By Malik Russell

Note From Malik: This column was written originally in 2000. I’m re-issuing it in response to the recent police shootings of Sean Bell, an unarmed African American man in Queens, New York.

“The Adventures of Melki” is a fictional hiphop/social commentary column that addresses social problems from the perspective of a young Black male.

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The fictional adventures of Melki represents one of the various manifestations or alter-egos of FLUID: The Mental Realm of Hiphop. Melki, otherwise known as DJ Fluid, must make mixed-tapes to live. Trapped in the “NOW” and judged by the public aka “Da Heads,” he must constantly outdo his previous mix or disappear into the dimensional void of  “WUZ.”

Melki lay there bleeding from eight bullet holes, staring at the wide-eyed cops. His eyes pleaded WHY? But, he barely had the strength to stay conscious, much less say something. The color from the ever-increasing amount of squad cars blended in the night sky like a patriotic sherbet. Damn, thought Melki, I just bought this sweatsuit with matching kicks. Now I’ve got to clean blood out of them. What could I use to get these stains out? Refusing to give up the ghost, he held on, supplementing his own breath with that of the ancestors, clinging to life like a blade of grass surrounded by cement, he clutched tightly the final copy of his demo tape on disc.

Cops stood around him joking. “I thought he had a gun,” he overheard one say.

His thoughts drifted back to six hours earlier in the studio laying tracks for his upcoming album. He thought he was on his way to meet a rep from Def Jam, instead Death sent his.

SIX Hours ago… “Yo, Sun, I want you to bring those lyrics again. This time with more emotional content,” demanded Melki.

Ra stared at Melki in a confused state. “’Emotional content’? Kid, you got break down what ya saying.”

Melki took a deep breath. “You know, the same type of energy that you’d bring if this was a fight with someone that tried to take ya cake or Game Seven of the NBA finals. Emotional content, Sun, you feeling me? After this cut, we through and I can bring my demo to the reps from Def Jam on time,” spouts Melki. 

“Okay, Okay, Fluid, I gotcha, let’s do this again, ’cause I gots to get my lady something for our 3-month anniversary,” said Ra.

Melki, otherwise known as DJ Fluid, kicks up the speakers and brings in the baseline, as RA gets ready to release his verbal barrage. Ra starts swerving his head back and forth and with emotional content, catches the beat like clockwork:

“Till I begin, in it to win it
The flow, impacts in a minute
We travel with comets like Bennett
Flip rent like project tenants
Moreover I snatch the pennant
Grammar—I break and bend it
Tell Lies, just like the Senate
Nose grows, Pinocchio
I implode
Where can U go?
For Justice….

TWO Hours ago…Melki pulls out his cellular, anxiously dialing the digits to stardom. His demo was done. He was now officially on his way to Bling-Bling Land, and wondered what designer jean suit he’d wear to the Soul Train Awards. Akademic or Sean John?

“Yo, Who dis?”

“It’s me, Melki. Yo, kid the demo is done! I should be able to drop it off around ten, Cool?”

“Cool.”

Grinning, Melki packs his gear and carefully slides his demo into the pocket of his black hoody. “Yo, Ra, let me catch a ride uptown.”

Ra stares at Melki. “I told you I got to make a few runs, you ready? Cause I’m ready,” spurts Ra, biting on a chew stick.

An HOUR ago…Joe Soldin and Mickey sat in their unmarked squad car, checking out honey dips passing by. Mickey had followed his father into the police force and after 4 years of patrolling the black community, he knew them better than they knew themselves. In his mind, he was the Thin Blue Line preventing complete chaos. They wuz animals, he thought. Most of them, ‘cept my partner Joe. Joe had come up in the hood and now escaped it. He loved his suburban community, and hated anyone or anything reminding him of where he came from. He’d risen above that now. He knew how to keep these fools in check. The only thing they respect is a glock.

THIRTY Minutes ago… Melki and Ra zoomed uptown in Ra’s new SUV. In-between emceeing and writing lyrics, Ra had worked three jobs to achieve this piece of American pie. Melki threw in one of his old mixed tapes and Ra bopped his head wildly in accord with his normal behavior. Melki looked at Ra and realized why Ra never drank or smoked—he didn’t need it. 

“Yo, Melki, peep this, our first video, we could be coming out the sky in a spaceship….” Suddenly sirens erupt behind Ra and Melki. “Damn,” says Ra, looking at Melki. “What these fools want? Melki, you ain’t got no warrants or nothing, right?”

“Naw, fool, I ain’t no criminal, I just do music.”

 

Melki and Ra sit there hands on the wheel, while the unmarked car behind them sat there for what seemed like hours. Finally two officers came out the vehicle, one white, the other black. Glocks drawn they scurried to the car and pointed their pistols point blank at the two occupants. Sweat began to drip from Melki’s eyebrow to his nose to the floor.

“Get out, punks. How you pay for this jeep? Huh? These are our streets, Nigga, so I’m gonna say this once, get out slowly and onto the ground, you know the position.”

Melki and Ra slowly crawl out and squat on hands and knees on the cold cement. Without warning, Joe Soldin clubs Ra with the butt of his glock and just starts beating him senseless.

“See what ya friend got,” says Mickey. “We got something for you to, so tell us what you got in the truck.”

“Huh?” Melki says, “I ain’t got nothing, idiots, nothing, just this,” quickly pulling his demo tape out, half-blinded by the siren lights and moans from Ra. 

He hears Mickey scream, “He’s got a gun!” Before Melki could respond, the two cops blast away 22 shots, eight of which strike Melki in the back. Melki lay there in a pool of blood, wondering which would come first—an ambulance or death. This ain’t the way the video supposed to end, he thought.

“Every respectable, half-way competent social scientist who has paid attention at all to the issues of crime and delinquency know: that crime is endemic in all social classes: that the administration of justice is grossly biased against the Negro and the lower class defendant; that arrest and imprisonment is a process reserved almost exclusively for the black and the poor; and that the major function of the police is the preservation, not only of the public order, but of the social order—that is, of inequality between man and man. To blather on and on about the slum as a breeding place of crime, about lower class culture as generating milieu of delinquency—a presumably liberal explanation of the prevalence of crime among the poor-is to engage (surely, almost consciously) in ideological warfare against the poor in the interest of maintaining the status quo. It is one of the most detestable forms of blaming the victim.” – “Blaming the Victim” by William Ryan

Malik Russell is an activist, journalist and criminal justice expert.