Something She Can Feel (40 page)

Authors: Grace Octavia

BOOK: Something She Can Feel

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“Are you okay?” Celeste asked.

“I'm fine,” I answered. “I'm actually ... good.”

There is this song one of the mothers at the church used to sing whenever my father walked into the pews and handed her his microphone. We never asked what she was going to sing and my father never once made a request. There just would come a time in a service when someone who'd come from our church family or from someplace outside and lay themselves, broken and beaten on the altar, and my father, at a loss for words, would walk out and hand Mother McDonald the microphone. And she'd sing “You're Next in Line” as the entire church rose, some crying and others in prayer, to their feet. It is a meditative and comforting gospel song that tells of a miracle coming to knock at the door of someone's life. That after years of wondering how they would ever get by, ever see a change in their life, a voice comes and says to get ready for a miracle. “The Lord always comes just in time ... move to the front of the line ... you're next in line for a miracle.”

I sat in that chair, watching Celeste work the two phones on her desk and stab away at the keys, hearing this song in my head. I was next in line. Somehow, some way, my time had come to receive what God had to offer me and here I was, just sitting and waiting for it all to happen. That was the only way I could explain where I was and what was going on. A divine intervention. A ray of light from the sky. My name being called out loud. And it was so funny because I hadn't even known that I'd gotten into a line. Just months ago, I was a restless somebody, trying to figure out how to live my lifeânot change it. But somehow, something from my past interrupted everything in the present and drastically changed my future.

After waiting for so long that my feet fell asleep, Celeste led me toward the back of the office where long glass windows lined the wall of a room that was filled with faces surrounding a huge meeting table. At the front of the room stood Kweku, speaking to their attentive eyes as they wrote down nearly every third word he said. He looked like an easy leader in the room and seeing his calm face again almost immediately put me at ease.

“This is it,” Celeste said, waving Kweku to the door.

“I guess so.” I smiled back at a woman seated toward the top of the table.

“Greetings, âJourney Cash ... just living,' ” Kweku said, coming out of the room and closing the door behind him. Celeste quickly turned and headed back to her desk.

“Kweku,” I answered, hugging him like he was an old friend. And he really did seem like oneâhis delicate smell, the muddy, smooth tone of his skin, and the way his suit hung flawlessly on his body had been marked in my mind after the short time we'd spent together. “I can't believe this.”

“Well, you ought to. You don't have a choice,” he said. “I just told all those people you're better than Miriam Makeba.”

“Stop!” I cringed and cut my eyes at Kweku.

“Look, this is a mere formality. You don't need to sell yourself. Just do what you do. I have confidence in your talent. After hearing what I heard in Amsterdam, I'm already sold.”

“But I don't know what to sing ... what they're expecting. . .”

“Sing what you sang to me. Sing âHappy Birthday. ' ” Kweku laughed. “Just let them hear what I heard.”

Kweku turned to the door and took my hand.

“Wait,” I said, pulling him back to look at me. “I have to know something. Why didn't you tell me who you are? What you're doing?”

“Hmm... . Well, I'll sum it up like this: Someone I really trust once told me that when you're looking for someoneâeven in a crowd of a millionâif it's meant to be, the one will just show itself. I was looking for you. For a sound ... a look.” He looked into my eyes. “And when I saw you, I didn't want you to audition for me. I wanted you to just be yourself. To sing in your own way and not try to be what I was looking for. I wanted you to be you. You understand?”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “I heard that from someone before, too.”

“Now”âKweku took my hand againâ“let's go in there and knock them out.”

“Good music is born in culture,” Kweku said after taking his place at the front of the room again. I sat toward the back in an empty seat. “This is the vision at SonySOULjourn, a new imprint of one of the largest record labels in the world that we've all been charged with developing. It is a marriage of the sound of world music into the contemporary sound of soul that dominates the charts. I've searched far and across continents for an artist who could pull this together and be the face of the imprint. At first, I thought I could find it in my home, and then I went East, North ... West. And finally, appropriately enough, I found it up in the air above it all.” Kweku looked at me and smiled. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the voice of the Deep South that pulls together a sound that mirrors the passion of my homeland and the determination of this new land. Journey Cash.” He waved me to the front of the room and everyone began to clap.

My father had lied about a lot of things. And his lies, and the lies of others, including myself, led to a lot of pain. A lot of heartache. A lot of unnecessary tears. But the one thing my father told me the truth about, the one thing I would need to get me through the thirty-third year of my life when every lie I ever knew would burn to bits was that when God puts something on you, there's nothing you can do about it. You can wrestle, you can fight, tear yourself inside out, or stand still and hope the moment will pass, but it won't work. When God has an assignment for you, it just is. And everything I'd been through. Everything I'd left. Everyone I'd hurt. Just was. And I'd have to live with that for the rest of my life, but I still had to accept my assignment and take a walk in faith that it would all work out. And while I hadn't been to church in over a month, didn't know when and if I'd ever go back, and still wasn't saved, realizing this when I rose to sing my song, I felt more spiritual than I had in my whole life. I had died, and I was ready to rise again. But I had to do something first.

When I got to the front of the room, I made a decision.

