DEVIANT: Next Chapter (3) “FLOAT”

— Where Water Teaches What Boys Were Never Allowed to Learn —

DOWN WHERE NO BOY BELONGS

It hits him all at once.

Cold closes over him like a giant fist; gripping his entire being and dragging him under. He’s been swallowed whole by the ocean.

Not gently like a cool shower. Not gradually treading water in the pool or even the ocean. This the nightmare realized. Drowning as water seizes him and tries fill his lungs via nose and mouth. His eyes burn and ears drum under pressure — he squeezes his eyes shut, tight. He has no control of his senses — covered in cold, deaf ears, burning nose, taste of bitter salt water, no light, no relief in sight.

This being still grips him by the wrist and he imagines it is pulling him to his end. Which death is worst? The vampire firefly, Adze, with the unquenchabke lust for his shame — using it as an opening to draw the life force from Raheem’s body? But this — drowning — may be worst of all; fast, quick, engulfing, crushing, intense.

Everything here is just darkness and pressure.

He kicks. Hard.

It does nothing. No avail.

His loose arms swings and claws as he claws at the beings hand around his wrist. He punches and twist frantically. Nothing. His legs ache and fail him quick, like the water is stealing the energy right out his muscles. His lungs are screaming — the kind of scream that doesn’t come out your mouth, it comes from deep inside the chest where your body knows it might not get another breath.

He opens his mouth by accident and the lake seizes down his throat.

Water surges in, bitter and sharp, and his chest convulses like it’s rejecting the whole world. It’s instinct now, not thinking. His body is trying to survive without him.

His heart slams against bone like it’s trying to jump ship.

He’s about to inhale his ending —

Just then, the hand yanks down faster.

And he feels a change in the water — it’s warmer. In a split second — light shines on and through his eyelids and — there’s air.

Raheem’s whole being is suddenly relieved. Released from the grip of the water he breathes is oxygen — desperately — coughing out cold evasive salt water.

Raheem coughs so hard his whole body jerks. He hacks up water in violent waves, gagging and choking like his lungs are offended. He sucks air in ragged pulls, greedy and ugly, not caring how it looks.

He rolls onto his side and keeps coughing — damn near convulsing — like if he stops, the water might decide to come finish the job.

THE HIDDEN COVE

The ocean breathes here on this little patch of sand. Above him the moon peers through a cave ceiling. Water gently crashes against the cave walls making sound like music — inviting his whole being to calm down.

Here, is the quiet underbelly of it all; where it is warm, well-lit, breathable, inviting.

This hidden cove is one of those places that feels like it wasn’t made for humans. It’s clearly unscathed by our mess.

Raheem feels the hand again as he lay on his back — she touches him gently, like he’s something fragile.

Every bit of this handling exist in juxtaposition from the watery introduction.

All Raheem can think of in this moment is how in his world — the real world — people don’t handle growing boys gently unless they’re little-little. Or unless something is really wrong and that boy is threatening and now the world is pacifying his Black behind just before inevitably incarcerating him. Out of control Black bodies are kept in cages, cuffs, chains and cells.

But this touch — this care — has no hunger in it. It feels to be genuinely gentle.

He coughs again, ribs aching, lungs furious, hands shaking like his nerves got unplugged and plugged back in wrong. Every breath burns like his chest is scraped raw.

She kneels beside him. A goddess.

A woman.

Chocolate complexion, brown skin. Luminous. Still — as she leans over Raheem — analyzing his wellbeing. Like she’s moving in slow motion while staring down at him. Her skin glistens just as the wet-stone shimmers at the base of the cove — moonlight on river rock. She’s everything and some.

Her features all perfectly rounded. Full lips that curl at the corners — she wears a permanent welcoming grin. Black hair, full, thick and wavvy — long enough to cascade past her shoulders — it moves like the sea still lives in it, even though the air is calm. Her presence brings peace and calm and trust. Her eyes… She’s got the ocean in her eyes. Pools move in the depths of her deep blue eyes. Right now the water motions Concern, breeding soft waves.

She places a hand on Raheem’s chest.

Warm. Heavy. Real.

His heart slows under her palm like it recognizes authority.

“Easy,” she says. “You are safe here. I will not harm you.”

Her voice is low. Not commanding nor unsure. Quite the opposite, she is reassuring in her tone. Her voice moves through him the way water does — he can feel her words throughout his body and mind. Her voice echoes off the cove’s walls.

