Ungrateful

“Congratulations to Alimah, the first artist on Aten Records to win a Best New Artist award for her debut!”

Cheers and applause erupted throughout the Manhattan nightclub. Designer suits and shiny dresses crowded the Black Star Network (BSN) Awards after-party, where I was one of the guests-of-honor. I bounced up and down on the nightclub’s stage, joining in the applause. My skin warmed up with tingles as I fixed my gaze on the man who announced me. He was Elliot Hunter—founder and president of Aten Records. Dad, who was standing on the opposite side of me, gently rubbed my shoulders to calm me down. He didn’t like it when I got too giddy in public, but he shared in my excitement by kissing my cheek. Elliot handed me the mic.

“I’m so grateful to be on this label,” I gushed to everyone, “but more importantly, I wouldn’t be where I am without my manager—my father, Amir Kebede.”

The crowd vocalized sentimental reactions as Daddy squeezed me closer to him and smooched my forehead.

Elliot took the mic back. “And a bigger congrats to my homeboy, Markus Blak! Winner of Best Hip-Hop Artist, y’all!”

Bottle corks popped over roaring cheers. Marcus “Markus Blak” Brown, the co-founder of Aten Records, rushed on stage with a champagne bottle in his hand. He threw his arm around Elliot’s shoulders and grabbed the mic.

“I couldn’t have done it without all the love and support.” Then Markus held the bottle up to Dad. “Wanna do the honors of poppin’ the bottle, Mr. Kebede?”

Dad took up his offer. However, he struggled to pop the cork, causing some scattered laughter. I playfully snatched the bottle from him and shook it vigorously. The cork shot out like a cannonball, and the partygoers hooted and screamed. Feeding off my mischievous mood, Dad wagged his hand through my curly afro, brushing some coils out of place.

“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.” Dad tightly embraced me. “We did great tonight.”

I groaned to myself because I did great that night. But Dad made me responsible for setting the bar higher than he did for his music career. As a jazz guitarist, his career earned him a fair amount of fame and respect, but not enough to satisfy his ego.

With Dad still hugging me, I focused on Elliot as he walked off stage. He was bobbing his head to one of Markus’s songs bumping from the DJ’s speakers. Two Aten artists, rapper Ikonik and R&B singer Robby, reached out to take the bottle from his hand and pass it around. Elliot gazed back at me, softly biting his bottom lip as a pensive smile widened across his face. My mind drifted into a meditative state as we watched each other. Everything looked perfect on him that night. His smooth almond brown skin, deep-set brown eyes, semi-athletic build, and ruggedly handsome face were all fit for a high-end menswear ad. Besides being a record exec and music mogul, he was a hip-hop artist who performed beside Markus before they both went solo. When I was in middle school, I remember watching Elliot on MTV and BSN. I would pretend his live performances were dedicated to me, not knowing that I would become his artist years later.

As I stepped off the stage, two women approached with open arms—my eldest sister Desta (who I sometimes call “Des”) and my publicist Latrice. After they hugged me, Dad snapped a picture of the three of us.

“Are they going to cut the cake now?” Desta asked, impatient from her raging munchies. Her clothes still had a stench of marijuana in them from her quick hit in the limo. “It’s almost one in the morning.”

“Des, the cake’s not growing legs past midnight. I’ll make sure your ass be the first guest to get a slice.”

“You mean three slices, rock star.” She stuck out her tongue. “I’m packing a doggy bag.”

“Rock star? Thanks for staying on code,” I gently yanked at her spiked leather jacket. Dad preferred me in the old-school, hip-hop fashion the label selected for my debut image. The skater/hipster nerd rap look was in-style with the teens and young adults in Harlem and Brooklyn. When I was seventeen, tutus with American Apparel leggings, gold hip-hop chains, and neon Nikes were cool. However, being nineteen, I grew bored with that style. Desta’s outfit embodied the authentic version of me. She borrowed my Black Sabbath band tee and purple Doc Martens.

