Posts Tagged ‘terrence leroy baker’

“The Son of the Streets” is available on kindle or iBook today!

I hadn’t come home that night after church. Maria understood me, and even after 17 years, a few extra pounds and crows feet, she is still my loyal friend and confidant. The fact that she doesn’t list to or want to hear anything about my church, made it easier to be myself around her. I always regular slacks and sneakers even at times when around her; I also keep a change of clothes in her townhouse up state so that after the 2.5 hour drive, I could kick back into my doubled life.

“Where have you been?” Jameela screamed at me visible shaken. “I want him out of this house!”

“Shhh!” I said trying to embrace her.

She jerked away, and said, “Your son got into the bed with me naked, Micheal.”

“What do you mean?” I asked but didn’t hear my words coming out. Before she could answer me I took the spiral stair case up to his room. The door was locked. “Open up this door, Malcom”

“Micheal! Wait!” Jameela screamed in my wake.

The door opened up, and no sooner did it, did I cross my now 15 year old in the face. Another right to the stomach, which folded him into  two, then I finished him off with a uppercut. “Boy I will kill you in this house!” I yelled standing over my son, my wife behind me, pulling at me, causing the normal reaction of a hostile man. I pushed her back and she hit her head on the door fame and fell out cold.

“Dad!” he crawled back from me with eyes squinting. “Don’t  kill me!” Malcom, yelled through his muffled cries and grunts. “She is evil! I am your son! I am Gods son!”

The words pierced my ears like a loud m80 going off inside a car. I had done that once and thought death would follow. These words sounded the same. too be continued…

Terrence LeRoy Baker 3-24-14

It’s now been seven years since the day my “illegitimate” son took over my congregation. I say took over because that is literally what he did. Malcom had true natural talent. He was my son and my direct descendant. Lil Anthony was now 7 and Jameela also came to church with us every Sunday. Everyone seemed to come to church not for me, but for that last 15-20 minutes that my son, now a deacon would preach.

“Malcom,” I asked my son who now lives with Jameela and myself. His mother couldn’t take another one of us, she saw it coming. “Where is my diamond cuff links?”

“I’m wearing them today!”

“Excuse me!” I asked him. His back was to me as he used my dressing closer to get dressed in one of the many suits if mines that he claims as his own.

“I said I am wearing them rev.”

“Don’t you with me, Malcom,” I snapped firmly. “This is my house and you will respect me!”

Malcom slowly faced me, silent for the most part, then out of nowhere, he brung his hand up to my face, causing me to flench. With a chuckle her turned and left the room with my cuff links on.
The ride to church was different, hearing the choir through the open stained windows made me want to run my c300 into the side of St. Andrews, the church I was raised in, the church my family was raised in, and the church that enabled me.

“Rev,” Malcom said standing up and getting a standing ovation. “I think I can take over first then you can have the few minutes at the end that you been pacifying me with.”

“You!” To be continued..



This Sunday was like no other. For 11 years I pastored this church, and for 11 years I have done everything but been good to my congregation. They don’t know the half of the mess I’ve created. Its like every time I sit across the pool pit and look over my followers, its hard to stay focused on the word: I have an illegitimate son, a mistress, and crooked politicians looking me in the eyes for answers.

My wife, Jameela, doesn’t even come to church with me anymore, because she is too ashamed. I don’t blame her either.

“Holla Luya, salvation and glory,” the choir sang. “Honor and power unto the Lord our God. The Lord our God, he is wonderful.”

As always I let the choir die down before I spoke, “May we all bow are heads.”

The crowd always seems to wait in silence with me, but half the heads in the crowd aren’t bowed.

“You may all be seated,” I say as always. It’s the same every Sunday week after week after week.”

My father was a pastor and so was his, back before it was ok for a black man to have a church. My blood line of preachers dates back to the 1800’s, but I doubt that any other one of the great men I came from was as crooked as me, or more anointed at that.

I had a very huge following in the beginning, but lately, almost all the original families that I grew up with, left the congregation because of all the talks of scandals, money laundering, and, supposedly use of whores. Nothing ever proved, might I add, except for my 7-year-old son, Malcolm, that the church seems to forgive me for.

After speaking from the book of Job 9:10 I ask the crowd to bow again.

“You see the Lord does great things that are unsearchable and miracles that cannot be numbered,” I read again this time slow enough for the crowd to take in what it was that I was saying. I continued, “ You see every 7 years or so the Lord will make a great man. A man like no other man. This man will be given more talents, more skills, more strength than any other man he knows. This great man will be tested time and time again, and these tests will only make him stronger because he will have been told already by God himself that he is great.

No one seemed to be really catching the word. As a preacher and a toastmaster certified speaker, I know when and how to engage my crowd. It was my gift, my calling, to preach.

“Is there any great men here today?” I asked knowing that this humble crowd would never put themselves on a pedestal. I knew that most of my congregation was laborers and employees within this blue-collar community.

“Before we cut to tides and offerings I would….” I started.

“I am!” a familiar voice called out from the crowd. “I am great.”

I looked at him and then my secretary/his mother, then slowly said, “Malcom, you are great. Would you like to come up to the pool pit and tell the crowd what makes you special?”

He looked at his mother who nodded. The whole church was on their feet clapping as he made his way up to the pool pit, looking just like me might I add. After taking the microphone out of my hand he first bowed his head ever so slightly, as if he had studied me for his whole life. He held the mic in his hand to adjust it to his face with so much ease, a tear came to my eyes… to be continued…

Terrence LeRoy Baker 3-17-14