Page 1 of When I Thug You Like That

CHAPTER 1

A Father & A Real Nigga

JAMISON

“Dad.”

I heard the whisper followed by light taps on my shoulder. I knew it was my son, Justin, and I guess I wasn’t responding fast enough for him because the light taps became shoves, forcing me to open my eyes with a smirk.

“You impatient this morning, Jus?” I asked groggily.

“Nah, Dad,” he replied. “You said to wake you up by seven-thirty if your alarm didn’t.” He pointed to the clock sitting on my nightstand. “It’s seven-thirty-two.”

“Copy.” I stretched, reaching over to silence the alarm that I had slept straight through.

“Preciate that, son. Your brother up?”

“Yeah. Been up. We brushed our teeth and washed our faces too. I was gonna get dressed, but I wanted to wait for you to get him. We don’t have no more cereal, so he ain’t eat nothing yet.”

Sitting up straight with my back against the headboard, I wiped the cold from my eyes and smiled at my eight-year-old handling shit like he was the man of the house. Responsibility was taught early around these parts, just like my father had done with me at his age.

“Good looking out, son. You go finish getting yourself ready. I got the rest. And I’ll whip y’all up something quick for breakfast too.”

“Okay. You want me to bring Jay in here to you?”

“Nah. I’ma get myself ready then come in there in a minute. Did he give you any problems?”

I knew mornings could be a hit or miss with Baby Jay. Some days were peaceful. Some were challenging. And while Justin had learned to adapt to his little brother’s different stages, he knew to call me if Baby Jay needed more than he knew how to give.

“Nope. He did wake me up with his iPad on my forehead though.” He laughed. “I told him he couldn’t use it yet like you told me.”

“My boy.”

I held my hand out, and we did our father-son handshake that I’d taught him when he was three. Two palm slaps, a fist tap, salute, followed by a declaration of ‘Always a real nigga’. He always smirked at that part because it was the closest I let him get to cursing.

“Aight, go get dressed. We need to be out the door by nine.”

“Okay.”

He started toward the door before stopping short and turning back to me.

“Dad?”

“Wassup?”

“Can you please make what you know how to make today? Like no experimenting.”

I stared at him before chuckling. “You clowning a nigga early in the morning?”

“I’m just sayin’, can you just make some pancakes? You good at that.”

“How ‘bout I make you some Cream of Wheat?”

His face twisted. “Come on, Dad, you know I don’t like that.”

“Exactly.” I laughed. “Let me handle breakfast. You handle what I told you.”

“Aight.” He turned again, shaking his head, as he left the room.