Raheem stares up at her, blinking hard in both awe and disbelief.

“I thought you were — ” he croaks. His throat feels scraped. “I thought you — ”

“Adze?,” she finishes, gentle like she already knows the whole story. “No… I know the pain, shame and fear he’s caused you. I am not him, nor am I like him. You may trust my waters. There is no trick awaiting you.”

Adze’s name tightens something in Raheem’s throat. His stomach turns.

He tries to sit up, panic rising again, but exhaustion pins him down like gravity doubled. Like his body already spent everything it had.

She brushes his hair back from his forehead, slow and careful.

That touch hits him like a lullaby he didn’t know he missed.

“Rest, my child. You are weak now, but you are safe here– to rest.”

His heart’s already begun slowing at her touch. Now his eyes grow heavy with relief and his eyelids begin to stick. He is tired; has been for a while now. Even with all the temporary relief of substances and vices, he’s not really gotten rest. Not internally or in real life.

The cove softens around him.

The ocean breath fades —

His eyes begin to fall, and that’s when he spots it — her lower body made of aqua green scales — a mermaid.

And somewhere far away, a radiator hisses — awaiting him to wake.

THE ROOM THAT PROVES YOU’RE AWAKE

Raheem wakes up in his bedroom, and the first thing he notices is the air.

It’s crisp spring air. Still with a little bit of early morning chill, but not bitter cold as the winter breath the city has.

That weird New York spring air doesn’t know what it wants to be yet.

The radiator is still doing its usual “I’m in charge” routine — clicking, knocking, hissing like it’s got conflicting opinions. The window is cracked and the outside is pushing back. A soft damp breeze slips through, carrying car exhaust and… pollen.

Yeah. Pollen.

You can’t see it exactly, but you feel it. That faint yellow dust that lives in the corners of spring. The kind that makes you sniff and sneeze. The kind that makes your eyes itch like you stayed up crying even when you didn’t.

The city sounds different too.

Not muffled by snow. The city screams earlier — wide awake with sounds of children laughing, couples arguing, car horns screaming, and harsh New York greetings and exchanges that sound more agrreessive than they actually are.

More alive. More outside.

Buses sighing as they come to a stop at the corner. Somebody blasting music too loud because it’s finally not freezing. A pigeon flapping against a ledge like it pays rent there.

Raheem lies still, staring at the ceiling with the old hairline cracks — lightning frozen in paint. He’s looked at that ceiling his whole life.

It should comfort him.

Instead it feels like proof.

Proof he came back. Proof he’s still in this same box. Proof the world doesn’t care where he went last night.

He presses his fingertips to his throat. Swallows.

No puncture marks. No water. No blood.

But his body still feels like the ocean is in it.

Like there’s a more steady tide breathing behind his ribs.

That’s the scary part.

Not the dream itself.

The residue.

He sits up slow — testing gravity.

His head is heavy, but not like “I’m sleepy.” Like “my spirit ran a marathon while my body stayed still.”

He drags himself into the bathroom. The mirror gives him his face back — but not his certainty. His eyes look a little red. It’s either allergies or not enough sleep. Could be either. In this neighborhood, it’s always a little bit of both.

He turns the shower on. The water does that New York thing — taking forever to come out warm, then comes out disrespectfully hot, then finally settles into something usable.

After the comfort of the lady in his dream, he’s excited to sit beneath warm water. Water runs over his shoulders, down his spine. He even moves his fingers through his hair like she did.

He scrubs like he’s trying to erase memory of everything that came before her.

Out the shower, he gets dressed on autopilot.

White polo. Baggy denim pants. Hoodie. Sneakers.

Not more winter layers. No puffer coat to swallow him whole today.

Just spring fit. Still chilly, still damp, but not “brick.” More like “don’t catch a cold if you outside too long.”

He cracks the window a little more and inhales.

The air stings a little in his nose from pollen. He sneezes once — sharp, embarrassing, human.

Then grabs his bag and leaves.

The stairwell smells of bleach, old frying oil, and wet concrete still drying. Somebody’s door is open on the third floor and music leaks out — bass heavy, reckless for this early morning. Raheem tugs on his hoodie, annoyed at the morning already, but taking it one step at a time — literally as he head downstairs.

