“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “I heard that from someone before, too.”
“Now”—Kweku took my hand again—“let’s go in there and knock them out.”
“Good music is born in culture,” Kweku said after taking his place at the front of the room again. I sat toward the back in an empty seat. “This is the vision at SonySOULjourn, a new imprint of one of the largest record labels in the world that we’ve all been charged with developing. It is a marriage of the sound of world music into the contemporary sound of soul that dominates the charts. I’ve searched far and across continents for an artist who could pull this together and be the face of the imprint. At first, I thought I could find it in my home, and then I went East, North ... West. And finally, appropriately enough, I found it up in the air above it all.” Kweku looked at me and smiled. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the voice of the Deep South that pulls together a sound that mirrors the passion of my homeland and the determination of this new land. Journey Cash.” He waved me to the front of the room and everyone began to clap.
My father had lied about a lot of things. And his lies, and the lies of others, including myself, led to a lot of pain. A lot of heartache. A lot of unnecessary tears. But the one thing my father told me the truth about, the one thing I would need to get me through the thirty-third year of my life when every lie I ever knew would burn to bits was that when God puts something on you, there’s nothing you can do about it. You can wrestle, you can fight, tear yourself inside out, or stand still and hope the moment will pass, but it won’t work. When God has an assignment for you, it just is. And everything I’d been through. Everything I’d left. Everyone I’d hurt. Just was. And I’d have to live with that for the rest of my life, but I still had to accept my assignment and take a walk in faith that it would all work out. And while I hadn’t been to church in over a month, didn’t know when and if I’d ever go back, and still wasn’t saved, realizing this when I rose to sing my song, I felt more spiritual than I had in my whole life. I had died, and I was ready to rise again. But I had to do something first.
When I got to the front of the room, I made a decision.
“I don’t want to bore you all with a speech,” I started, “but before I begin, I have to say, I didn’t expect any of this today. I thought this was just an opportunity, a chance for me to come here and share ... just to sing, you know.... And after hearing. . . hearing”—I paused because I was already crying and could hardly see for the tears in my eyes—“all of the wonderful things that you have planned for me, I’m overwhelmed. Because I don’t know why you chose me. I don’t even know how I got here.” I stopped again and laughed a bit as I wiped my eyes. “And when I was walking up here, I realized that I couldn’t sing the song that I’m supposed to sing for you today because I have to express my thanks, my emotion in this moment. And someone once told me that when you hear that voice inside telling you to do something, you have to follow it. So instead of singing my love song, Kweku, I want to sing a song that’s on my heart.” I looked to Kweku, and he, eased back in a huge chair at the head of the table, nodded with a supportive smile.
I sang “Swing Slow, Sweet Chariot” with every last scrap of affection I could find in me. I sang it from my heart in a way that made me know that for the first time, I wasn’t singing a song I was teaching or giving my words or talent to an audience listening. No. This time I was singing for the sweet chariot to swing low to me. To pick me up and carry me over and deliver me into my purpose. I was praying and praising, being hopeful and thankful all in words that I’d known all my life. I sang so hard that I had to close my eyes to keep the vibrations from pushing me to the floor.
When I opened my eyes, when I was near the last line of the song, I saw that everyone at that table, including Kewku, was blinded, too. Their eyes were closed and they cried, not bothering to wipe away tears. On the last note, I looked up, the only one with my eyes open, and saw someone in the doorway.
It was Dame. He shook his head at me and beamed.
Everyone began to open their eyes and then they all stood up and clapped.
Dame, who was now walking to the front of the room toward me, was clapping the loudest. He was wearing a black suit.
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you all so much. You don’t know how much this means to me.”
Dame stood by my side, not saying a word as the faces surrounding us came over to welcome me to SonySOULjourn and expressed how happy they were to be working with me. One woman, who’d taped the whole thing with her cell phone, said, “I felt like I was back in my Mudeah’s church in Mississippi,” as she hugged me and headed out behind the rest.
