A Strawberry Matcha Affair: a short story

The Strawberry Purée

“Shake your waist for Daddy”, I said as I held the tip of her kayak.

“I don’t have Daddy issues!” Funmi scoffed as she struggled to keep her balance.

I laughed.

“Alright, alright. Shake your waist for Zaddy,” I chuckled. She scowled. A scowl that threatened to chop my head off. But I loved it anyway. She looks cute when she pretends to be furious.

“Sokari!” feigning anger, “Be serious,” she says.

“I’m being serious. I need you to shake your waist. Okay, more accurately, move your hips from side to side, so you calibrate your balance and get used to being on water.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Also, stretch your hands forward, away from your kayak”. With my left hand, I guided her arms—slowly—towards my chest. And with my right hand, I gently placed the paddle in her palms.

It had been the perfect evening to be on the water: 25 degrees, calm waves on the Inner Harbour, and the perfect person by my side.

Even now, I smile whenever memories of that day come to mind. It wasn’t our first date, but teaching her how to kayak is one of my fondest memories. Her smile, her scowl, the way she tipped over and blamed me for it—despite having nothing to do with it.

“What can I do for you today S.K.? The Usual?” Peter smiles as he finishes up with the customer in front of me.

“Yeah. But with a caveat.” I say, smiling in return.

“Oh? Go on”.

“Can I have it all packed in its raw state?”, another customer walks in, I take my voice down a notch, “The matcha and strawberry puree, packed separately. I have milk, I’ll mix the final thing myself.” With a pleading look I add, “I can pay more for the inconvenience.”

“Hmm… I don’t really do that.” Sorting out the cash register, he adds, “Why do you want it like that?”

“It’s for my… it’s for my friend“. The words taste wrong as they roll off my tongue—Friend. “She’s out of town. She really loves your Strawberry Matcha. And I want to take it to her.”

“Funmi?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s sweet. I don’t do that. But for you, this one time. I got you.”

“You sir, are a good man.” Peter smiles and heads to the back to grab everything he’ll need.

He’s such a sweet soul. And his bakery—or cafe—is simply the best on Toronto’s waterfront. I’ve become a regular ever since he set up shop. The white walls, ceramic counters, and gold-accented counter tops give the shop a clean chic look. Baked goods all properly packaged and on display behind a glass shelf, with chairs that face a large window to encourage people watching. His place is effortlessly classy and cozy—kinda like Funmi.

I remember the day we met. Not unlike today, a beautiful summer Thursday. That evening, myself, some other locals and a few tourists alike, were gathered around the weeping willow at the music garden, waiting in anticipation for the pianist to begin his performance. I sat on one of the ledges, a little to the back—with a good view—facing the willow tree.

As I munched on my snacks and my eyes roamed the garden, I nearly choked when I saw her. A cute face and a round nose with a gold ring that glistened in the sun. Her hair’s a perfect 90s throwback—full puffy afro wrapped in a white bandana with green floral motifs. I took my airpods off my ears, just so I could see her clearly.

Like her nose, her lips glistened, revealing the perfect structure; her mini skirt hanging low on broad hips, revealing beautiful abs beneath her white crop top.

Dear God!

She’s way in front of me, closer to the pianist; she glides towards her friends and laughs when she trips on something and falls into their embrace. What’s that laugh? And can I get more of it?

All through the performance, all I could think of was her. I simply must have her.

As the performance drew to a close, the weather changed. It threatened to rain. And once the show ended, there was a standing ovation, but almost immediately, people started filling out the garden to escape the rain. A light drizzle had started. And in the mist of the chaos, I lost track of both her and her friends—Fuck.

I looked in every corner my eyes could reach, but no luck. So I started walking west, heading home. The rain intensified, there’s no getting home without being drenched. So I took brisk steps towards Amsterdam Brewhouse for shelter.

Inside the pub, I sat at the bar, sipping a Virgin Patio Punch while waiting for the rain to stop. Then it happened—She walked in. She fucking walked in! Her once puffy afro had shrunk a bit from the rain, but her lips still glistened under the large neon sign—#ABH. She couldn’t look any cuter if she tried.

“Here you go S.K.” Peter hands me a bag containing all the things I asked for, in properly sealed plastic cups.

“Thanks! Thanks so much. You're a life saver!” I tap my card, and leave a generous tip. “In fact, more Jollof for you.”

“Aee! Be careful now. I might just hold you to that.”

We both laugh. I exit the cafe. And start my walk towards Union.

Walking towards the station, Queens Quay hits me with its usual sensory assault—the sound of traffic from the Gardiner, planes overhead making their way to Billy Bishop, birds chirping on Sugar Beach, and the massive Federal Welland Vessel unloading sugar into the Redpath factory.

