The Gig

LaLa DeVille

The Gig

2,518 words

The Gig

Imani didn’t miss the stage.

What she missed was the half-second before it—the moment when your name

hasn’t been said yet, and your body hasn’t decided whether it’s going to cooperate,

when you can still turn around, when the room hasn’t reached for you.

That moment mattered because everything after it cost something.

The lights weren’t the problem, nor was the applause. It was how people listened as

if they were entitled to take something home with them. Like whatever she said

belonged to them once it left her mouth.

After her last open mic, she went home with her jaw clenched and her chest

humming, wiped the eyeliner from her face, and sat on the edge of her bed until the

feelings faded. She didn’t cry. She didn’t spiral.

She just decided she was done.

Two years passed without a microphone.

Her life grew quieter, but not softer. She learned how to earn money without having

to explain herself. Learned how to be in rooms where no one expected her to bleed

for attention.

Then the email arrived.

A gala. A paid performance lasting eight to ten minutes for a thousand dollars.

She knew the number before she thought about it.

The email included an attachment.

A clean PDF with polite language and formatting that suggests it was reviewed for

tone.

She read it standing at the kitchen counter, her laptop open beside a stack of

unopened mail. Rent. Utilities. A final notice, she hadn’t turned over yet.

HARPER HOUSE FOUNDATION PRESENTS: THE RENEWAL GALA

Featured Performance: Spoken Word Artist

Fee: $1,000

She didn’t start scrolling right away.

A thousand dollars would stabilize things. Not long-term. Not magically. But it

would calm the immediate noise. It would buy time.

She scrolled through.

They were hoping for a short spoken word set that aligned with the event theme.

She read that line twice.

Aligned with the event theme as intended within limits. It always did.

She went through the rest of the contract, her eyes searching for anything that

seemed like a trap. There wasn’t any. Nothing obvious. Just precise language.

She shut the laptop and leaned her weight against the counter.

This wasn’t desperation. She understood the difference. This was strategic thinking.

She reopened her laptop and typed her name again.

The follow-up email arrived the following morning.

The subject line was overly enthusiastic—too many exclamation points for a

contractual document.

So excited!!

Kelsey Ray introduced herself as being in Events and Partnerships. The email was

warm, complimentary, and casually friendly. She praised Imani’s

“authentic voice” and mentioned how one of her videos had “really moved the team.”

Imani noticed what wasn’t quoted.

Then came the notes.

Nothing aggressive. Nothing overt. Just a brief list presented as guidance.

Family-friendly language.

No political content.

A focus on unity.

Imani read it once. Then again, slower.

Unity was doing a lot of work.

She drafted a reply, erased it, and began again.

Happy to align with the event. I don’t write political work, but I do write honestly.

One sentence. Clarifying. Done.

She pressed send and placed her phone face down on the counter.

It buzzed in less than five minutes.

Absolutely! We trust you completely. Just wanted to highlight a few points to make

The Board feels comfortable.

Imani picked up the phone again and typed.

Understood.

She didn’t say anything more. There was nothing left to discuss.

The venue was a downtown hotel with valet parking and glass doors that reflected

the street itself. Inside, everything felt softened—lighting, voices, edges. Even the air

seemed controlled.

Imani parked around the corner to avoid paying forty dollars because paying that

much for parking wasn’t an option. She walked the rest of the way, heels steady on

the sidewalk, her tote bag kept close against her side. She preferred arriving on her

own terms.

The lobby smelled like citrus and money. People moved through it dressed for an

evening that would be photographed. Suits. Gowns. A few outfits carefully styled to

look intentional without appearing expensive.

A volunteer checked her name at a table near the entrance. His smile lingered a

moment too long.

“Oh, you’re the poet.”

“I’m the performer.”

He blinked, recalibrated, then nodded. “Right. Of course. Welcome.”

She accepted the program he gave her and moved aside.

Her name showed up in the middle of the night, printed under a heading that said

INSPIRATIONAL MOMENT.

She noted it but didn't react.

Inside the ballroom, round tables were draped in white linen, each with a deliberate

centerpiece. Glassware reflected the light. A jazz trio played near the stage—upright

bass, piano, brushed drums. Controlled. Clean.

Nothing in the room seemed accidental.