By the time he hits the lobby and pushes through the front door, spring meets him head-on. Not warm yet — but bright and wide awake.

The sidewalk is damp from last night’s rain. Air carries exhaust and tree pollen, that yellow film you don’t clock until your nose starts acting up.

Malik is posted near the front of their building — half leaning but clearly precoppied in his phone. Hoodie, light jacket, neat braids. His phone is buzzing nonstop and he’s doing that thing where he tries to look relaxed while his body language clearly says otherwise.

Aisha stands a little off to the side with her backpack on both shoulders, uniform clean, hair done with intention. She’s still and alert, scanning without staring.

They both notice Raheem the second he steps out.

“You good?” Malik asks abruptly.

“Yeah,” Raheem answers, then clears his throat. “Just tired.”

Aisha’s eyes narrow a little. “Tired, how?”

Raheem shrugs. “Just… not enough sleep I guess.”

Malik watches him for a beat, jaw working. Then his phone buzzes again and he uses it to break the moment.

“I gotta handle something before first period,” Malik mutters.

Aisha blinks. “Right now?”

Malik doesn’t explain. He just turns and walks off with his hands in his hoodie pockets, shoulders tight. Raheem watches him go off and feels that familiar twist of guilt — Malik always moves first, but carries the weight of whatever he’s going through loudly. There’s obviiosuly something wrong, and Raheem isn’t a strong enough friend to intervene.

Aisha turns back to Raheem, steps closer, and takes his hand. No ceremony. No hesitation. Just a grip that says: stay here with me.

“Look at me,” she says.

He does.

Her face softens, but her voice stays firm. “Don’t disappear today.”

“I’m not. I won’t,” Raheem says, but it comes out uncertain.

“Okay,” Aisha replies. “Then let’s hit it.”

They head toward school. Raheem sneezes once — sharp, unavoidable — and Aisha digs in her pocket and hands him a tissue without breaking stride.

“Pollen got you too?” she asks.

Raheem wipes his nose. “This whole city got allergies.”

Aisha lets out a small laugh. “Facts.”

A HALLWAY THAT TESTS YOU

School is loud in the way it always is, except spring makes it a tad worse with vibrancy. Everybody’s extra. Jackets open. Hoodies tied around waists. People moving faster than usual, with more confidence because the cold isn’t forcing them to tuck in and hurry.

The hallway smells of floor cleaner and body spray, metal lockers and sweat that never fully leaves. Sneakers squeak. Somebody’s laughing too loud.

Raheem keeps close to Aisha. He doesn’t mean to, but his mind picks her side as the safest route.

A boy bumps him hard enough to knock his shoulder into a locker. It isn’t accidental. The boy turns immediately.

“Watch where you going,” he snaps.

Raheem’s mouth opens — his apology already in tact and ready to disarm — then Aisha steps into the space between them.

“He was already walking,” she says, calm. “You weren’t.”

The boy looks her up and down, irritated that she’s not backing up. He mutters something under his breath, something meant to sound slick.

Aisha holds his gaze until he gets bored of trying to win. He backs off with a laugh that doesn’t land and disappears into the crowd.

Raheem exhales.

Aisha keeps moving. “Come on.”

He follows. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“And neither did you”, Aisha snaps. “You was bout to aplogize to that fool”. And with that she walks off with Raheem standing there stunned, contemplating if his value of non-violence is rooted in cowardice or calm.

HIS-story CLASS, THE LESSON IN HIM

First period is history class and they’re on the subject of ancient civilizations vs. modern culture boredom. The teacher talks about rivers, architecture like obelisks, pyramids, temples carved into Earth and empires and calls it “the cradle of civilization”. None of the sights help Raheem’s chest feel normal again.

He tries to focus. He really does. But his body keeps remembering water. Cold. Fear. Pressure. Darkness.. until light. Warmth. A hand on his chest. That calm voice giving him permission to breathe again.

His eyes itch. His nose stings. Allergies and exhaustion tag-team him. He blinks slow once… twice.

“Raheem,” the teacher says, sharp. “You sleepy?”

He sits up straight. “No.”

Aisha raises her hand before he can explain. “He doesn’t feel good — obviously. He’s still doing the work though.”

The teacher pauses, annoyed at being challenged. She looks at Raheem’s face, the red in his eyes, the slack in his posture.

