10. The People’s Candidate #2
“She imagined a prison which is exactly where she sent me,” I answered honestly.
My dad got quiet instantly, then finally leaned in towards me. “Well.” He straightened my collar slightly, the way he used to when I was younger. “God imagined more.”
His words choked me up. For the past twenty-four years, I did pray, I did talk to the ceiling, and I recited the prayers my father taught me as a platitude, but I wasn’t sure exactly where they were going or who the messenger was really intended to be.
So hearing my dad, who has also been betrayed and counted out, believe in me and pour into my spirit, almost took me out.
Before I could respond, though, Xavier walked and handed me my favorite cognac with one ice cube.
He nodded to the camera that was focused on my dad and me.
He mouthed “smile” while facing away from the camera.
X faced the camera again and smiled while exclaiming, “There goes the people’s champ.”
“I hate all of y’all.”
“No, you don’t.” X smirked.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong, because standing there surrounded by my family, our children, and the possibility of a new beginning felt dangerously close to happiness. And men like me still weren’t fully used to that yet.
About an hour later, I found out why Zay kept acting mysterious all damn evening.
“Come outside,” Zay said casually after dinner.
I frowned immediately. “Why?”
“Cause your family wants to give you your flowers, Nigga.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
Kenya rolled her eyes beside him. “Just go before he starts monologuing.”
“Too late,” X muttered. “Nigga already think he Batman.”
“I AM Batman,” Zay answered calmly.
“See?” Xavier pointed immediately.
The whole family laughed while we followed Zay through the back of the estate.
These rich Nigaas basically owned a private resort.
He led us past the massive pool glowing blue beneath the night sky, the outdoor kitchen, and the lined cabana spaces.
We turned left at the outdoor basketball court, and there sat a building.
It was a modern black-and-glass building.
We walked in, and YaYa hit the lights. Every light inside glowed bright.
Campaign signs lined the walkway. Security cameras were mounted outside.
People were already inside, moving around, carrying laptops and boxes.
“What the hell is this?”
Zay grinned slowly beside me.
“Your campaign headquarters.”
“When did you build this?”
X chimed in. “The moment Channy got the call about ten weeks ago, I called Zay.”
“It was nothing, we just renovated the guest property,” Zay corrected casually.
He said it as if my family didn’t just build a whole political operation in their backyard.
I walked around inside slowly, still trying to process what I was looking at.
Phone lines were already ringing. The conference table was set up.
The news channel played in the media room, each TV showing a different channel to capture each politically motivated channel.
There was even a damn nursery corner and a game room.
I hoped my sons and nieces spent a lot of time here with me.
I turned slowly toward Camilla. “Did you know about this?”
Her guilty face answered immediately.
“Millie Millz.”
“I only found out three days ago!”
“Everybody in my life is sneaky.”
“Yes,” Chanel answered instantly. “Because you overthink.”
Matthew appeared from one of the offices carrying folders before smiling tightly.
“Perfect timing.”
I frowned immediately. “That sentence never leads anywhere good.”
“Actually,” Matthew replied smoothly, “polling prediction numbers came in.”
He handed papers toward me. And for a second, I thought I was reading the numbers wrong.
“Fifty-eight percent favorable?” I blinked. “Already?”
Matthew nodded calmly. “Your story resonates heavily with working-class voters.”
“Black voters and women voters especially,” Kenya added softly.
I looked down at the papers again.
Because somehow this was becoming bigger than a campaign. People weren’t just seeing me. They were seeing broken systems and seeing second chances.
“What if I fail?” I admitted out loud in front of everyone before I could stop myself.
Camilla moved beside me first, resting one hand against my back gently.
Then I heard my dad’s voice. “Son.” His tenor stayed calm and steady. “Failure would’ve been letting prison turn you into somebody hopeless.”
X nodded slowly afterward.
“You already beat what was supposed to kill you.”
“And if you fail?” Zay shrugged casually. “You’ll run again in four years.”
“That simple, huh?”
“Yeah.” Zay leaned against the conference table, folding his arms. “Cause the point ain’t perfection.” His eyes met mine seriously. “The point is somebody from Crestwood is finally sitting at the table where decisions get made.”
Because growing up, power always felt far away from us. Like something rich white men inherited behind closed doors. But standing here now inside a headquarters with my name on the walls while my family stood behind me?
Power suddenly looked different.
It looked Black.
It looked complicated.
But it also looked possible.