The New Yorker is known for going very deep. This is shallow. In literature-speak, about 20,000 words is long enough for a mini-novella, but that’s something I told Nas’ manager the first time we spoke on the phone.
Unfortunately, Dude_Br0 had no idea who I am now any more than he did back then; yet, the bottom line is that Nas and I can manage business opportunities in Tanzania if Mr. Jones so chooses to take up this area of the world. It’s entirely up to him. See below as to what I spent doing between 2009-11, only to have WME-IMG international agents go radio silence like a couple of bitch-made, greedy assholes that they are.
Nas, my nig, that jitter-bug you pulled when we briefly chopped it at The Parlor upon seeing me, nigga… yeah, that part. Come out the woodworks and catch a flight. Just remember, I do not need you. Ever. You need me.
Facts on the ground are that I can reach out to anyone at Live Nation and build a House of Blues Dar es Salaam with Russian money. Just. Like. That. When the CFO of Najja Enterprises USA LLC in the U.S. is a Tanzanian national residing in Irving, Texas, you do as you f*cking please. Or don’t.
I’m sure I will add to this post later. Too busy living my chill civil life in America instead of manufacturing nonsense from a proxy-war-mongering standpoint. The New Yorker has not been credible, in my eyes, since Kelefa Sanneh published a puff piece on Earl Sweatshirt.