• SoloStar

Black Boy Blues

I had no intention on starting a blog. It birthed itself on a Tuesday morning between 5 and 6am.

It started with a kiss. Bae had woken up shortly after me, likely stirred by my movement and the dim light on my phone. Without motivation, he’d have held it, since his bladder is not as delicate as mine with no baby laying on it. He returned from relief to grab his phone, kissed me and said he’d be back. I thought nothing of it. Did not question my fiancé. Smiled when I realized I didn’t. Proud of myself.

Perhaps I was not being mature so much as I was distracted. I’d sat on the phone with my friend P for hours the evening before, talking artrepreneurship, creativity and funding. She’d sent me hella materials to look over and I was inspired, so much so that I couldn’t go back to sleep at 5am after my pee break. Pouring over content schedules and things she calls “decks”; admiring how well put together my lil homie turned big homie’s shit was. During that long ass FaceTime, she’d told me to do a podcast or blog. That when I speak people listen. Ya’ll listening? Cool.

So boom, bae is gone, unquestioned about what he’s doing or where he’s heading in the dark of morning. I’m sitting on the toilet again at this point, minding my own business. I’ve digressed to Instagram. I’m admiring my gifted friends. Maya doing her thing in Pittsburg. Jibreel receiving much deserved praise for his new album. Eshay reminding folks pussy ain’t free. Five shots ring out. My heart drops. I instantly text Bae. One word: “Bae”. No response. Black girl attitude motivated by worry kicks in: “I just heard shots over here, wtf you go?” Again, no response.

Now I’m salty with myself for not questioning him. I thought that shit was cute. But if a need arose for answers as to where he was headed or what he was doing, I’d have nothing but educated assumptions. Every bad thought that could cloud my mind began to jump me at once. Did he go buy blunts and get in a scuffle? He always talking shit! Did he have a run in with the police? Fuck the Police! Is he hurt? Is he-? There’s so many directions a black man’s narrative can take on dark streets. Death is not farfetched when black boys are involved. With a starting lineup of brothers, two fathers and for the last four years, my lover; I know all too well how left shit can go. I’m connected by blood to boy’s who’ve been shot, harassed and jailed, beaten by police, accused of rape by silly girls and forced to make life or death decisions way too young. I look outside to see the car hasn’t moved. Wherever he went, he’s on foot. Great. That does nothing for my anxiety. Alright. Breathe. Think. Relax. Pray.

And pray I did. I thanked God for the day. For life, health and strength. For every moment that brought us to this one. This is the way I start every prayer and I was intent on not going to God in fear, even though I was so scared. Clutching my belly, trying not to think the worst yet knowing that I’m not exempt from it; I prayed for my man, my fiancé. I prayed for his safety and the safety of whoever he was with if he was with someone. I thanked God for his partnership, the life he helped create in my womb, and his safe return home. Before I could say amen, he was at the door, sweaty from a run. Oblivious to my panic. Before relief could set all the way in, I thought:

This is why I wanted a daughter.

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