“Lil’ sis, you’ll become a rock star. Don’t forget that I was the one who got my ex-boyfriend to help make your demo.” Desta never wanted to make music a career. Singing and songwriting was only a hobby for her, but she wrote songs for her ex-boyfriend’s punk band. “You kicked ass on those rock demos, and the label loved them. But the label got their plans, so just grit your teeth until you get what you want.” She planted a quick kiss on my cheek. “Now, focus on how big my slice of cake will be.”

Cake was Desta’s weakness. But she didn’t crave sugar as much as I craved a rock music career. My goal of breaking barriers in alternative rock, as a Black female artist, was at the top of a thirty-flight staircase. My BSN Awards—Best New Artist, Best New R&B Song, and Pepsi-Cola Viewers’ Choice—were only the first three steps toward that goal. R&B was nice, but playing my Fender Stratocaster only in the studio—and not on stage while performing rock—wasn’t enough.

As Dad walked further ahead of us, Latrice stepped in front of me. She pointed across the room at a young woman with a blonde pixie cut, wearing a neon pink fur jacket. The girl was Remi Jones. She was a pop star who’s been signed to Aten Records for five years, three years older than me even though she lied about her age at times.

“I don’t wanna take a picture with her.” My chest burned at the thought of standing beside Remi.

“Alimah, you have to do this,” Latrice insisted.

“We gotta cut the cake,” I grumbled, trying to rush past her.

“No,” Latrice stopped me in my tracks. “Remember: your fans think she’s your arch-rival, and her fans are praying for your career to fall apart. You want to represent sisterhood—not cattiness.”

“I don’t mind faking ‘sisterhood’,” I expressed, forming air quotes with my fingers. “Remi’s the one who can’t fake liking me. I’m not even threatened by her—in fact, I like a lot of her music!” Remi caught me glancing at her and cut her eyes away. “I don’t want any drama tonight.”

“You like her music, but your fans think you hate her. So, why not be the better person and take a picture with her?” Latrice was determined to shape my image the way Dad wanted—a likable it-girl and a positive role model for young women. The complete opposite of Remi’s edgy party girl image.

“Can I just cut the cake first?”

“Okay, fine.” Latrice stopped bugging me.

Desta and Markus were already near the cake table when I arrived, clapping and cheering with the party guests. Elliot hadn’t come to the table, so Markus let me cut the first slice. Photographers made their way to the front of the crowd with their cameras ready. Dad and Latrice made their way to the table with their cameras raised and flashing.

“Here’s to many more platinum records.” I held the spatula up as everyone applauded.

“What’s the bid for the first slice?” Desta shouted.

“A hug from the rock star!”

“Sold!”

The party guests laughed as Desta rushed to the front and hugged me for her slice of cake. Everyone else got caught up in our sisterly cake bid and exchanged a hug for a plate of cake. The moment became a blur of cake, plates, and embraces. Everything slowed down when Elliot slipped through the crowd. He was fixated on me, and my wrist grew limp, and almost lost grip of the spatula. As we hugged, the clean musk cologne embedded in his tailored suit soothed my nostrils. The spatula dropped from my hand when his lips touched my ear.

“You’re gonna be the best thing to happen on this record label,” he whispered.

Elliot’s lips pressed against my cheek. I couldn’t decide what to be more overwhelmed by—his comment or the kiss. I glanced over my shoulder to see if Dad saw it. Luckily, his back was turned. However, a stunning woman with dark chocolate skin and an elegantly slender figure was staring me down. She was Elliot’s fiancée, Adaku, a Nigerian supermodel. While touching the diamond engagement ring on her finger, she narrowed her almond, cat-like eyes at me.

“Hi, Adaku!” I waved, trying to make the situation less awkward. She returned an unexpected grin. As much as I envied Adaku for having him, I still convinced myself that the kiss was just friendly for her sake. Elliot and I had established a “big brother/little sister” relationship over the past two years. Elliot even told me she knew that about us. I know he was thirty-four, fifteen years my senior. Better fifteen than twenty or thirty, I thought to myself.