Imani leaned against the wall and watched people greet each other with practiced

warmth. Hands on shoulders. Laughter that showed up early and left on time. The

kind of ease that comes from knowing the rules and being confident that they work

in your favor.

She didn’t feel out of place.

Her hair was neatly wrapped with a patterned fabric she chose intentionally.

She felt evaluated.

“Imani! You made it.” Kelsey was already leaning in for a hug.

Imani accepted it without leaning either back or forward.

“You look great. Very... ethnic.”

Imani noted the word, not the pause.

“I’m glad to be here.”

It was true. And precise.

The green room was smaller than she expected.

A single mirror framed with lights and a narrow table holding bottled water, sliced

fruit, and a handwritten note placed where it couldn’t be missed.

Imani — thank you for lending your voice to this important evening.

She read it once and then turned the card face down.

The room smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and someone else’s perfume. Imani set

her tote bag on the chair and stood still for a moment, letting the quiet settle. The

mirror reflected her back—hair wrapped neatly, fabric patterned and deliberate. She

checked nothing. Adjusted nothing.

Kelsey appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, tablet in hand.

“So.” She smiled. “Just a quick run-through.”

Imani nodded.

Kelsey’s voice softened, the way people are taught to do when they’re about to ask

for something.

“So, listen—just a small tweak. The board really loved your draft. Truly. There’s just

one piece they were hoping you could shift.”

“Which piece?”

Kelsey gave a light laugh, already nodding. “The line about hope not being a

handout. We love the punch. We worry it might make some guests feel… targeted.”

“It’s a general statement.”

“Totally.” Kelsey nodded quickly. “Totally. It’s just that this room is full of donors, and

we don’t want anyone to feel like they’re being scolded. Tonight is a celebration.”

Imani kept her gaze fixed.

“So, you want it softer.”

“We want it unifying.” Kelsey’s smile stayed steady.

Imani looked down at her notebook. The title was written across the top in block

letters:

THERE ARE SOME THINGS YOU CAN’T DONATE.

Kelsey leaned in slightly, lowering her voice.

“And if possible, we’d love to avoid mentioning… systems. Anything that might

sound like—” She made a small circling motion with her hand, searching for the

word. “—politics.”

“Poverty isn’t political.”

Kelsey’s smile tightened slightly at the edges. “It becomes political when you say it

that way.”

Imani closed the notebook.

“I don’t write in generalities. That changes the meaning.”

Kelsey’s smile held. “We’re just trying to make sure everyone stays open.”

“Then they should listen.”

She said it calmly, not defensively.

Kelsey shifted her weight. “Of course. We trust you.”

Imani heard the repetition this time.

“Good.”

She didn’t add anything else.

The ballroom quickly filled up after dinner.

Plates were cleared. Glasses refilled. The jazz trio shifted into something smoother

and slower, as if the room needed to ease into attention. Conversations softened

but didn’t stop. People leaned toward each other, still finishing thoughts they didn’t

want to lose.

Imani stood near the side of the room, close enough to the stage to be visible but

not invited in. She watched servers move with practiced efficiency, replacing

silverware as if nothing uncomfortable had ever happened there.

Kelsey passed by once and gently touched her elbow.

“Almost time,”

Imani nodded.

The host stepped onto the stage and thanked everyone for their generosity,

commitment, and belief in the work. The words felt familiar. Impact. Partnership.

Community. Applause arrived on cue, swelling and receding like breath.

Then the host paused.

“And now,”—he smiled widely— “we have some exciting news to share.”

The lights dimmed a bit. A spotlight moved to the front of the room.

Imani followed it.

A man stood and adjusted his jacket as the applause started—initially measured,

then growing louder, encouraged. He smiled humbly, as if caught off guard by the

attention, as if gratitude were something that happened to him rather

than something he’d earned.

“This evening,” the host continued, “we’re honored to announce that our transitional

housing center will now carry the name of one of our most generous supporters.”

The applause grew louder.

Imani felt the room leaning forward.

The man moved closer to the stage, waving briefly. Someone at a nearby table wiped

their eyes.

The host announced the man’s name.

Imani recognized it.

Not from introductions or meetings, but from a video that had circulated months

earlier. From a clip filmed on a phone—shaky, vertical, unavoidable. A teenager

pressed against a wall outside a convenience store. A security guard yelling. A

woman screaming just out of frame.

