The DJ doesn’t even warn them.

He cuts the music, grins, and shouts:

“ALRIGHT — LET’S TURN THIS PLACE UPSIDE DOWN!”

Then he drops a riddim so heavy the floor shakes.

The crowd erupts. Chairs push back. Shoes come off. The dance floor becomes a magnet.

They rush the floor first — laughing, shouting, ready for chaos.

Hands in the air. Waistlines moving. Shoulders rolling. Everyone glowing.

It’s a joyful storm — a wave of young energy hitting the room all at once.

The aunties step in like they’ve been waiting all night.

One kicks off her heels. Another grabs her purse like it’s part of the choreography.

They move with confidence, rhythm, and pure joy — the kind that makes the whole room scream in approval.

The elders glide onto the floor with grace and rhythm.

No rush. No show‑off. Just smooth, steady movement that commands respect.

The younger ones form a circle around them — cheering, clapping, celebrating the moment.

The DJ pulls up a soca anthem.

The crowd parts instantly.

Malik and Rochelle step into the middle — still glowing, still floating, still wrapped in each other’s energy.

They move together like they’re dancing in their own universe. Every step in sync. Every smile shared. Every moment electric.

The room loses its mind.

Phones up. Lights flashing. People screaming.

The DJ yells:

“NEWLYWEDS RUN DI PLACE!”

A drink spills. A heel breaks. Someone tries a move they haven’t practiced since high school. The cousins start a dance battle. The aunties hype them like cheerleaders. The uncles pretend they’re still flexible.

It’s madness. It’s joy. It’s culture. It’s family.

The music slows. People catch their breath. Sweat, laughter, glowing faces everywhere.

Malik and Rochelle stand in the center, holding hands, breathing hard, smiling like they’re living inside a dream.

The night is far from over — but this moment? This is the heartbeat of the celebration.

The DJ slows the music. The crowd gathers. A three-tiered cake stands proud — white frosting, gold accents, tropical flowers blooming on top.

Malik and Rochelle step forward, hand in hand. The room hushes. Phones rise. Aunties lean in.

Malik picks up the knife. Rochelle places her hand over his. They cut slow — ceremonial, gentle, like they’re slicing into a new chapter.

The crowd claps. The DJ drops a soft riddim. The cousins shout, “KISS HER!”

Malik grins. Rochelle rolls her eyes. They kiss anyway.

Malik grabs a piece of cake. Rochelle grabs a fork.

He feeds her sweetly. She smiles.

Then — he smears frosting on her cheek.

The crowd SCREAMS.

Rochelle gasps, grabs a handful, and smears it across his jawline.

The crowd goes WILD.

They’re laughing so hard they can’t breathe. Cake on their faces. Frosting on their fingers. Joy in their eyes.

The young ones cheer. The aunties clap. The elders nod with pride.

It’s messy. It’s beautiful. It’s love.

Malik wipes her cheek gently. Rochelle kisses his frosting-covered face.

They hold each other close, cake forgotten,

The DJ lowers the riddim. The crowd shifts. Rochelle steps forward, bouquet in hand — tropical flowers, wrapped tight, glowing under the lights.

She turns her back to the crowd. The women gather behind her like it’s a championship match.

The DJ shouts:

“LADIES — WHO READY?”

The crowd SCREAMS.

Rochelle lifts the bouquet high. She starts to count:

“ONE…” The crowd leans in.

“TWO…” Hands rise. Ankles bend. Aunties pray.

“THREE!”

She tosses it.

The bouquet flies like a comet.

One woman dives like she’s catching a football. Another jumps with both arms stretched like she’s reaching for heaven. Someone screams, “THAT’S MINE!” Someone else yells, “NOT TODAY!”

A flower girl jumps in the mix, hands raised, eyes wide. The aunties gasp. The cousins cheer. The DJ rewinds the track.

It’s beautiful madness.

The bouquet lands in the hands of the quietest girl in the room — the one who wasn’t even trying.

She looks down, stunned. The crowd erupts.

Her friends scream. Her auntie faints. Her ex-boyfriend disappears.

