Chapter Forty #3
Juke finished a rap he’d penned called “My Block,” a respectable representation of the positive side of growing up where they were from. Close-knit families. Loyal neighbors. Backyard barbecues. Street racing. Lowriding. Block parties. Even the way a life was celebrated when somebody died.
“Thank you for the love, Kansas City,” Juke said, taking a humble bow. He threw up a sign and added, “Westside!”
The crowd was appreciative, especially the Gen Xers, Millennials and Zoomers in the building.
Juke walked from the stage into the crowd and was immediately surrounded by congratulators and well-wishers.
Rashad’s attention quickly shifted from his friend to the stage, a familiar set of butterflies coming to hang out in his stomach.
Tonight it was as if they’d invited a cousin or two.
Rashad berated himself, wondering why was he so nervous?
He knew what he was about to do was the right thing, the only way his life could go right now.
He’d never been surer about anything in his life.
“All right, people,” the DJ said, once again commanding the crowd’s attention.
“We’re about to wrap up tonight’s performances, but right now I’m especially happy to welcome this next act to the stage.
See, this brothah had a dream, and while a lot of people told him no when it came to making it a reality, he kept saying yes.
To himself. But hey, he can tell his story better than I can. ”
Rashad looked out in the crowd, saw Jamilah straining to find him behind the stage. He stepped back a little farther into the shadows of the curtain and a large speaker dominating that side of the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together and help me welcome an amazing chef, a talented rap artist, and part owner of the newest and best spot for rhymes, late-night grub and gaming in the city, Rashad ‘Ra God’ White!”
The audience cheered. Some whistled. His homies hollered. The air was electric. He could feel Jamilah’s surprised eyes on him and purposely didn’t look in her direction. Not yet.
He reached DJ David. They shared a fist tap and shoulder bump before he took the mic.
“So like you heard, my name is Rashad, the Ra God. Most of you know me as the head chef at Side Chic’k and now here at Behind Bars, but a few people also know me as somebody who rhymes.
I want to give a special shout-out to Poetry on the Vine.
I see y’all in the building. Everyone, give it up for all the artists in the house! ”
The noise swelled to a crescendo before quieting back down.
“They’re the first group I shared my art with after moving here from Los Angeles. They were welcoming, supportive, and encouraging when I shared what I planned to do here. In fact, we have something exciting in the works that we’ll be announcing soon, so stay tuned.
“This piece I’m going to perform tonight was inspired by a few people.
One of them is Kendrick Lamar, one of my favorite rappers.
He did a song called ‘Luther,’ sampling Luther Vandross.
It reminded me of my aunties, friends’ mamas, and grandmothers who I knew used to groove to that old R and B music.
I liked that vibe, you know, and have created something that I hope you’ll like, too.
It was inspired by my favorite woman in the world, my grandmother Isabel Porter, who is probably the only reason I’m not dead or still in prison, and also—” he finally looked over “—by a goddess, a queen, Jamilah, who’s one of the reasons I decided to never go back there.
Thank you for helping me be a better me. ”
He quieted, his shoulders rising and falling from a deep, calming breath. He looked at DJ David and nodded. The instrumental music began.
“For those of you too young to know or too old to remember, I’m rapping over a Babyface classic from the late eighties, ‘Whip Appeal’. My song is called ‘Whipped.’”
The instrumental began. Rashad closed his eyes, his head bobbing to the music.
Started at a party this part that would rock my world
Where an urban man did a scan on a suburban girl
Played no fool. LA cool. Not my type anyway
Let’s ride with the lie locked up inside
Mental games that players play
Then…
Rashad looked directly at Jamilah, who’d moved to the front of the stage.
In the kitchen whipped up getting gripped up for last call
Shorty walked into the room with a badaboom that made giants fall
Tried to play it off like a hungry man turning down a meal
Couldn’t fake the funk gotta get a chunk of that whip appeal…
“No one does it like me…”
The singer’s melodic sampled hook perfectly complemented the brash staccato of Rashad’s heartfelt delivery.
He stood with his head slightly bowed, and continued rapping.
It was as if those watching had entered his private domain and accidentally stumbled across an audio diary.
