Thank God for granting me this moment of clarity. This moment of honesty. The world will feel my truths.
From my Blueprint beginnings. To that Black Album ending. Listen close, you’ll hear what I’m about. But a 17-year-old young black man has been shot and he ain’t gonna make it much longer, so I’ll write fast.
His clique. His crew. An Iverson invention. Love for his crew. Like Drake got for the Weeknd. Love for his clique. Like Kanye got for Jay and Big Sean. Four of them sit inside a red SUV, Jordan Davis in the back seat. Jacksonville, Florida. Friday night.
The hand on the clock is somewhere between seven and eight. The bullets that are fired are somewhere between eight and nine. The red SUV gets riddled with bullets, but Jordan’s the only one hit. Two shots make contact, but still breathing. Barely. Trying to hold on. Damn! He’s only 17.
The music still makes the car bump, but the bullets muffle the mind to the point that the lights get turned down. Hov. Ricky Rozay. Wayne. Nasir Jones. Drake. Meek Mill. Wiz. Kanye.
Maybe even Chief Keef. Blasts out the speakers, like every other car full of teenagers that ride around America that night. The red SUV is the only one that takes bullets for the music, though. Or was it really the loud music that caused the bullets to lose their life too?
He doesn’t make it. He doesn’t take another breath. He doesn’t get to finish high school. He doesn’t get to go to his prom. He doesn’t get to experience his first day on a college campus. He doesn’t get to marry the love of his life. He doesn’t get to have children. He doesn’t get to grow old. He doesn’t get to die in peace. Stereotypes of a black male, truly understood. Sorry Biggie, this time it ain’t all good.
Jordan Davis died when he got to the hospital. He was just 17. Shot by a man who didn’t like his loud music and who said that someone in Jordan’s SUV pointed a gun at him, so he felt “threatened.” No gun was ever found, except for the one that took Jordan’s life.