The DJ drops a riddim. The bride claps. The groom laughs.

Rochelle hugs the winner. Malik raises his glass. The crowd dances around them.

It’s not just a bouquet. It’s a blessing. A

The DJ drops a slow riddim with a bassline that feels like mischief.

Malik stands in the center of the dance floor. Rochelle sits in a decorated chair, legs crossed, veil flowing, eyes already wide.

The crowd circles them like it’s a boxing match.

The DJ shouts:

“Y’ALL READY FOR THIS?”

The crowd SCREAMS.

Malik walks up slow — grinning, dramatic, full of foolishness.

Rochelle covers her face, laughing.

He kneels. She lifts her gown just enough. The aunties gasp. The cousins cheer. The uncles pretend not to look.

Malik disappears under the dress.

The crowd loses it.

Someone yells, “HE GONE TOO FAR!” Someone else shouts, “FIND IT, MALIK!” A cousin throws a napkin like a referee flag.

Rochelle’s laughing so hard she’s crying. Her hands are over her face. Her shoulders shaking.

Malik emerges — garter in his teeth, arms raised like he just won a championship.

The crowd ERUPTS.

The DJ rewinds the track. The aunties fan themselves. The flower girl looks confused. The cousins start chanting, “GAR‑TER! GAR‑TER!”

Malik spins the garter like a lasso. The single men gather — some confident, some terrified.

He tosses it.

It lands on the quietest guy in the room. His friends scream. His auntie faints. His ex leaves the building.

Rochelle hugs Malik, still laughing. Malik kisses her cheek, still grinning. The crowd claps, cheers, and wipes tears from laughing too hard.

It’s scandal. It’s comedy. It’s tradition. It’s love.

The music fades behind them. The crowd is still dancing. The lights still flash. But Malik and Rochelle slip outside — hand in hand, breath in sync, hearts still racing.

The night wraps around them like a blessing.

String lights hang overhead, swaying gently in the breeze. Palm leaves rustle. The air is warm, soft, golden.

They stand on a quiet path — brick beneath their feet, stars above their heads, legacy between their hands.

Malik pulls Rochelle close. She rests her head on his chest. He kisses her curls. She exhales.

No cameras. No crowd. Just presence.

Malik speaks low:

“You still mine?”

Rochelle smiles:

“Mi been yours.”

He touches her cheek. She touches his heart.

They don’t need music. They don’t need words. They just sway — slow, quiet, sacred.

They lean in. Foreheads pressed. Eyes closed. Breath shared.

The world disappears. The night holds them. The ancestors smile.

They walk back slowly — hand in hand, soft smiles, cake on their clothes, joy in their bones.

The party roars behind them. But they carry something deeper — a moment only they know.

The night is deep. The crowd and music spill outside. Malik and Rochelle stand at the edge of a path, hand in hand, happiness in their eyes.

The DJ shouts, “ONE LAST TUNE FOR DI COUPLE!”

The crowd SCREAMS.

Everyone holds a sparkler — young and old, family and friends. The DJ drops a riddim that feels like history and future collide.

Sparklers ignite. The night glows. The aunties cheer like it’s revival.

Malik and Rochelle step forward. The music swells. Their laughter bursts.

Rochelle’s dress flows like water. Malik dips her low — dramatic, joyful, like they’re dancing with the moon.

Sparklers wave. Voices sing. Hearts beat as one.

They rise. They walk slow through the sparkler arch—

Hands outstretched. Eyes shining. Legacy unfolding with every step.

The crowd claps, cheers, blesses. The DJ rewinds the track. The night embraces them.

At the end of the path, they pause. They turn, wave, smile — their faces radiant with love and light.

The crowd roars. The sparklers fade, but the fire burns on.

Then they’re gone — into the night, into their life.

The reception is winding down. The music fades. The sparklers dim. The aunties gather their purses like warriors sheathing swords.

Uncle Trevor shouts, “Mi cyaan find mi shoes!” Auntie Blossom replies, “Mi tell yuh fi leave dem under di table!”

The cousins are still dancing. The elders are ready to go. The hotel shuttle pulls up like a chariot.

