Chapter 5
Purgatory
December 2013
The week before my son was born, I sat in court, waiting for my judgment. I looked over at my wife, two rows behind me, her hand resting gently on her stomach. She gave me a soft, reassuring smile. Part of me wanted to take a selfie, to freeze this moment, if only to remind myself later how surreal it all felt. But I couldn’t. This wasn’t how I imagined becoming a father.
After going through the legal motions, the judge announced my sentence: two years without driving, hefty fines, 30 days of community service, mandatory alcohol education, a 48-hour rehabilitation program, and an ignition interlock device—something I'd have to breathe into just to start my car once I could drive again.
The weight of it settled over me like a landslide. Everything I thought I was holding together was now crumbling, and I didn’t know where to begin picking up the pieces.
A week later, it was time for the baby.
My mom came all the way from Connecticut to drive us to the hospital. Here I was, preparing to become a father, and I couldn’t even drive my family to the hospital. I sat in the back, staring out the window, watching the road blur past, feeling like a little kid. A passenger in my own story.
"I'm not going back," I blurted out.
My mom glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “What was that?”
It was a tone I’d never challenged.
“I’m not going back,” I repeated, with a little more oomph this time.
“You’re not going back where?”
“I’m not going back to work.” I said, louder, like a lion finding his roar.
If she could’ve pumped the brakes, she would’ve.
"Omari, you're about to have a son. Are you sure you can’t wait six months?"
I was expecting more of a rebuke.
My wife turned to look at me, surprised. She hadn’t expected me to drop it like this. Not on the way to have the baby.
The road stretched on ahead of us, the familiar signs of 287 South slipping past in a blur—each one reminding me of how close we were to the hospital, how close we were to everything changing.
Something was being born inside of me too.
If I was ever going to make a run for it—it had to be now.
The Door of No Return
The days and weeks after Shiloh was born were a whirlwind of sleepless nights and boundless energy. I was gonna use this paternity leave as my runway. I’d stay up until 6 a.m. every morning, bouncing the baby, recording music, still on an overnight clock.
It felt like a 10,000-year-old Vizier was emerging from within me—a symbol of timeless wisdom guiding my next steps. I updated my website to tell a new story—one of departure and arrival.
The goal was to travel, make albums, sell merch, film, and tour.
But the question I kept asking myself was, how money a guh mek?
I scribbled down a few ideas: videography, photography, tutoring, and websites. My pen hovered over websites because I couldn’t imagine someone paying me to build a site on a platform like Squarespace—something they could easily do themselves. Curious if it was possible, I Googled Squarespace Web Designer to see if that was actually a thing. I scrolled through a few pages of experts and specialists and realized, maybe it was possible.
One day a friend who had been following my journey reached out with some advice.
"You should make your website easier to find on Google," he said, explaining that by focusing on specific terms like 'videographer in New Jersey,' I could attract more clients.
I hated the idea of being labeled or limited. I wanted people to know I could do anything, not just one thing.
“Let the internet do some of the work for you,” he continued. “You’ve got to put your story out there. Life is a big story, man, and everyone’s living out their own version. What’s yours? How are you going to tell it so people connect with it? Humans love stories—they keep us curious, focused. Your story is part of what makes your art powerful.”
He was right. I’d always wanted to tell the stories behind my music, but how could I make people understand me without telling them my whole life story? Even then, would they get it? The truth was, I wasn’t okay with the totality of me being shared. It felt like I was stuck in Act 1, with fantasies of being catapulted to fame and fortune, afraid of the impending depth and uncertainty of Act 2.
Staying in our apartment was no longer an option—the bills were piling up fast, and we wouldn’t make it past February. I had one paycheck left, just enough to carry us for another month. Then I’d have to decide: go back to work or hand in my resignation.
At the last minute, I made a deal with my mom to move back into the house I grew up in. I’d pay what I could until I got back on my feet. She wasn’t thrilled with the idea, but the house was empty, and she needed a tenant.
“You could always teach,” she reminded me. “We need teachers. Young Black men like you.”
I wanted to teach my own.
With only a week left of vacation and personal days, the weight of the decision pressed on me. I sat down, took a deep breath, and typed the email:
"I regret to inform you that, after much consideration, I will not be returning to Verizon Wireless. My time with the company and the NLDP program has been crucial to my personal and professional growth, for which I’m truly grateful. Please let me know what off-boarding procedures I need to follow."
I stared at the draft of my resignation email, the cursor blinking like it was waiting for me to make up my mind. My heart pounded in my chest. Once I hit send, there was no going back.
Minutes later, my manager called.
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah, I’m serious.”
Just like that, I’d made the leap.
I was now officially a corporate dropout.