Dear SZA - Thank You For Dinner Yesterday.
A Letter Reflecting on Dinner 141 with Solana.
Dear SZA,
It feels surreal writing this to you on my laptop in the midst of a manic episode. And to be completely honest, I’m still fucking processing the fact that I even met you since arriving home safely at 1:15 a.m. But I know one thing for sure: I’ll never forget the night of July 12th at Trattoria Koevoet.
Let me begin by saying something I need to get out of the way: you carry a refreshingly complex magnetism, and yes—you are tragically beautiful. I needed to say that. I needed to write that. Because it’s true.
It’s hard to imagine that the invitation you extended to me some 4 odd months ago to have dinner at your home in LA has now led to a moment where I found myself waiting to give you flowers at an inconspicuous Italian restaurant in Amsterdam. A restaurant I no doubt pass by on my weekend visits to the farmer’s market.
As I rode home in the cab, I kept replaying what you said before we parted ways: “And I hope I see you again. I mean that.” I’ve heard variations of that sentiment before—moving from dinner table to dinner table—but coming from you, it struck my core. It reverberated like an echo of all the other beautiful souls who’ve said something similar at the close of a meal. Their faces flickered through my memory like old photographs. I’m lucky to call a few of them friends now. I’m lucky to call you a friend. It still feels wildly bizarre that your number is saved in my phone and that I know I can call you. You…the woman who’s track “Babylon” I had on repeat when I was studying in boarding school.
Also: your speaking voice is just as ethereal as your singing voice. I realized that while we talked. It moved through me like mist.
Let me rewind. My best friend covered for me that evening because we were also hosting a six-course supper club called “Fucked Up Individuals” for six guests. It was a stressful night. I left at 9:38 p.m. just right before their final dessert course. In full transparency, the guests were delighted to hear that my absence was because of you.
I put on my favorite pinstripe FUI jacket, black trousers, grabbed your flowers, and hopped in an Uber. We were meant to meet at 10 p.m., but your bestie (and manager), Amber, let me know you’d be a little late. I was frankly relieved. Two lovely Italian waitresses greeted me and walked me to a wooden table. A curious restaurant kitten brushed against my feet. A warm couple sat behind me, kind enough to strike up conversation. And then...you arrived.
Thank you for giving me the kind of hug I imagine everyone would need after long ass day. You came with three lovely friends and a bodyguard—it was a pleasure to meet them all. Thank you for graciously accepting the flowers. I know sunflowers aren’t the most original choice, but I’d been rereading Van Gogh’s Letters to Theo earlier that week. I almost brought you weed, but figured you’d already have your own stash—and that might be even more unoriginal. I’m part of the over thinkers alliance as you can now probably tell.
One of the first things you complemented when I sat across from you was my smile. I told you it comes from my Ghanaian mother’s side. I miss her often. As someone who grew up having an awkward stammer, I thought it was so fucking cool when you mentioned that your mother is a speech pathologist and your smile comes from her too. I cannot wait to see her at the concert later today and she sounds very grounded.
Learning that we both have God-fearing mothers was an unexpected moment of epiphany for me. Mine will never accept my homosexuality, and that’s a bee sting I’ve allowed to remain lodged in my skin. I think I’ve come to accept that her shame comes from her love for me. And for now that has to be enough. So I nurse the wound.
You held so much kindness in your eyes as I spoke about the strange absurdities that colour our lives, but what touched me the most was this photo you took of me when you held my phone: