Malik leaned forward, elbows on thighs. “I know.”
Lincoln exhaled through his nose, a short, sharp sound. He flexed his hands again, then unclasped them. “We can’t—”
“Do this in a hallway,” Malik finished for him.
Lincoln looked at him, the edge of a smile appearing at the corner of his mouth, then disappearing. “Right.” He let his gaze drift to the empty table in front of them, eyes tracking the ringleft by someone’s bottle of Sprite. “You don’t owe me anything,” he said, voice low. “I’m not asking for—”
“You’re not asking,” Malik said, keeping his own voice quiet, “but you’re doing it anyway.”
Lincoln’s jaw tightened. He fumbled for his glasses. Malik’s heartbeat jumped at the movement, an echo from years ago when Lincoln would push them up before an argument. But this time Lincoln only pinched the bridge of his nose and let his hands fall to his knees.
“You left early this morning,” Malik said, his voice low, vibrating with the frustration of the morning. “I ate breakfast with Mary and your mother. She was curious but I made excuses for you.”
“I couldn’t wait for you, Malik. Not after the library. Not in that house.” Lincoln’s left hand flexed inside his pocket. “I needed space to think before the day started.”
“And did you?” Malik stepped closer, forcing Lincoln to look away from the pretzels. “Did you think of anything besides how to avoid me?”
“I thought about the fact that I still feel like I’m standing in that library aisle,” Lincoln replied. He leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. “We need to talk. Somewhere that isn’t this exposed.”
Malik nodded. He jerked his head toward the corner of the lounge, where a battered two-seat couch stood under a bulletin board. It was out of the primary traffic lane. Lincoln moved first, quick and silent, and Malik followed.
They sat. The couch springs groaned, forcing them closer than the professional distance they had maintained for years. Lincoln clasped his hands in his lap.
“I didn’t mean to leave you to deal with my mother alone this morning,” Lincoln began, the words dropping between them like heavy stones. “But I knew if I stayed for breakfast, if I heard yourvoice in that kitchen, I wouldn’t have made it to this symposium. I would have said whatever you wanted to hear just to stop the shaking.”
“You’re shaking now,” Malik pointed out, noticing the slight tremor in Lincoln’s thigh.
“Now it’s inevitable,” Lincoln replied.
Before he could reply, the lounge began to fill as the mid-afternoon panels broke. The room became a sea of tweed and corduroy, a theater of performance where every handshake was a transaction.
Naomi had staked out a table under the bulletin board, her laptop open like a command center. She flagged Malik the moment he emerged from the corner.
“Dr. Okonkwo,” she called.
Malik studied her as she threaded his way between tables. Lincoln looked like he was bracing for an impact.
“I have a few questions for you if you aren’t too busy,” Naomi said.
“Sit, please,” he offered.
She wasted no time. She began to dissect Malik’s latest paper, her questions designed to test not just his logic, but his loyalty to the “Greco-Roman canon.”
“So how do you reconcile the argument for indigenous narratives without destabilizing your own credentials?” Naomi leaned forward.
Malik glanced at Lincoln. He saw the subtle tilt of Lincoln’s head, the silent encouragement. “Credentials don’t matter if the record isn’t honest,” Malik answered. “What’s the point of a canon if it can’t withstand challenge?”
Naomi smiled. Then Omar arrived, sliding into the gap beside Malik. Omar was the department’s kingmaker, a man who smelled of expensive cologne and secret budgets.
“You two have always been on the same page,” Omar said, his gaze flicking between Malik and Lincoln. “I read your joint paper from last year. You wrote like a married couple.”
The air left the room. Malik’s breath caught. Lincoln’s cup nearly tipped. It was a joke, but in this building, jokes were heat-seeking missiles.
“It’s hardly a crime to agree,” Lincoln said, his tone cool.
Omar snorted. “Not a crime. Just uncommon.” He turned to Malik. “You ever want to teach in Lagos, let me know. My cousin is department head at UNILAG. You’d be a star there, instead of fighting these battles for scraps.”
When they finally left, the silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
