Certified Pressure

1. Pressure Mensah

Drahma Town

I was on my third glass of that Ultra Clase Azul—that top-shelf shit they didn’t even sell to regular niggas.

It was the kind of liquor you ain’t supposed to drink like juice, but I was damn near gulpin’ it.

The section was lit, the lights low and purple, and the air smelled like money, shea butter, and Chanel body oil.

One of the baddest dancers in Noir Place was on stage doin’ some acrobatic shit on the pole like she ain’t have no bones in her body.

The whole crowd was goin’ crazy, throwin’ stacks, but my eyes wasn’t really focused on none of that.

I was leanin’ back in the plush velvet booth like a king gettin’ bored with his kingdom.

The Cuban link was heavy ’round my neck, my wrist flooded, but my mind flooded even worse.

I was surrounded by luxury and ass, but all I could think about was that triflin’ ass girl Ka’mari.

The same one who told me she couldn’t do this shit no more, said I was too selfish, too controllin’, too…

me. Now she got the nerve to be gettin’ married tomorrow… To a nigga named Donovan.

Donovan.

That shit still sounded like a joke every time I said it in my head.

Nigga sound like he teach Sunday school and cry at gender reveals.

That’s who she chose over me. I might be crazy, yeah, I’ll own that, but I ain’t never gave her a reason to question my heart.

My heart good. A lil twisted maybe, but it beat for her every damn day. Even now.

“Yo, you drinkin’ like you tryna blackout or confess somethin’ to God,” Renza said from across the section, already halfway through his bottle of D’USSé like he ain’t have a liver.

I ignored him, and stared straight ahead as another dancer with gold body glitter climbed the pole. She was fine, thick in all the right places, lace front flawless, smile bright, but she wasn’t Ka’mari.

“Here he go,” Kay’Lo chimed in, grinnin’ like he already knew the direction I was headed. “Nigga, I swear, if you bring up Ka’mari one more time tonight?—”

“I ain’t say her name, nigga,” I cut in.

“Yeah, but you thinkin’ that shit loud as hell,” Renza said, leanin’ over to pour more liquor in my glass like I wasn’t already floatin’.

“Your crazy ass always get like this when we get around other bitches. Look around, Pressure. It’s hoes in here damn near naked, twerkin’ upside down, and you over there cryin’ in Clase Azul over a bitch that don’t even like you no more. ”

I smirked, but it didn’t reach my eyes.

“She don’t gotta like me,” I muttered. “She still mine.”

Kay’Lo dropped his blunt mid-laugh. “This nigga here. That girl is engaged. Goin’ to the altar tomorrow. Probably gettin’ her nails done right now while you sittin’ here mad like you her man and her mama at the same time.”

Renza cracked up, noddin’ hard. “Talkin’ ‘bout ‘she still mine’ like he got stock in the pussy. Nigga, the IPO done closed.”

I took another slow sip and looked both them fools dead in they face. “Y’all done?”

They both laughed harder, but I was dead serious.

I didn’t joke when it came to Ka’mari. She blocked me on everything, even got another nigga to put a ring on it, but I still watched from a distance.

I still had tabs on her schedule. I knew where she shopped, where she worked out, where she got them stupid little matcha lattes from.

Her wedding was tomorrow at one p.m. sharp, and I knew the exact church.

I even knew where “Donovan” was havin’ his bachelor’s party.

This was betrayal, and she was walkin’ into it happy as hell like I ain’t love her the best way I knew how. Nah, that shit didn’t sit right with me, not even a little.

Kay’Lo leaned in, squintin’ at me. “Yo, Pressure… I know that look. That’s that ‘bout to do some dumb shit’ look. That’s the same face you had when you made that dude eat his own chain ‘cause he called you lil’ bro.”

“Right,” Renza said, shakin’ his head.

I finally took another sip from my glass and shrugged. “Nigga should’ve watched his mouth.”

“You unwell,” Kay’Lo said, shakin’ his head. “I hope you know that.”

I didn’t respond. I just leaned forward, set my drink down, and stood up slow.

The girls across the club kept glancin’ toward our section, hopin’ to catch my attention.

Some already knew who I was—the heir of Da Trill, hood royalty with too much money and a short fuse.

Others just saw a fly-ass nigga with diamonds on and assumed I was somebody to fuck.

They were all beautiful, but none of them was her.

Renza noticed the shift in my energy immediately. “Aye, what you on?”

I pulled my shirt over the gun on my waist and grabbed my phone off the table. “Come ride with me real quick.”

