Sweet Tea & Steel: Southern Men Who Serve

Chapter 1

DR. NIA PRICE

Magnolia’s Soul Food Kitchen hadn’t changed a bit in the five years I’d been away. The heavenly scent of chicken and collard greens filled my nostrils when I opened the door.

I arrived five minutes early, but spotted Talia, my best friend, already waiting in our usual corner booth with two sweet teas sitting on the table.

The sight of her wearing a vibrant purple headscarf with gold hoops loosened something in my chest. This was what coming home was supposed to feel like.

Her eyes caught mine, and she was up in an instant, arms open wide.

“Look at you, Dr. Price! Out here looking like a whole academic snack.” Talia giggled, pulling me into a hug.

I laughed against her shoulder, suddenly fighting tears I hadn’t expected. “Girl, stop. I’ve been traveling all day.”

“And still fine as hell. Are you alright, sis? You look tired.” She held me at arm’s length, examining my face with scrutiny only a best friend could get away with.

“Yeah, doing the usual teaching and researching, trying to make white folks uncomfortable with historical facts. What about you? Still running the community center into the ground?” I asked, sliding into the booth across from her, gratefully wrapping my hands around the mason jar of sweet tea.

“Please, that place would fall apart without me.”

I sipped the sweet tea that was so sugary it made my teeth ache. “Mmmm, this is good.”

“For real, though, how are you holding up? You know what today is, right?” Talia took a sip of her tea, her eyes never leaving my face.

My heart sank. Of course, she would remember. “Yeah. Seven years.”

Seven years since my brother Devon was killed during a police raid gone wrong, or as someone would say, gone exactly as planned, depending on who you asked. Seven years of no charges, no accountability, only a family left with the hole that would never fill.

After the server approached our table and took our orders, Talia reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “It didn’t surprise me when I heard you were coming back to do this lecture series. The timing is right.”

I swallowed hard and nodded. “Didn’t plan it that way, but maybe subconsciously . . .”

“He’s still working through you. Divine intervention,” Talia said, using our old nickname for my brother.

“How’s your family taking your little investigative crusade?”

“Mama thinks I should let it rest. Says the Lord will handle his justice.”

Talia nodded with understanding. She’d been there for the funeral, for the weeks after when I couldn’t get out of bed, for the moment I decided tears weren’t enough.

“And how’s the PhD program feeling about this little sabbatical?” she asked, delicately changing the subject while not really changing it at all.

“My advisor’s calling it ‘field research,’ bless that woman’s heart. Dissertation’s still getting written with a more . . . personal methodology section.”

Talia’s bracelets clinked against the table. “Nia, be careful. These small towns have long memories and short tempers. What happened to Devon—”

A server slid by to refill our tea glasses.

“Was murder, not ‘unfortunate altercation,’” I finished.

Her hand reached for mine, squeezing gently. “I know, girl. I know. I’m saying, the same people who covered it up are still running things. Including your fine-ass chief of police.”

I pursed my lips. “Girl, I ain’t here to make friends; I’m here for the lecture series. That man might have the internet calling him ‘Birmingham’s Finest’ in more ways than one, but a pretty face doesn’t make you innocent.”

“I’m just saying, from what I hear—”

“Hold up, sis, stay locked on the story. What you hear is what they want you to hear. That’s the problem.”

“I know. Things are heating up here. Last month, police broke up a youth basketball tournament, claiming they received reports of gang activity. Girl, they were fourteen-year-old boys playing ball. Nia, in team jerseys,” she mentioned, lowering her voice slightly.

My jaw tightened. “Any of that make the news?”

“What do you think? They didn’t report when the cops rolled up on the community garden project and called everyone an unlawful assembly.

Or when they shut down Mr. James’s barbershop for three days over some bullshit code violation that magically disappeared after he complained to the city council. ” Talia scoffed.

“I bet they cover Chief Banks reading to the kids at the library,” I muttered.

Talia rolled her eyes. “Devon always said you had words he didn’t and could translate what was happening in a way that made people listen. Your brother would be proud of you coming back to document this.”

Her comment sent a sharp pain through my chest. I looked down at my hands as my vision blurred slightly.

His absence shadowed every achievement in my life—my PhD, my book.

My brother should be here. He would be thirty-five now, maybe with a family of his own.

The what-ifs were still razor-sharp seven years later.

“I hope so,” was all I could manage.

It wasn’t long before the server arrived with our food, saving me from my emotions. She set down a heaping plate of collard greens, mac ‘n’ cheese, and perfectly fried chicken, the steam carrying the scent of home-cooked comfort.

“Y’all need anything else?” the server asked, smiling warmly.

“We’re good, thank you,” Talia answered.

The first bite of mac ‘n’ cheese made me close my eyes in appreciation. “Damn, I forgot how good Magnolias was; nothing in Atlanta comes close,” I replied, already grabbing another forkful.

