Chapter 18 #2
“That big ol’ house you’re trying to stick me in?
I'd be too lonely to enjoy it. Big kitchen, no soul. There won’t be no gossip or hollering.
Probably won’t even have a nosy neighbor to keep me sharp.
And you can’t borrow sugar from neighbors who don’t speak to you or pray for folks you don’t see.
What the hell I look like sitting on a porch where ain’t nobody ever yell ‘Hey, Mama Rose!’ while walking by?
Nope! I’m good right here, grandson! I’ll take the money you want to invest in me a new house, though. ”
So she stayed in the hood—but not struggling.
Mama Rose’s house was the crown jewel… the best-looking house on the block, hands down.
Not because it was the biggest or the newest, but because it was cared for…
loved. And in a place where folks got used to things breaking and staying broken, Mama Rose’s house stood as a reminder that pride didn’t need a price tag.
People stopped by all the time—some just to sit on her porch, others hoping for a plate, and she gave without any second thought.
Mama Rose fed the little boy whose mama worked two jobs, the woman next door whose EBT hadn’t reloaded yet, and the old man who talked too much but tipped with stories and gratitude.
Everyone called her Mama Rose, whether they were family or not, and everyone in the neighborhood knew not to touch that house.
Why?
Because her grandson was Imanio Kors, and while the city might’ve known me as the face of a billion-dollar real estate empire, the hood knew that lady was my heart, so they knew better than to ever cross her.
I pulled into my grandma’s driveway, easing my midnight blue Lucid Air Sapphire beside her pearl-white 2025 Lexus RX—clean, waxed, and sitting like it had something to say. I told her to choose whatever she wanted; the sky was the limit... and that’s what she chose.
It fitted her perfectly— Classy. Safe. No-nonsense. Just like her.
I cut the engine and stared at the soft yellow, single-story house tucked neatly behind trimmed hedges and clean concrete.
Two rocking chairs sat on the porch—never dusty, never out of place.
The windows sparkled. The flowerbeds always looked like they bloomed on command.
Her screen door never creaked. Her porch light never flickered.
And that outdoor camera? It caught everything—from stolen glances to Amazon packages to nosy-ass neighbors pretending they were just passing by.
I stepped out, adjusting the lapels of my tailored midnight Tom Ford suit to match my whip.
No chains. No flash. Just me.
As I walked towards the front door, I heard a familiar voice from across the street.
“Imanio! Long time!”
I did an about face.
It was old man Mr. Redd, her next door neighbor. He was sitting in his usual spot on the porch with a cane propped against his knee and a beer bottle sweating beside him. He’d known me since I was a loud, nosy five-year-old chasing ice cream trucks and bad ideas.
I walked over to the fence, stepping closer with my hands in my pockets.
“Mr. Redd, how you doing, sir?”
“I can’t complain. It won’t do a doggone bit of good,” he answered with a raspy chuckle. “It’s good to know folks like you still remember us little people.”
I grinned. “Always, Mr. Redd. Y’all the ones who raised me. If it wasn’t for y’all yelling from porches and calling my grandma every time I got into something, who knows where I’d be.”
He laughed, nodding in approval. “You still got manners and your head on straight. You’re proof that some people don’t change when they get a little money. Well, I know you got to get going. It was real nice seeing you, son.”
Then he smirked and added, “Oh—and tell yo’ grandma she still owes me a plate from last Thanksgiving. Claimed she ran out of sweet potatoes, but Johnnie from down the street told me she gave him a plate the next day—with a double scoop. She know what she did. I just want you to remind her.”
I laughed and shook my head. “Mr. Redd, it’s June. She hasn’t offered you a plate since then?”
He waved it off like that was irrelevant. “Yeah, but not with no sweet potatoes! That’s the whole point!”
I chuckled. “You still mad, huh?”
“Hell yeah, I am! Sweet potatoes that good? That’s a generational grudge. I got grandkids I don’t see that often, but I think about them sweet potatoes every Sunday.”
I burst out laughing again.
That was the kind of shit I missed—the porch banter, the petty neighborhood beefs that were more love than anything else.
“Aight. I’ll remind her,” I called out, turning to walk away. “You be good, Mr. Redd.”
He raised his beer bottle in a mock salute. “Don’t be a stranger now. And tell her I want my plate with a peace offering—extra yams.”
I nodded.
My shoes tapped against the porch steps, steady and familiar. I barely lifted my hand toward the door when it creaked open like it had been waiting.
