Kenyatta, we are poorer without you.

Not because of your flashy black Mercedes,

nor your mansion in Miami,

not your Rolex nor your rings, nor sleek tailored suits

fit to a strong handsome body, smooth talk and swift wit,

though you had charm, we must admit.

How could people not like you?

Coming from roots in deep and surly South and savvy Chicago streets,

you found your way into the cardizones we called our own and played them yours,

courted Mui and carried her off, Southeast Asian siren that she was, made a woman of her, and Mother of two, Beretta and Justice, true sons, attuned to the music of the spheres,

smart and talented as you, their fingers fly across the frets,

while you played a different tune.

In a city of vice, you and Mui, unlikely pair to deal the underside,

as Bail Bondsmen, advocates extraordinaire, who fund freedom for the innocent,

until proven guilty, maybe not.

Built your business from scratch, integrity and grit,

you and partner Mui, hers a mind for organized non-crime.

No fool, you, no wool over those eyes, but heart as soft and warm, unafraid of tears,

We expected to keep you more than merely fifty years,

bone of our bone, flesh of our flesh,

those genes play tricks and cancer took your father and his the same.

Now you, it isn’t fair, but fairness wasn’t ever easy, was it?

We are poorer now, without you,

but richer, because of you.

 

Kenyatta Dewit Stevenson, 1965-2015

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