EZRA
Two month s f l e w by. That’s how long it had been since I first caught up to Yaya outside the lounge. Since then, time moved funny. My mornings started with her voice, and my nights ended with her body on mine. Every little thing she did stuck with me. Every word, every laugh, and every touch. I carried that shit.
I wasn’t a nigga who fell easy. But when I fell for Yavanni? I fell hard. No fear. No brakes. Just freefall. She was at the center of everything now.
We did hella shit together. Dates with no real plans that ended in bookstores, hole-in-the-wall spots where we drank and ate while I tried to help her study for her nursing exam but only ended up getting lost in all that medical shit, and street art tours we made up ourselves. Dinners we half-cooked together just to end up ordering bullshit takeout anyway. Her body in my lap while I read my new piece out loud, her fingers tracing my chest like cursive.
Some nights I stayed at her place, waking up to the whistle of her kettle, her face covered in a silky green mask and locs wrapped in a scarf, still the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Other nights she crashed at mine, complaining about the clutter only to end up helping me clean it anyway before we sprawled across my bed with her limbs everywhere while I looked at her thinking about forever before I could stop myself.
And the sex?
Still insane but the shit was different now. There was something in it. She looked me in the eye when she rode my dick and whispered shit I didn’t even think I was ready to hear like “I trust you” and “I see you.” Shit hit deeper than any poem I’d ever written.
And now here I was, standing in my bathroom, staring at my reflection. I had on a grey short sleeve button-down with black jeans. Locs needed a retwist but I’d hit the barbershop earlier for a line up. It was a Friday and I was about to hit up the lounge for another open mic night. Word had been floating that a talent scout from New York would be in the building looking for talent to sign or mentor.
I ain’t really care about all that stardom shit. I liked being local. The city fucked with me. But Yaya? She started pushing me gently. Whispering belief into me like the shit was holy. Like she knew what I carried when I stepped to that mic wasn’t just mine and it was meant to go further.
“You belong on bigger stages,” she’d said last week, her legs tangled with mine as we lay on my couch, bare under a blanket, my poem still echoing off the walls.
“You sound like Mekai,” I told her.
“Good,” she said. “He’s been right about you from day one.”
So I was dressed, brushing lint off my jeans when my phone lit up on the counter. My baby was calling. I smiled before I even answered. “What up, baby?”
Her voice came through soft, a little rushed. “Hey, babe.”
But something in her tone felt off. “You good?”
She exhaled. “I’m okay, just… I wanted to call before you headed out.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t make it tonight.”
I paused and my nostrils flared. This would be the first open mic she’s missed since we met. She’s always there right in the front and center now, not tucked in the back like before. Sitting pretty, melanin on full display, legs crossed, eyes on me like I was the only one in the room. Every time I said a line that cut too deep, she’d mouth, I hear you.
“You serious, Yaya?”
“I didn’t want to miss it, Ezra, I swear. But they switched my shift and my supervisor is watching like a hawk. Plus, my exam is creeping up so when I do catch a break tonight, I need to study.”
I sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand down my face. “Damn.”
“I’m so sorry, babe.”
I shook my head, forcing a smile even though I hated how empty it suddenly felt. “It’s cool. You gotta handle ya business. I get it.”
“You mad?”
“Nah.”
She was quiet for a second and then her tone came through soft and serious “You’ll still feel me, though. You’re gonna kill it tonight. Speak like the whole world is listening. Don’t hold back.”
“I won’t.”
After we hung up, I sat there a minute longer, letting the silence settle around me. Then I stood, slipped my phone into my back pocket, and stared at myself one last time in the mirror before requesting an Uber.
By the time I pulled up to the lounge, the street was alive. The block was buzzing with cars double-parked, folks draped in summertime drip, women in denim shorts and tight dresses and sundresses laughing loud while the niggas leaned on cars smoking and dapping up. Music leaked from someone’s speaker across the street, but inside? The real rhythm was happening.
