6. Pressure Mensah
Trill-Land, Jungle Estate
Week one…
T oday was the day that I would meet the Diamonds or whatever the fuck you wanted to call them, and I still didn’t know how to feel about the shit.
I hadn’t put much effort into pickin’ any of them, to be honest. That was all Renza.
He was the one who studied their bios, stalked their social media and Zoom-called some of them like this was a damn job interview.
I barely looked through the pictures he sent.
I’d glance at a few, say “she straight,” and toss the phone to the side.
This whole setup still felt dumb to me. A nigga like me needin’ help to pick a wife? Please.
But here we was, and Renza was hype enough for all of us.
I stood in front of the mirror in my room while Blaqson sat on the arm of the couch scrollin’ through his phone, barely payin’ attention to me but still somehow knowin’ what I was doin’.
“You gon’ have a whole jungle full of women fightin’ over you in a minute,” he said, still lookin at his screen. “You better be on your best behavior.”
“I just hope they don’t fuck up my floors,” I muttered.
My fade was fresh, waves laid deep like ocean current.
My beard was thick, lined sharp enough to draw blood if I turned my head too fast. I had on a deep brown suede suit jacket with a velvet collar, no shirt underneath, just a little chest showin’ to flex the ink stamped across my skin.
I had gold links on my neck, and the watch on my wrist cost more than a luxury car.
Niggas couldn’t even pronounce what I had on right, let alone afford it.
The slacks was tailored and the loafers were foreign and polished so clean you could see your reflection if you stared long enough.
I sprayed on some cologne that came in a black bottle with no label. It was the type of scent you had to be invited to buy. One spritz, maybe two, and I was ready.
Blaqson finally looked up. “Ain’t gon’ lie. You lookin’ presidential in this bitch.”
I smirked, then grabbed the elevator key off the dresser and headed toward the hall.
“You got my back?” I asked, not even turning around.
“Always.”
We stepped inside the elevator and rode down to the first floor, the soft hum of the machinery the only sound between us.
I could already hear the subtle buzz of voices echoing from the front foyer.
By the time we reached the lobby, Renza was already walkin’ in, grinnin’ like he had won the lottery.
“There go my boy,” he announced, holdin’ his arms out like he was hostin’ some game show. “You ready for this royal pussy parade or what?”
I shot him a look. “Nigga, what?”
He just laughed. “A’ight, a’ight, but listen—this is it. I got twenty. Not eighteen. Not twenty-two. I got exactly twenty. They diverse, thick, pretty and bold. I even threw in some wild cards just to spice it up.”
“Wild cards?” I repeated, raisin’ an eyebrow.
He winked. “You’ll see.”
Right outside the estate gates, the luxury sprinter van was parked. It was the type of bus rappers rented for their tours, decked out with lights, plush seats, and champagne chillin’ in the back. One by one, the women stepped out.
The doors of the estate opened, and the women began enterin’ the grand foyer in waves, each one movin’ like she knew eyes was on her.
Kay’Lo, smooth as ever in an all-black silk shirt and a pair of Cartier Buffs, stood at the front entrance, callin’ them forward one by one like they was walkin’ into some exclusive black-tie event.
“So this a fashion show or a wife search?” I asked, barely hiding my irritation.
“Both,” Renza said with a shrug. “We makin’ history, cousin.”
One girl walked in wearin’ a silk dress that hugged her hips and swayed with every step.
Another had on all white, glowin’ against her brown skin like she was sent straight from heaven.
One chick had the nerve to wear fur and heels higher than her eyebrows.
She walked like she owned the place. She didn’t even look around.
She just headed straight to the center like she was about to claim her territory.
Some were decent. Some were bougie and pretty with nails long enough to scratch a man’s soul.
Some had lashes so thick I thought they were waving at me.
And then she walked in—big, tall, and chunky as hell!
I couldn’t lie… she was gorgeous in the face.
Her hair was done up in soft curls with a diamond-studded headband to match.
She was rockin’ a hot pink rhinestone jumpsuit that hugged every curve of her size-22 figure like it was custom made.
Her stomach was sittin’ proud, thighs thick as couch cushions and arms soft and full, swingin’ as she walked like she was leadin’ a parade.
Her ass was somethin’ out of a cartoon—wide, high, and sittin’ like a challenge.
She had on white Air Force 1s with glitter laces, and her name was airbrushed across the back of her outfit in bubble letters: Big Taff .
“Taffy Royale, bitch!” she announced, her voice loud and proud as she spun in a slow circle like she was already crowned. “Big Taff in the buildin’!”
