Who You?

If you had told me eighteen months earlier that I'd spend part of my life talking to a man claiming to be Papa Ushhh, I would've laughed in your face.

Actually, I still laugh about it.

It started the way most bad decisions start these days.

I was scrolling social media, minding my business, when a message appeared in my inbox.

The profile claimed to belong to Papa Ushhh.

Now, I'm not completely naive.

There was no way a celebrity was sitting around messaging random women online.

At least that's what I thought.

Still, curiosity got the best of me.

We exchanged a few messages.

Nothing serious.

Nothing life-changing.

Then he said something strange.

"This conversation is only supposed to last one day."

I laughed.

"Well, it was nice talking to you."

Before I could leave, he asked for a picture.

I told him to send one first.

He refused.

"I'm famous," he said.

That explanation made absolutely no sense.

For reasons I still can't explain, I accepted it.

I sent a picture.

A few minutes later he replied.

"You're beautiful."

I thanked him and went on with my day.

The next morning another message appeared.

I stared at my phone.

"I thought this was only supposed to be for one day."

"I know," he replied. "I couldn't help myself."

That should've been my first clue.

Instead, I answered.

One day became another day.

Then another.

Then another.

Before long, we had a routine.

At first we talked about relationships.

His.

Mine.

Everybody else's.

Eventually I got tired of it.

One day I told him, "Whatever problems you're having with your wife, I hope you work them out. If not for you, then for the kids. If not for the kids, then do it for me. I don't want to hear about divorce. I don't want to hear about who's upset with who."

I wanted to talk about things that made people laugh.

Stories.

Music.

Life.

The conversations changed after that.

He talked about celebrity life.

Or at least what he claimed celebrity life was like.

"I'm on tour."

"I'm in the studio."

"I'm flying here."

"I'm flying there."

Every day came with a new destination.

A new project.

A new story.

Meanwhile, my updates were considerably less exciting.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm at home."

"What are your plans today?"

"Nothing."

His life sounded like a movie.

Mine sounded like a commercial break.

Somehow the conversations worked anyway.

He talked about stadiums and studios.

I talked about regular life.

And somewhere in between, we became friends.

The conversations got stranger as time went on.

One day he asked me, "Do you love your husband?"

I laughed.

"I've been with that man for over thirty years. What kind of question is that?"

After that, I started asking questions too.

If he was going to be nosy, so was I.

One day I asked, "Why'd you marry a white woman? The sisters ain't good enough to live like royalty?"

He laughed.

I laughed.

Looking back, we both asked ridiculous questions.

The whole situation should've sounded crazy.

Instead, it felt normal.

That's probably the craziest part.

Still, every now and then I'd test him.

Nothing serious.

Just little tests.

Little questions.

Little traps.

The world's most unqualified celebrity investigation.

No badge.

No training.

No evidence.

Just vibes and curiosity.

Then one day I came up with what I thought was a brilliant plan.

I sent him a picture of Papa Ushhh's wife.

Then I told him she was my favorite cousin.

And I waited.

His response came immediately.

He started talking about how beautiful she was.

How elegant she was.

How lucky any man would be to have a woman like that.

He went on and on.

I let him finish.

Then I typed:

"You're right."

A few seconds later I added:

"That's why Papa Ushhh married her."

Silence.

Complete silence.

I laughed so hard I nearly dropped my phone.

There I was talking to a man claiming to be Papa Ushhh while he admired a picture of his own wife like he'd never seen her before.

At that moment I realized something important.

If this man really was Papa Ushhh, he was doing a terrible job of being him.

And if he wasn't?

Then he was the most committed actor I'd ever met.

Either way, I couldn't stop laughing.

A few days later I decided to test him again.

I played a Lupe Fiasco song.

To this day, I don't know what I was trying to prove.

I just wanted to see what he'd say.

His response was immediate.

He told me he couldn't comment because he didn't want to violate industry rules or agreements with management.

I stared at my phone.

Industry rules?

For listening to a Lupe Fiasco song?

I wasn't asking him to leak classified information.

I wasn't asking him to sneak me backstage.

I played a song.

That's it.

But he sounded so serious that for a moment I almost believed there was a secret celebrity handbook somewhere.

Chapter One:

Never Comment on Lupe Fiasco.

I laughed so hard I nearly dropped my phone.

Again.

Eighteen months later, I'm still not entirely sure who I was talking to.

Maybe it was a scammer.

Maybe it was a fan.

Maybe it was a man with way too much free time and an active imagination.

What I do know is this:

I spent a year and a half talking to someone who claimed to be Papa Ushhh.

And after all that time, I was still asking the same question I asked on day one.

Who you?

A friend eventually asked me why I kept talking to him.

That was an excellent question.

I didn't have an excellent answer.

By that point, proving whether he was Papa Ushhh had become less important than seeing what happened next.

Every conversation felt like opening a mystery novel written by somebody who had never read a mystery novel.

Nothing made sense.

The clues went nowhere.

The suspect kept changing his story.

And somehow I kept showing up for the next chapter.