Hello, Closure

By Angie Smith

I spent years of my life with an abusive narcissist.

In 2004, I landed my first office job and my friends met me at a downtown Chicago-area steakhouse to celebrate.

Kwame and I locked eyes in the lobby of the restaurant. He introduced himself.

Yes, he was fine and confident.

Kwame said that he was in town just for the night because he was a pharmaceutical rep, and had to travel back to Indiana (about an hour away).

I was mesmerized. I gave him my number and then joined my friends Iris and Nikki at their table.

This is a good time for me to point out that Kwame was NOT a pharmaceutical rep; he was a valet driver who also stole loose change from people’s cars.

Iris quizzed me about “that fine valet.”

“Valet driver?,” I balked. “That man sells legal drugs.” Iris shot back: “That man just parked my car.”

Kwame called and—before I could confront him about being a valet—he confessed that he lied about his job because he didn’t want me to lose interest in him.

Kwame said: “My father told me when you meet The One, your heart flutters. I felt that when I saw you. I never felt that before. I lied  because I knew you were The One, and I didn’t want to lose you.”

This is a good time for me to point out that Kwame NEVER met his father, and, if your heart flutters, please call your doctor.

Anyway, I was impressed by Kwame’s vulnerability when I should have been alarmed.

In quick order, Kwame moved into my new apartment and despite having a good-paying job, I was bouncing checks to feed us.

Kwame was too busy working out to find work.

Kwame took pride in his appearance and demanded home-cooked dinner every night.

One night I refused to cook; I was 8-months pregnant and too tired, so I went to bed.

That night, Kwame brought Iris to my apartment, had her cook my food for him and then slept with her on my couch.

I heard the s3x noises. I smelled her in my apartment. I pulled myself out of bed to find him doing to her what he USED to do to me.

I called the cops and reported there were two intruders in my home.

The female cop took pity on me; tired, cheated on, super-pregnant and trying to file a false police report to get Kwame and his sidechick out of my house. I was a pregnant woman scorned.

The hardened blonde officer spoke to me in a whisper, “I know this is hard, but this is not the way to handle this. You need to come up with something else.”

Her tall, Black, male partner told Kwame, “I don’t care if you live here or not. She doesn’t feel safe here with you, and her name is on the lease. You and your friend need to find somewhere else to sleep tonight.”

The next day Kwame stripped my apartment bare while I was at work, and moved in with Iris.

He never said goodbye.

Kwame and Iris’ betrayal haunted me, killed my spirit and my trust in women and men.

I had my son alone, too embarrassed, too paranoid to share my good news with anyone but my parents. 

My son was two-months-old when I found out that Kwame also had a newborn son with my “friend” Iris.

Our sons were the practically the same age. He was with Iris raising their child while my son and I struggled. They stole everything from my house, I didn’t have a TV or a refrigerator. I moved back in with parents after I lost my job.

That happened in 2006. I died a little inside, but I got my life together for my son.

I also met and married my soulmate James.

Fast forward to February, 2023.

I was at the Chicago Auto Show with my teenage son and husband James when a pot-bellied man with black, lacquered, sprayed-on hair approached us. His hands were puffy, and his fingers were swollen like little fat sausages. He wore tight, yet sagging, designer jeans, a style far too young for him.

It was Kwame, and he aged horribly. “Is that my son?,” he asked walking toward the obvious younger version of himself.

James, who loved and raised my son since he was two-years-old, blocked Kwame. “I don’t know who the f*ck you are, but this is my son.”

James spoke so loudly that a few people slowed down and pulled out their phones.

Kwame’s plastic smile faded. Beads of sweat mixed with black hair dye trickled around his hairline.

My James stood toe-to-toe with Kwame, like a bull ready to strike. My son screamed: “World Star!” and laughed.

I orgasmed at the showdown: The real man who loved me vs. the fake man who tried to destroy me.

Life had kicked Kwame’s ass enough; he wasn’t about to fight James. Kwame wiped his brow and slinked away. The small crowd dispersed.

The broken man with lacquered hair and ill-fitting jeans disappeared into the crowd.

Goodbye, Kwame.

Hello, CLOSURE.

Update from IRIS:

I want to respond. I haven’t spoken to Angela in years and I’m not missing anything.

Y’all asking about me? I’m doing good.

Believe that.

Those wishing bad for me should watch their prayers, you seem a little too invested in my life.

I need to clarify that Kwame was fine and nobody was married so he was fair game. I doubled-back to the restaurant after we all left just to connect with him.

I asked him if he’d like to get to know me, too, and he said yes. I slept with him the night after we met, so technically he was MINE first.

Yes, I cooked dinner in her house because she didn’t feed him that day. I was pregnant, too, and I still cooked for him and pleased him while she slept. Because that’s what a REAL ONE does.

Yes, we took items from her house because, like I said, I was pregnant too and I needed the couch, fridge, TVs and dishes.

That may be wrong but I would NEVER call the police on my man. That’s what her snake ass did. 🐍🐍🐍

Kwame and I broke up several years ago, so I don’t have beef with Angela. My son will be released in 2025 and if Angela really wants closure she’ll introduce her son to mine.

Ain’t no closure if our sons—who are blood BROTHERS—don’t know each other.

So Angela, what’s up with the family reunion?

I would love to meet James too. 👅

Stay blessed.