Inside the shuttle, it’s pure vibes.

One cousin plays riddim from a Bluetooth speaker. Auntie Marva starts singing gospel. The flower girl falls asleep mid-sentence. Someone’s wig is tilted. Someone’s heel is in their lap.

The driver looks stressed. The crew looks blessed.

They stumble into the lobby like a victorious army.

The front desk clerk says, “Welcome back!” Uncle Trevor says, “Mi need a wheelchair and a ginger tea.”

The elevator ride is slow and dramatic. The aunties argue about who pressed the wrong button. The cousins take selfies in the mirror. The elders just want their beds.

Back in the rooms, it’s madness.

Suitcases open. Souvenirs everywhere. One cousin can’t find her passport. Another is trying to fit six bottles of rum in bubble wrap.

Auntie Blossom is folding clothes while giving marriage advice. Auntie Marva is praying over the luggage.

Someone shouts, “WHO TOOK MI CHARGER?” Someone else replies, “CHECK UNDER DI BED!”

They gather in one room — feet up, drinks in hand, laughter echoing.

They talk about the wedding. The speeches. The dance floor. The love.

Auntie Blossom says, “Mi proud of Rochelle. She did good.” Uncle Trevor nods, “And Malik? Him a real man.”

They toast. They laugh. They cry a little.

Then they rest.

It’s 4:30 AM. The hotel is quiet. But the Jamaica crew? Loud from the jump.

Auntie Blossom is knocking on doors like she’s collecting rent. Uncle Trevor is brushing his teeth with one eye open. The cousins are still packing — one suitcase overweight, one passport missing.

Someone shouts, “WHO TOOK MI CHARGER?” Someone else replies, “CHECK DI BATHROOM!”

The Exodus Ride shuttle pulls up outside the hotel — clean, proud, glowing in the early morning light.

The crew loads up:

• Aunties with purses and prayer cloths
• Uncles with neck pillows and ginger tea
• Cousins with headphones and attitude
• Luggage stacked like Tetris

The driver says, “Everybody ready?” Auntie Blossom replies, “Mi born ready.”

They arrive at the terminal. The sun is rising. The line is long. The energy is high.

Auntie Marva starts praying in tongues. Uncle Trevor tries to charm the check-in clerk. The cousins take selfies by the departure sign.

One bag is overweight. One cousin forgot her liquids. One auntie is arguing about duty-free.

It’s beautiful madness.

Shoes off. Belts off. Attitude on.

The elders move slow but steady. The young ones breeze through. The aunties get flagged for mystery items.

Someone shouts, “MI CYAAN FIND MI BOARDING PASS!” Someone else replies, “IT DEH INNA YUH BRA!”

They reach the gate. They sit together one last time. Laughing. Reflecting. Blessing each other.

Auntie Blossom says, “Mi proud of Rochelle. Mi proud of Malik. Mi proud of all a we.”

Uncle Trevor nods, “Mi cyaan wait fi di next wedding.”

They board. They wave. They fly.

Legacy continues.

They shuffle down the jet bridge like a parade of personalities.

Auntie Blossom blesses the fuselage with holy water. Uncle Trevor asks the flight attendant if ginger tea is available. The cousins argue over who gets the window seat. Someone’s carry-on is too big. Someone else brought fried fish.

The flight attendant looks overwhelmed. The crew looks delighted.

The plane lifts. The aunties pray. The cousins cheer. The elders close their eyes.

A riddim plays softly from someone’s headphones. The flower girl clutches her stuffed animal. The young ones take selfies with the clouds.

Auntie Marva whispers, “Mi cyaan believe di wedding done.” Uncle Trevor replies, “Mi cyaan believe mi still wearing mi shoes.”

The jokes start flying:

• “Malik nearly faint when Rochelle smear di cake!”
• “Mi still cyaan get over di garter moment!”
• “Who catch di bouquet again? Mi need fi warn dem!”

Laughter echoes through row 17. The flight attendant peeks in, smiling. The pilot announces turbulence. The aunties rebuke it in Jesus name.

