“What Ever Happened 2 My King,” is my first published novel and let me tell you―that book is my baby. I first started writing this novel when I was just 19. I came up with the title back then and started jotting down ideas but it wasn’t until March of 2005 that I committed and dedicated the time and effort I needed to complete the piece; from that point it took me about 4 months to finish it.
With “What Ever Happened 2 My King”, I wanted to reach out and touch everyone, urban, suburban, young, and elder, men and woman. The response I’m receiving from readers is CRAZY LOVE!!!! Let me put it this way, the book is over 300 pages and people are reading it in a day or two, yeah it’s one of them!! It makes me feel proud that people really enjoy my writing because I know that when I purchase a book I want to be captivated and entertained; however, I wanna peep some lessons and messages as well. My books will always be described as gritty and raw but not one person that read one of my novels can say they didn’t gain something from it.
With “What Ever Happened 2 My King”, I wanted to reach out and touch everyone, urban, suburban, young, and elder, men and woman. The response I’m receiving from readers is CRAZY LOVE!!!! Let me put it this way, the book is over 300 pages and people are reading it in a day or two, yeah it’s one of them!! It makes me feel proud that people really enjoy my writing because I know that when I purchase a book I want to be captivated and entertained; however, I wanna peep some lessons and messages as well. My books will always be described as gritty and raw but not one person that read one of my novels can say they didn’t gain something from it.
My journey has been rocky, no doubt!!! The demand for the book was high in B-more since word of mouth is a great promotional tool, but what’s demand if you don’t have the funds to fill orders!!!!!! I found myself loosing it; I had Bills, Bills, Bills, so what dough I made from book sales I had to use it instead of flipping it for more books; I guess you can say I was on my grind―Amazon orders, Barnes and Noble orders, street orders, book store orders; I couldn’t fill any of them and I was about to loose it, so I took a deep breath, took a step back; got a second job, did some research and met a few great authors that were willing to give me advice and some type of guidance―shout out to Jessica Tiles and Lisa Woodson!!! I learned how to get distribution and was directed to a great publicity firm, “Donna Hill Promotions”. Okay, I done took my two steps back to take 5 steps forward. I am now ready for the world and will keep hitting my readers with captivating yet motivational Urban Page Turners.
I must shout out my family; my mother Glenda Brooks, My father Michael Smith and Lil’ brother Deontay (Smokey) Smith―keep your head up baby boy!!! I also wanna say peace to all of the people in B-more that had my back from the start; the hoods, the burbs, the barber shops, hair salons and corner stores that let me post my posters and sell my books; I especially wanna shout out Urban Knowledge Book store at Mondawmon Mall, Sand Sephia and Sable Book Store at the Plaza and Words by Wendell Bookstore for being the first three stores to stock my book!!!!!
AYE YALL, PEEP MY WEBSITE FOR MORE INFO ON ME AND MY BOOKS!!!!! www.lakishiansmith.com (Show a Sistah some LOOOOVVVE!!!!)
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Check out this brief snippet from “What Ever Happened 2 My King” this snippet is from the first chapter titled "Family First"
Years Before
Everyone sat in my grandparent’s living room in their house on Nevada Street in Westport. Me, Lil Chris, Aunt Wanda and my mom were watching the movie “Sparkle.” Suddenly we heard arguing out front. At first we paid it no mind at all. Shiiit we were in Westport, there were always arguments or some type of drama going down.
“N*gga get the f*ck away from here!!!!” yelled the outta town Virginia dude.
“Turn the TV down,” my mom whispered, as if the trouble maker’s out front could actually hear inside the house. I tiptoed to the TV and turned it down.
Before I could even make it back to the chair— POWWWWWW!!!! POWWWWWWW!!!! POWWWWW!!!!!!! POWWW! BLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLIP, POWWWWW, BOOOOOM, BOOOOOM, BOOOOM! Exploding sounds of three to four automatic weapons that were so loud it sounded as if it was inside the house.
“Get on the floor!!!!!” yelled my mom.
Everyone dove to the floor.
The gunshots blasted back and forth for about five rounds, after ceasing for seconds at a time; long enough for the shooters to load up on ammunition and then it started up again. BLLLLLIIIIIIIIIPP, BOOOOOM, BOOOOOM, POWWWWW, POWWWW, POWWWWW!!!!
After about three minutes of the earsplitting chaos, it finally came to a halt!
“Oh my God, Belinda, call the police!” my Aunt Wanda whispered to my mom who was still lying on the floor next to me holding her ears.
“Unnnnnn-uhhhhhhhh, you go,” responded my mom, still shaken up and to petrified to budge.
My Aunt Wanda crawled to the phone, hopped up, grabbed the receiver and lay back on the floor as she dialed the numbers.
“Ambulance, fire department or police?” inquired the 911 operator.
“I need the police, on Nevada Street, in Westport. There has just been a shootout. There may be people shot.”
“What hundred block?”
“Twenty-three hundred,” Wanda answered out of breath from her heavy breathing caused by all of the excitement.
“Ma’am do you see anyone laying on the ground?”
