Superfly Cool In the Wonder Years of the Ghettoverse

I wonder if Pops will lie out in his trademark bell-bottoms—faded denim flares that split the air like his cool, bending time, making room for his strut as if the horizon would yield to his next step. He sported them tightly creased—dividing time into his own image and fashioning it into a tailored jacket. Double-breasted pinstripe blazer, a jazz-filled dream, every stitch belting out the bridge of a Wednesday night 12-inch serenade. This walking storehouse of juke joints, Motown discs and blaxploitation films, disturbing memories the way vinyl records scrape like grooves—deep enough to envelop the sun. Maybe that's why he was always sleeping with an afro pick stuck in the crown of his hair—an Israelite warrior anchored to the ground in his mane. Real talk, he kinda reminded me of Mr. Soul Train—swagger oozing from platform heels like honeycombs, a disco dancing machine of something more memorable than the slow curve of a woman's hips. Moonwalking across the kitchen floor, stirring the stars with a spin, kissing wax. "Ice cream man, ice cream man—I need a quarter real bad to buy the fine shorty down the block one of them sun-kissed dreamsicles with a smile to match." In my head, I call her baby-girl, and when she catches sight of me she blushes... in my head. My sister burned the grits this morning and I was hella mad. Okay, I’m frontin’—I’m still mad. I’ll bet Mama’s hot comb and my new Sunday loafers she did it on purpose—shaming her own canvas like a maestro just to see if the mess bloomed to beauty. She's been grounded for three days, but still pitches fits like seeds, observing what kind of anarchy sprouts from rebellion. Mama just told me, "Boy, let it go"—but how do you let go of burnt grits? Of a sister with the face of a permanent-marker grin? I’d give her the silent treatment, but she'd jam it full of smugness, mocking my rebuke like Double-Dutch ropes skipping rhymes: "Down in the alley where the garbage grows..." Pops would call this a teachable moment. "Life's like a pot of grits—you gotta stir it just right or it'll stick to the bottom." Then he'd slap me on the shoulder with aftershave and talcum powder scented hands, leaving the smell of him on my skin, like a paternal signature. Later, I’ll practice my two-step in the driveway, fingers crossed that baby-girl walks by. I’ll spin imaginary records in my head: James Brown for the rhythm, Marvin Gaye for the soul. If she smiles, I’ll c-walk like Pops, dancing on the tightrope of cool and catastrophe. Inside, my sister mutters vengeance under her breath—steam from the boiling kettle rising like a menace, a haze thick as the dough outside: bell-bottom jeans swish then sway, ice cream trucks blast their hypnotic melodies, and me—stuck between a dream and the long, slow simmer of a comeback. ### This poem originally appeared in African Writer Magazine - 2025 - DJB