The VIP section of the nightclub was a decadent enclave with gold cushioned walls and wind chime-shaped chandeliers. There were tables reserved for high-status industry people, including me, Remi, and a couple of other Aten artists. When Remi stepped in with her entourage, I glanced away from her. Dad and Desta, seated at my table, were shooting disapproving looks past my head at Remi.

“What’s she doing now?” I didn’t want to make eye contact with Remi, but I was still curious.

“Nothing,” Desta dug her fork in her cake, “except giving us the evil eye.”

There was another, more exclusive VIP room, but it was reserved only for Elliot, Markus, and other record execs. Remi needed her own room away from me.

“Just ignore her,” Dad shook his head. “She’s a very troubled girl.”

Seconds later, Elliot entered the VIP with his security by his side. Gasps and excited greetings filled the room. Some people waved at Elliot or got up to hug him. Our booth was the only table he came to. Fuck, it was hard to look at him without my stomach twisting. I adjusted my denim corset because my boobs were getting too comfortable in it. My sequin bomber jacket was off, so I threw it back on and zipped up. Dad ordered my stylist, Chryselle, to give me the sequin jacket to wear after I fought him to let me wear the corset. I couldn’t help that I shot up to a 36D after being a C-cup through high school. Had Dad not been at that table, that jacket would’ve stayed off.

Elliot’s eyes darted at my cake. He stuck a clean fork in it and pulled the plate away from me.

“What are you doing?” I laughed.

“I’m gonna call your trainer,” Elliot joked, “and tell her about this big ass piece of cake you ain’t supposed to be eating.” He shoved himself into the seat beside me and started eating the cake. Dad found it hilarious, but Desta just gawked in disbelief. Between fits of laughter, I begged for him to surrender the fork. He kept moving the plate every time I moved it back toward me.

“He’s right, Alimah,” Dad refused to rescue my dessert from Elliot’s grasp. “You should’ve cut a smaller piece.”

Dad found my playful exchange with Elliot cute. He believed our big bro/little sis bond was real. At first, he didn’t trust Elliot because he was a man of hip-hop, a genre that Dad didn’t care for, like most people his age. Aten Records started out as a hip-hop label. About eight years ago, Elliot added pop, R&B, and alternative artists on the roster, so Dad let me sign the deal. Most of all, Elliot had won Dad over when he produced a hit song for Markus, which sampled one of Dad’s funk-jazz records from the ’70s. Dad received a massive cut from their sales since he owned his publishing.

Elliot stopped teasing me and let me eat the cake. Feeling self-conscious, I only ate two more bites.

“Elliot, I remembered in an interview two years ago, you mentioned being a huge fan of Black Sabbath.” Desta pulled at her shirt for him to see, “I love Sabbath.”

“Yeah, they influence a lot of my production. Led Zeppelin, too.”

“I love Zeppelin,” I interjected. I was excited to hear his love for one of the rock bands that influence my guitar style, next to Jimi Hendrix & the Experience.

“I’m not a big fan of rap,” Desta confessed, “but your sound kind of drew me in. You could catch me at a weak moment if a rap song got some punk or metal intertwined in it. And your productions are dark and edgy. I love that.”

“I appreciate that compliment,” Elliot replied with a humble air.

Most people wouldn’t believe that Desta was a twenty-three-year-old grad student at Columbia University, majoring in African-American Studies. Strangers were surprised to discover that she was a graduate teaching assistant because of her half-shaved head and purple curls, which complemented her golden tan skin.

“I’m gonna head back,” Elliot got up out of his seat, “It’s been a long day, but I appreciate y’all coming out to celebrate.” He nudged the side of my right arm, “You were incredible at the show.”

“Thank you.” I tried to avoid eye contact, even though my lower body had heated up to thermostat-breaking level.

Once Elliot bid us a good night and left, Latrice walked into the room. My muscles tensed up.

“Man,” I threw down my napkin, “I got to do a photo op.”

