False Prophets
“Prophets can’t forget the severity of their words. ”
I’m 28 years old now. My 20s feel more and more like a period of my life I wish I could skip. I stopped drinking ten months ago. It wasn’t because liquor no longer felt good; the aftereffects did a bad job of making everything else hurt less.
My father had an alcohol addiction when I was younger— he hasn’t drunk in more than 20 years. I’d rarely had addictive tendencies. But I’ve always found slick ways to numb my pain. I can create small vices that reflect deeper, more subtle wounds, like preoccupying myself with video games or cigar-smoking to offset drinking.
Last year, I ran out of methods. We all run out of ways, sometimes.
The path from hero to villain— from a revered truth-teller to a detested liar— is short and abrupt. Our success is a gradual climb, but failures happen in a moment. The world will praise you and soon nail you to the cross you carried. Hip-hop has shown us this.
Everyone witnessed Kanye West’s gradual moral, emotional, and intellectual decline from 2016 and his allegiance with Tr*mp’s campaign to 2022 when he publicly feuded with his ex-wife before spewing anti-Semitic rhetoric and being met with vitriol.
As well as this, we slowly watched Da Baby’s shift from being a superstar to a rapper whose lost possibilities we speculate about and grieve.
Although we see these examples of self-destruction, the good news is God can redeem your voice— He has already carved out a road of redemption— and clean up your mess. In the grand scheme, your mistakes are but a moment in the timeline or a blip in the story. But we must first be honest about our shortfalls and preventatively sulk in the failure, just as artists don’t mind evaluating and critiquing finished work. You must stare at the mess first, then move on.
Artists self-sabotage. Whether financially or socially, our capital lapses when our greed and impulses lead us to ruin. Still, this is about more than artists; it’s about me, about us. This journal gives structure and artistic shape to my life stories. Blood and tears don’t go to waste when sitting in front of a blank canvas.
I’ve wanted to recount things more heroic or valorous, but then I wouldn’t be being honest. And I’m burdened to tell the truth, no matter how ugly or embarrassing. This is a mirror I will continue to display— for you to see yourself and find out if our lives mimic one another. My most pivotal mistakes, errors, and flops are a teacher, or for some, a way we relate.
Take heed to the prophecies in my scars– some lost and some new. But as I reveal hidden visions, I wouldn’t be a prophet unless I was burdened to ask, “when sh* hit the fan, is you still a fan?”
For ten months, I’ve agitated my thoughts with the question, “at what point did I lose my voice?” More than this, when did my voice no longer matter? It’s likely been diluted during my college years, those I sometimes still feel at my heels.
The years when sweet nothings’ reeked of the bitter brown and white combinations I crafted to give me confidence. But it worked for me. I needed help speeding through the anxiety of discovering the magic of a woman’s body— before still failing to understand it completely.
Charm was how I got by, and although I wasn’t Kanye or Da Baby, I also wasn’t the complete opposite. I wasn’t inclined to be a criminal or villain, but I had no restorative or concrete ambitions. I added to or stripped color from whoever I rubbed against, passing through those who welcomed me.
I inserted my colors in portraits that either needed to be reimagined afterward, or trashed. For now, we can say many of us lose track of who we are in these four years, or nine for me.
We’ve all abandoned ourselves to hide in unknown skins and faces. But tears and sweat from undying efforts washed the makeup and revealed what tried to disguise itself.
The beauty I’m still learning as I compose this is that we can write our wrongs to right our wrongs. Art is the very act of both hiding and uncovering— I retreat to what will help me recover myself.
Writing was how I dug up old dried bones buried deep in my soul and gave them life— bones I threw dirt over. Black men need to write more and sit in their feelings a little longer.
Late nights I’d lose myself in my journal on a quest for self-annihilation and self-discovery. By walking through old stories, I became a black child tracing letters until enlightenment helps them associate ordered symbols with the reflection in water-spotted mirrors— matching a face to a name or stories to a body.
Kwon was the person everyone believed in and believed when he spoke. The way I believe my heroes and see through the lies of rappers.
In his book, “He Saw That It Was Good,” hip-hop artist and professor Sho Baraka mentions, “relevance isn’t measured by how much you speak. It’s measured by how much people listen when you speak.” Is there gravity to your words?
J Cole’s rollout for 4 Your Eyez Only in 2016 included “False Prophets” as one of the lead singles along with “Everybody Dies.” He was assumed to be taking what now seems like predictive and accurate jabs at Kanye West, and it was speculated he even made a reference to his peer, Wale. Wale responded with “Groundhog Day” and ended it with “See you at the game, bro,” Afterward, they were spotted hanging out at a college basketball game Saturday night (Dec. 3).
In light of recent events, Cole’s lyrical prophecy was fulfilled after six years, as we all witnessed Kanye crash out in 2022. But Cole also made himself the subject of his critique and assessment.
He rapped about how his pursuit of legendary status watered down his pen’s ink, and when he aimed to impress and not impact, his stories lacked substance. He confessed, “my highest moments came from telling all the saddest stories,” and “my lowest moments came from trying too hard to impress n*s that don’t care if I’m on.”
Cole knew he had a prophetic voice and lost it when he got further from himself, writing and living to be celebrated and not felt.
The heart and spirit will do to our art what ego and greed can’t— because the latter will ruin creativity. Cole was at his pinnacle when every verse mattered more than every dollar or applause. When he was himself, his words matched his face and posture, and we found solace in his tales. His messages cut through when he bore sobriety and wisdom in his voice. If your words don’t cut your heart first, they’ll be too dull to pierce that of others.
Prophets can’t forget the severity of their words. The idea of false prophets is no more present in anyone else’s story than mine. I crumbled under the lights at one point, and I didn’t forget God’s message, but why He gave it to me. With a sling and rock in my hand, I fell in the face of giants I convinced myself I would conquer. I was persuaded God was a liar by those I was sent to with a prophecy. My losses ran deep, and my victories lived short lives.
From school to popularity, attention and esteem I didn’t have the ego to handle. I dried out under sunlight I assumed would help me bloom after the storm. Stepping outside of myself was a step in a direction further from God’s voice. Yet God still trusts me with His word, and demands I return to the fields to feed His sheep. But I realized when people stop believing us, we are no longer prophets.
When sheep no longer heed my voice, I’ve already failed them. Maybe this whole while, I’ve been the false prophet.
Told by: Kwon
