You Made a Fool of Death with Your Beauty

And that’s something I’ve learned in the years since, that there are so many different types of love, so many ways someone can stay committed to you, stay in your life even if y’all aren’t together, you know? And none of these ways are more important than the other.

He loved people being messy as fuck—he said it was one of the best things about being human, how we could make such disasters and recover from them enough to make them into stories later.

I think we're just figuring out how to survive a world on fire... that it's okay to be alive.

I feel like the world wanted to remind me that it loves me, and so it gave me him. It gave me a chance, that possibility he’s always talking about, and I seized it with both hands because I know, and Alim knows, how fucking rare it is for that door to open, even by a crack, and what it’s like when it closes.

Dimly, in the back of her head, alarm bells were clamoring, but she didn’t care. To hell with what trouble this would bring, she was alive. She was fucking alive, and Feyi knew that in that moment, she would burn anything, everything, a whole world just to hold on to that feeling.

Give me an archive of madness that rots. I wouldn't mind it one bit.

You feel like the first time in a long time I can even wonder about a possibility of not feeling alone

Emezi revealed the title for You Made a Fool of Death with Your Beauty was inspired by the song “Hunger” by Florence + The Machine, stating that listening to the band “stitched me together when my spirit was pulling itself apart.

You were like light. I couldn’t help but to turn my face to you if I wanted to keep living.

She wanted to take a picture of it but she already knew half the beauty would die inside a camera lens and she'd never quite catch the edges of it.

Feyi fought back a yawn—she hated pretending like she gave a fuck about some random man’s small talk.

if it's real, the distance won't change it.

I was so mad after he died because I knew he would think it was just going to become part of my story, a disaster I’d recover from, and it made me so angry because I didn’t want to recover. I didn’t want to keep having a story. I wanted our stories to run together and stop at the same time, so neither of us would have to be alone.

It's not your business what I do with my body, or what Alim does with his. You have no 'right' to me, we weren't together, we weren't even exclusive. You're not entitled to fuck me just because you were a decent human being and went along when I wasn't ready to be intimate with you, or be mad because I ended up fucking someone else. You don't get points for waiting for me. I didn't use you, I didn't lead you on. I went as far as I felt comfortable, and I stopped there.

She liked the city as an entity better; it didn't care who you were or what your damage was, it ate everyone up indiscriminately.

Everyone had always told Feyi growing up that she should stay away from bright colors, that they would be too garish against her dark skin, so it was a delight to stop listening to all of them, to lean into pastels and neons and metallics, rainbows cascading down her back.

She was glad Milan hadn’t gone looking for more. She was a little hurt he hadn’t gone looking for more.

It was like a fork in the road has closed, shut off by an avalanche of grief, choked with rocks and a broken heart. It wasn't supposed to open, and honestly, it still hadn't, but somehow, an entirely new path had formed, green and creeping.

turning her sadness into just a vague layer under her skin. All that would be left was its residue, giving her a certain spicy and inexplicable melancholy that some men could smell.

I’m me. I can cook anywhere in the world I want.” He stopped in front of her and smiled, full and radiant. “I’d cook anywhere in the world for you.

As she spread mayonnaise on the slices of bread and slid them into the sizzling rosemary butter, something tight eased up a little in Feyi's chest. She was alone, just with herself, remembering the creeping peace of putting something together on a flame, the sounds of bread turning gold, the rhythm of grating Gruyere cheese and layering it, then watching it soften and melt.

Guava-stuffed chicken with caramelized mango and a spicy mango mojito sauce. Alim had ruined mango for her, but every time Feyi remembered how shocked and open his face looked with desire, she wasn't sure she minded. There was a lemongrass-and-pineapple-glazed pork belly with Zanzibari spiced octopus, grilled jerk watermelon with couscous and a basil oil, and finally, a banana cream parfait with coconut shortbread alongside broiled pineapple with macadamia toffee, drizzled with rum caramel.

The room hushed as Alim introduced the first course, and everyone cooed over their plates---fresh oysters in a pool of black squid ink bouillon, served on stark-white china with a sliver of pickled onion and a bright strip of shaved Scotch bonnet on top. There was a dash of black bouillon inside the oyster shell and a rocket flower on the side, delicate and white. Feyi sipped at the accompanying drink, an expensive champagne with pomegranate seeds in it.

Nasir made a plate of food for her, heaping bright green rice next to a red spill of the curried goat, layering slices of breadfruit by the edge of her plate. Feyi thanked them both awkwardly, then ate in blissful silence as flavors unfurled in her mouth, Joy would kill to be here. Feyi tried to remember everything so she could describe it to her best friend later, the way the breadfruit melted in her mouth, how easily the curried goat dripped off its bone, how fragrant the rice was.

It looked like a dream. She couldn't even see the house from the gate, just a long driveway lined with trees filled with pink and white flowers, hummingbirds darting through the air, monkeys peering between the leaves, and the sun washing gold over everything.

For a moment, there was the scream of tires and the mad chime of broken glass, the soft petals of white lilies, and a clod of dirt breaking apart in Feyi’s hand, but she brushed it all aside like smoke. “Single,” she’d said in return, stepping right into his personal space. He smelled of rain and bergamot.

When I saw your work

It’s ours. And just because it’s just us in it right now doesn’t mean it’s not real. You’re real

Do you mean that? If you’re telling me you’re not worth it