“With who?” Dad asked.

“You know. Remi.”

“Hang on. I’m coming with you.”

Dad and I walked over to Remi’s table. Empty shot glasses surrounded her head, which was buried in her arms. Her bodyguard had dozed off with his head tilted back against the booth seat.

“Good Lord . . .” Dad muttered.

“Yeah, she kinda got too lit,” said Remi’s manager, Jo-Jo, who was seated across from her.

“Wake her up so she can take a picture with my daughter.” Dad’s tone embarrassed me a bit, even though I was used to it.

Jo-Jo gave Daddy a slight frown but went ahead and shook Remi awake.

“What?” Remi snapped, whipping her head up.

“You gotta take a picture!”

“Markus asked for me to have you ladies take photo ops outside VIP,” Latrice informed us with a forced, pleasant tone. “He gathered some other artists out there so you all can take pictures.”

Latrice slipped her arm around my shoulder as we walked ahead of Remi.

“She might seem like a piece of work,” she said in my ear, “but maybe, deep down, she admires you and doesn’t know how to express that.”

Whatever. I probably admired Remi more than she did me. Not only was she talented, but she was beautiful. Her golden beige skin, sultry brown eyes, and svelte body harmonized to form a lovely girl. Alcohol was only destroying what she was blessed with.

The photographer asked the top ladies of Aten Records—me, Remi, and rapper Bambina Lambo—for a photo op. As Bambina Lambo (real name, Octavia Jackson) walked toward me, I examined her skinny tattooed figure in her pink latex mini dress. Known as “Bambina” for short, she was no longer the curvy, confident cinnamon-brown-skinned rap diva signed with Aten Records back in 1997. Ten years later, her curves had disappeared along with the life behind her eyes. Like Remi, she was another one who turned to drugs and alcohol. As I stood beside these two women, I hoped to not go down the same path. Dad definitely made sure that wouldn’t happen.

Remi couldn’t let go of a martini she purchased before doing the photo op. She had a red sucker in her hand that she dipped in her drink and stuck in her mouth, repeating that bizarre action every few seconds.

“You looked like a crackhead on that stage,” Remi mumbled under her breath as the cameras flashed, capturing our unenthusiastic smiles.

Markus added me and a female hip-hop star on stage to perform his song “Whitewall Tires.” The gaudy song celebrated white tires on a luxury car, so everyone on stage performed in white streetwear. I admit I showed out by ending the performance with a Michael Jackson-inspired spin and footwork. Everyone embraced that I was just having fun except for Remi.

“The audience liked it,” I scoffed.

“But I lost in all my categories tonight, and I’m three albums deep,” She shoved the sucker between her lips and pulled it out with an obnoxious pop of her lips. “I guess I would’ve won if my daddy was a famous jazz musician.”

“If that’s what you believe, so be it.”

“Or maybe, it’s because Elliot enjoys staring at you so damn much.”

I shot her a bewildered look. Remi just looked me up and down with sass.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I tried to be as nonchalant as I could, even though I was secretly enthralled to hear that.

“Then again, I had three Grammy nominations,” she bragged. “So, at least I can say the Grammys know I exist. BSN might love you, but you’re still irrelevant at the Grammy level.”

Markus, standing nearby, overheard her remark and made a wary side glance in her direction. I wanted to punch her in the eye. But even my knuckles were too good for her face. Before I could defend myself, Markus jumped in.

“Okay, Remi. You need to stop talkin’ shit and hatin’!” Markus snatched the glass from Remi’s hand. “You done had enough to drink. How much did you even drink?”

“More than what you make me swallow every Friday night!” Remi let out a boisterous hyena-like laugh with her tongue wagging.

