Excuse our misdemeanor. We grew up on cuss/crack/guns music, misogynistic lyrics and middle finger videos. We have that arrogant (‘gangsta’) persona in us. Rap is that infectious. We hate the police for this very reason. So when I call you bitch, that’s an allegory, and it affectionately means you are my lady. My main squeeze. My hoe. My baby (mama). My hommy, lover and friend. I could slay a dragon just to steal fire for your cold.
Or sometimes it just means you are a bitch. A nagging cunt. Period.
It doesn’t matter if I’m 23 or 42 years old. Sometimes all I wanna do is sag my jeans (to match my low profile), smoke a little weed (to synchronize my high moods with nature) and chill. That doesn’t make me a bad-ass boy or a street goon or a ghetto thug or a wanna-be. I am a grown man. It’s just one of those Hiphop things. Life is not a job interview or a legal case. So I don’t do suits.
I may act like I feel your dubstep R&B and soft rock noise when I’m rocking you but the truth is, I can’t stand that shit. My version of the blues is mellow poetry like Floetry, Badu, Akua Naru, Glasper or Maxwell. Ed Sheraan, Robin Thicke and all them other Billboard crooners (especially if they are white) don’t tickle my fancy. I don’t care how rich or popular they are. I’m deep like that. So is my love for you. Ocean floor type of vibe.
To love a brother like me, surprise me with a Supastition LP or any underground mix-tape for my birthday. Or a pair of snickers. I still hold Valentine’s is a soft nigga shit. But because of love and other addictions, take me to a strip club to see red thongs instead of flowers. Drop me some off-key Naru bars in your mo(u)rning raspy voice instead of chocolate. Still, I can do anything you ask. Sucka fo luv, I is.
To love a Hiphop dude, understand that we are about that paper. The grind. We may not be around when ya’ll need us. We may call you from jail or come home with scars. Sometimes the hustle bears no fruit. So no proof that I hustle, since there ain’t no pudding on the table. Sometimes we spend grands on shoes. Today we ball, next week we can’t afford rent or buy you heels. So we sulk. Low vibes and shit. Leave the fuck us alone to write a song about it. Or give us head out of the blue. Encourage us but don’t start talking like how we are old and still live with our moms. You are just another broad we just boned. Don’t mistake that for a bond. Or marriage. You don’t know jack about our past. Our family’s wealth or lack of it doesn’t define us. Straight up.
To love a brother like me, you don’t have to start acting like me. We hate competing with the people we love. I can’t teach you how to rap. I can’t picture the two of us on stage or competing for attention from our ‘fans’. Worse still, both of us in the studio freaks me out. If you can sing, do poetry or ballet, that I can handle. But you acting tom-boyish/Nikki Minaj-ish pisses me off. Hata kuchora tattoo kwa matiti na matako, ama kuongea sheng hardcore kaa za Dando, nah, not my girl. So stay home when I’m on my concerts or in the booth for my night sessions. The thought of you waiting home for me saying you miss me, how was the show, take care, don’t trip with them other hoes, inspires me so much I cry sometimes. Thugz Get Lonely Too.
Which is to say, my love for Hiphop, my music, my record deals, my underground shit with no sales, my ego, my crew, my swag, my groupies, don’t mean nothing if I ain’t got you. Despite the booty twerks on our videos, our sexist lyrics, just remember Pac’s Dear Mama, Brenda Got A Baby and Keep Yo’ Head Up. We love you. We will kill a nigga for you.
“I will do a bid,
lose a rib,
bust a cap,
run up to heaven doors,
exchange my life for yours…
I’d risk everything just for one kiss.” – Jay Z