“Fine,” she says finally. “You gotta stay awake in my class though, and if you’re not well, then consider the nurses office..”

Aisha doesn’t look at him. She just taps her pencil twice on her notebook and keeps taking notes, steady as ever and always ready at his defense.

Raheem stares down at his paper. He can’t write anything worth keeping. All he can hear is the ocean in his head, soft and slow, as if a song is playing underwater and he almost recognizes it.

DUSK DECISION

By the end of the day, the air outside has warmed up enough to feel damp instead of cold. The street smells sharper: hot concrete waking up, fried food, cologne, weed smoke drifting past in lazy clouds. Kids linger outside the school now that the weather doesn’t punish them for it.

Raheem should go home.

But home means sleep. Sleep means falling back into water whether he wants to or not.

He stands on the steps too long, watching everybody scatter into their lives.

Aisha comes out with her lacrosse stick and book bag slung over her shoulder, already in athlete mode.

“You coming?” she asks.

Raheem shakes his head. “I gotta do something first.”

Aisha squints and then protests, “Pleeeease, don’t tell me you’re hanging with those guys again, Rah.”

“Uh-uh. Hell no — I’m not,” he says. “Scouts honor.”

She studies him, then nods. “Text me later then.”

Raheem nods back. “I will.”

He watches her head toward practice, then turns the other way and walks toward the church.

WOOD POLISH AND OLD PRAYER

The church doors are heavy and stubborn, like they want you to mean it if you’re walking in there, or they don’t wnat you entering at all. Raheem pushes them open and steps inside.

Cool air. Wood polish. Dust. That smell of old prayers played out in tears, praise and worship is soaked into everything. Sunlight slips through stained glass and throws patches of color across the floor — red, blue, gold.

The place is quiet enough to hear your own thoughts.

Raheem sits in a pew and finally feels his shoulders drop. His head still aches, but the ache isn’t as sharp here.

A door creaks somewhere behind him and the pastor appears with that warm, practiced smile.

“Raheem,” he says. “You came back.”

Raheem nods. “Just needed somewhere to relax.”

The pastor sits beside him, leaving space for comfortability. He asks about school. Friends. Trouble. Says the right things at first. His voice stays easy.

Then, the conversation shifts.

“You ever feel… different from other boys?” the pastor asks, casually.

Raheem’s stomach tightens. “No…Different, how?”

The pastor watches him too carefully. “You know, more sensitive,” he says, gentle but loaded. “That’s not always easy for young men your age.”

Raheem’s mouth goes dry, “I’m fine.”

The pastor hesitates for a moment and then opens his Bible. Pages whisper obnoxiously as they flip.

“God made men to lead,” he says. “Strong men. Kings. Sheperds. Warriors. But, the story of Sodom and Gomorrah explains ways of being and urges that don’t…”

The pew squeals loud and abruptly as Raheem suddenly stands, “I gotta use the bathroom.”

The conversation’s gone a different way — uncomfortably, and Raheem ain’t ready to sit with that. He walks off towards the doors of the sanctuary. The pastor’s voice follows him, calm but firm. “Don’t run from correction boy. God is with you everywhere. God sees…”

The door close off the sound of his Pastor’s voice, cutting his message off for a second time. Raheem doesn’t answer and has no desire to confront this inquiry. He knows that tone and he knows what comes after it. Bullshit. There ain’t no safety being offered here — just unfounded accusations, judgment from dead peole in the Bible and shame. Fuck.

COLORED GLASS, SHARP TEETH

Minutes later Raheem peaks through a crack in the sanctuary door seal as the pastor leaves the sanctuary. With him gone, Raheem quietly sneaks deeper into the church and sits beneath the mosaics where nobody else is. These are the pews where the choir typically sits — the saints with beautiful voices. The choir is made up of men too beautiful and care free to be “godly”, and women too proud to be considered “holy”. They all secretly break the rules, but get to face the church elevated from the stage. Hypocrisy. Cowardice. Everybody’s lying. Buying lies or telling themselves lies here. Here in this sanctuary.

A portrait of Jesus is painted in the mosaic above. He stares down expressed suffering. Angels hover over him in permanent obedience. In the stained glass no one blinks. No one smiles.

Raheem presses his palms to his face.

Spring air outside is alive and full of pollen and noise. This place is quiet, but the quiet isn’t soft anymore. It feels watchful. “God?”

