“Repetition is the father of learning, repetition is the father of learning,” Lil Wayne repeated twice in The Carter, a Adam Bhala Lough-directed documentary famous for bringing viewers closer to Wayne’s world. “Awareness, preparation, all that comes from repetition,” the rant continued. 

Wayne was the first rapper I remember who made a point to say when it comes to hip-hop, he only listens to himself. He’s far from the only one, but Wayne was a workhorse that repeated a practice until the consistency built a breakthrough. 

I think of Wayne as the domino that fell and cracked down a door for a new kind of rap star. Drake and Nicki Minaj were two that came from beneath his wings, following his repetitious blueprint until their voices vibrated in every corner of every city. 

Of all the newcomers that benefited from the Wayne effect, the best artist to arrive in the aftermath of his takeover was Young Thug. It’s Shakespearean the way their artistic DNA manifested a new makeup. Flows got more fluid, voices mutated, and the language went from medicated martian to a sinister snake. 

Thug was artistic chaos personified. A slithering shapeshifter who made all the songs that Wayne could never make. And then he made songs he couldn’t make again. And then he made songs that you were happy to hear him on. He could go country, he could go pop, he could write hits, or distort reality. His presence became a texture. His voice became a sound. Like Wayne before him, his music became a consistent part of rap’s solar system.  

Young Thug's arrest on May 11th came unexpectedly. An essential part of the last ten years in rap was suddenly in jail until further notice. The very lyrics that brought him to stardom were used to indict him and 27 others to make matters more complicated. It felt like they all got snatched out of thin air and imprisoned by the same speech that brought them the freedom to be artists. 

Thug was here, Thug was gone. 

Gunna was here, Gunna was gone. 

Two of the biggest rappers in the game are no longer outside. Pooh Shiesty isn’t outside. Casanova. 42 Dugg. Rio Da Yung Og. YFN Lucci. Foogiano. Ralo. Slimelife Shawty. Every arrest plucked another artist away leaving this strange, uncertain void in an industry that strives off repetition. 

Following Young Thug’s arrest, YSL rapper Lil Keed passed two days later. Archie Eversole, another Atlanta rap star, was killed in April. Atlanta rapper Trouble lost his life just last night. At a time when artists should be making songs for the summer, rap continues to reflect lives in crisis in real-time. 

With each reality check, I remember a chance encounter with a woman named Ann. She worked at the location where my car gets its emissions test. I go to the same place every year before my birthday. This day was stormy. The clouds were the color of charcoal. They looked as if something worse than rain would plummet from the sky. 

It began to rain as I pulled in, an aggressive downpour. Ann’s first words to me were, “Storms are intermissions.” 

I agreed. We watched the rain as my test ran. As the drops crashed upon the pavement, Ann repeated the phrase. Something about the three words together seemed applicable outside of the weather. 

We began talking about her life and the husband she recently lost. They had a daughter together. His passing was sudden, tragic, but she believed the storm would pass. As she got to the end of her story, the rain stopped.  

When I asked the name of her daughter, she smiled, and said, “Genesis.” 

I try to remind myself of Ann whenever I feel like I’m in a metaphorical storm. Sometimes I don’t remind myself well enough. Sometimes I forget how to weather storms. I, admittedly, take stormy phases and thunderous periods very hard. 

Rap, much like America, feels like it’s in a storm. I hope anyone in a storm knows it’s only an interlude, an intermission, the revelation before a new genesis. In what may be the stormiest summer yet, I find peace knowing storms never stay as long as we think they’ll last. 

-Yoh