I got mad skills now! Motherfuckers in New York are on it because I had an advantage when I first came up here. Niggas thought that I wouldn’t have skills because I was from D.C. They were at first saying shit like, “Aw, hopps, D.C. niggas is mad fake. Them niggas be bitin’ like fish to worms, G. You ain’t got no skills, nigga. Get off da mic!”
Then I ripped shit on them like:
“I think it’s ’bout that time, for Cool-ass Nell t’ take front stage. So I can just jam what I slammed on my rhyme page, last night. Now watch as I blow and the crowds get hyped and ripe to my rhyme flow. But I don’t rap all fast, ’cause I’m not Flash. My rhymes will stun, like a Funkadelic Bop Gun.
“I’m not out here to twist up my tongue or grime with whack styles. Or try to raise my voice and scream and holler with weak rhymes. Grab them suckers up by the collars for wastin’ dollars. Because they only making record piles that get smashed and trashed.
“Now I got cash that I stash with a status that’s legal. I’m hittin’ harder than Philly’s Eagles. So don’t fuck with me, brother! Choose another. My style is lethal.”
Niggas went off! They were all on my dils-nick calling me Li’l Rakim. I mean, a lot of these motherfuckers up here are trying to be so damn original that you don’t really know what the hell they’re saying. Then their delivery and timing be all messed up. But my shit is in there! And no more gangsta lyrics for me. Fuck that shit!
Like Big Daddy Kane said, “Why should I settle for gangsta contrast/when I rap about gettin’ some ass?”
That’s my nigga. He kicked it like, “To prove that I’m a gangsta only brings me trouble, but to prove that I’m a lover . . .” Yeah, that’s the way I feel too now. But I don’t really fuck around with these New York stunts. And believe me, these stunts up here are a trip! Girls are rough as shit up here. I don’t know whether to talk to them or punch them in the mouth for talking shit with them fucked-up-ass attitudes. I guess if I was a New York nigga I’d know better how to deal with these biddies.
Anyway, I’m still talking to my baby Carlette. It’s official now. She’s my girl. She comes up here twice a month and stays for a weekend. Then Cal talks that silly shit, “Yo, this ain’t no School Daze, nigga.” But they like each other. I even wrote a song about my baby.
Oh, you want another flavor bite, huh? It’s called “Lady Love”:
Some brothers are known to be hard as hell.
Like this one named Nell, who was only headed for jail.
But then her soft hand touched his chest.
She kissed his cheek, and then laid his mind to rest.
And on his lonely nights of stress, Lady’s strong love was Nell’s only and best request.
But then he was asked to pass her test.
She asked Nell to grant just one wish . . . Lady Love wanted his care like a goldfish.
Yeah! That’s some old, smooth groove–type shit for the ladies. Get like a mellow-ass track to hook it up right.
I still got twelve thousand dollars of that money I stung from Butterman in D.C. I got the shit in the bank now, too. Me and Cal bought some equipment to practice sampling, looping, and hooking up beats and shit. Niggas we roll with have some shit too: turntables, drum machines, and lots of old records. Plus, Cal been doing artwork on flyers and shit like that, that niggas are paying good-ass money for.
I’m gon’ have much, much, much flavor in ’94! But I’m not ready for no contract yet. I mean, labels been asking me, but I got time, money, and a job, so I ain’t in no hurry. You know what I’m saying? I’m trying to make sure I got a good manager and a lawyer to get the most out of my contract. Plus, I wanna experiment with some more music and perfect my lyrical skills so the money can roll in right when I do blow up.
And as far as the criminal zone? As long as the white man owns this country and don’t let niggas get a piece of the pie, they gon’ keep killing, robbing, and illin’. You can’t expect everybody to be able to turn positive. I mean, I’ve always liked music and movies. I don’t know what these other niggas out here are into. But as long as they can see other people getting paid, you can’t expect them to just to sit around being poor and shit.
And as far as a lot of these niggas making violent raps, well, I’m trying to get away from that. I’m not gon’ use that Mad Man rhyme. I’m looking more at perfecting my skills and talking about a range of different subjects. That Mad Man shit was kinda cartoonish anyway.
Right now the best new shit out in New York, to me, is Akinyele, once he stops that “utta, utta, utta” shit and just rhyme. Then you got Erick Sermon. The Tribe. Pudgee Tha Fat Bastard. The Soul. The School. Queen. Lyte. KRS-1 Man. And just a whole bunch of underground shit like Black Moon. Top Quality. Nasty Nas. Rumpletilskinz. Jeru the Damaja and the motherfucking Wu Tang Clan and that young’un Shyheim!
Without rap music, I think it would be a whole lot more crazy shit going on. So fuck all that bullshit the media is talking about! Them broadcasters just looking for a scapegoat to America’s problems. I mean, Farrakhan got the Torchlight already. But you know, the white man damn sure ain’t gon’ listen to him. So, everything is everything.
All I can say is just go for yours like I did. But remember, I ain’t never been to jail, I graduated from high school, I believe in myself, and besides all that crazy shit I used to do, I ain’t never killed another nigga. Or I guess I should say, another black man caught up and confused in the struggle. Because that’s what niggas are: caught up in it.
Now that’s the real. Peace! And I’m out!
A Note From Omar Tyree
Everything worthwhile in life takes time and persistence. There is no such place as Easy Street, no matter what you hear or what you see. So get over it.
However, I take exception to a particular view expressed within the text of Capital City. That is: I believe crime does pay. It pays with prison time, paranoia, your peace of mind, the lives of friends and family members, and eventually your own life. But I chose to tell a story of three survivors because I want us all to survive.
Fortunately, I didn’t have the big-time friends within the drug trade to offer me cars, fast money, and sexy women. Honestly, like many other young black males in America, it would have been extremely hard for me to turn those offers down. But with the lack of those offers, I got a chance to maintain my freedom from a self-destructive lifestyle.
Sure, there are still many things that I would like to have, many places I would like to go, and many things that I would like to do. But sacrifice is a reality and a stage that we all have to go through in life in order to gain success.
Right now, I would love to have a multi-million-dollar film deal from a major studio. But since the people with the money and the connections have yet to step my way, I’m still pushing for it. But it’s cool, because I’m a hustler, and life is the big hustle.
So this is my sacrifice to get me where I’m going. And recognize the game from a schooled old head: Become skilled in something valuable, develop new ideas in it, con someone for the finance, and be prepared to starve while you flip and fry up the money. Because Easy Street ain’t nothing but an uncooked pan of runny eggs on a broken stove. It won’t fry.
Urban Books, LLC
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Wyandanch, NY 11798
Capital City Copyright © 2015 Omar Tyree
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-6228-6967-1
This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.
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Omar Tyree, Capital City
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