He tells himself he’ll sit here until his mom gets off work. Until his body calms down. Until he’s too tired to think.

His eyes close.

Only for a second at first. A single tear drops as his eyes close again… he drifts off into the dreamland.

BACK TO SEA AIR

Salt hits his mouth first.

Then cool sand under his palms.

Raheem sits up quickly.

He’s back in the cove, moonlight spilling through the cave opening. The waves touch the stone walls in slow rhythm, steady enough to make his heartbeat match if he lets it.

And she’s there.

Jengu rises from the water, unhurried, inevitable. Water sheets off her shoulders and hair. Her skin glistens. Her eyes hold depth that makes him feel small and safe at the same time.

“You’re back,” she says.

Raheem’s voice comes out raw. “You saved me.”

“You were drowning,” she replies, simple.

Raheem swallows hard. “I’m still drowning.”

Jengu comes closer, revealing her shimmering scaled tail from the cover of the water. She sits at the edge of the water, tail slowly flapping as to manipulate the tide. The tide shifts around her, in reverence.

“Emotions move,” she says. “Even when you try to pretend. How you feel is just as real as anything else happening in this world.”

Raheem hugs his right knee to his chest. Not quite in the fetal position, but half way there as he seeks more understanding: “So what, I’m just supposed to let them take me?”

“You keep fighting the water,” she says, looking at him straight. “But those waters inside of you are real. They are your waters. You fight them long enough, and then you panic. Then you sink.”

She gestures to the sea. “You must learn to float.”

Raheem shakes his head. “I don’t know how.”

Jengu extends her hand. “Then learn.”

FLOAT

The water begins to rise onto the patch of sand they reside on, until it reaches his calves, then his knees. His whole body wants to lock up. He’s afraid of drowning. Having never left Harlem, he hasn’t even learned to swim. The memory of being pulled under tries to rewrite the moment.

His breath goes quick and his heart starts racing.

Jengu steps behind him and holds him under his arms. Her grip is firm, steady, not rough.

“It’s okay,” she says, syncing her voice to the waves.

Raheem fights anyway. His legs kick. His arms twitch. He tries, but he just can’t trust it.

The water responds — splashing around him.

His body runs out of fight and he feels the moment it happens — his shoulders dropping, his jaw unclenching as the water and Jengu hold him.

With Jengu’s hand supporting, he lets his head fall back until the water is at his ears.

The sea catches him. Tears begin to stream from his closed eyes into the water.

Raheem floats.

His ears dip beneath the surface. The world dulls. He opens his eyes and the sky blurs. His breath evens out. Relief hits his chest so sharp it almost hurts.

Jengu, with one hand beneath his head and another at his back, guides him deeper. They go into moving water, he can hear and feel it rushing all around him. Raheem’s heart begins to punch again. Jengu speaks. Her oice still sounding like an echo, although they’re now out of the cove in open waters: “What is that you feel?”

“I’m scared”, Raheem admits. His arms and legs wanting to react in his worry.

“Then let yourself be scared. Feel that and let the feeling come out of your mouth.”

“What?”, he asks, afraid and confused.

“Let me hear how you feel!” Jengu exclaims.

“Ahhhhhhh!” Raheem screams to the top of his lungs — now balling. Tears pour from his eyes and his mouth curls in anguish.

“That’s right. That’s it”, says Jengu. “You must let it out. And feel the waters… you see still here to hold you. You do not fight your waters with hand or feet.”

Raheem notices that even through his cries the waters — however rough are not drowning him. He’s still floating with her support.

She teaches him rhythm.

Jengu floats his body further through the river, until it no longer rushes. Moments later the water is still again, a lake so calm it looks like a mirror Raheem’s body is floating in and through.

Jengu gently pushes his body to shore, until he can feel the land beneath his back. Raheem grasps the Earth beneath his hands and sits up at the edge, knees pulled in, and the sadness rises before he can stop it.

He tries to swallow it back out of habit.

Jengu sits beside him. “Don’t fight it,” she says.

His chin trembles. He turns his face away, ashamed.

Jengu touches his shoulder. “It’s okay.”

That does it.

Raheem breaks, loud and ugly and real. “I’m tired,” he sobs. “I’m tired of hiding. Tired of everybody needing me to be something. Tired of being scared all the time.”

Jengu cradles his head gently. “The current is information,” she says. “Not punishment. Not judgment.”