One cousin is knocked out with a neck pillow and mouth wide open. Auntie Blossom is snoring softly, clutching her purse. The flower girl is curled up like a kitten. Uncle Trevor is still trying to figure out the tray table.

The plane hums. The sky glows. The legacy rests.

As the plane descends, the crew wakes up slowly.

They look out the window. They whisper blessings. They check their phones.

Auntie Blossom says, “Mi cyaan wait fi di pictures.” Uncle Trevor says, “Mi cyaan wait fi mi bed.”

They land. They clap. They walk off the plane like royalty.

The plane lands with that familiar bump. The aunties clap. The cousins stretch like they just ran a marathon. Uncle Trevor says, “Thank yuh, Jesus. Mi two foot still deh yah.”

They shuffle off the plane — sleepy, smiling, carrying the last bits of Jamaica in their bones.

The carousel spins. Suitcases pass. Everyone swears theirs was “right deh so a second ago.”

Auntie Blossom spots her bag first. Uncle Trevor grabs the wrong suitcase twice. The cousins argue about who’s calling the Uber.

Someone shouts, “WHO TEK MI DUTY-FREE RUM?” Someone else replies, “CHECK YUH OWN BAG, MAN!”

Outside, the air feels different — home, but not the same home they left.

They hug long. They laugh soft. They promise to link up soon (even though they won’t until Christmas).

Auntie Marva says, “Mi love unnu. Travel again soon.” The cousins say, “Send di pictures!” Uncle Trevor says, “Mi hungry.”

In the backseat of cars and Ubers:

• Someone is scrolling through wedding photos
• Someone is already posting on Instagram
• Someone is asleep before the car leaves the airport
• Someone is sending voice notes full of laughter and half-sentences

The city lights pass by like memories.

Phones buzz.

Voice note #1:   “Mi reach safe, mi G. Bless up. Wedding did SHOT.”

Voice note #2:   “Auntie Blossom reach home. Mi tired bad. Love unnu.”

Voice note #3:   “Cousin Shanice here — mi reach. Mi cyaan stop think ‘bout di dance floor.”

Voice note #4:   “Uncle Trevor: Mi reach. Mi belly still full.”

Group chats light up like fireworks. Pictures drop. Memories replay. Hearts full.

Everyone finally steps into their own home — shoes off, bags dropped, silence settling.

They sit on the edge of their beds, smiling to themselves, thinking about the love they witnessed.

The wedding wasn’t just an event. It was a blessing. A reminder. A legacy.

And they were part of it.

The plane door opens. A blast of cold air hits them like a slap from the ancestors.

Cousin Jermaine shouts, “LAWD GOD, MI MISS DI SUN ALREADY!”

Auntie Paulette pulls her coat tight like she entering battle. The little ones start shivering dramatically.

The officer asks, “Anything to declare?” Auntie Paulette whispers, “Mi only have blessings.” Jermaine mutters, “And two bottle a rum.”

The officer raises an eyebrow. Jermaine smiles like a man with secrets.

Suitcases spin. Everyone is tired. Everyone is cranky.

One bag is ripped. One wheel is missing. One cousin swears someone stole her souvenir T‑shirt.

Auntie Paulette says, “Mi cyaan bother. Mi just want mi bed.”

Snow falling. Car heaters blasting. Everyone quiet — the kind of quiet that only comes after too much joy.

Voice notes start dropping:

“Mi reach Canada safe, mi people.” “Wedding did nice bad.” “Mi a go sleep fi two days.”

Shoes off. Coats hung. Suitcases abandoned.

They collapse into their beds with smiles. The cold outside. The warmth inside. The memories glowing.

The England crew steps off the plane like survivors of a long voyage.

Auntie Cheryl says, “Mi cyaan believe mi deh back inna dis cold country.” Uncle Winston replies, “Mi want a patty. Right now.”

The officer asks, “How long were you away?” Auntie Cheryl answers, “Long enough fi remember mi roots.”

The officer blinks. Stamps the passport. Lets her through.

The carousel spins slow like it tired too.