I stepped through the door and the heat hit me first. The scent of liquor, hookah, body oil, and anticipation clung to the air like sweat. The crowd was deep tonight. Packed tighter than usual. People were posted on barstools, huddled in corners, lined up against the back wall. You could feel the energy before the mic even sparked.
I slid through the crowd, offering nods, daps, and half-hugs to the regulars. Folks I knew by face if not by name. But I wasn’t stopping for long. I was headed to the bar. Mekai spotted me before I got there, his gold grill flashing beneath the lights as he leaned across the counter, pouring shots.
“What’s good, superstar?” he called out, grinning. “You late.”
“Fashionably,” I smirked, dapping him up. “Crowd deep as hell.”
“They not here for the drink specials. They here for you, nigga,” he said, sliding a shot glass of Hennessy across the bar.
I took a slow sip, scanning the room. It was louder than usual, hotter, and tighter. The walls felt closer. Or maybe that was just because she wasn’t here. Normally, Yaya would already be seated near the front. Her absence felt like a quiet drumbeat in the middle of chaos. That’s when I saw her.
The woman walking toward me was cool, confident, professional, but not stiff. She had on wide-leg pants, a white tank tucked cleanly, a light jacket tossed over her shoulders, gold hoops, and box braids pulled into a crown. Face beat soft like she knew she was fine but didn’t need to announce it. She stopped in front of me, and I straightened automatically.
“You’re Ezra Lowe, right?”
“That’s me,” I said, cautious but curious.
She extended her hand. “Nina Foster. I work with Meridian Verse out in New York. I’m a talent scout, mostly for spoken word and authors. I’ve heard your name three different times this month, so I had to come see what the hype was about.”
Mekai leaned in from behind the bar. “Told you you was a superstar.”
I ignored him, focusing on her. “‘Ppreciate you comin’ out. Hope I don’t disappoint you.”
She smiled, smooth and sure. “I doubt you will. I’ll be watching.”
With that, she turned and disappeared back into the crowd, sliding through the bodies with an elegance that felt like silk. I caught myself watching her a little longer than necessary but not out of lust, out of realization. Something might actually be happening.
Mekai leaned in again, eyebrows raised. “You gon’ remember us small folks when you out in Brooklyn wearin’ turtlenecks and doin’ sold-out HBO specials?”
“Shut the fuck up,” I muttered with a smirk, downing the rest of the drink in one gulp as I heard my name being called.
“Next up, y’all already know. Give it up for Ezra Lowe.”
The room erupted. Snaps, claps, whistles. People knew the name by now. Some had memorized my cadence and anticipated my rhythm. A few in the back shouted lines from old pieces I hadn’t performed in months. I stepped up onto the small stage with the mic waiting. After saying what’s up to the crowd, I spit that shit.
"I ain’t know love ‘til I faced the mirror. Didn’t trust no kiss that ain’t tasted fear. I was raised by silence, bred by the block. Heart like a vault with a permanent lock. But then she came through like a midnight hymn. Soft voice, hard truth, love on the brim. Told me my pain ain’t something to hide. Kissed all my wounds and slept at my side.
I been touched, but never held right. Told truths only under dim light. But she saw me clear in broad ass day and I ain’t run. I asked her to stay. So if you here tryna love and survive, know real don’t come in a filtered archive. It comes when you naked not just in skin but when you let somebody in."
When I finished, the room exploded with snaps, applause, and hushed murmurs of “damn.” People stood and a couple in the front wiped tears. That poem? That was for Yaya..
As I stepped off the stage, people clapped me on the back, gave me daps, and shouted praise. But then I saw Nina as she approached again. This time slower and more intentional. “You meant every word of that, didn’t you?”
“Every damn one.”
She nodded. “You’re not just a poet. You’re a vessel. A voice.” She reached into her purse, and pulled out a sleek white card with gold lettering. “Let’s talk, Ezra. What you’ve got? It shouldn’t stay local.”
I looked down at the card.
Nina Foster
Talent Director – Meridian Verse, NYC
And just like that, a new door opened up.