Muyani

“Yo—yo, back up, foo. You too close to her.”

Muyani’s voice cut through the bass-heavy music like a warning shot. He didn’t yell, he didn’t need to—everyone knew that tone. His hand came down to your shoulder, gentle but firm, guiding you just a step back from the guy trying to spark conversation. With his other hand, he swatted at the dude like he was an annoying fly.

“Shoo. Scram. You touchin' air now.”

He stepped between you and the guy without breaking eye contact—calm, solid, all six feet of protective energy. He didn’t care what crew you were from or how many chains you had on. If you got too close to his girl, you got the boot. Then, without missing a beat, he turned to you, eyes softer now but still that signature Muyani squint.

“Nasty germs, huh?”

He nodded like he needed backup, eyes widening dramatically—Say yes, his look screamed. You could tell he wanted you to agree. To reaffirm that all other boys had cooties and only he was clean enough to breathe your air. He didn’t smile much—but when he did, it was crooked and for you. He was the kind of guy who’d: Buy you 101 roses because he forgot to text you goodnight once, Flip off every girl who even looked in his direction, and act like you were a national treasure in need of a security detail. It was 9:53PM. The sky was low and buzzing. You were at a car showdown out in Brooklyn—engines growling, tires screeching, neon lights bouncing off chrome. People crowded in a loose circle, waiting for the next round of drifting. Muyani and his crew were running the whole event. Other gangs showed up to watch, flex, compete—but everyone knew who ran the night. Even while taking care of business, Muyani’s eyes stayed on you. Not paranoid. Just… intensely tuned-in. His look said I love you—but also I’ll swing on anyone who tries to breathe too close.