence stretched near-infinite to Taiye. Restlessness found her fretting at the thought of being forgotten.

Surely the proverbial tables had taken a swift one-eighty, and Taiye had become the hapless, pining lover. It didn’t help that word from Salomé was scarce and slow to come. Intellectually, Taiye understood—she knew the rules of the game and, in fact, had enough in her own life to fill the space of Salomé’s absence. But emotionally, she wrestled with the unwieldy jaw of her envy.

“You know, I, um, I know where you are … I know this place, I’ve been there. I can’t go back there … put my sobriety on the line like that. A decade ago, I would be diving right into … you, even after this.” Her voice was ragged, and she wiped away her tears quickly. “But I have Hachim now, I can’t risk it.” She shook her head. “I have to go.”

“Madam,” she said, kneeling at Kambirinachi’s bedside, “the aunty wey been dey stay with us, Sister Funke, she don comot.” Sister Bisi sniffed and wiped her swollen eyes. “Her and that her husband, dem don comot, dem no good.” She shook her head and looked fiercely into Kambirinachi’s eyes. “Madam, you understand wetin I dey try tell you?” Tears welled up in Sister Bisi’s eyes, but she blinked them away. “You understand?” Kambirinachi understood.

“Bitch, I’m in Amsterdam. Where are you?” “Of course you’re in Amsterdam!” She laughs, full-bellied and joyous. “I’m in Lagos.” “The motherland.” “You should come visit so we can catch up properly.” “Are you kidding? Because I’ll come. I have some time off, and I’m trying to do my gay African Eat Pray Love.”