"You shut your bean head-ass up," Imani stood from her chair, smacking him on the back of the head as she walked out.
Imani laid down on the floor of Jamal's loft apartment, playing with a stuffed teddy bear she found on one of his shelves. Jamal was laying on the couch, headphones on, listening to one of the demo's Fallon and Imani made.
"I'm hungry, Michael," she called to the man in the kitchen. "When will the food be ready?" The smell of whatever he was cooking permeated through the entire loft, teasing Imani. She hadn't eaten all day, and the smell alone made her hungrier by the second.
"Have patience, Imani," Michael told her, sprinkling something into the pot on the stove.
Imani groaned. "Ugh, man you're killing me. I'm starving!"
Michael laughed. "Oh, quit your whining. It's almost done." He grabbed three bowls, setting them on the island. "So, tell me about this competition Lucious is making you do."
Imani scoffed. "I guess you could call it that," she sighed. "Only one of us can run Empire. And by one of us, I mean one of the boys. Me and Fallon are just completely cut out of whatever this competition is."
"I mean, is that really a bad thing?" Michael asked, scooping the stew into a bowl. "I thought you didn't want it."
"I don't, but he didn't even consider us for it," Imani sat up. She pointed at Michael. "That's what pisses me off."
"Well, you can count me out," Jamal sighed. "He'd never pick me."
"Why?" Michael asked, picking up another bowl.
"Way too much homophobia in the black community," he answered. He fiddled with the bracelets on his wrists.
"It's 2015," Michael said, handing a bowl to both Jamal and Imani. "Nobody cares. There's football players coming out." Jamal sat up, taking the headphones off. He handed them back to Imani, who was too busy eating to take them. Michael sat next to Jamal, throwing his legs into his lap.
"Well, I don't want it anyway—so whatever," he mumbled, starting to eat.
"Then what do you want?" Michael asked. "You don't want to release an album, you won't tour."
Jamal shook his head. "Seen it my whole life. Hey, look at my dad. That's a real artist. Well, he was." Jamal looked down at his food. "Now he's more concerned with selling T-shirts and watches and whatever."
Whatever moment Michael and Jamal were about to have was interrupted by his phone ringing. Jamal reached over Imani's head for the landline on the table next to the couch.
"Saved by the bell," Imani commented.
Jamal nudged her with his leg answering the phone. "Hello?" His face turned to one of confusion as he stood up. "Who's this?" He went over to the window, phone still up to his ear.
"What's wrong?" Imani asked.
Jamal began to scurry around the loft, picking up some of the stuff that was scattered throughout it. "Imani, help me with some of this," he told her, taking her bowl out of her hands.
"What has gotten into you?" Imani asked. "Who was on the phone?"
"Hey, she's coming," Jamal said, snatching a pair of boxers off of the railing of the stairs.
"Oh my God. How?" Michael asked, following right behind him to pick up some clothes that were lying on the floor.
"I don't know," Jamal rushed. The three of them rushed around the apartment, picking up clothes and little things they said they would toss out, but never did.
"Did you tell her about us?" Michael asked.
"Tell who?" Imani asked, tossing a styrofoam cup into the trash.
"Um..." Jamal said. He rushed around, handing Michael the clothes he gathered to put in their bedroom.
Imani heard the elevator to Jamal's loft open up. She turned around, walking out to the door. A gasp left her lips and she dropped one of the shirts she was holding to the floor. There stood a woman, wearing a tight, cheetah-print dress, covered by a white fur coat. Her hair was in a high ponytail, and gold hoop earrings dangled from her ears. She practically ran off the elevator and pulled Jamal into an embrace.
"Mama," Imani sighed, a tear sliding down her face.
Cookie's head snapped up at the sound of her daughter's voice. She was no longer a seven-year-old girl, attached to her hip, crying every time she visited her in jail. Now she was a young woman, well into adulthood, standing before her. The two looked so much alike now, than when she was a child.
"Oh, baby," Cookie outstretched her arms, letting Imani run into them. Imani ran to her without hesitation, completely engulfing her mother into a hug. Seventeen years, with no contact, and Imani all but forgot what her mother's touch felt like. The longing for a hug, a kiss, just a simple conversation with no time limit interrupting them, all of that was possible now. Cookie was back. For good.
two
Bắt đầu từ đầu
