I Am

I’m a 100 metres running, healthy eating, puzzle solving, cartoon watching, cereal eating, bedwetting, probable Olympian. I am 5 years old.
I’m a food hogging, note learning, couch hugging, human despising, hard working, teachers’-ass-licking book worm. I am 12 years old.

I’m a bong ripping, pot smoking, cigarette puffing, Monk guzzling, blunt blazing, Marshall listening, insensitive, selfish, asshole. I am 17 years old.

I’m a LSD popping, Xanax ingesting, coke snorting, methadone blowing, Hennessey sipping, paradise searching junkie. I am 25 years old.

I’m a needle injecting, ecstasy licking, valium crushing, ambien mixing, percocet ingesting, lean drinking corpse. I was 30.

As We Proceed

Before you judge all the drug-addled, sorrow-driven, grief-stricken “junkies” out there, let us take a moment to analyze why they have reached the point where they are.
Some of you, most of you rather would say that they’re what society terms as “losers” because they can’t take what life throws at them and require assistance in handling themselves, leading to them experimenting with narcotics and finding a sickening solace in it, completely unjustified and horribly twisted in its conceptions.

You might attribute this to substance abuse considering the fact that they’re dependent on it to get them through the day. It’s either that, or they’re just party-ravers who’re looking for kicks.

But have you ever taken a moment to think why they do what they do? Have you ever taken a moment to think, as to what could have led to this scenery?

Society has pushed them to the limit that they can’t deal with things sober anymore. They’re so tired of being fucked over by whatever happens in their environment that all they seek is an escape from reality. Sobriety feels like a curse. Inebriation is comfort.

And as we proceed, to smoke weed, drink Henny, pop pills, snort lines, inject shit through our veins, we shall brush aside society’s expectations and its menacing presence from our daily lives.

Ignorance is bliss.

m.A.A.d city

Jeffrey never was the kinda guy who’d throw up gang signs and rep colors. He was the shy kid on the block, never spoke much, never interacted beyond a certain level and sure as hell didn’t resort to violence when situations seemed to get out of hand. He’d always had a way with words.

Jeffrey never sought vengeance on anybody for any reason at all. He was the peaceful kind, the one who believed in compromise and dialogue as opposed to brute force.

Jeffrey loved his parents and would ride or die for them, under any circumstances. He’d been groomed in a manner that was only fitting for any child to receive and had always made his parents proud, be it academics, extracurriculars and so on and so forth.

Jeffrey was never the kinda guy who’d go out a lot and do things he knew he shouldn’t be doing.

But Jeffrey never knew that the death of his parents might change all his values in an instant.

Jeffrey never knew that throwing up gang signs and repping colors was the only way to keep your family truly safe, in this place they called home.

Jeffrey never knew that sobriety was a long lost concept. Inebriation was the new reality of the neighborhood he’d grown up in.

Jeffrey never knew that violence would provide his conscience a serenity that he’d never experienced before.

Jeffrey never knew that one day, eventually everyone falls prey to the m.A.A.d city. Just like he had.

good kid

I knew this kid that was born to my brother. He was a nuisance, that kid. Never sat in one place. Slave feet, he had. His mama always told us he’d represent our nation on the international stage.

When he was a boy of 11, he started showing a flair for academics and music. He started listening to Hip Hop and exploring people’s trials and tribulations. He was top of his class, all the time. Never missed out on anything. He was kind of a loner, this kid. Never could make a lot of friends. He also had a knack for ending up head over heels for women way beyond his league. But he was a good kid.

When he was in 10th grade, this straight-A scoring, lonely little kid who had no one to talk to, to share his feelings with, went from an antisocial personality to a social creature. His life turned upside down when he came into contact with other creatures like himself. He had friends, now. To share his feelings with. Who’d always have his back through his tough phases. Who’d do anything for him.

Mentally, this kid transformed from a 5-year old who would skate over a powdered floor to a teenager who had responsibilities to fulfil and people to take care of and people who’d take care of him.

The only thing he had not experienced yet was reality. See, all this happened from blooming age of 5 to his initial adolescent age. His parents had protected him from the evils of society. His own mentality had blocked him out of any such interactions that would lead him astray. But how long could they keep him safe from the outside world?

