Chapter 5

Til Shiloh

May 2013

Before I could fully process the DUI, I found out we were pregnant again. Memories of our first pregnancy came rushing back. The fear, the uncertainty. 

After a series of tests and meetings with genetic counselors, we had our first ultrasound. As the doctor moved the wand over my wife's belly again, we held our breath.

The doctor called in a resident to come and see our baby’s brain.

“You see this?” he said, pointing to the monitor. “Textbook perfect.”

We could breathe. We were having a son. I was going to be a dad.

With a baby on the way, the stakes felt higher than ever. It wasn’t just about me anymore—now I had a family to provide for. The DUI hung over me like a dark cloud, threatening my ability to drive, work, and even keep my job. I was already struggling to make sense of my career, caught between my creative ambitions and the reality of my corporate life. And now, with a child on the way, I couldn’t afford to gamble on uncertain dreams. Everything felt like it was on the line—my job, my freedom, my future as a father.

8 months to go:

I had recently been promoted to supervisor, a role I was excited about because it meant coaching a team of problem solvers. Instead, management assigned me a list of employees with disciplinary actions and placed me on the overnight shift, cutting off face time with my team and the rest of management.

I wanted to protest, but I didn’t want to come across as entitled. I’d always been in a privileged position. Maybe this was a chance to grow. 

The real silver lining was the time. I had days free to chase my passions, and long, unsupervised nights to work on projects. So that’s what I did.

Each morning at 3 a.m., during my break, I’d slip behind the building, stare up at Orion’s belt, and talk to God. Every prayer felt like I was begging: Lord, let this cup pass from me. But I knew deep down, there was no escaping it.

7 months to go:

Desperate for answers, I started buying lottery tickets every day—the 3 and 4 number ones—filling notebooks with "magic combinations" from some book I’d found. It got so crazy that one day, I opened my car door and tickets spilled out like confetti. I even signed up for email newsletters that promised freedom if I could just write from a beach in Bali. But the only real information I trusted came from people with jobs or what I read in books. Everything else felt like a scam.

Then one night, flipping through channels, I landed on Peter Popoff, promising miracles. Half-amused, half-intrigued, I called in. A week later, a letter showed up instructing me to do the kind of things I’d grown up witnessing in church—write my name on a piece of paper, put oil on it, sow a seed, and my financial breakthrough would come. With all my faith chips on the table, I was ready to try anything.

6 months to go:

That summer, one of my closest collaborators, Ohene, sent me a script for a short film he wrote. We spent months bringing it to life—every late-night edit, every shot carefully planned. It wasn’t just us; we had an entire team behind the project, each person bringing their energy and belief into the vision.

Debuting the film felt like stepping into a new version of myself, the one I’d been chasing for years. The night before, I was dreaming about what it would feel like to finally be seen for my work, for my vision. I could almost taste it—the freedom, the recognition.

When I left the office that morning for the theater, I hit my coworker with a peace sign like I was on my way to Hollywood. I felt like I was stepping out of one world and into the next. As the credits rolled, I let myself believe for just a moment that maybe, finally, this was it—the breakthrough. Maybe, just maybe, everything was about to change.

But sure enough, the next night, I was right back at my desk, same routine, same prayers for a miracle.

2 months to go:

By October, I had stopped going to both internships and gave up on the idea of landing a creative job. Reality was sinking in. The pay simply couldn’t compare to my engineering salary, and with a baby on the way, I had to be realistic. The looming threat of losing my license made most jobs impossible,

I decided to give my company’s career site one last shot, hoping to find a position that aligned with who I was. But with each job description I felt that same sinking feeling—this isn’t me. I was forcing myself to fit into a mold that didn’t belong to me.

1 month to go:

With each passing week, my hair grew wilder, longer—like the parts of me I’d kept locked up were breaking free, refusing to stay hidden any longer. My manager, tired of lack of performance, put me on a PIP—a performance improvement plan. But it was too late. I had no plans to improve.

I decided to stop looking outward and started looking inward. I wrote my own job description, the one I knew I was born for:

"To bring Knowledge, Wisdom, and Overstanding to the world through your God-given gifts and talents. You are now responsible for carrying the word of Light to all men."

I printed it out and pinned it on my vision board—a tangible reminder of the life I wanted to live.

With just 6 weeks left until the baby arrived, I turned back to my music. I poured my soul into it, pulling together everything I’d been working on for the past two years. I named the album Til Shiloh after my soon-to-be-born son.

The music was layered, deep—an honest expression of my identity, my culture, my soul. The videos that accompanied it were just as raw, just as real. But when the album dropped, there wasn’t any fanfare. Just a few texts from my friends. 

As a creative, all I ever wanted was to express myself and be received.

To be discovered for my gifts, not my curse.

One day, during a staff meeting at work, there was a guy having a medical crisis, but he was afraid to leave because he’d run out of sick days. The response from management was that he could go home, but still wouldn’t be paid. 

I was shocked. The idea that someone had to choose between their life and their livelihood didn’t sit well with me. But truth is, I was no different from that guy, scared to make a move, paralyzed by the fear of losing everything I has. Worst of all, I was expendable.

As my son’s arrival drew closer, I realized that I couldn’t just coast anymore. I couldn’t let him grow up watching me play it safe, stuck in a job that treated me like I was expendable. He needed to see a man who fought for what he believed in, who wasn’t afraid to take risks, to live on his own terms. I didn’t want him to inherit my fears or learn how to survive in a system that didn’t value him. He needed to see a father who lived his truth—and that would have to start with me.