One cousin’s suitcase bursts open — souvenirs everywhere. Auntie Cheryl screams, “LAWD, MI DUTY-FREE CHOCOLATE!”

Uncle Winston is laughing too hard to help.

They drag their luggage through the station. The escalator is too long. The jet lag is too real.

Someone falls asleep standing up. Someone else buys tea and drops it immediately. The group chat starts buzzing:

“England crew reach safe!” “Mi tired like mi run marathon.” “Wedding did legendary.”

They reach their flats. Turn on the kettle. Kick off their shoes. Sink into their couches.

The rain taps the window. The memories warm their hearts.

Keisha wasn’t even looking. She was just at the pool causing trouble, drinking rum punch, and minding everybody business except her own.

Then boom — this tall, smooth-talking, Miami-born Jamaican-American man named Darius walked by with a towel over his shoulder and a smile that could cause problems.

He said, “You from yard?” She said, “You can tell?” He said, “Mi can smell di seasoning.”

Keisha nearly MELT.

They spent the whole night talking on the balcony, sharing stories, laughing loud, and arguing about who makes better curry.

When she left for the airport, he hugged her like he didn’t want to let go.

Now she back home sending voice notes like: “Mi nuh know, mi G… him nice bad.”

Long-distance? She pretending she not interested. But she checking her phone every minute.

Tafari touched Miami and turned into a celebrity. The man was taking pictures with tourists, dancing with girls on Ocean Drive, and giving out his Instagram like business cards.

He met two young ladies:

Pretty, stylish, loves dancehall, calls him “Taf.” She already planning a trip to Jamaica.

Sweet, calm, loves to cook, calls him “Tafari” with the full government tone. She already asking him if he reach home safe.

Now Tafari is in a FULL LONG-DISTANCE TRIANGLE. He telling the boys, “Mi just a vibe.” But he smiling at his phone every night.

The man is in trouble and loving it.

Both Keisha and Tafari are entering the diaspora romance danger zone:

• Late-night video calls
• “Good morning, beautiful” messages
• Missed calls because of time difference
• Arguments about who should fly first
• Screenshotting conversations to send to the group chat
• “Mi deh pon mi way to work, call yuh when mi reach”

Keisha treats this video call like a real date.

She lights a candle. Fix her hair. Put on lip gloss. Tell herself, “Mi not catching feelings… but mi can look nice.”

Meanwhile, Darius is in Miami, lining up his beard, spraying cologne like she can smell it through the phone.

He messages her: “You ready?”

She replies: “Mi born ready.”   (While still putting on earrings.)

The screen loads. His face appears. Her smile appears. Both of them pretend they not excited.

Darius: “Look at you… you glowing.”

Keisha: “Is the ring light, man. Calm down.”

But she blushing.

They decide to “eat together,” long‑distance style.

Keisha has curry chicken and rice. Darius has tacos from a spot down the street.

He says, “Next time, we cook the same thing.” She says, “Next time, you fly here and cook it fi mi.”

He nearly choke on his taco.

After the jokes, the conversation softens.

He asks about her dreams. She asks about his family. He tells her he hasn’t laughed that hard in years. She tells him she hasn’t felt this comfortable in a long time.

There’s a pause — not awkward, just warm.

Darius: “Keisha… mi like you, yuh nuh.” Keisha: “Mi know.” (She smiling too hard.)

He leans closer to the camera. She leans back like he too close.

Darius: “When mi see you again?” Keisha: “When you book the ticket.” Darius: “Say less.”

Her heart does a full cartwheel.

It’s late. Both of them sleepy but refusing to hang up.

Keisha: “Alright, mi going now.” Darius: “You said that 20 minutes ago.” Keisha: “Shut up.”

They laugh. They stare. They linger.

Finally, she whispers, “Goodnight, Darius.” He replies, “Goodnight, beautiful.”

She ends the call. Throws herself on the bed. Kicks her feet like a teenager.

The long‑distance arc has officially begun.

Keisha is in her kitchen, hair tied up, apron on, seasoning lined up like soldiers.

She tells herself, “Mi not trying too hard.” But she cleaned the whole kitchen. And lit another candle. And put on her “cute but casual” playlist.