When everyone, except for two people who were waving a bunch of papers in front of Kweku for his signature at the table, was gone, Dame turned to me. I wanted to say hello. Say I missed him. Say I was happy he’d turned himself in. Say I was okay and understood why he had to leave me.
“You did this?” I asked.
“I couldn’t let you get on that plane by yourself.”
“I should’ve known you sent Kweku. It was too much of a coincidence.”
“No, you earned this. You’re the most talented person I know,” he said earnestly, taking my hand, and I just let it dangle there in his, afraid to grasp or hold, but loving the familiar touch. “You put your feelings first and the art second. And if you don’t feel anything, you can’t create the art. That’s a million-dollar contract, baby.”
“You think Kweku’s going to sign me for a million dollars?” I laughed nervously and looked at Kweku.
“I know it,” he replied.
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’m backing the project. It’s time for the industry to put some of this big money behind the big art.”
“Break it up! Break it up,” Kweku said, pulling my hand from Dame’s. “This is no place for this sort of thing.”
“No love connection,” Dame said slyly. “That’s just my teacher.” He looked at me and winked.
“Well, that’s wonderful,” Kweku said. “And can I have a few moments with your teacher alone? After all, she is my artist.” Kweku laughed and hugged Dame. From the playful exchange, it was clear they knew each other well.
“Fine,” Dame said and he backed away toward the door. “But I get her next.”
“I never said you get anything,” I joked.
“We’ll see about that.”
“So, Journey,” Kweku began when Dame disappeared into the hallway, “what do you think about all of this?”
“I can hardly believe it. You could’ve told me something. Helped me get ready.”
“You can’t get someone ready for fate. You just have to know they’ll show up,” he said.
“What’s next?”
“Next, you take all of those contracts I hate looking at and find yourself a good entertainment lawyer. Atlanta’s full of them. They’ll let you know all is proper and then we’ll start working on your first release.”
“That’s it?” I said, feeling my eyes watering up again.
“That’s it.”
“I just can’t believe this is happening,” I said. “I guess I need to find a good attorney.”
“Yes, and then get ready to work,” he directed, pointing at me. “The sooner we get you writing songs like ‘Dying,’ the better.”
“I see,” I said, remembering my special place on the beach in Kumasi and the words just came to me.
“Good. So let’s get started.”
Kweku led me to the door.
“Oh, and one last thing.” I stopped him before we walked out. He turned and looked at me eagerly. “I want to go back to Ghana.”
“Ghana? Are you serious?” He stepped back.
“Yes. For a month. Three months. Alone,” I said, half asking and thinking he’d probably say no, but I had to ask.
“What? You are already costing us money and we haven’t even signed anything.” He grinned comically.
“I was
just Journey ... living a dead life for a long, long time. And one day, I met a man on a plane. And he sat right next to me and told me that Africa was the only place that could revive a dead life. And that it would always be there for me if I needed it. Well, I need to learn how to survive a dead life now.”
“This was a wise man,” Kweku said, tapping the side of his forehead pensively.
“Well, not that wise. But ... he helped save my life.”
Kweku opened the conference room door and turned to me with his eyes low and defeated.
“I’ll book a flight to Accra next week. Get a lease on a villa for two months,” he said.
“Three,” I tried.
“Three?”
“I want three months in a villa on the beach in Kumasi.”
“You’re killing me.”
“When I come back, I’ll have an album written and be ready to record,” I said.
Kweku stood there for a second and looked into my eyes.
“Okay,” he finally said. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Even I couldn’t believe he’d said okay.
“Okay,” he confirmed. “Now go on to lunch and retain a lawyer. Can you do that, diva?”
“I can do that.” I was sure my smile could be seen throughout the building.
“And don’t get lost,” he said, walking out of the room in front of me.
“Don’t worry, Kweku. I’ll be taking Ms. Cash to lunch,” Dame said, who I discovered was standing right outside the door.
“Hmm ...” Kweku wagged a naughty finger at Dame and turned to me. “Call me later?” We exchanged nods, and he walked off to a group of people who were waiting for him down the hallway.