“No, I’m not in the window but I think there may be; there was a bunch of gun fire, hurry up please!!!!!
“Okay, help is on the way,” the operator assured her.
Everyone remained stretched out over the floor too frightened to stand until moments later when we heard the wail of emergency vehicle sirens.
A Virginia clique tried to come to Westport and take over. Whaaaat!!! That was crazy! Ronnie and ’dem wasn’t going for that there!! That would be like just letting someone come and rob them of all they had worked for. Westport was their gold mine. The fiends were their customers and there was no way they would allow some outsiders come around and take over an operation they put so much work and energy into creating.
The Next Day
Knock, Knock, Knock……………………………Knock……………!
It was 8 a.m. My granddad who we called pop-pop was in his room getting dressed for his part-time job. He had retired from the Social Security Administration after 30 years of service and was now working as a part-time janitor at University Hospital.
He opened the front door in response to the tapping and there stood LA’s oldest brother Ronnie Johnson.
“Hey Ronnie, how you doing?” he greeted the young man.
“Mr. Brown, step out a minute, I need to talk to you,” Ronnie requested.
Before my grandfather could even arrive to where Ronnie stood he caught a full glimpse of his brand spankin’ new vehicle; a sky blue 1988 Grand Marquise, his dream car, the car that he bought for himself as a retirement gift—completely shot up with at least 13 bullet holes.
“What the hell!” he yelled, brushing past Ronnie headed towards the parking lot a few feet away.
Ronnie fast walked behind him, “Mr. Brown, that’s what I came up here to talk to you about. I came to apologize for this and pay for the damages.” He whipped out a huge stack of cash from his pocket, nothing but one hundred dollar bills.
“1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10—1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10.” The more he counted the wider my grandfather’s eyes got and his heart raced while saying to himself, keep going, keep going. Ronnie handed him $6000, which was a lot more than what the damages were worth, but Ronnie didn’t care about the money as long as he could make my grandfather happy. He liked the man, plus he didn’t want the police involved and their names to slip out of anyone’s mouth.
My granddad was extremely satisfied with Ronnie’s pay off— it made things all the better for him; he deposited every single dime of it into his checking account and had the insurance company pay for all the repairs.
Westport projects, located on the south side of Baltimore, Maryland, was a very small project community. The fact that it was so undersized, however, didn’t rub out the fact that the spot made number 1 on the list of 5 most violent projects in Baltimore during the time the city made the top 5 list of most brutal cities in America. It was really tough not to get caught up in some shit if you came out of this project.
Growing up there had its advantages as well as its disadvantages. I mean of course as with any projects you got the roaches, rats, stank pissy alleys, drugs, shootings, cops harassing you, etc. But hold on now! There are some good things about the projects too, like the block parties, house parties, and just sitting on the block trippin’ with your friends while someone with a booming ass car system cranks the music loud enough for everyone to jam off. I mean Westport was just off da hook! I realized that as a child.
My grandmother on my mom’s side raised all nine of her kids there, and my grandmother on my dad’s side raised all five of her kids there. So needless to say, I had an aunt, uncle or cousin that lived on just about every block in Westport. That was cool because whenever we ran out of something whether it be sugar, mustard or even a pack of Kool Aid, Mom Dukes would call either my grandmother or one of my aunts or uncles to borrow it. Of course, she would never give it back to them but it was just the right thing to say.
I was about 9 when my mom’s name reached the top of the list to receive her very own public housing unit. They moved us on Wilgrey Court, located in what they called the new projects, because the houses were remodeled in later years. Our house was like 5 minutes walking distance from my grandmother’s house.
Me, my mom, my dad, and my kid brother were all together and living as a family during those days.
I must shout out my family; my mother Glenda Brooks, My father Michael Smith and Lil’ brother Deontay (Smokey) Smith―keep your head up baby boy!!! I also wanna say peace to all of the people in B-more that had my back from the start; the hoods, the burbs, the barber shops, hair salons and corner stores that let me post my posters and sell my books; I especially wanna shout out Urban Knowledge Book store at Mondawmon Mall, Sand Sephia and Sable Book Store at the Plaza and Words by Wendell Bookstore for being the first three stores to stock my book!!!!!
AYE YALL, PEEP MY WEBSITE FOR MORE INFO ON ME AND MY BOOKS!!!!! www.lakishiansmith.com (Show a Sistah some LOOOOVVVE!!!!)
_________________________________________________________
Check out this brief snippet from “What Ever Happened 2 My King” this snippet is from the first chapter titled "Family First"
Years Before
Everyone sat in my grandparent’s living room in their house on Nevada Street in Westport. Me, Lil Chris, Aunt Wanda and my mom were watching the movie “Sparkle.” Suddenly we heard arguing out front. At first we paid it no mind at all. Shiiit we were in Westport, there were always arguments or some type of drama going down.
“N*gga get the f*ck away from here!!!!” yelled the outta town Virginia dude.
“Turn the TV down,” my mom whispered, as if the trouble maker’s out front could actually hear inside the house. I tiptoed to the TV and turned it down.