“Boy, what the hell took you so long? My chicken been falling off the bone since noon!” Mama Rose fussed with one hand on her hip and the other holding a dish towel.
I grinned. “Hey, Grandma. You knew I was coming? You must talked to Dess?”
“Yes, and no! I felt it in my knees. Now get your narrow behind in here before these greens go cold!”
I walked in, greeted by the smell of soul food; so potent it could bring tears to a grown man’s eyes.
The living room was exactly the same—plastic still on the floral couch, a Bible on every surface, and the giant spoon and fork set mounted on the wall.
“Shoes off!” she commanded.
“Grandma, my socks got holes in ‘em,” I joked.
“I done birthed yo' mama—I know shame when I hear it. Shoes off!”
I kicked them off and followed her to the kitchen.
“Grandma, why you cooking like this on a Friday… and this much food?” I asked, catching the full aroma of smothered chicken, mac and cheese, cabbage, yams, and cornbread that smelled like heaven had a stove.
“Because Friday is payday,” she answered, matter-of-fact. “And these grown-ass men out here got wives who only know how to Uber Eats and stress ’em out. They don’t cook, don’t clean, and think seasoning is disrespectful. So they come get them a real meal from me .”
I raised a brow. “Wait—you selling plates now?”
She smirked. “Been selling them, grandson. You just never know with me.”
I chuckled, shaking my head. “Facts. But I thought you just gave out plates for free?”
“I do—to folks in need,” she clarified, waving that big wooden spoon like it was a weapon.
“But if a grown man got a good job, a designer belt, money for Henny, weed, and riding around in a car with rims spinning like he’s in a music video from 2004, then he got twenty dollars for this macaroni I risked carpal tunnel to stir! ”
I laughed.
That woman was pure comedy, without even trying.
“I’m a blessing, not a buffet, Grandson. Don’t knock my hustle.”
I held my hands up, still laughing. “Aight, Grandma. Get yo’ coins. Speaking of plates, though…”
I repeated what Mr. Redd said about the sweet potatoes, trying not to laugh too early.
Grandma scoffed loudly. “Lord, that man still on that? I told him I ran out ‘cause I did . I ain’t got magical yams that multiply overnight. He got there late and expected a full plate like he RSVP’d to Thanksgiving!”
“He said Johnnie got a plate the next day,” I said, stirring the pot even more.
Grandma rolled her eyes. “Johnnie helped me unload them cases of water. That’s payment in food. Redd? He just show up with his gossip and gout.”
She waved me off.
“If you happen to see him when you leave, tell him this year for Thanksgiving, I’ll make him a personal pan—but only if he contributes. He can either buy the sweet potatoes, the sugar, or the damn pan! I ain’t the Sweet Potato Tooth Fairy!”
I chuckled.
“Now, unless you’re trying to buy a plate like the rest of these half-fed husbands or lack one of these sides like my worrisome next door neighbor, sit your butt down. And take off that stiff-ass suit!”
I went to sit, and before I could even pull out the chair good, she slid a full plate in front of me with everything she had cooked and a good glass of sweet tea on the side.
“On the house,” she smiled. “But next time, I’m adding you to the Friday Cash App list.” She chuckled. “I’m just playing, grandson. Eat up!”
I didn’t need to be told twice… but prayer first.
Naji taught me that.
Not with lectures or long talks, but with gentle reminders—soft "Did you pray?" moments before meals, little glances when I picked up a fork too fast. She made gratitude feel less like a chore and more like a choice.
“You’re praying on your own ? Usually, I’d have to scold you,” Grandma spoke up while my head was still bowed.
Once I finished, I opened my eyes and gave her a small smirk.
“ Growth .”
She eyed me like a seasoned detective. “Mm-hmm.”
I gripped the fork like it was my last lifeline and tore into that food like it said something slick—mouthful after mouthful of creamy mac, tender chicken sliding off the bone, cornbread so soft it practically apologized as it melted on my tongue. I barely came up for air.
“Grandma, this food so good, I don’t even remember what I was mad about today.”
She gave me that satisfied smile women displayed when they know they done outcooked Jesus.
“That’s the power of greens and gravy, baby. I’ve calmed more street beefs with a plate than therapy ever could.”
“Well, I’ma need you to fix me one to go. I might be full leaving here, but future me? He gon’ be mad as hell if I don’t.”
She laughed, already reaching for the extra containers.
“Ain’t nothing like a man thinking ahead on a full stomach. That’s how I know I raised you right. You gon’ get big again.”
“I am big, Grandma… in all the right places,” I said, shoveling food in like I hadn’t eaten all day.