“I don't want to bore you all with a speech,” I started, “but before I begin, I have to say, I didn't expect any of this today. I thought this was just an opportunity, a chance for me to come here and share ... just to sing, you know.... And after hearing. . . hearing”âI paused because I was already crying and could hardly see for the tears in my eyesâ“all of the wonderful things that you have planned for me, I'm overwhelmed. Because I don't know why you chose me. I don't even know how I got here.” I stopped again and laughed a bit as I wiped my eyes. “And when I was walking up here, I realized that I couldn't sing the song that I'm supposed to sing for you today because I have to express my thanks, my emotion in this moment. And someone once told me that when you hear that voice inside telling you to do something, you have to follow it. So instead of singing my love song, Kweku, I want to sing a song that's on my heart.” I looked to Kweku, and he, eased back in a huge chair at the head of the table, nodded with a supportive smile.

I sang “Swing Slow, Sweet Chariot” with every last scrap of affection I could find in me. I sang it from my heart in a way that made me know that for the first time, I wasn't singing a song I was teaching or giving my words or talent to an audience listening. No. This time I was singing for the sweet chariot to swing low to me. To pick me up and carry me over and deliver me into my purpose. I was praying and praising, being hopeful and thankful all in words that I'd known all my life. I sang so hard that I had to close my eyes to keep the vibrations from pushing me to the floor.

When I opened my eyes, when I was near the last line of the song, I saw that everyone at that table, including Kewku, was blinded, too. Their eyes were closed and they cried, not bothering to wipe away tears. On the last note, I looked up, the only one with my eyes open, and saw someone in the doorway.

It was Dame. He shook his head at me and beamed.

Everyone began to open their eyes and then they all stood up and clapped.

Dame, who was now walking to the front of the room toward me, was clapping the loudest. He was wearing a black suit.

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you all so much. You don't know how much this means to me.”

Dame stood by my side, not saying a word as the faces surrounding us came over to welcome me to SonySOULjourn and expressed how happy they were to be working with me. One woman, who'd taped the whole thing with her cell phone, said, “I felt like I was back in my Mudeah's church in Mississippi,” as she hugged me and headed out behind the rest.

When everyone, except for two people who were waving a bunch of papers in front of Kweku for his signature at the table, was gone, Dame turned to me. I wanted to say hello. Say I missed him. Say I was happy he'd turned himself in. Say I was okay and understood why he had to leave me.

“You did this?” I asked.

“I couldn't let you get on that plane by yourself.”

“I should've known you sent Kweku. It was too much of a coincidence.”

“No, you earned this. You're the most talented person I know,” he said earnestly, taking my hand, and I just let it dangle there in his, afraid to grasp or hold, but loving the familiar touch. “You put your feelings first and the art second. And if you don't feel anything, you can't create the art. That's a million-dollar contract, baby.”

“You think Kweku's going to sign me for a million dollars?” I laughed nervously and looked at Kweku.

“I know it,” he replied.

“How do you know that?”

“Because I'm backing the project. It's time for the industry to put some of this big money behind the big art.”

“Break it up! Break it up,” Kweku said, pulling my hand from Dame's. “This is no place for this sort of thing.”

“No love connection,” Dame said slyly. “That's just my teacher.” He looked at me and winked.

“Well, that's wonderful,” Kweku said. “And can I have a few moments with your teacher alone? After all, she is my artist.” Kweku laughed and hugged Dame. From the playful exchange, it was clear they knew each other well.

“Fine,” Dame said and he backed away toward the door. “But I get her next.”

“I never said you get anything,” I joked.

“We'll see about that.”

“So, Journey,” Kweku began when Dame disappeared into the hallway, “what do you think about all of this?”

“I can hardly believe it. You could've told me something. Helped me get ready.”

“You can't get someone ready for fate. You just have to know they'll show up,” he said.

“What's next?”

“Next, you take all of those contracts I hate looking at and find yourself a good entertainment lawyer. Atlanta's full of them. They'll let you know all is proper and then we'll start working on your first release.”

“That's it?” I said, feeling my eyes watering up again.

“That's it.”

“I just can't believe this is happening,” I said. “I guess I need to find a good attorney.”

“Yes, and then get ready to work,” he directed, pointing at me. “The sooner we get you writing songs like âDying,' the better.”

“I see,” I said, remembering my special place on the beach in Kumasi and the words just came to me.

“Good. So let's get started.”

Kweku led me to the door.

“Oh, and one last thing.” I stopped him before we walked out. He turned and looked at me eagerly. “I want to go back to Ghana.”

“Ghana? Are you serious?” He stepped back.

“Yes. For a month. Three months. Alone,” I said, half asking and thinking he'd probably say no, but I had to ask.

“What? You are already costing us money and we haven't even signed anything.” He grinned comically.

“I was just Journey ... living a dead life for a long, long time. And one day, I met a man on a plane. And he sat right next to me and told me that Africa was the only place that could revive a dead life. And that it would always be there for me if I needed it. Well, I need to learn how to survive a dead life now.”

“This was a wise man,” Kweku said, tapping the side of his forehead pensively.

“Well, not that wise. But ... he helped save my life.”

Kweku opened the conference room door and turned to me with his eyes low and defeated.

“I'll book a flight to Accra next week. Get a lease on a villa for two months,” he said.

“Three,” I tried.

“Three?”

“I want three months in a villa on the beach in Kumasi.”