The Future is arguing with hip-hop, arguing with Drake, arguing with Kendrick, arguing with J Cole. Some call it beef, but I call it an impossible burger – eating from the troughs of artificial intelligence. The future feels myopic, but not because of the songs which might or might not be taken off of streaming services. Rico Wade just died, and that devastating loss has shown just how disorganized the noise really is.
If Rico’s death hurts at this moment, you know about the legends of “The Dungeon” and how that miry clay molded the South. Above many things, it is a testament to what happens when you invest in Black children and the arts. That would be a conversation for another day, if there were a future.
I’m thinking about dreams right now, how they can be glimpses into tomorrow. Mostly, they are shiny shards which cut conviction and regret, in the hands and across the face. How’d you think you got all of those wrinkles? I’m grateful for the producers like Rico, folks who refused to ignore their loud, bass-thumping premonitions. I’m a writer, supposedly, and that’s cool, but the words keep me up at night.
Sometimes there are no words. I went to the Variety Playhouse and listened to Three Stacks play the flute. Some people didn’t understand why, much like they didn’t understand The Love Below or why the South got something to say. But I listened to Andre and I appreciated the unpredictability of it all, laughed at his impish humor and mischievous grin. He told me to make up new languages with my children. He was trying to save the future.
Killer Mike, whose politics I don’t always agree with, can’t find the words right now either. That’s saying a lot for someone who just won a handful of Grammys for exceptional rap prowess in an era of streams which lack consciousness. The awarded album was so poignant, so spiritual that it carried the name of an archangel – Michael.
When I first came across Janelle Monae, it was at a festival in Augusta with a quirky name – Westobou. She was quirky, too, and electric, like James Brown. She slid across the stage, talking about tightropes, a troubadour with a pompadour. I saw her again some years later, when she was just a face in the crowd at the funeral for the Rev. Nathaniel Irvin, perhaps my favorite pastor of all time. In his old age, he had a firm, yet playful jab, and a knack for charity.
He was from a place called Boggy Branch, which was a dungeon of sorts, and he, too, got it out the mud. That day reminds me of how, in the Southern soil that cultivates civil rights and art movements, that you never know when you’ll bump into a giant or two.
I’ve written so much and yet I haven’t said much about Rico Wade, the father, the son, the Black man. This is what Black Christians do – we profess one thing, but we often celebrate the created more than the creator. It’s why the performers who were formed in and by the Dungeon Family have amassed more fame than Wade, even with the ONP documentary and various legends. That is why it’s particularly sad that the good brotha died at 52, and not just because I’m 40 and just had a few cheddar biscuits and a brownie sundae for leisure yesterday. Fifty-two should be reserved for the number of weeks in a year, not the number of years in a lifetime. I spoke to Danyel Smith once, she with her finger on the pulse, the vibe. Last year, she wrote about the mortality rate of our hip-hop heroes, and how many of them had died at a young age. It was harrowing, much like the time Phonte Coleman wrote about expensive genes. “It’s like 40 years is ¾ life,” he wrote.
Ten more years is no future, certainly not enough future to raise my children. It makes the future tense, makes what we “might do” or “will do” that much more deficient. It’s gotta be done now, and with that, a singular prayer – that Black men might be able to enjoy the fruits of their labor, to enjoy old age. There are some, albeit few brothas, who resent being called “Unc”. But Unc is a blessing – a title and rite of passage that so many of our brothas were unable to attain. In the old way, that phonetic sound signified the key to life – ankh. I love that it is abbreviated, because in the old way, saying “uncle” was a concession. And I’m not willing to give up yet.
Better to wade in streams of consciousness, like our dear brother Rico, who like Atlanta’s native son, understood the fierce urgency of now. Or, as CeeLo Green put it:
You’ve got to realize that the world’s a test
You can only do your best and let him do the rest
You’ve got yo’ life, and got yo’ health
So quit procrastinating
Ken J. Makin 