“I hate you,” she whispered.
I could hear her tryin’ to hold it together, but I knew Ka’mari. She was emotional, impulsive, and beautiful even in rage. That was what made her unforgettable. But I also knew she didn’t hate me. She hated that I could still touch her without even bein’ there.
“You don’t hate me,” I said, calm. “You hate what you feel when you hear my name.”
She sniffed on the other end, and I knew the tears had started all over again.
“Donovan didn’t deserve that,” she said, softer now. “He ain’t perfect, but he loved me, and he’s tryin’.”
“He was tryna be me,” I corrected. “That’s where he fucked up.”
“You think this shit funny, huh?”
“Nah,” I said. “I think it’s sad. You keep runnin’ from who you really are just so you can say you in a safe relationship. That nigga not built to handle you the way I do, Ka. He’s weak.”
Her silence told me I was hittin’ too close to home. She didn’t argue or hang up either. She just cried.
“I’m supposed to be gettin’ married today and you ruined that! I swear to fucking God, on my soul… I hate you, Pressure!”
I stood there, watchin’ the way the sun was startin’ to bounce off the surface of the infinity pool down below.
“Get some rest,” I said finally, my voice soft but firm. “You sound tired.”
Then I ended the call
A few minutes passed, and my phone lit up again.
It was my mama.
Soon as I saw her name, my whole energy shifted, and I picked up fast.
“Good morning, baby,” she said, her voice smooth like she was sittin’ on silk with her legs crossed, already dressed for a meetin’ I ain’t know about yet.
“Mornin’, Ma,” I said, my voice softer than it had been all day.
Abeni Mensah was the only person who could check me without ever raising her voice. My mama wasn’t loud. She was regal, but she could move nations like chess pieces. Seraphine House was her brand—luxury fashion to the outside world, but what she really ran was influence. She backed Black candidates all across the globe, gave ‘em the resources to win, then owned ‘em from the inside out. Most of ‘em ain’t even realize she was the reason their campaigns ever saw daylight. She didn’t do power like most people. She wore it like perfume. The shit was subtle, rare, and unforgettable.
“I need you to come by,” she said, still gentle. “Your father wants to speak with you.”
I sighed, but not from annoyance. I just knew I needed to brace myself.
I nodded. “Alright. I’ll pull up soon.”
“And Pressure?”
“Yeah, Ma?”
“Wear something that’s not hanging off your narrow behind.”
She ended the call with a kiss through the phone, and just like that, the weight on my chest felt a little easier to carry.
I walked back inside, left the rest of the weed on the tray, and headed for the shower. I took my time under the water, lettin’ the heat run down my back while I thought about Ka’mari.
By the time I stepped out, I already knew what I was wearin’.
I threw on tailored black slacks, and a sleeveless silk button-down, and let it hang open so my ink and chains could breathe.
The cologne clung to my skin like wealth—Clive Christian X for Men, clean and bold without tryin’ too hard. My rings caught the light as I slid them on, each one placed with purpose. I gave myself one last look in the mirror, then nodded.