“Where we goin’?” Kay’Lo asked, already standin’ up too, ‘cause he knew better than to let me walk out alone.

I didn’t answer. I grabbed the keys off the table and started headin’ toward the exit.

Renza looked at Kay’Lo with his eyebrows raised. “This nigga finna do somethin’ stupid.”

Kay’Lo shrugged and followed behind. “When don’t he?”

We walked through the club, passin’ the dancers, the ballers, the wannabes, the dope boys, and them niggas that just hang around in sections to say they was there.

Eyes followed us like always. The bouncer at the door gave me a respectful nod and stepped aside without sayin’ a word.

Everybody knew not to stop Pressure Mensah when he was movin’ with purpose or madness… same difference.

Outside, the night air hit a little cold, but I didn’t feel it. Renza finally asked again, “Where we goin’, Pressure?”

I pulled open the car door to my Aston Martin DBX707—matte black, stitched in royal plum, and looked back at both of them, and said it clear as hell.

“To Donovan’s bachelor party.”

Kay’Lo blinked. “The fuck we goin’ there for?”

Renza leaned on the hood like he needed to hear that shit again. “You drunk-drunk.”

I didn’t repeat myself. I just got in the car and waited.

They hesitated only for a second before they slid in with me, ‘cause that’s the thing about being my family. You don’t always know what you signing up for, but you still ride, and tonight, we was on bullshit.

While ridin’ to the Kingsraè Estates, I lit up a Trillium cone and rolled the window down just enough to let the smoke ease out slow.

This wasn’t regular weed—this was Crown Gas .

A hyper-elevated strain with deep purple buds and black-tipped leaves that looked like somethin’ God painted Himself, and I ain’t just smokin’ it—I owned it.

I grew it, harvested it, named it. Trillium was my shit, cultivated on my private jungle estate in Trill-Land under guarded watch, where the soil was sacred and the air was rich.

Couldn’t nobody else grow it even if they tried.

The shit only bloomed under specific climate systems, mood calibrations, and a curing process my team had patented and encrypted.

Every cone came laced with a proprietary mood regulator that shifted depending on how it was cured.

It was euphoric, made you horny, creative and even a visionary.

Some said they’ve seen ancestors after a few pulls.

Some say it saved their life. Others just like to roll it in rose petals and talk to the moon.

It didn’t matter what they believed, as long as they bought it.

Kings smoked it. Cartel bosses paid for it in bricks of gold.

Rappers booked flights to Trill-Land just to sit with me and get an ounce.

It was more than weed—it was a million-dollar religion, and tonight, I needed a dose of the divine.

I ain’t even hit it twice before my body started relaxin’ and my mind slipped into that sweet space between clarity and delirium.

Renza glanced over from the passenger seat like he smelled it in his soul.

“That’s that God Smoke?” he asked, already diggin’ in the armrest for one of his own.

“You already know,” I muttered, leanin’ back into the seat while Kay’Lo adjusted the straps on the semi in his lap.

The closer we got, the nicer the streets looked.

Smooth-ass pavement, tall-ass hedges, and driveways wide enough to host a yacht party.

I ain’t even know they had Airbnbs out here in Kingsraè.

This was the kind of neighborhood where they don’t even list properties online.

You gotta know somebody, so Donovan ass must’ve pulled every favor he had to get this bitch.

When we turned onto Corvelle Lane , I saw the house sittin’ up on a soft hill, damn near glowin’ under the moonlight.

There was white stone, tall black windows, and music thumpin’ like a private festival was goin’ on inside.

I parked across the street, let the engine run for a second, then finally cut it.

I took one last pull from the cone and tossed what was left out the window, watchin’ the ember spin through the dark like a fallin’ star. My heart was content, but my spirit wasn’t. That’s what Trillium did. It made shit clear. Too clear sometimes.

Renza twisted in his seat and said, “You sure about this, cousin?”

I didn’t answer at first. I just pulled open the car door , looked at both of them, and said it clear as hell.

“We already here.”

They didn’t argue. Renza adjusted his chain and stepped out like he was stretchin’ for war. Kay’Lo cracked his knuckles and started smilin’ like his body was itchin’ for action. That’s the thing about my cousins—they’ll talk shit and clown, but when it’s time to ride, they ride.

We crossed the street, movin’ like shadows under the estate lights.

The driveway was packed with exotic cars and custom trucks—Bentleys, Rivieras, Escalades sittin’ on chrome so fresh they still smelled like the dealership.

Loud music poured out the front door, and I could already hear girls laughin’, bottles clinkin’, and that distinct sound of ass cheeks clappin’ to the beat.