Before I could even make it back to the chair— POWWWWWW!!!! POWWWWWWW!!!! POWWWWW!!!!!!! POWWW! BLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLIP, POWWWWW, BOOOOOM, BOOOOOM, BOOOOM! Exploding sounds of three to four automatic weapons that were so loud it sounded as if it was inside the house.
“Get on the floor!!!!!” yelled my mom.
Everyone dove to the floor.
The gunshots blasted back and forth for about five rounds, after ceasing for seconds at a time; long enough for the shooters to load up on ammunition and then it started up again. BLLLLLIIIIIIIIIPP, BOOOOOM, BOOOOOM, POWWWWW, POWWWW, POWWWWW!!!!
After about three minutes of the earsplitting chaos, it finally came to a halt!
“Oh my God, Belinda, call the police!” my Aunt Wanda whispered to my mom who was still lying on the floor next to me holding her ears.
“Unnnnnn-uhhhhhhhh, you go,” responded my mom, still shaken up and to petrified to budge.
My Aunt Wanda crawled to the phone, hopped up, grabbed the receiver and lay back on the floor as she dialed the numbers.
“Ambulance, fire department or police?” inquired the 911 operator.
“I need the police, on Nevada Street, in Westport. There has just been a shootout. There may be people shot.”
“What hundred block?”
“Twenty-three hundred,” Wanda answered out of breath from her heavy breathing caused by all of the excitement.
“Ma’am do you see anyone laying on the ground?”
“No, I’m not in the window but I think there may be; there was a bunch of gun fire, hurry up please!!!!!
“Okay, help is on the way,” the operator assured her.
Everyone remained stretched out over the floor too frightened to stand until moments later when we heard the wail of emergency vehicle sirens.
A Virginia clique tried to come to Westport and take over. Whaaaat!!! That was crazy! Ronnie and ’dem wasn’t going for that there!! That would be like just letting someone come and rob them of all they had worked for. Westport was their gold mine. The fiends were their customers and there was no way they would allow some outsiders come around and take over an operation they put so much work and energy into creating.
The Next Day
Knock, Knock, Knock……………………………Knock……………!
It was 8 a.m. My granddad who we called pop-pop was in his room getting dressed for his part-time job. He had retired from the Social Security Administration after 30 years of service and was now working as a part-time janitor at University Hospital.
He opened the front door in response to the tapping and there stood LA’s oldest brother Ronnie Johnson.
“Hey Ronnie, how you doing?” he greeted the young man.
“Mr. Brown, step out a minute, I need to talk to you,” Ronnie requested.
Before my grandfather could even arrive to where Ronnie stood he caught a full glimpse of his brand spankin’ new vehicle; a sky blue 1988 Grand Marquise, his dream car, the car that he bought for himself as a retirement gift—completely shot up with at least 13 bullet holes.
“What the hell!” he yelled, brushing past Ronnie headed towards the parking lot a few feet away.
Ronnie fast walked behind him, “Mr. Brown, that’s what I came up here to talk to you about. I came to apologize for this and pay for the damages.” He whipped out a huge stack of cash from his pocket, nothing but one hundred dollar bills.
“1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10—1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10.” The more he counted the wider my grandfather’s eyes got and his heart raced while saying to himself, keep going, keep going. Ronnie handed him $6000, which was a lot more than what the damages were worth, but Ronnie didn’t care about the money as long as he could make my grandfather happy. He liked the man, plus he didn’t want the police involved and their names to slip out of anyone’s mouth.
My granddad was extremely satisfied with Ronnie’s pay off— it made things all the better for him; he deposited every single dime of it into his checking account and had the insurance company pay for all the repairs.
Westport projects, located on the south side of Baltimore, Maryland, was a very small project community. The fact that it was so undersized, however, didn’t rub out the fact that the spot made number 1 on the list of 5 most violent projects in Baltimore during the time the city made the top 5 list of most brutal cities in America. It was really tough not to get caught up in some shit if you came out of this project.
Growing up there had its advantages as well as its disadvantages. I mean of course as with any projects you got the roaches, rats, stank pissy alleys, drugs, shootings, cops harassing you, etc. But hold on now! There are some good things about the projects too, like the block parties, house parties, and just sitting on the block trippin’ with your friends while someone with a booming ass car system cranks the music loud enough for everyone to jam off. I mean Westport was just off da hook! I realized that as a child.
My grandmother on my mom’s side raised all nine of her kids there, and my grandmother on my dad’s side raised all five of her kids there. So needless to say, I had an aunt, uncle or cousin that lived on just about every block in Westport. That was cool because whenever we ran out of something whether it be sugar, mustard or even a pack of Kool Aid, Mom Dukes would call either my grandmother or one of my aunts or uncles to borrow it. Of course, she would never give it back to them but it was just the right thing to say.
I was about 9 when my mom’s name reached the top of the list to receive her very own public housing unit. They moved us on Wilgrey Court, located in what they called the new projects, because the houses were remodeled in later years. Our house was like 5 minutes walking distance from my grandmother’s house.
Me, my mom, my dad, and my kid brother were all together and living as a family during those days.
