I turned down the long road toward the estate… hopin’ this conversation wasn’t another fight.
And for once, with the medicine doin’ its job, my mind felt quiet enough to try.
Meridian Estates in Nzuri Hall
I pulled up to the estate and before I could even turn the engine off, I saw my pops already standin’ outside waitin’ for me. That told me everything I needed to know. When Kwame Mensahwanted to talk, he ain’t wait inside like no regular man. He was right there at the door, standin’ tall with his hands behind his back like he was expectin’ royalty to pull up.
I parked, stepped out, and he ain’t even let me get two feet from the stairs before he reached for my hand. His grip was firm and familiar, the handshake that ain’t just a greetin’ but a reminder that this man raised me. Then he pulled me in for a hug. It caught me off guard for a second ‘cause me and him been tense for a minute, but the hug felt like old times and eased somethin’ in my chest that I didn’t even realize was tight.
“Wussup, Pops,” I said when we pulled apart.
He nodded once. “Son.”
We walked inside and he ain’t say much at first. He just led the way toward the back, takin’ that long hallway that opened up to the patio he loved so much. The back was crazy as always. The whole yard looked like a billionaire built it for peace he never really got. The water from the long reflecting pool was hittin’ the sunlight, the palm trees caught the breeze just right, and everything smelled like fresh cut grass and rich man serenity. Pops had cigars lined up on the low table, and whiskey already poured like he planned this out before he even called me.
“You want a drink?” he asked, reachin’ for the bottle like he already knew the answer.
“Yeah,” I said, takin’ the seat across from him. “I’ll take one.”
He slid me a glass, grabbed a cigar for himself, and then held the box out for me too. “You smokin’?”
“Yeah,” I said again ‘cause that was our thing. We smoked, we talked and we bonded like men who respected each other, even when we didn’t agree on shit.
For a minute, we talked regular talk. Pops asked about ‘Lo Motion and how business was goin’. That made me relax a lil’, ‘cause business was the one thing me and him always clicked on.
“It’s straight’, Pops,” I told him. “I just finished that bulletproof fleet for the cabinet members. Got two more orders comin’ in. My teams been eatin’. I got this new interior line droppin’ too. Folks been askin’ for custom stitchin’ and star ceilin’s, so you know I got ‘em.”
He nodded with that proud father look he tried not to show. “I knew you were capable of building something on your own. You’ve always been driven. You didn’t wait on handouts, and you didn’t run to me for shortcuts. I respect that.”
Hearin’ him say that hit me deeper than I expected. Pops wasn’t stingy with praise, but he ain’t give it unless you earned it.
We talked a lil’ more about business and investments, and it almost felt like we hadn’t been goin’ through all this tension. I was sittin’ there listenin’ to him talk about expansion and how he wanted me to start considerin’ factories outside the island. For a second, it felt like how shit used to be when I was a teenager and he would sit me down for “man lessons.”
But the whole time we talked, I could feel Toni sittin’ on my mind. Therapy sittin’ on my mind. My diagnosis sittin’ on my mind. Pops bein’ Pops, he saw the shift as soon as I got quiet.
“What’s on your mind, son?” he asked, settin’ his cigar down.
I looked at him for a long moment ‘cause I ain’t know how he was gon’ take what I had to say, but I knew I had to say it. “Pops… I been in therapy.”
He froze for barely a second, but I caught it. Then he nodded, tryna keep his face even. “Therapy,” he repeated. “For what?”
I breathed in slow ‘cause this wasn’t some shit you just l ease into. “My mind been runnin’ wild for a long time. You know how I been since I was a kid. I thought it was just how I was wired. I thought it was me bein’ on edge or just temper, but it’s deeper than that. The therapist say I’m schizophrenic.”
The silence between us stretched for a few seconds, long enough for me to read every single expression he tried to hide.His jaw flexed, his brows dipped slightly, and he took a slow breath like he was tryna sort through every thought at once.
“Schizophrenic?” he repeated, but it came out like the word was sour in his mouth. “Kay’Lo… you don’t look like no damn schizophrenic.”
“It don’t got a look, Pops.”
He shook his head, sittin’ back in his chair. “My son isn’t mentally ill.”
I felt that hit me in a way I didn’t expect. Not ‘cause it hurt, but ‘cause I understood exactly where it came from. Kwame Mensah built empires with his bare hands. He believed in discipline, strength and legacy. In his head, mental illness meant weakness, and weakness wasn’t allowed to live in his bloodline.
“Pops,” I said, my voice low but firm, “I’m not crazy, but somethin’ been wrong with me for a long time. You know it. Mama know it. Shit, I know it. I just didn’t have a name for it.”
He rubbed his chin once, his version of bein’ uncomfortable. “Doctors always want to label people. They see a man with intensity and call it illness.”
“It’s not just intensity,” I said. “I been losin’ control. Thinkin’ stuff that ain’t real. Snappin’ on people I love. Tearin’ shit up outta nowhere. You think that’s normal?”