There was something both powerful and vulnerable about him, something that pulled in the listener and made them hang on to every word.
Rashad lifted his head and was pleasantly surprised when a few of the older couples eased into already-tight aisles, wrapped their arms around each other, and began to slow dance.
His eyes scanned the appreciative expressions on those present until finally, just before filling the chorus of sorts with his own hook, he focused on Jamilah again.
“Whipped—don’t deny that part.
Stripped—of the armor that hid my heart.
Ripped—from a vibe not right for me.
Dipped—into a love that’s destiny.”
As he rapped the last two lines, a miracle happened.
Any other time he would not have welcomed what had Jamilah distracted and missing his public declaration of love, but considering the circumstances, he completely understood.
She’d turned and watched as James and Monique joined the other couples on the dance floor. Her father nodded, and smiled.
Rashad would always remember her face as she returned her gaze to him. An expression painted with joy and mixed with wonder. She blew him a kiss and stood totally enraptured as he serenaded her with the final verse.
“Sometimes to stay alive brothah gotta leave his neighborhood
Thriving and striving. For the journey for the greater good
Write my own scripture, be my own myth, serendipity
Time to leave behind that which is no longer serving me
He had Jamilah’s full attention now. He walked over and delivered the bars he’d just written directly to her.
Heart Whipped. Mind Stripped. Life Ripped. I’m like wow.
No Fear. False Evidence. It’s not Real. I know that now.
What’s on my mind is a sign what I’m thinkin ‘bout
Your forever man, time to meet the fam, let’s plan a trip to Granny’s house.”
“No one…”
Jamilah stood transfixed at the edge of the stage.
He watched as a single tear trickled from her right eye, down her cheek, and off her chin, followed by one that took that same journey from her left eye.
He imagined she’d absorbed the enormity of the message he’d delivered.
Hearing the words out loud, with her, in front of an audience, affected him, too.
Once something was heard, it couldn’t be unheard.
Was he really ready to go on this journey with Jamilah? To have a true, committed relationship?
The answer was definitely yes.
His eyes softened as he looked at her. “Come here, baby.”
The gratitude and admiration that shone in Jamilah’s eyes made Rashad’s heart almost burst out of his chest. He leaned over as she reached him and pursed her lips for a kiss. They shared a quick smooch before he introduced her.
“Anybody who’s patronized our establishment knows Jamilah already.
She owns Side Chic’k, which she created and built from the ground up.
I want to publicly thank her for taking a chance and going into business with a knucklehead like me, and while I’m at it, a shout-out to my godmother, the goddess Anna and her husband, Charles.
To my mother Katrina White who I’m sure would have loved to be here.
To Monique, Anna’s friend, who was the first to take a chance on my culinary skills after I arrived in Kansas City, and to the first man Jamilah looked up to and loved, her dad, James Carver.
Big up to you for raising a beautiful daughter. ”
Someone handed him a flute of champagne.
“Thanks to everybody for helping me change the narrative, for making hip-hop positive again, for having a safe space to hang out together, for showing it’s possible to change your life.
Thanks for helping me spread the message that great things can happen from those who were once… Behind Bars!”
Rashad left the stage with Jamilah and after wading through a sea of well-wishers, pulled her into a tight embrace. The sound of Kendrick’s “Luther” swirled around them. He took a sip of bubbly, then held the flute up to Jamilah’s lips.
“Did you order this as part of your stock?” she asked?
“Just for tonight.”
“Need I remind you that your business just opened and will take several months, maybe years, to break even?”
Rashad pulled her closer, grinding against her. “Enjoy the music, Boss Lady.”
“You’re sipping champagne on a beer budget. Just sayin’.”
“No,” Rashad said, as he again shared the drink. “You’re sipping champagne on this bad boy’s budget.”
Jamilah slid her hands across Rashad’s toned back and laid her head on his shoulder. “In that case,” she murmured as the song ended, “let’s grab another bottle to pop at a more…private celebration.”
“Watch it, girl. I’m ready to shoot off a few fireworks right now.”
“The party’s in full swing. No one will miss us.” Eyes sparkling, Jamilah grabbed his hand. “Let’s go!”