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MENGUNJUNGI MAKAN RASULULLAH
Salah satu impian ke tanah suci selain umrah dan naik haji adalah berkunjung ke makam Nabi Muhammad Saw yang terletak
Salah satu impian ke tanah suci selain umrah dan naik haji adalah berkunjung ke makam Nabi Muhammad Saw yang terletak di bagian depan sisi kiri masjid Nabawi, bersebelahan dengan Raudhah.
Ucapkan salam dengan lembut dan santun karena beliau Nabi Muhammad SAW mendengar dan bahkan menjawab salam kita.
Dalam berbagai hadits riwayat Imam Bukhori, Abu Hurairah dll, banyak disebut bahwa mayit bisa mendengar dan menjawab salam yang menziyarahinya.
Bahkan Rasulullah seakan berdialog dengan para jenazah tokoh-tokoh kafir Quraisy dalam perang Badar,
“Wahai Abu Jahal Bin Hisyam,wahai Umayah Bin Khalaf,wahai Utbah Bin Rabi’ah,wahai Syaibah Bin Rabi’ah,apakah kalian telah mendapati bahwa janji Allah itu benar? Aku mendapati bahwa janji Rabb-ku kepadaku itu benar.”
Ya Rasulullah, salam cinta dari kami umatmu dari Indonesia, yang hidup terpisah ribuan tahun darimu, yg hidup ribuan kilometer dari tanahmu. Kami ingat bibirmu berbisik lirih, “Ummati.. ummati..” , bahkan hingga detik terakhir ajalmu masih mengingat dan memikirkan kami, umatmu.
Kami sadar, mencintamu bukan sekedar mengucap dan mengingatmu. Mencintamu adalah dengan mengikuti teladanmu dalam hidup kami, teladanmu dalam beribadah kpd Allah, teladan akhlakmu yg amat mulia, teladan baktimu kepada umat manusia.
Semoga kami dapat istiqomah dan husnul khatimah, diwafatkan dalam keadaan taqwa dan penuh bekal, dan semoga Allah berkenan mentaqdirkan kita berjumpa kelak di syurgaNya..
“Dan barang siapa yang menaati Allah dan Rasul (Nya), mereka itu akan bersama-sama dengan orang-orang yang dianugerahi nikmat oleh Allah, yaitu Nabi-nabi, para shiddiiqiin, orang-orang yang mati syahid dan orang-orang shaleh. Dan mereka itulah teman yang sebaik-baiknya…”
saco-indonesia.com, Dalam 15 tahun
terakhir, Jody Brotosuseno (39) sudah mencoba berbagai usaha.
Saco-Indonesia.com,-Dalam 15 tahun terakhir, Jody Brotosuseno (39) sudah mencoba berbagai usaha. Peruntungan berbuah di usaha kuliner dengan tulang punggung pada Waroeng Steak and Shake. Kini, ia punya 50 gerai Waroeng Steak and Shake di sejumlah kota.
Ia juga memiliki belasan gerai untuk unit usaha lainnya. Paling sedikit 1.000 pekerja mendapatkan kegiatan sekaligus penghasilan dari seluruh unit usahanya.
Pencapaiannya hari ini tentu tidak diraih dalam semalam. Bersama istrinya, Siti Handayani alias Aniek, Jody berkali-kali merasakan jatuh bangun berwirausaha. Hal itu bukan hal mudah karena modal mereka terbatas dan belum ada investor pada awal membangun usaha.
Memang banyak orang pada awalnya tidak akan percaya Jody bekerja keras membangun bisnis. Hal itu tidak lepas dari latar belakang keluarganya, pemilik jaringan restoran Obonk Steak and Ribs.
Meski ayahnya, Sugondo, pemilik jaringan restoran yang punya lebih dari 60 gerai itu, Jody tidak mendapat perlakuan istimewa. Ia menerima gaji sebagai pegawai biasa di jaringan restoran tersebut. Apalagi Jody bertekad mandiri sejak menikahi Siti Hariani alias Aniek pada 1998.
Dengan gaji itu, Jody dan Aniek tahu mereka butuh pendapatan lebih baik. Dengan ijazah terakhir setingkat SMA, sangat sulit mendapat peluang kerja jika harus melamar ke tempat lain. Jody dan Aniek akhirnya membulatkan tekad menjadi wirausaha. Agar bisa fokus, mereka sepakat meninggalkan bangku kuliah. Jody meninggalkan pendidikannya pada Jurusan Arsitektur, Universitas Atma Jaya Yogyakarta, pada semester delapan.
Sambil bekerja di Obonk, Jody mencoba berjualan aneka makanan. Awalnya berjualan susu segar, lalu roti bakar dan jus buah. Namun, bisnis itu terpaksa berhenti karena peralatannya banyak diambil orang.
Jody juga berjualan kaus partai politik. Pada Pemilu 1999, jumlah partai membengkak dari tiga menjadi 48 partai. Jody melihat peluang itu dan memanfaatkan dengan berjualan kaus berlambang partai politik. Hasil penjualan, antara lain, digunakan untuk mengontrak rumah di kawasan Demangan, Yogyakarta.
Selepas pemilu, Jody dan Aniek berpikir lagi mencari tambahan. Kelahiran anak pertama, Yuga Adiaksa, membuat kebutuhan bertambah. Akhirnya pasangan itu memutuskan berjualan steik, seperti yang sudah dilakukan keluarga Jody. Namun, pasangan itu tidak meniru konsep Obonk Steak.