“That’s seasoned with love and generations of Black woman magic. Now tell me about this lecture series; you gonna make some noise?” Talia asked, tearing into her chicken.

I filled her in on my plans, the research I’d gathered, and the narrative I wanted to challenge about the progress in southern cities. As we ate, our conversation inevitably circled back to Chief Banks.

“Girl, the women in Birmingham slide into his DMs like his looks are going to protect them when those officers roll up.” Talia shook her head in disgust.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a flyer, sliding it across the table. “Speaking of which, tomorrow evening, there’s a peaceful protest for Jaylen Harris, a seventeen-year-old killed during a traffic stop last month. No body cam footage released, big surprise.”

I picked up the flyer and read the details. It was going to be at six p.m. at Linn Park.

“Come see what’s happening when the cameras aren’t rolling. Might be good research for your fancy lecture,” Talia said, watching my face carefully.

I hesitated, but the academic in me recognized the perfect opportunity to gather primary research and to witness firsthand what I’d studied from a distance.

Still, the sister in me and the woman who woke up some nights, hearing my mother screaming when they told us about Devon, that part of me was afraid, not of the protest, but of what it might unlock.

“I don’t know, Talia . . .” I stated.

“No pressure, but it would mean a lot to have you there, Dr. Nia Price, with her credentials, someone they can’t dismiss,” she said, her eyes softened.

I tucked the flyer into my bag, neither commenting nor refusing. “I’ll think about it.”

We both knew I’d be there. My academic curiosity and my personal mission had always been two sides of the same coin: a scholar seeking truth and the sister seeking justice, and somewhere in the middle was the real story.

We finished our plates and paid. We stepped out in the humid Alabama afternoon. Talia hugged me tight. “Are you staying at the Monarch Hotel?”

“Yeah, you know how Mama is. She wants the entire household to be in bed by seven p.m.”

Talia smiled and hugged me tight. “I remember. Call me if you need anything. Day or night.”

“I will.”

The Monarch Bar wasn’t exactly a research hotspot, but after a day of traveling and wrestling with lecture slides, I needed somewhere with good whiskey and zero academics.

I settled at the far end of the bar with my notebook open, watching the after-work crowd filter in through the reflection in the mirrored backsplash.

“Another Bulleit, Dr. Price?” The bartender, Mark, according to his nametag, nodded at my nearly empty glass.

“You read my mind.” I closed my notebook slightly as he approached. Not that I was writing state secrets.

Mark slid a fresh whiskey across the bar. “You working on a book or something? You look serious over here.”

I took a sip, appreciating the slow burn. “Lecture series at Birmingham State. Just trying to make sure I don’t make a fool of myself in front of a bunch of nineteen-year-olds who’d rather be anywhere else.”

“I doubt that’s possible. My sister took your African American Studies course at Spelman two years ago. Said it changed her life.”

A genuine smile broke through my professional mask. “What’s her name?”

“Keisha Jackson.”

“Shut up. I remember Keisha! Brilliant writer. Is she still pursuing a journalism degree?”

“Yes, ma’am, interning at the Atlanta Voice now.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Oh, excuse me, duty calls.” Mark stepped away to tend to the other customers.

That connection warmed me more than the whiskey. I went back to my notes, jotting down ideas. Then I felt someone watching me. I was used to being noticed, but this felt like someone recognized me.

I glanced up casually, scanning the bar through the mirror rather than turning around directly. There was Chief Ronan Banks, in the flesh, considerably more handsome in person than on his billboards.

He sat alone at a high-top table, nursing what looked like bourbon. Even relaxed, one arm resting on the table, the other wrapped around his glass, he had the contained energy of someone who never fully powered down.

Our eyes met in the mirror, and I felt a jolt.

His eyes were steady. Neither of us smiled.

I knew who he was, and he knew me, not personally, but the way public figures knew their critics.

I had called out his policies on my podcast, pointing out the gap between his smooth words and his department’s actions.

I had questioned if his role as a Black man leading a historically oppressive institution was real progress or just good PR.

And based on the slight tightening around his eyes and the straightening of his spine, he’d heard every word.

I broke first, dropping my gaze back to my notebook, cursing the heat that crawled up my neck.

It wasn’t embarrassment; I stood by every criticism I’d made.

It was strange seeing him in person, like meeting a character who’d stepped out of a book.

Suddenly, he was three-dimensional and breathing the same air.

I forced myself to write something, anything.

“You good?” Mark asked.

I closed my notebook, suddenly needing air that didn’t require unspoken words. “Yeah. Just hit a wall. Think I need to call it a night.”

Though I didn’t move to gather my things, instead, I took another sip of whiskey and forced my attention to the basketball game on the TV above the bar, hyperaware of the man at the high-top table doing the same.

Both of us pretending we weren’t acutely conscious of the other’s presence.

Both of us probably wondering what the other was thinking.

And both of us too stubborn to be the first to walk away.