Raheem wipes his face with his sleeve. “Anansi told me to be clever.”

“Anansi teaches sharpness,” Jengu says.

“And Adze — ” Raheem’s voice hardens.

Jengu’s eyes darken. “Adze teaches indulgence. Then your shame is where he feeds.”

Raheem’s throat tightens. “So what do I do?”

Jengu cups his face. “You don’t drown in the second part,” she says. “Even with Anansi. You don’t have to take his answers to everything. Take in all the information, feel your feelings, decide who you are and choose to stay afloat. Not all currents are meant to be fought. Float.”

She leans in, forehead touching his.

“Rest.”

And this time, Raheem lets himself.

PAINTED HOLINESS

He wakes back in the church, stiff-necked, eyes burning.

He looks up at the stained glass and it feels distant now, staged in a way Jengu never did. Christ and the angels are frozen. Holiness that isn’t human or real at all for that matter. White Jesus is unattainable for Raheem’s Black reality.

Outside the windows, the sky is dark.

Raheem’s stomach drops.

He stands, grabs his bag, and runs.

DON’T DISAPPEAR

The sidewalk outside his building is damp and warm enough to feel real. Streetlights reflect in puddles. A car crawls past with music low and heavy.

Aisha and Malik are outside the apartment building, on the lookout for his arrival.

Malik moves first. He crosses the sidewalk and hugs Raheem hard, almost angry with relief.

“Where the hell you been, man? Shit?,” Malik mutters.

Raheem freezes for half a second, then hugs him back.

Malik lets go fast, embarrassed by how much it meant. “You can’t be doing that shit,” he says, and turns toward the entrance.

Aisha steps in and takes Raheem’s hand again, leading him inside out of the night air.

In the corridor, she turns to face him. “What’s going on?”

Raheem opens his mouth and the truth rushes him from behind. His face crumples.

He starts crying, real crying, the kind that doesn’t care who sees it.

“I’m tired,” he chokes. “I’m so tired.”

Aisha pulls him into her arms without hesitation. She holds him until his breathing slows.

Up on the stairwell, Malik sits on the steps and listens. His hands clench, not to fight Raheem, but to fight whatever is pulling him under.

And somewhere in the dark of Raheem’s mind, beneath the noise and fear and fatigue, water whispers: Float. Float. Float.

MALIK LIFTS A NEW WEIGHT

Aisha consoles Raheem for a while and Malik stays on those steps, listening in. Monitoring all passerbys in the building staircase and corridor. The building hums, spring air slipping in the door each time it opens, carrying pollen and street smoke.

Passerbys hear Raheem, but before anyone can react they spot an angry and protective Malik perched on the staircase above. No one mutters a word as the walk though.

Malik knows how to punch problems. He knows how to scare people off. He knows how to move fast and hard.

He doesn’t know how to fight whatever it is Raheem is going through though.

That’s the part that scares him.

Raheem didn’t come home with bruises. He came home with something missing from his eyes. Malik hates that more than blood.

He leans forward, elbows on knees, staring at the floor.

Next time, he thinks, I won’t wait till he’s drowning. I’ll watch for the signs. I’ll know. I’ll save him.

And for Malik, that’s new. Not just protecting with fists — but protecting with presence, with timing, with restraint.

He stands eventually and heads upstairs to his apartment just as Aisha begins to lead Raheem to the staircase. Shoulders squared, face neutral, Malik retreats to his own apartment door before his friends can spot him. His presence in this moment doesn’t need to be known.

But underneath it, something has shifted.

Music cues (The Score beneath it all)

DOWN WHERE NO BOY BELONGS

• “Warm Water” — BANKS

JENGU INTRO / mesmerized, held, seen

• “Ocean Eyes” — Billie Eilish
• “Water Me” — FKA twigs

HALLWAYS / social pressure, being watched

• “Tie That Binds” — Drake

CHURCH SHIFT / sweetness turning sharp

• “Fuck Em Only We Know” — BANKS

FLOAT LESSON / learning surrender vs strategy

• “Full Moon. (fall in tokyo)” — Brent Faiyaz
• “Swim Good” — Frank Ocean

RETURN / tenderness, aftermath, survival

• “Orange Moon” — Erykah Badu

MALIK ON THE STAIRS / restraint as growth

• “All Things Go” — Nicki Minaj