NEIGHBOR, FRIEND, BROTHER

I once knew a man, who was, by all means, the greatest ghetto comedian that ever lived in my time. He was my neighbor and my friend and my brother, and everything else that defined a great friendship. 

He was a dedicated dad and a lukewarm brother, and at some point in his early life, a bad son to his mother, and a horrible husband to his run-away bride.

For all the things that he was and wasn't, he was an incredible conversationalist, and that is the one thing that pulled me to him. This man was by far the least educated person that I ever met, but he could hold down any conversations that you throw his way. He had a way about himself that made you want to strike a conversation with him. He had this calm way of talking and making you see his way of thinking, naïve as some of his thoughts might have been. But you could always see sense in his way of reasoning, a less harsh point of reality from his perspective of life. 

This man was dirt poor, just like the rest of us in the ghetto. Due to his circumstance and family, he did not stand a chance.

He married young just like every other man in the ghetto because life was hard and the only thing that you could contribute to society was to reproduce and present to society a bunch of children who had no hope for the future. Give birth to more babies like yourself who might never know the insides of a classroom, or that they have a right to good food and other basic commodities. Bringing forth children who have a better chance of becoming thugs or prostitutes, and never succeeding in life. 

He named his son Karimu, which means kindness. This man was exactly what he named his son. With all the poverty and hardships of life, he was kind. 

The man's wife left him when their son was 3 years old. She just left and the man had to step up and take care of his son. He worked odd jobs and depended on the rest of the neighbors to babysit for him when he was working.

The man was always happy around others and depressed when he was alone. You would find him deep in thought and when you asked what was bothering him, he would say that he did not know where he would get the next meal for his son.

But the good man started drinking. He had plenty of friends who were willing to buy him alcohol, but never food. He drunk too much and ate very little. He drunk himself to the grave. 

His death hit me hard because this man was a great friend to me. He was a confidant with a sense of honor and twisted humor. 

His death was a loss to the community we lived in. And he got more love and respect in his death than he ever did alive. He was buried with so much dignity which was unfortunate because he was undignified while alive. People ate and drunk at his funeral, yet when he lived, he struggled to get a decent meal for himself and his son. 

Maybe from birth, this man did not have a chance at a better life and future. But he brought joy and laughter to the many people he met on a daily basis. Maybe his purpose in life was to make people laugh and to make people think a little harder about the tiny choices they made in life. Indeed the purpose of life is not the grave, but dust as we are to dust we shall return. 

Keep resting in your peace, my good friend.