They could see their little baby bird growing wings and showing an eagerness to spread them and soar on the clouds. Their instincts told them that they should check their child’s flight from the beginning and make sure that he doesn’t fly too far away. But at some point of time they had to introduce him to the real world. How long could they keep their baby’s wings pinned? He wanted to fly and they let him take flight for the first time when they let him go out with his friends. They wanted him to feel independence. They wanted him to experience life. They wanted him to enjoy life a little bit. But little did they know that this decision of theirs would come back to haunt them for the rest of their short lives.

His behavior started changing. He went from mama’s sweet and obedient boy to the rebelious young kid who wouldn’t take no for an answer. His face wasn’t the same anymore. It was always flushed red. He’d gotten into bad company.

In the end, even the good kid fell prey to the m.A.A.d city

A Story From The Streets

He could hear the sirens wailing, the gunshots, the explosions, everything. He could hear the gangbangers screaming for blood, the ordinary populace crying for justice, little kids screaming for their mothers. And yet, there he lay, motionless, paralyzed, not being able to move worth a damn but sensing everything that was going on around him. He always knew that it was gonna come down to this, that the city was gonna melt down. He always knew that the people on the streets were gonna lose they minds and create riots that were gonna revolutionize the administrative and judicial system forever. He knew this because he was a part of the revolution- a soldier of the struggle. As he lay on the streets, gazing up at the sky, looking at the stars shining brighter than he had ever seen them before, he felt his pulse slow down. He knew he was nearing his end. He’d lost too much blood, but it wasn’t all for naught. The revolution had begun- the fight had been taken to the streets and the people on the streets were hungry for justice. They were fed up of the police brutality. They’d been pushed to the edge. Now, they were gonna strike back. He closed his eyes one last time amongst the noise of the glorious agitation and rewound to the moment where it all began.
He remembered being a young hustler, trying to make a living. He didn’t have no family- his parents died when he was 11 and he had no siblings. He grew up on the rough side of the grub, learning how to evade the authorities when they came looking for homeless children, stealing food to keep himself from starving to death, running from one back alley to the other, fighting to survive. When he was 15, he found some cats hanging in the back alley where he was taking refuge at one night, dope slanging. Curious, he walked up to the brothers and asked them what they was doing, because he could see that they had a huge bag full of something that smelled kinda funky and rolls on Benjamins stuffed in their pockets. Luckily for him, these cats were cool. They didn’t blow his brains out with the mac-11, they took a brother in. They taught him the rules of the streets, taught him how to hustle and make a living by slanging dope. After a solid 3 years with the gang, he was established. He had those rolls of Benjamins in his pockets and this time around, he was the one selling some of that funky stuff. The gang was family now. Everybody would put their lives on the line to save a brother’s neck. But then, he discovered the nasty side of the dope dealing business. His boy Jimmy got arrested one day on “probable cause”. They weren’t allowed to visit him in Juvie. Jimmy was sentenced to a 6 month term for finding marijuana on his person. When he got out though, the real story was revealed to us. Thing is, the police arrested Jimmy without any solid case. They planted the drugs and framed him and it was all because Jimmy was black. That’s when he realized that this type of police brutality needs to stop. The gang started mobilizing. They called in all the sets- friendly or unfriendly. The young hustler from the streets became the voice of these cats repping their sets. He was their speaker, telling the world about what goes down in the hood, giving them their side of the story. He came out as their leader, the voice on the street block. He heard about this one group who was repping the same story, but portraying it through music. Their art spread through the city like wildfire. Soon, all the sets were vibing to that record. This is where this movement turned into a revolution. This is where the beginning began.
Now, with his eyes closed and his heart full, his ears pricked up for amidst the gunshots and the ruckus, he could hear a car stereo playing some music. It was that very same song that had inspired the sets to come together in the first place. As his consciousness drowned out, the last words he heard, reaffirmed his faith in their struggle and made him crack a smile before his eyes went blank.

“Fuck Tha Police, coming straight from the underground. A young nigga got it bad ‘cause I’m brown…”