A Voice Long Gone

...Lightnin couldn’t deny he saw hisself as a politico, spent a good deal of his time fantasizin bout what life was like in Bling City; walkin the celebrated streets uptown there made legendary by great past fiery Black leaders, remindin Black peoples of hard won triumphs yes, but also of they stolen pasts; endangered futures, collective devisive vision, and a social consciousness made less urgent durin the Clinton years. He felt a tremendous mutual callin, a soberin comfortable chill. Wit one stunnin blow in the the election of Barack Obama, the once robust, but now pitifully feeble, challengin activist and nationalist element in the body of Black culture, was left on the world stage to sputter and disappear into itself like spit on a hot iron. Yet it seemed all things was politically possible now as he recalled where he was, hearin the impossibly true news that a Black man was now the President of the United States. He’d never forget it. The Presidents Club lounge on the south side of Promise, re-named in the aftermath of the election was an explodin mix of yelps, tears, laughter, hugs and prayers with people holdin on to strangers, friends, and family, and toastin the occasion wit heroic amounts of alcohol. Obama couldna won without the white votes and the accompanyin blocs that came wit them, but just as many white folks wasn’t ready for a Black President. The trump was that the democratic process was ready, and in America sometimes processes triumph over peoples. Remarks floated through the air a plenty. “Thank God! Thank you! Oh! Thank-you God.” “He fuck-ing did it!! God dammit he did it!! ...” The get it done soul anthem; “Ain’t No Stopping Us Now” a mainstay in the pantheon of Black music was on auto-re-run on jukeboxes everywhere, pourin out of social clubs, homes and taverns too; but most certainly there at the Presidents Club. “Look at him! Obamarama time! .....Huh?” yelled out a tipsy male customer, his eyes fastened to the huge TV screen. “Standin tall with his Black woman. Cain’t mistake that sistah, for nothin cept Black! And them two pretty kids!” The brother tipped his kufi as people applauded his words, jubilance gleamin on every face in the place. Someone clinked a glass for quiet and actually got enough of it to be heard, “My group is going across the street to the church to put a prayer in right now. Jesus needs immediate feedback on this.” a young woman said as she slapped high fives with a contingent of ten others. And the comments continued. “Now we gon git some government by the original kings....” “Look at Ope! Cryin n’ shit...” A young brother called out. “She gon be the next President...her and Hill...Hill’ll be the V.P.” “Hill’ll be the President if Bill got anything to do wit it.” somebody countered. “Yeah. They’ll let Ope be National Security Advisor, since Condileesi already broke that in for a sistah.”..... Mufucka’s laughed. Maybe they was right Lightnin thought. Maybe the time for his dreams was now. Wasn’t a Black President in the United States the imprimatur of proof...