Doing time in the Big House, four years and nine months, was the best four years and nine months of my life because I found out one startling thing: HISTORY books are lies. Lies, lies, lies. Hogwash. Utter bullshit. Straight boo boo.

So the writer in me was activated. I ripped the first man on the moon picture from the encyclopedia in OSP’s library, tore it in half with anger and taped it,
ripped, on the front of a red notebook I started writing my first book in while incarcerated.

That was what kept me writing till I was released. I created my own destiny with books and God knew it was fate. God said take one step he’d take you twenty.

In Him all things are possible. No matter if you’re at fault, you could have the most
fucked up life in the world, he doesn’t hold you liable when you ask for forgiveness after you get saved via cold water.

Admitting that you are a SINNER was the Open Says’ Me of God’s Forgiveness.

But people take that for granted.

I was willing to go through my frightening prison journey alone (had no choice; the option was Death), I accepted God’s challenge, but was never a part of the Adversary's ultimate plan.

God challenged me to see if I could make it through prison and never lose my faith, a place I was stripped of everything, even my gahdamn name. I survived with a little mustard seed of faith.

I MADE IT!

Never took my eyes off God for one second; but at times I did squint or narrow my eyes.

I retooled, regrouped, raised my head when those prison bars opened, unleashing me from the belly of hell named incarceration and the sun shined on my face with my shoulders straight, head on straight.

Graduating from Hell University with sixty-five total books written by me and completed. I had my bags in hand, green slick pants, multi-colored shirt and Snoop Doggy Dog braids.

I said, “Thank you, Jesus, for getting me through those horrible, sinister four years of lower education. A place all the lies of earth were uncovered. I. Am. DAPHAROAH69.”

Publishing world.

Here I come…

I was one determined African-Nassau, Bahamian-American Niggah! I’m from the soul of the Caribbean.

□The complete prison book and experience coming in grave detail later in the series...□

🌛👑🌜

April 2011

I wrote four chapters of PHAROAH at Barnes and Noble off Kendall and 88th by the Movie theatre on the second floor overlooking the moneyed Starbucks
patrons.

They were cackling and chatting like there was no tomorrow. Laptops opened to Forbes’ main website page, seeing who’s who and who made what.

I then decided that I wanted a strawberry frappuchino (I loved strawberries because Janet Jackson loved both her strawberries).

And I loved both of mine. Except one was chocolate coated.

There was a carpeted stairwell and the escalator, but I decided to take the stairs. Work it out, get a lil’ exercise in since I sit on my ass all day writing books.

One foot over the other, looking around freely, head tilted to the side, a little nod at the white girl licking her lips at me and a quick smile (right part of my lips) to a DL
niggah who was trying to give me some action.

He was fine as hell, but he has his wife there and she was an Espanical (Cuban).

Annoyingly, he kept looking at me while she said something snappy at their son and daddy’s dick was hard.

I quickly turned away, temptation in the room. One of the little cute old ladies in a floral dress and Golden Girl wig (think Blanche) reached up, took my hand
and said, “You kinda favor the Rock. Dwayne Johnson.”

I loved The Rock. "No I don’t.”

“But then again you look like a young Laurence Fisbourne.”

“Um, no, that’s not who I favor, either.”

"Will Smith! Mike Lawryyyyy!"

She grinned and I chuckled. Bless her little old soul. Full of joy, life and love. But under her purse was an obituary.

With a wedding couple’s close up picture on it. I looked more fixedly. It was a younger photo of her at probably age, what, looked like age twenty-four, twenty-five. Hugging her husband on their wedding day...

He looked old enough to be my granddaddy. Couldn’t be the father giving
her away. He had on a matching tux and they held up their wedding bands together. Something wasn’t right about little old lady...

Let’s find out.