My mouth dropped. Dad had heard her as well and reacted with eyes as wide as mine. I thought Markus was going to hurt her feelings in front of everyone. Instead, he barked at her, “Shut the hell up.” Whether Remi’s “swallow” comment was true or not, Markus tried to maintain a high level of class at that party. Too many people enjoyed the roughneck and hyper-sexed “Black Buck” image he sold on records and music videos. That night he challenged his fans’ stereotypical fantasies in his designer suit, instead of being that six-foot-four and muscular dark-skinned rapper with tattoos and menacing facial expressions. There were many businesspeople there that he wanted to impress. Like Elliot, he was very attractive, making them both oddities since most rappers weren’t good-looking (bless their hearts). However, to me, Elliot’s looks set the bar higher for Markus.

“Let’s go back to the VIP,” Dad said, pulling me away from Remi. “You’re too good to be around that girl.”

Even though I understood Dad’s frustration, I believed Remi and I could’ve been close. I adored how carefree she was when she wasn’t drunk and sliding down a wall with urine running down her legs. Like me, she was a Black girl (even though she’s mixed with Mexican and Irish) who had dreamed of breaking out the R&B mold. On a personal level, we both shared similar childhood experiences of being bullied by our peers for “sounding like White girls”. I can blame my accent on being born in Baldwin Hills, California, to parents who didn’t tolerate Ebonics. After Remi’s debut album went gold, she released a more electropop sounding sophomore that went double-platinum. Remi could’ve been my mentor, but she let her ego and the alcohol win.

My mood lifted back up when the opening chorus of my song “Silly”, written about being infatuated with a lover, blared through the speakers.

I know you got me actin’ silly,

I can’t help myself,

Even though it kills me.

“Silly” was the song that got me the Best R&B Song trophy. After the chorus repeated, the beat dropped. Hyped screams filled the club as arms shot up in the air. Everyone started jamming to the track that heavily sampled a ’90s song by the hip-hop group A Tribe Called Quest.

“Daddy, that’s my song!” I grabbed Daddy’s hands and started dancing, swinging my curls around my face. I could make out Elliot in the crowd through a few strands of hair blocking my vision. He came over, lifted my hand, and spun me around. Daddy thought it was adorable that Elliot stole me away. I glanced past Elliot’s shoulder and saw Adaku.

“There’s your fiancée,” I pointed out.

Adaku placed her arms on his shoulder, wanting to make a calm and romantic gesture. Elliot’s liquor buzz got the best of him as he jumped up and down, hooting and shouting. Adaku just giggled at him as she swayed her hips to the rhythm. Then, she approached me with her arms stretched out, taking my hands and inviting me to join her and Elliot. I almost danced with my eyes closed because it was so awkward. Adaku was just trying to be friendly, but when Elliot’s fingers graze my back, I immediately stopped dancing.

“I gotta go to the restroom!” I rushed away, making a beeline toward the ladies’ room.

Inside one of the restroom stalls, I spotted Bambina’s clear stiletto pumps. I flinched at the sound of a loud snort. Bambina stepped out and walked toward the mirror, frowning at her reflection. She wiped her red eyes, then rubbed some white powdery residue off of her nostrils. I glanced away from her and continued washing my hands.

“You’re so gorgeous,” Bambina Lambo commented.

I blinked at her.

“Yeah, I’m talking to you,” she responded with a nod.

“Thanks.” I scrunched my nose up at my running mascara, “All of that dancing made my makeup melt off.” Sometimes I dampened compliments from people, just so I wouldn’t come off conceited. Dad wanted me to be twice more humble than the typical celebrity.

My big piercing eyes stared back at me in the mirror’s reflection. The public had fallen in love with my smoldering eyes, dark eyebrows, and pouty full lips. My features made me look a little sinister at certain angles, especially with dark makeup.

“Don’t let the industry ruin that pretty face,” Bambina cautioned.

“I won’t let them.”

“I mean it!” She pointed an angry finger elongated by a curved acrylic nail. “You’re fucking beautiful! Don’t let these motherfuckas in this industry destroy you! Because they will try!”

“Okay! I won’t!” I stammered with widened eyes.

Bambina let out a shaky sigh and sniffed. She disappeared into a stall, sounding like she was crying.