It’s almost always a lively scene at the waterfront. A running club—or dating club as Funmi calls them—jogs past me, most of them looking like fitness influencers whose philosophy seems to be: suns out, guns out, bums out!

But despite the chaos, I love it.

It’s crazy how much sensory overload becomes normal after prolonged exposure.

Getting close to Young Street, I see the NBA Courtside Restaurant, one of my favourite bars.

I smile. And just like that, I’m back to that night.

In no time she walked up to the bar and sat two stools away from me—to my left.

No crew, just her, a few meters away from me. If this isn’t a gift from the universe, I don’t know what is. It’s like—

“You should take a picture. It’ll last longer”, she says, stirring her drink with a look I couldn't quite read.

Shit. I didn’t realize I was gawking. Go big or go home then, I thought.

“Naa… I was thinking we make a video instead.” I could feel her stare dig holes into my head, from shock, disbelief or pure hate. Then she shook her head, half laughed and half sighed.

“Does that ever work for you?”

“Aee… you caught me off guard, I had to think quick. Admittedly not my best work.”

“Uh huh. So… why’ve you been staring at me like I stole something from you?” She took a sip of her drink, “I’m pretty sure you did the same thing at the garden.”

“Ahh. Sorry.” Wait a minute, “But how’d you notice me noticing you?” I chuckled. “So you too were staring eh?”

With a look that screamed guilty, she looked away from me and stared into her drink, “No,” she replied unconvincingly; her right hand cleaning off a rain drop that had slid down the side of her right cheek, from her now shrunken hair; revealing a cute blush.

“Anyways,” I said, with renewed confidence, “ You did steal something from me.”

“Oh? Pray tell. What did I steal?”

“My gaze. You’ve got my undivided attention.” I smirked. She laughed—A win!

“You’re funny.”

“Too cheesy?” I smile. “Also, the book you’ve got there, is it a paid actor?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve got the white bandana with green patterns; a white and green pair of Jordans; and now a green book to compliment the look. I love it.” She tittered.

“Well, thank you! And no, it’s not a paid actor. It’s just a book I’m reading right now.”

“By who?”

“It’s ‘Other Worlds’ by André Alexis.”

Okay, she just got hotter.

“Oh nice! That’s the new book yeah? I haven’t read it yet. Is it any good?” Her brows furrowed in suspicion of my knowledge of André, or that I read fiction, not sure which.

“It’s really good actually. You a fan?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I love the way he writes.”

“Say more,” she said, taking a long sip of her drink.

“His writing is very peculiar.” I tilted my head to the right, staring at nothing in particular, trying to find the right words. “He doesn’t just write to get a point across. He has fun with it. Grammatical gymnastics sprinkled around, they’re not redundant or filler words, but you can tell he’s having fun.”

“Wow. Okay. That’s, that’s apt! I couldn’t agree more.” Her eyes lit up in excitement. “But honestly though, the man stresses me out sometimes,” she said with an exhausted look. “Not just with the gymnastics, but with the plot. Especially with this one.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s a collection of short stories. Some of them weird, a lot of them leave you with more questions than answers. It’s stressful honestly.” She sighed. “And yet, I’m still reading it.”

I chuckled.

“Well, now I definitely have to get it.” I grin. Then suddenly remembering something important, I blurted out. “Shit.”

“What?” She dropped her drink, her eyes with concern, now fixed on me.

“I realize we've been chatting for a bit and I don’t even know your name. I’m S.K. You?”

She shook her head and half smiled.

“Was wondering when you’d ask. I’m Funmi. Is S.K short for something?”

“Yeah. Sokari.”

We would go on to chat for another hour or so, time sliding by like a movie montage. The rain had long stopped and neither of us noticed. We kept waving the waitress away who kept asking if we wanted to order food yet. I’d learn she was just spending the summer in Toronto, then back to Kingston for school. We talked about books, movies, and hobbies. We both agreed The Office is simply the greatest show of all time.

We talked about F1 and how we both like Hamilton of course, but she started out by saying “Vesterpan’s my guy sha”, just to rile me up. And she did, just a little. We talked about where we both were during the 2021 Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, its final moments, and how we both felt. Our excitement, palpable.

“I was in pain,” she exclaimed.

“Michael Masi, that bastard,” I sighed.

“I know! We were so close.” Her face creased in pain, as if reliving those moments.

I like her, I really really like her.

“I could kiss you right now,” I said without realizing I’d said it out loud.

Her facial expression changed—a little taken aback, unsure, maybe a little embarrassed.

Like before, she looked away from me, hesitated, “Oh yeah?” she half grinned, “What’s stopping you?” her voice uncertain.

“Say less.”

My left hand behind her hair, my thumb grazing her right cheek, my face drawn close to hers. I planted one. Then another. And by the third I didn’t know who was kissing who. Her lips tasted like summer—an explosion of colors. I wanted more.