The front door was wide open like they wanted all the smoke. I guess they figured ain’t no need to keep lockin’ it when the liquor flowin’ and the strippers twerkin’ in every room. We walked right in.

It was wild in there. A DJ booth had been set up by the fireplace, and a neon sign that said, “One Last Night, Donny!” flickered above the wet bar.

Niggas was everywhere laughin’, drinkin’, snortin’ lines off glass tables while half-naked women danced on ’em.

A chick with a shaved head and glitter on her ass cheeks was slidin’ down a pole in the middle of the livin’ room like gravity ain’t apply to her.

Folks looked our way, but nobody questioned it.

They just assumed we were some of Donovan’s people.

We was dressed in black, movin’ too confident to be strangers.

We strolled straight through the chaos, past the kitchen where two girls were tongue-kissin’ on the counter and past the hallway bathroom where I caught a glimpse of somebody gettin’ head between sips of Casamigos.

Then we saw Donovan.

He was laid out on a velvet sectional in the livin’ room, his shirt halfway open and eyes barely open, like he was floatin’ in ecstasy.

One stripper was grindin’ on his lap, while the other had her whole ass in his face.

They were laughin’, dancin’, and doin’ the most for the weakest nigga in the room.

I stepped forward, lifted the Glock and fired a shot straight into the ceiling.

POP!

The whole room froze.

Glass hit the floor, and screams started. Somebody knocked over a table tryin’ to duck. One dude made a dash toward the door, and that’s when I turned and aimed the barrel at him.

“Try it if you want to, nigga. I promise this clip gon’ greet you faster than the front porch.”

He froze mid-step with his eyes wide and put his hands up.

Renza moved quick, posted by the front door like he’d been assigned that position hours ago. Kay’Lo went to the back and locked down the kitchen exit.

Donovan’s eyes locked on mine, and whatever high he had goin’ vanished in a second.

“P-Pressure?” he stuttered, tryin’ to stand up but slippin’ on glitter and ass oil.

I stepped closer and tilted my head.

“This what you on? Got your whole face in booty the night before you supposed to say ‘I do’?”

“Look, bro… please,” Donovan said, his hands raised like he was in front of the law. “This ain’t even—this ain’t what it look like. I was just chillin’. You don’t gotta?—”

“I don’t gotta what?” I cut him off, pushin’ the barrel closer to his temple. “Don’t ever tell me what I don’t gotta do, nigga. I don’t follow rules, I break ‘em, and I damn sure don’t negotiate with goofies who wipe their face off in between ass cheeks.”

He looked like he wanted to cry, but the fear kept him just still enough.

“Pull out your phone.”

Donovan blinked, confused. “What?”

I cocked the hammer back a lil’.

“I said pull out your phone.”

He fumbled in his pocket, pulled it out and unlocked it with his tremblin’ thumb.

“Now call Ka’mari.”

“She… she might be asleep?—”

“I don’t give a fuck if she in REM sleep dreamin’ ‘bout her dress, call her. And when she pick up, you gon’ tell her y’all not gettin’ married tomorrow.”

Donovan hesitated.

“You gon’ make up somethin’. Tell her you had a realization. Tell her your spirit ain’t right. Tell her God spoke to you through a stripper’s twerk pattern. I don’t care. But if you value your life more than that fake-ass tuxedo you wearin’ tomorrow, you’ll do it.”

Donovan’s thumb hovered for a moment, then he tapped her name.

The phone rang once…Twice…Then she answered. Her voice was faint on the other end, but I heard it.

Donovan’s throat moved, but no words came out.

I pushed the gun closer. “Talk.”

“H-Hey… Ka’mari, baby…I been thinkin’ and I… I can’t go through with this.”

There was silence on the other end.

“I just… I’m not ready. I got some things I need to figure out. I… I think we need to call the wedding off.”

I let him finish, then after he hung up, I slowly lowered the gun. I took a step back and gave him a lil’ slap on the cheek. It wasn’t hard, but just enough to remind him who he was dealin’ with.

“Good boy, Donny.”

He flinched, still starin’ at the floor.

I glanced around at the room. It was still frozen, full of confused and half-naked people.

“Y’all have a good night,” I said, pattin’ Donovan’s shoulder. “And if I see a ‘save the date’ floatin’ around again, I’m savin’ a bullet just for you.”

I turned and walked out like I ain’t just bring the whole night to a halt.

Renza and Kay’Lo followed behind, silent but smirkin’.

When we hit the driveway, I chuckled low, lit another cone of Trillium, and let the God Smoke rise like incense into the Kingsraè night.