Meanwhile in Miami, Darius is in his kitchen with ingredients everywhere, Googling “how to chop onions without crying.”

He messages her: “You ready?”

She replies: “Mi born ready.”   (While still hiding the fancy plate she bought just for this.)

The screen loads. Both kitchens appear. Both smiles appear.

Darius: “Look at you, Chef Keisha.” Keisha: “Look at you… trying.”

He laughs. She blushes. The vibe is already warm.

They agreed to cook the same dish: Curry shrimp with coconut rice.

But immediately, the chaos starts.

Darius: “Why your curry look different?” Keisha: “Because mi using REAL curry.” Darius: “What mi using then?” Keisha: “Dust.

He nearly drops the spoon.

They chop. They stir. They tease each other nonstop.

Keisha: “Darius, yuh cutting the onion like yuh scared of it.” Darius: “Mi not scared. Mi respecting it.” Keisha: “Respect it faster.”

He pretends to be offended. She pretends not to be watching how good he looks in the kitchen.

While the shrimp simmers, the conversation shifts.

Darius: “You cook like someone who grew up around love.” Keisha pauses. The compliment hits deeper than he expected.

Keisha: “Mi granny teach mi. She say food is how you show care.”

Darius: “Then you must care a lot.”

She looks away. Smiles. Heart doing gymnastics.

They plate their food. Sit down. Count to three. Take the first bite.

Keisha: “Okay… okay… this nice.” Darius: “Mine taste good too.” Keisha: “Yuh sure?” Darius: “Come taste it then.”

She nearly throws her phone.

Darius leans closer to the camera. Keisha leans back like he too close.

Darius: “Keisha… you know mi like you, right?” Keisha: “Mi know.” Darius: “And you like me too.” Keisha: “Mi never say that.” Darius: “You didn’t have to.”

She hides her face. He smiles like he won a prize.

They eat together. Talk until the food cold. Laugh until their cheeks hurt.

Keisha: “Goodnight, Darius.” Darius: “Goodnight, beautiful.” Keisha: “Stop it.” Darius: “Never.”

She hangs up. Falls back on the couch. Kicks her feet. Whispers to herself:

“Mi in trouble.”

And she is. The good kind.

It’s almost midnight. Keisha is in bed scrolling TikTok, pretending she not waiting on him. Her room is dark except for the glow of her phone.

She checks her messages. Nothing. She sucks her teeth.

Keisha: “Mi not calling him. Mi not.”

She puts down the phone. Stares at the ceiling. Picks it back up.

Then it rings.

Darius calling.

Her heart does a full gymnastics routine.

She answers like she wasn’t waiting.

Keisha: “…Hello?” Darius (voice low, tired, warm): “Hey beautiful.”

She melts instantly.

His camera is off at first. Just his voice. Deep. Sleepy. Honest.

Darius: “You up?” Keisha: “Clearly.” Darius: “I didn’t wanna bother you.” Keisha: “You not bothering me.”

Silence. The good kind.

He turns on his camera. He’s lying in bed, shirt off, hair messy, eyes soft.

Keisha nearly drops the phone.

Darius: “I couldn’t sleep.” Keisha: “Why?” Darius: “…I miss you.”

She freezes. Her breath catches. Her heart stumbles.

Keisha (trying to act normal): “Miss who?” Darius: “You.”

She hides her face in the pillow. He laughs softly.

They talk about everything:

• What they cooked today
• How work was
• What they’re afraid of
• What they want
• Why this feels different

Keisha: “You know this long‑distance thing… it scary.” Darius: “Yeah. But you worth it.”

She goes silent. Not because she unsure — but because she FEEL it.

Darius: “Come closer.” Keisha: “Why?” Darius: “Mi want see yuh face.”

She moves the phone closer. He smiles like she just gave him a gift.

Darius: “You pretty even when you tired.” Keisha: “Stop it.” Darius: “Never.”

Her toes curl under the blanket.

The call gets quiet. Not awkward — intimate.

Keisha whispers: “Darius…” Darius: “Yeah?” Keisha: “…Mi miss you too.”