I damn near dropped my drink.
Blaqson coughed and turned away, tryin’ not to laugh. Renza clapped like she was the main event.
“Now that’s a star,” he whispered, like he had just presented Beyoncé.
I didn’t say shit, but in my head, I was lookin’ at him like: you brought this big-ass woman into my house, for what?
Taffy strutted right past me, smellin’ like vanilla frosting and cocoa butter, hips movin’ like a threat to all the furniture in the livin’ room. She had presence, confidence, attention and honestly, if she wasn’t built like a whole pantry with lashes, I might’ve been intrigued.
The rest of the women filled in behind her until the entire main floor felt like a runway. They was lined up from the front steps to the lounge area. All eyes was on me.
Renza cleared his throat and took his place at the front. “Ladies… welcome to The Jungle.”
He said it so serious, I could barely hold in my laugh.
“You are the chosen twenty… The Diamonds. And this,” he said, gesturing toward me, “is the man you’re here for. Pressure Mensah. The Prince, and the product of legacy. The future of the Keep.”
“This nigga here” I mumbled under my breath. He was actin’ like I was some damn trophy on a shelf, and he was auctioning me off.
One of the girls in the back giggled and said, “He fine as hell.”
“Lawd, I knew he was fine, but I ain’t know he was built like that under them suits.”
Blaqson was standin’ behind me smirkin’. Kay’Lo looked like he was ready to narrate the whole thing like a Netflix docuseries.
Renza took a dramatic pause, like he had practiced this part in the mirror.
“I want y’all to look around,” he said. “Some of y’all gon’ make it far. Some of y’all won’t make it past week one, but all of y’all was chosen. For your looks, your energy, your vibe, and the way you carry yourselves.”
He walked down the line, callin’ each name like it was a runway show.
“Lola Reign. Milan Sweetz. Brittani Luxe. Jayla Noelle. Imani Blaze. Ariyah Skye. Zaniyah Starr. Chanel Banks. Kalea Monroe. Renae Dior. Savannah Bleu. Tamara Rose. Aubrii Gold. Taffy Royale. Nyah Roux. Soriya Laveau. Khari Belle. Toni Roc. Kashmere Charm. Pluto Monroe.”
Pluto Monroe…
She was gorgeous and dressed in all black. It was simple but clean. Her brown skin was smooth, her curls long, and she didn’t move like the others. She didn’t smile too much or do the whole performance thing. I noticed her, yeah—but I noticed a lot of ‘em, so I kept it movin’.
I blinked and reminded myself that this whole thing was supposed to be entertainment…just a game.
But as I looked across that line of women, all waitin’ to prove somethin’, I knew this wasn’t just some setup I could breeze through.
This shit was about to get real, and deep down, I knew Renza might’ve actually done somethin’ right.
“Come on, nigga. Don’t be scared. It’s just pussy,” Renza whispered in my ear with a smirk
I turned my head slow, blew out a cloud of God Smoke, and looked him dead in his face. “Nigga, shut up.”
He laughed and smacked my back. That’s how Renza was—always talkin’ wild, never takin’ shit serious.
Meanwhile, I was standin’ here in my own damn foyer, surrounded by twenty women, all of ’em dressed like they was auditionin’ for a music video and I was the director.
They was still posted up near the double staircase, some whisperin’ to each other, some stealin’ glances at me like I was a prize in a display case. And honestly, I was.
I stood there like I always did—unbothered, unreadable and unpressed. My blunt stayed burnin’ between my fingers while I peeped the scene, quiet but aware. I wasn’t impressed yet. Curious maybe, but not impressed.
Then one of ’em broke formation like she had somewhere to be. Her name tag said Milan Sweetz, and she was movin’ like she was the main character.
She was bad as fuck, no doubt about that. Her skin was smooth like café au lait, her body shaped like she’d paid good money for every curve and got her full refund, too.
Waist tiny, hips sittin’, lips glossy, baby hairs laid like they had their own stylist. And that walk… Yeah, she’d practiced that shit. She came straight to me, struttin’ like the whole room belonged to her, and the rest of these women was just extras in her scene.
“I been waitin’ to meet you, Pressure,” she said, draggin’ out the syllables like she wanted me to taste ’em. Her voice was sugary sweet as she ran her hand up my chest. “They told me you was fine, but they didn’t say you was all this.”
I didn’t say nothin’ at first. I just looked at her, then hit the blunt again.
She leaned in close, her lashes low, and mouth damn near grazin’ mine. “I can’t wait to become Mrs. Mensah.”
“Oh yeah?” I finally said, not givin’ her too much.