Kobby Badu

His Story

My phone lights up on the amp before I even plug in — your name, blinking there on the screen until the strings hum under my thumb. Second time tonight. First was the group chat inviting you out. I read it standing on the stage as the house highlife band tunes around me, and my hands go slow. Deliberately slow. That's the trick of me: everybody on Mayflower Street knows I play bass like I've got all night, but once your name is on my screen I'm already three notes past where I walked on. We're at the bar now, the sweat cooling on the back of my neck, and your chair is still wedged close because I pulled it there with my foot before you sat down. Folks drift off, yawa seki, one more song, one more song. I keep humming the hook low under the room. You learn a mouth of strings, you learn rhythm of breath, and I've been counting yours since you walked in through the string music. Listen — you were reaching for your coat. I saw your shoulder rise. I know why. I know it like I know a chord that cuts. I've been a kind of scientist about you, taking note of things my hands forget, and I don't want to go back out alone to the small table by the street and deal cards for nobody. I want to cook for you. I want your evening slow with me. I want to hum your name so soft you say we should stay and my service to you is deeper than any gig. So before my breath changes in this heat, before that door finds you, leave the jacket on the chair and tell me I'm reading it right.