“How do you know I want to have lunch with you?” I asked Dame.
“Two words.”
“What?”
“Dreamland BBQ.”
“Dreamland? We’re going to Tuscaloosa for lunch?” I asked as we started walking toward the elevators.
“No! They have it up here now,” Dame said. “A chain. Commerce. Capitalism. Dreamland is taking over.”
“Is it as good?”
“Hell, no. You know the best barbecue is in Tuscaloosa. But it’ll have to do.”
“I guess it will,” I said.
Dame pushed the button for the elevator, and we just stood there quietly. He hadn’t lost his tan and his skin looked so impeccably black, an onyx sculpture could be made of him. He was still a beautiful man. And I knew right then that we’d be friends forever.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine.” I smiled and made myself a promise I wouldn’t look at his arms during lunch. But I knew I would. “It’s just nice to see you wearing something other than a white T-shirt for a change.”
“Oh, you like the new look?” he asked, chuckling. “It’s my grown-man-trying-to-stay-out-of-jail swagger.”
“Let’s hope it works,” I said, chuckling now, too.
An empty elevator arrived and we both walked inside. I reached inside my purse and pulled out my cell phone.
“You need to make a call?” he asked nosily.
“I need to call my mama and tell her what happened today,” I said.
“Call your mama? I thought you were on your Ms. Independent thing.”
“I may be independent, but I’m not stupid.”
HEAR
TASTE
SEE
SMELL
Feel Yourself First
If you enjoyed the Something She Can Feel, don’t miss
Should Have Known Better
Available in November 2011 at your local bookstore
Here’s an excerpt from Should Have Known Better ...
Fire
I never really believed in God. Not a god. Not “Thee God” that you probably believe in. I know that must sound peculiar coming from a preacher’s daughter. But, you know, I just never had a reason to honestly think someone or something other than myself would show up to save me when the whole universe was crashing in and burning me to bits. And that’s what God is—what we really say he is—a savior. Some big hand to hold you together when you’re a pile of hot ash. And I’d been there before. My son has autism. Mild autism. When he was three years old, he stopped saying, “Mama.” Just stopped one day and then a man with a gray beard in a white jacket told me that he had a disease I could hardly pronounce. There was no cure. There was no cause. They couldn’t say where it came from. “It came from me,” I cried and sobbed in the bathtub with my hands resting over my vagina. The water was boiling all around me, and turning to lava, scorching me alive. I didn’t think any God would come then. And no God came. I got myself out of that fire. I fought to save my son. I was the only one there.
That wasn’t the God the good Reverend Herbert George II talked about on the pulpit every Sunday at First Salvation Church of God in Southwest, Atlanta. No. Sitting there in the first row beside my mother in one of her lavender suits with sparkly lilac rhinestones around the collar, I listened as my father talked about a god who saved and fixed and came “just in the nick of time!” That “on time” God. Right?
I always knew it was a lie. It couldn’t be true.
Nothing my daddy ever said was true.
The good Reverend Herbert George II killed my mother everyday. But “Thou shall not kill”? God should’ve put something more direct in that chapter of his good book. Like don’t kick your wife so hard in the stomach that she can’t have anymore babies.
There was no God.
I didn’t expect it. I didn’t see.
But that’s just all what I believed then—how I understood things before I’d been on the earth for 33 years and ended up locked in a bathroom, once again, blaming myself for losing everything I loved.
I was so angry, the fire within me was burning up the world crashing in.
I was about to kill somebody.
Either myself. Or my husband. Or my best friend. Or maybe all of us.
And not figuratively. Seriously. The gun was on the floor I was running out of the energy to save myself.
I cried. I felt like no one would ever hear me, but I cried out for the name I’d heard my mother scream so many times. My God. The heat in me boiled out of my mouth so fast that I lurched forward to my knees.
“God,” I cried. “God, help me!”
DAFINA BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2009 by Grace Octavia
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-7384-0
ISBN-10: 0-7582-4564-6
Something She Can Feel Page 37
