Page 127 of Invisible Bars

“That big ol’ house you’re trying to stick me in? I'd be too lonely to enjoy it. Big kitchen, no soul. There won’t be no gossip or hollering. Probably won’t even have a nosy neighbor to keep me sharp. And you can’t borrow sugar from neighbors who don’t speak to you or pray for folks you don’t see. What the hell I look like sitting on a porch where ain’t nobody ever yell ‘Hey, Mama Rose!’ while walking by? Nope! I’m good right here, grandson! I’ll take the money you want to invest in me a new house, though.”

So she stayed in the hood—but not struggling.

Mama Rose’s house was the crown jewel… the best-looking house on the block, hands down. Not because it was the biggest or the newest, but because it was cared for…loved.And in a place where folks got used to things breaking and staying broken, Mama Rose’s house stood as a reminder that pride didn’t need a price tag.

People stopped by all the time—some just to sit on her porch, others hoping for a plate, and she gave without any second thought. Mama Rose fed the little boy whose mama worked two jobs, the woman next door whose EBT hadn’t reloaded yet, and the old man who talked too much but tipped with stories and gratitude.

Everyone called her Mama Rose, whether they were family or not, and everyone in the neighborhood knew not to touch that house.

Why?

Because her grandson was Imanio Kors, and while the city might’ve known me as the face of a billion-dollar real estate empire, thehoodknew that lady was my heart, so they knew better than to ever cross her.

I pulled into my grandma’s driveway, easing my midnight blue Lucid Air Sapphirebeside her pearl-white 2025 Lexus RX—clean, waxed, and sitting like it had something to say. I told her to choose whatever she wanted; the sky was the limit... and that’s what she chose.

It fitted her perfectly— Classy. Safe. No-nonsense. Just like her.

I cut the engine and stared at the soft yellow, single-story house tucked neatly behind trimmed hedges and clean concrete. Two rocking chairs sat on the porch—never dusty, never out of place. The windows sparkled. The flowerbeds always looked like they bloomed on command. Her screen door never creaked. Her porch light never flickered. And that outdoor camera? It caught everything—from stolen glances to Amazon packages to nosy-ass neighbors pretending they were just passing by.

I stepped out, adjusting the lapels of my tailored midnight Tom Fordsuit to match my whip.

No chains. No flash. Just me.

As I walked towards the front door, I heard a familiar voice from across the street.

“Imanio! Long time!”

I did an about face.

It was old man Mr. Redd, her next door neighbor. He was sitting in his usual spot on the porch with a cane propped against his knee and a beer bottle sweating beside him. He’d known me since I was a loud, nosy five-year-old chasing ice cream trucks and bad ideas.

I walked over to the fence, stepping closer with my hands in my pockets.

“Mr. Redd, how you doing, sir?”

“I can’t complain. It won’t do a doggone bit of good,” he answered with a raspy chuckle. “It’s good to know folks like you still remember us little people.”

I grinned. “Always, Mr. Redd. Y’all the ones who raised me. If it wasn’t for y’all yelling from porches and calling my grandma every time I got into something, who knows where I’d be.”

He laughed, nodding in approval. “You still got manners and your head on straight. You’re proof thatsomepeople don’t change when they get a little money. Well, I know you got to get going. It was real nice seeing you, son.”

Then he smirked and added, “Oh—and tell yo’ grandma she still owes me a plate from last Thanksgiving. Claimed she ran out of sweet potatoes, but Johnnie from down the street told me she gave him a plate the next day—with a double scoop. She know what she did. I just want you to remind her.”

I laughed and shook my head. “Mr. Redd, it’s June. She hasn’t offered you a plate since then?”

He waved it off like that was irrelevant. “Yeah, but not with no sweet potatoes! That’s the whole point!”

I chuckled. “You still mad, huh?”

“Hell yeah, I am! Sweet potatoes that good? That’s a generational grudge. I got grandkids I don’t see that often, but I think about them sweet potatoes every Sunday.”

I burst out laughing again.

That was the kind of shit I missed—the porch banter, the petty neighborhood beefs that were more love than anything else.

“Aight. I’ll remind her,” I called out, turning to walk away. “You be good, Mr. Redd.”

He raised his beer bottle in a mock salute. “Don’t be a stranger now. And tell her I want my plate with a peace offering—extra yams.”