The first rap song I wrote was about alcohol, drugs and about love. My failed love forced me to be rapper, the first alcoholic drink I took made me want to be a good rapper and the first sex I had made me fall in love with the microphone. I became nothing but a microphone – all what I did was to put broken dreams together to make a song. The first song I wrote went;
I sat in front of a half mirror
With a gun to my head
A bottle on my lips
And my hands strumming the edge of a knife
Like it was going to produce the music
That will make me not want to commit murder.
They say you live each day by breathing
In and out, in and out
Till you become one with the herbs
And not feel your face.
When my mother heard my first demo she broke down on the floor and wept “You want to be your father? You want to be a tragedy? Once you go on that road you are never coming back.” She cried and I stood by the door pretending to be hard guy but deep within I felt broken again. Music was what held the smithereens in my heart together and without it I was just pieces of broken glasses begging to be filled with water, with sand, with air or anything that will make it full.
Everything in my house was about my father – the last time he left and never came back, he looked like vomit. My mother was sitting on the sofa and I asked her “Are you going to ‘eat’ that?” pointing to my father. She knew what I meant but she chose to pretend. In my house, we all pretended. We all pretended the sky was violet, the moon was black and we all pretended that God lived in hell ready to quench all the fires of hell and set heaven on fire.
The first time I tasted alcohol I was with friends. I was sad and one of them said to me “If you want to forget about all your troubles just have a sip.” How could I not be convinced by that?
Everywhere I went I met trouble – home was trouble because father was always there making music with his friends. In my house we all pretended not to hear the music, the words, the violence and the constant promises of “I am going to be a celebrity, just one day I will have a hit song out there, I will go for shows, the money will come and everything will be alright.” My father produced a lot of music, some of them never left our room, others left our rooms and never came back and the others which returned came with series of insults plastered on its face like my battered mother. When I went on the street too, I saw kids making music and smoking weed – they said if you smoked weed, you would be a philosopher, you would be able to write deep lines and punchlines that will bring girls begging for sex and kisses. They also said that the weed also could make you fuck girls harder, they also said sex was the sweetest thing on Earth, the more you had it the more of a man you’d become. A man who has never had seen is still a boy. How could I not be convinced by that?
Ever since I was born, I had found no meaning in life. In my house, we had a dictionary that sat on the room divider which we never touched. My big sister once told me that she used to hide herself to read the dictionary yet she found no meaning in life. The truth was that the dictionary in our house was a curse, father always used it when he wanted to find the meaning of words he sought to use in his music. He always told us that music was meant to educate the listener but he himself never gave us any proper education. He told his twelve children including the countless others he bore with other children “Go to that school near the market, that’s where all the neggars go. I pay taxes and the government uses my tax to buy luxury cars and use the penny left to pay the teachers. That is the only thing I get from the government.”
Everyone’s favourite subject was ‘Doomed to fail.’ During that class, the teachers reminded us over and over again that we couldn’t never make it. My favourite teacher was called Madam Beautiful. She was not beautiful as her name was and her heart was much uglier. She constantly reminded us “If your parents wanted you to be great men and women in future they would have sent you that school down there.” We knew the school down there very well, that was where all the rich parents sent their kids – the girls wore nice skirts and nice heels – the boys wore nice trousers and nice sneakers which we constantly insulted but in secret envied. In that school there were no rappers. The only songs they sang were from a certain blue-black book – they called it a Hymn Book. You would hear them singing boring songs about Jesus who reigned where there is the sun and boring songs about Beloved let us love on another.
Talking about love, the first girlfriend I had was called Maleficent. Her name was too heavy for us to mention back then – there were a lot of variants of her name – some called her ‘Marefrencent’, others called her “Male-vincent”, she called herself “Maliceficent” she was full of malice so I also called her Maliceficent. She told us that her mother was watching TV in her master’s room (her mother was a cook) when she was pregnant and she heard the name, she made her master’s children write the name down for her. It took her eight years for her to learn how to pronounce her daughter’s name properly so she always advised her “Never trust anyone who cannot mention your name properly.” No one could mention her name properly anyway so she trusted no one.
I met her when I was writing my second song – I was at the studio and I was like;
Press record
Press record
Them bitches don’t know we are rich
Them bitches don’t know we have a big dick
Them bitches don’t know we can fuck them all night
And all day and they will still be begging for more.
Those weak rich neggars down there
Can’t even fuck for three minutes
Their dicks be too small to fuck pussies
Press record
Press record.
She heard that song and she loved it. By the time I had finished recording that song, we had had sex for more than five times. She became my girlfriend by default. She said to me “If you can fuck me like this all day I will give it to you all night.” When other girls heard this song they all wanted me to fuck them. The more I fucked other girls the more I became convinced I had to be a rapper and a successful one at it. Maybe one day if I get a hit song out there I can be able to sleep with rich parent’s daughters.
She knew I would leave her so she left me before I could leave her. I really loved her, if she had asked me to compress her breath into a river I would have made a sandstorm out of the heat in between her two breast as a bonus. The night she left, I was horny, I just wanted a bit of sex so that I would feel alright. She held my manhood and said “No, it’s too small, I am leaving for another man with a big dick.” I looked at her and cried “But you said it was big a week ago?” Then she replied “If you had learnt how to pronounce my name properly I would have shown you how and why your career was going nowhere.”
After she left, my love became like a door and the ladies who came – came with either a broken key or a sledgehammer. For instance, Aaliyah came with the key which didn’t fit the door in my heart, she tried to open my heart and could not. Thinking she was wise, she broke into a window near the door. Guess what? She fell into a dungeon and she was been there since. Once a while I hear her screaming “Let me go, let me go but I say to her, if I am not done having sex with you I will never let you go.” Mavis came with a right key but she trembled whilst opening the door – I only wonder the number of women she would have found in the hallways in my heart if she had opened it. Then was Kafui – she came with dwarfs and spirits – she chanted and chanted but the doors of my heart did not open – she got tired and left with her demons.
The third rap song I wrote was an inspirational song, I felt if I could inspire myself, I could rap my way back to my mother who had stopped looking for me and my father. My father – I think I saw him once, he was so full of weed that he asked me “I think I know you. Aren’t you the fictional character Kweku Ananse from the famous Efua Sutherland’s The Marriage of Anansewaa?” I replied “Daddy, it is me, Samuel.” He replied back laughing “Ei so I have a son?” I got angry and left. So that the day I prayed that my mom will never find him. This was the reason why I wrote the song;
It is not every day
That you get a perfect owner
Sometimes they come with their storm
Other times, they come with their lights dying out
But with every master
You do nothing but tell him or her
That they remind you of
Forest where ghosts walk gleefully
In the pale moonlight.
After this song I smoked my life out. The next day I woke up in a prison. I said to the prison warden “That beard of yours is not yours. You stole it from my dead grandmother.”
IF YOU WANT A FREE COPY OF THE ATENIST, SEND ME AN EMAIL: jyfrimpong@outlook.com
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