I was running about ten minutes late for my shift at the grocery store but figured I could make up the time if I took the back streets to avoid traffic lights and be a little flexible with my speed. I saw the police officer standing at a vehicle and writing a ticket for some unfortunate driver. I could have simply slowed down and kept going but from some inexplicable reason, I paused like I was turning myself in. The officer motioned for me to pull over and confirmed my guilt: 43 in a 25. I was later sentenced to a day of driver school. That’s where I met Imoja. She and I were the only black people in the class, except she was the instructor—a voluptuous soul sista with gorgeous dreadlocks cascading to the small of her back. We were instant family. During the lunch break, I properly introduced myself to her and in the course of our becoming acquainted, I mentioned my love for singing and writing music. She told me of a show she was producing called A Tribute to Black Men and asked if I’d be interested in participating. We exchanged phone numbers but six weeks later, I still hadn’t heard from her. I called to see if she’d forgotten about me and had already done the show. She hadn’t. But I only had a couple weeks to assemble a band and rehearse background singers. After the performance, a man approached to tell me how much he enjoyed my music and to invite me to dinner. I thanked him for the compliment and accepted his invitation. Less than a year later, that man was my husband. Less than a year after that, he was my ex-husband. If only I had left for work on time.
June 18, 2013