He closes his eyes like he been waiting to hear that.

Darius: “Say it again.” Keisha: “Goodnight.” Darius: “Keisha.” Keisha: “…Mi miss you.”

He smiles slow. Warm. Dangerous.

They stay on the phone until both of them fall asleep — not hanging up, not rushing, just breathing together through the screen.

When Keisha wakes up at 3 AM, the call still connected. Darius still sleeping. His face soft. Peaceful.

She whispers to herself:

“Mi really in trouble.”

And she is. The good kind

Keisha sends one message:

“GIRLS. HE BOOKING A FLIGHT.”

The chat goes SILENT for 0.3 seconds. Then it erupts.

Shanice:   “WAIT. WHAT?” “Keisha. Don’t play wid me.”

Talia:   “Flight to WHERE?” “Flight to WHO?” “Flight to YOU???”

Kayla:   “Mi knew it.” “Mi told y’all this man was serious.” “Mi have screenshots. Mi have evidence.”

Maria:   “Keisha… how you feeling?” (Always the calm one.)

Keisha replies:   “Mi good. Mi nervous. Mi excited. Mi sweating.”

Shanice:   “Mi need to see your outfit options.” “Mi need to approve the welcome hug.”

Talia:   “Mi need to know if he bringing gifts.” “Mi need to know if he staying in a hotel or yuh house.”

Kayla:   “Mi need to know if mi should come over and pretend to be your cousin.”

Maria:   “Mi need to know if your heart is ready.”

Keisha sends a voice note:   “Mi cyaan believe this man really coming. Mi feel like mi in a romcom.”

Shanice:   “Girl, this is a romcom.” “Starring you.” “Directed by vibes.” “Produced by coconut oil and destiny.”

The girls start organizing like it’s a mission:

• Outfit ideas
• Hair appointments
• Emergency exit strategies
• Questions to ask Darius
• Boundaries to set
• Snacks to stock
• Candles to light
• Aunties to warn

Kayla: “Mi want to meet him. Mi want to interrogate him. Mi want to bless the union.”

Talia: “Mi want to see if he can handle you.”

Maria: “Mi want to see if he makes you feel safe.”

Shanice: “Mi want to see if he can cook.”

Shanice leaning forward like she cross‑examining a witness: “Keisha, answer di question. When last a man fly fi you?”

Talia tapping her chin like she solving a case: “Mi need to know his intentions, his job, his credit score, and his mother’s maiden name.”

Kayla already scrolling through Darius’ Instagram: “Mi like him. But mi still doing background check.”

Maria smiling soft, hands folded in her lap: “Keisha… you glowing. That’s all mi saying.”

Keisha hiding her face in the pillow: “Unnu too much.”

Shanice: “And yuh love it.”

Darius drops the message:

“Mi booking a flight to see Keisha.”

The chat goes SILENT. Then explodes.

Trey:   “Wait… FLIGHT?” “To WHO?” “TO WHERE???”

Malik (the married one):   “Respect, king. Love is a journey.”

Zane (the instigator):   “Yuh sure she real?” “Yuh video call her in daylight?”

Jah (the quiet one):   “Mi proud of you still.”

Darius replies:   “She real. She sweet. She smart. Mi serious.”

Trey:   “Mi need to see her LinkedIn.” “Mi need to know if she can cook.”

Zane:   “Mi need to know if she have siblings.” “Mi need to know if she have exes still in the picture.”

Malik:   “Mi need to know if you ready fi this.”

Darius sends a voice note:

“Mi not playing. Mi booking the flight. Mi want see her face in real life.”

Zane:   “Mi want see your face when she hug you.” “Mi want see if you cry.”

Trey:   “Mi want see if you come back with a ring.”

Jah:   “Mi want see if you come back changed.”

Darius sends the screenshot:

“March 18–22. Confirmed.”

The boys go wild.

Zane:   “Mi booking a flight to watch you land.” Trey:   “Mi need to borrow your cologne.” Malik:   “Mi need to pray over this trip.” Jah:   “Mi need to write a poem.”