❛ You pay the price of fame,
So don't be feeling no pain. ❜
⸺ ( Michael x black!oc )
Imani Sade, renowned songwriter and musician, has been working for the biggest Pop stars of the industry while staying behind the scenes for years. Due to her mu...
' There's a quiet storm, And it never felt like this before, There's a quiet storm, That is you.'
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Compton, Los Angeles, California.
Imani slowly walked through the lively neighborhood that she grew up in, as black kids were playing and laughing outside among each other, without a care in the world.
Creating a contrast, the loud and aggressive voice of Ice Cube was blasting through the speakers of a nearby car, surrounded by a group of young men dressed in baggy clothes, a few of them wearing a blue bandanna around their head.
Four years ago, with the rising of gang violence in Compton, Imani decided to create a free music program for children from the age of 8 to 17 years old, to keep them off the streets. It gave singing and instrument learning classes, with the help of her friends, she renovated an old abandoned building and bought the necessary equipments.
She gave those classes to kids from 8 to 12 years old every Wednesday, while other grown folks who volunteered gave classes to the older teenagers. Being able to share her musical knowledge with children brought Imani an inexplicable joy, that she looked forward to every week.
When Imani spotted her friend sitting on the steps of the porch of his house, a tiny smile showed on her face as she hustled her pace.
"B!" She called out, approaching the house.
Brent turned his head towards her, before smirking. He breathed out the smoke of the freshly rolled up blunt he was smoking.
"Drix', what you fine manic ass doing here?"
She softly laughed shaking her head, walking up to him as she mumbled. "Shut up, pothead."
Brent and Imani met each under uncompromising circumstances in high school. Their friendship was never meant to happen, and it still surprised them on how they ended up being so close to each other.
She sat down next to him, stuffing her hands in the big black hoodie she was wearing, while Brent eyed her. He always had this captivating glare anytime he'd look at Imani, as if he was trying to unscramble the spirit she was in anytime he'd see her.
"Lemme take a hit." She muttered, her manicured nails trying to reach for his blunt, Brent swiftly pulled it away from her.
"You crazy?" He frowned, straightening the white wife-beater top he had on.
She pouted, "Brent...it's only weed c'mon."
"No." He took a puff, looking ahead. "Ain't yo ass supposed to be clean?"
