Stories inspired by verses from the Wu Tang Clan’s Ghostface Killah
Picture young Ghostface Killah, five or six years old, sitting on his auntie’s lap. Extended and related family politicking throughout the living room. Amber light filters through orange lampshades, falling on earth-toned carpeting and furniture. Juniper, vanilla, and oak swirl in a boozy bouquet. Everyone drinks medicine from cups.
During this stylistic song boom, soul branches in new directions, toward funk, disco, or elsewhere. Divergent tastes manifesting through music just as much as through beverages.
Ghostface watches, learning from the older folks. Learning how sonic landscapes tweak a room’s energy; records establishing moods. Learning to curse like the older folks when he is upset.
Along comes Darryl Mack. Nobody judges Darryl as he lights up reefer and passes joints around. Purple haze lends color and scent to the room.
Baby Ghostface catches a contact high. Wanting to show off, he decides to change into his freshly cleaned sneakers. Lacing them, he misses loops and pulls strings askew. Feeling wobbly, he pauses to catch his breath. He thinks: look at all these afros.
Returning to his shoes, Ghost feels calmer. Until he hears Momma’s voice: “boy, get in the room!”
Angry, Ghost stomps his feet, spits, and screams: “fuck that!”
Momma grabs his arm and drags him to the room. She closes the bedroom door and moves to the closet. Out comes the big gat. That’s what Ghost called the belt.
“Help me!” yells little Ghost as the belt cracks rain down. Panting and snotty, he cries: “huh, uh, uh,” and yelps with each fresh crack.
Momma’s message is felt. Ghost, ragged out and sorry, gets in bed. He resigns to crashing out.
Ghost had a great mother, and to this day he wishes to honor her. She worked hard to feed her children, but an ungrateful Ghostface picked peas off his plate and poured juice on food he didn’t want to finish. When the little dude acted rude, he earned slaps.
Momma whipped Ghost hard after wasting his dinner. Then, she sent him stinging to bed. On nights when he wet the bed, Ghost would hide his underwear. Suspicious, Momma sometimes felt the bed. Ghost cried in anticipation.
Once, when Momma provided a new pair of Pro-Keds, Ghost told her they were fake. Ghost ran around the apartment screaming, weaving, and trying to block his head as she provided the slaps he earned.
Growing up, even neighbors were empowered to dole out beatings when Ghost earned them. The neighbors often told Momma when they brought Ghost home. When they did, she’d grab her switch from the stash in the closet. Back-to-back beatings were the worst. Ghost preferred to stay inside after double days. His welts leaked and he felt too embarrassed. Sometimes, though, he was forced to choose between the embarrassment of going out covered in welts to get free lunch or going without food.
Ghost’s wonderful mother was famous for her whoopings. Ghost earned fame by valorizing the misbehavior she tried to whoop out of him.
Nobody’s perfect.
This story is an adaptation of the song “Whip You with a Strap” off the album Fishscale by Ghostface Killah. Listen to it.
