If there’s anything I’ve learned in the 17 years I’ve been alive, it’s that the Brown community loves spice. I’m not just talking about the cardamom in your plate of biriyani or the cumin in your chicken tikka masala. I’m talking about the kind of spice you can get by eavesdropping on the aunties after the Friday prayer, chatting about whose daughter was wearing what or that they spotted someone’s son alone with a girl at the movies. The kind of spice you could fill volumes of tabloid magazines with.