“Come home with me,” I whispered.

“Sir,” she said, her lips still locked in mine.

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to my house.” She pulled away.

“Wait… What? Why?” I said, confused.

“Because I pay rent.”

“So people who pay rent don’t go visiting?” I pleaded.

“Visiting?” she said, making air quotes. “Sokari. I don’t know you.” She made a show of packing her things and got off her stool.

“I beg to differ.” I got off my stool too. “We’ve spent the better part of an hour getting acquainted.”

“And that’s enough time for you to shag me?” she said with a stern look.

“I mean, when you put it that way…” I scratched my head, “Yes. Absolutely! Yes!”

She smiled and walked towards the exit. I joined her, but the only thing I’d be getting that night was her number.

The weeks that followed were full of more dates—watching plays at Soulpepper, bike rides along Cherry street, hang outs at Biidaasige Park, visits to the Powerplant Contemporary Art Gallery, and so on. Each one of them left me longing for more. And perhaps that’s what made the kayaking date so memorable.

By the time we left the shores of Toronto Island Sailing Club, she was more comfortable on the water. So we started our expedition to circumnavigate Muggs Island in our kayaks.

“Can you swim?” she said, as she took short rapid strokes.

“Me? Can I swim?” I slowed down a bit, “Me? An original son of the soil. Amayanabo one. First of his kind, can I swim?”

“Jesus. Simple question oo.” She rolled her eyes. “Simple question. Yes or no.”

“Well, if you must know, I can in fact swim.” I grinned.

She giggled.

“What does Ama—, Amaha—”

“Amayanabo?” I said smiling.

“Yes. What does it mean?” She says as she cuts through the water with her paddle.

“It means kingship. Royalty in Kalabri.”

“So… like an Oba?”

“Yeah. Exactly like that.”

“Mmm… So you’re royalty, with the big compound, and servants always within earshot?”

I laughed, as we got close to the south west corner of Muggs Island.

“I mean. Only if a Three bedroom bungalow somewhere in Buguma, with five other siblings who double as servants counts.” I grinned. “But no. I’m not. Only in spirit.”

“You should’ve stuck with it. I might’ve believed you.”

“Really?”, I said, turning my head to the right to look at her.

“Maybe. I guess we’ll never know.”

“Damit!” I said, feigning frustration as I slammed my paddle to the right, and a bit of water splashed on her.

“Oh, so that’s what we’re doing?” She slowed down, leaned to her left, angled her paddle, made a brisk sweep, and in no time there was water in my face.

It became a water fight.

I responded right back. Soaking her cute crop top and PFD in the process. She braced herself, went for a long left sweep, she leaned too hard to the left, and within seconds it happened.

She tipped over—fuck.

When we got back to the Harbourfront, she was soaked from head to toe and freezing. She also had no change of clothes.

“My place is just a stone stroll from here.” I said gently, “You can clean up and get into something warm.”

“I’m not going to your house!” She frowned.

“You can’t go home like this.” I pleaded, getting her out of her PFD. “You’re soaked. Even if you call an Uber, you'll soak their seats too.”

She sighed in frustration.

“This is all your fault!”

I didn’t argue, I couldn’t argue.

She eventually gave in, and we walked to mine. As soon as we made it up the elevator and into my apartment, I pointed to the shower and everything else she needed.

In the living room while I waited, I connected my phone to the speakers and queued Tuff Times Never Last by Kororoko. Never Lost started playing.

Thirty minutes later she walked out; wrapped up in one of my plush towels.

“This is a really good band.” She was drying her hair with a smaller towel. “Who are they?”

At this point I was lost in a trance.

Jesus….This woman is beautiful. I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t hear shit. Not with all of that standing in front of me.

“Sokari” her voice up a decibel, “Who are they?”

I stood up, walked towards her, saying nothing but keeping my focus on her.

“What?” she said, her eyes questioning my every step.

I said nothing.

A few meters from her, my face in her space, I stared into her eyes. She knew. I could see it in those beautiful eyes. I could see her brain working overtime, trying to stop the inevitable, trying to fight it. But a kiss sealed her fate.

Her towel dropped—there was no going back now.

What had started in the living room had made its way to the study, backs and palms smashing piano keys as body parts collided. Each keystroke accented with a pelvic thrust.

Like two feral ferrets going at it. It was primal. It was chaos. It was sweet. And when we crescendoed, a sweet crescendo, she coiled up on my chest.

“Fuck…” she gasped, “me…”, her voice uneven, under heavy breathing.

“I’m pretty sure I just did,” I smirked. “But we can go again”, I turned to her, “in like Ten minutes.” I snickered. She blushed. I kissed her forehead.

We didn’t know it then, but this would be the start of something neither of us had planned.

A Strawberry Matcha Affair: part two