The man on stage had stood beside the guard in that video. Calm. Confident.

Explaining to the camera why the boy “fit the description.” Why had force been

“necessary.” Why were people “overreacting”

The room didn’t know that version of him.

They saw a benefactor, a partner, a name worthy of being on a building.

“And with this gift,” the host continued, “we’re not just restoring a space. We’re

restoring hope.”

The applause swelled again, this time lasting longer.

Imani remained still.

She felt the moment settle in—not as shock, not as anger, but as confirmation.

Everything Kelsey had requested. Everything the contract allowed for. Everything

the room needed to believe.

Kelsey showed up beside her again, voice soft.

“You’re next. Right after this.”

Imani looked toward the stage.

The man lowered his head as the applause finally subsided.

She didn’t look away.

The applause thinned as the donor returned to his seat.

The host waited just long enough for the room to settle before stepping back to the

microphone.

“And now, to help us reflect on the power of hope and community, please welcome

spoken-word artist Imani Brooks.”

Applause grew louder—polite, anticipatory, rehearsed.

Imani stepped closer to the stage and stopped.

She pressed her thumb into the middle of her palm and took a deep breath.

I am not your lesson.

I am not your before picture.

I am not your proof that the world is fair because I survived it.

Good enough. Go.

She stepped onto the stage.

The lights transformed the room into shapes and shadows. Faces blurred past the

first few rows. She adjusted the microphone once, not because it needed it, but

because it gave her a moment to claim the space.

She looked out at the audience.

“I was asked to perform a poem about hope tonight.”

“I’m going to be specific.”

A few nods and a few smiles.

I grew up being told to be grateful.

Grateful for programs.

For second chances.

For people with money, deciding who was worth the effort.

The room quieted. Not tense. Attentive.

Gratitude was supposed to sound like agreement.

Like silence.

Survival isn’t proof that the system works.

And generosity doesn’t cancel harm.

Someone shifted in their chair. A fork clinked against a plate.

This was supposed to be about unity.

But unity without accountability isn’t progress.

It’s coordination.

There are some things you can’t donate.

You can’t donate safety after it’s been taken.

You can’t donate dignity after it’s been denied.

And you can’t repackage harm

and call it healing.

This is not what I signed up for.

I was asked to tell the truth, and I am.

She paused.

Ase.

She moved away from the microphone.

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then a few claps started. Isolated. Uneven. They didn’t spread the way applause

was supposed to. They faded out and stopped.

The host returned to the stage too quickly.

“Thank you, Imani. That was... powerful.”

She nodded once and then stepped offstage.

She didn’t look back.

The hallway outside the ballroom was quieter and more peaceful.

Imani walked it alone.

Behind her, the room began to settle again. Chairs gently shifted, and glasses

softly clinked. Someone laughed a little too loudly before quickly correcting

themselves. The night subtly shifted around the absence she had left behind.

She didn’t slow down.

The green room lights were still on, and the mirror reflected her in the same way

as before.

She could still hear the fading applause behind her.

The handwritten note remained face down on the table.

Nothing had changed, and that felt just right.

She slipped her notebook into her tote without opening it and adjusted her

shoulder strap.

Kelsey stood in the doorway.

“That was unexpected.” Her tone was cautious, not angry or warm.

“It was accurate.”

Kelsey took a slow inhale and exhale. “Some people may have felt uncomfortable.”

“Yes.”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold, but it was filled with judgment.

“We’ll need to discuss how this impacts the foundation. You didn’t follow the

agreed direction.”

Imani nodded once.

“That affects your payment. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

Kelsey studied her for a moment. Then her expression changed—smaller, more

controlled.

“We’ll be in touch.”

Imani didn’t reply. There was nothing more to explain.

Outside, the night air was cool and unfiltered. She walked the block back to her

car, heels steady, shoulders relaxed. Traffic passed by. Voices drifted through the

air. The city kept its own rhythm.

She sat behind the wheel for a moment without starting the engine.

The money might not come, but Imani knew all money ain’t good money. She said

what she came to do, and something else stayed.

She pressed her thumb into the center of her palm once. Not to steady herself. Just

to feel it.

Then she started the car and merged into traffic.

She did not rehearse what she said.

She did not revisit it.

She went home.