Mereka memilih mahasiswa dan pelajar sebagai target pasar. Untuk merek usaha, mereka memilih nama Waroeng Steak and Shake. Gerai pertama dibuka di teras rumah mereka karena tidak ada dana untuk menyewa tempat. ”Saya pilih istilah warung untuk menegaskan pesan makan steik di sini tidak mahal,” ujar Jody.
Namun, mereka terbentur modal untuk memulai usaha. Kala itu, Jody dan Aniek hanya punya uang Rp 100.000. Akhirnya, Jody menjual motor dan hasilnya dipakai untuk modal awal Waroeng Steak. Ketika baru mulai, Jody mengurus dapur dan melayani pembeli, sementara Aniek menjadi kasir. Namun, warung itu tidak langsung ramai. ”Pernah sehari cuma dapat bersih Rp 30.000,” ujarnya.
Pembeli masih sepi, antara lain karena warung itu belum terkenal. Selain itu, masyarakat juga masih menganggap steik makanan mahal. ”Pembeli memberi masukan agar warung saya lebih disukai. Saya dengar masukan mereka,” ujarnya.
Jody membuat spanduk besar dengan warna mencolok di depan gerainya. Di spanduk dicantumkan harga steik yang murah. Ia juga mempromosikan warungnya lewat selebaran. Tidak butuh lama, warung Jody mulai ramai pembeli dari kalangan mahasiswa dan pelajar. ”Malah kami mulai kewalahan,” ujarnya.
Kala itu, Waroeng Steak and Shake baru punya 10 hotplate dan lima meja. Saat ramai, tak jarang pembeli terpaksa menunggu meja kosong. Bahkan, Jody beberapa kali terpaksa mengambil hotplate setelah pembeli selesai makan tetapi masih duduk di meja. Sebab, hotplate akan dipakai untuk memenuhi pesanan pembeli lain.
Pelan-pelan, Jody menambah peralatan. Ia juga merekrut pegawai untuk melayani pembeli yang semakin banyak. ”Setahun sejak buka di Demangan, kami membuka satu cabang lagi,” ujarnya.
Untuk pembukaan gerai kedua, Jody mengajak kerabat dan temannya menanam modal dengan pola bagi hasil. Pola itu dipakainya sampai gerai kedelapan. Di gerai kesembilan dan seterusnya, Jody mendanai sendiri. ”Asal bisa menyesuaikan inovasi dengan kebutuhan pasar, bisa berkembang terus. Masukan pelanggan selalu kami perhatikan,” tuturnya.
Masukan pembeli tetap diandalkan dalam pertimbangan pengembangan usaha. Menu-menu baru dihadirkan untuk menyesuaikan permintaan pelanggan. Meski bermerek Waroeng Steak and Shake, gerai-gerai Jody juga menyediakan menu dengan bahan utama nasi. Padahal, steik biasanya disantap dengan kentang goreng.
Saat Waroeng Steak and Shake semakin berkembang, Jody kembali membuat keputusan untuk berkonsentrasi penuh. Ia tinggalkan Obonk agar bisa sepenuhnya mengurus Waroeng Steak and Shake. Sejak 2002, ia fokus mengembangkan Waroeng Steak and Shake yang terus menambah gerai.
Konsentrasinya membawa hasil menggembirakan. Kini, ia mengelola 50 gerai Waroeng Steak and Shake di sejumlah kota. Ia juga membuka gerai aneka makanan dengan bendera Festival Kuliner. Bisnis kulinernya dilengkapi dengan Waroeng Penyetan dan Bebaqaran serta delapan gerai waralaba merek lain. Ia juga merambah bisnis olahraga dengan membuka arena futsal.
Meski yakin pasar Indonesia masih terbuka sangat luas, Jody sudah mulai mempersiapkan ekspansi ke luar negeri. Untuk pasar luar negeri, Waroeng Group akan menggunakan pola waralaba. ”Untuk pengembangan pasar Indonesia, kami berusaha dikelola sendiri dengan dana sendiri,” ungkapnya.
Wajar ia yakin bisa mendanai sendiri pembukaan gerai baru. Dalam salah satu kuliah umum di Yogyakarta terungkap, salah satu gerainya di Yogyakarta beromzet rata-rata Rp 500 juta per bulan. Padahal, ia mengoperasikan puluhan gerai.
Namun, tidak semua dinikmati sendiri oleh Jody. Salah satu gerainya di kawasan Gejayan, Yogyakarta, didedikasikan untuk kegiatan amal. Seluruh keuntungan dari gerai itu dipakai untuk mendanai Rumah Tahfidz, pesantren penghafal Al Quran dengan santri hampir 2.000 orang. Selain dari gerai itu, Jody juga menyumbangkan sebagian keuntungan dari unit usaha lainnya untuk mendanai tujuh Rumah Tahfidz yang dikelolanya. ”Saya dibantu teman-teman, tidak menanggung sendiri,” ujarnya merendah.
Jody memang selalu tampak bersahaja dan merendah. Jika bertemu sepintas, sama sekali tidak terlihat sosok orang muda pemilik bisnis beromzet puluhan miliar rupiah per bulan. Bisnis yang dibangun dengan kerja keras sendiri, bukan warisan. Kerja keras dalam 12 tahun mengantarnya dari pemuda yang batal jadi arsitek tetapi menjadi raja steik. (Kris Razianto Mada)
Sumber : Kompas Cetak/http://bisniskeuangan.kompas.com/read/2013/06/08/08323684/Gagal.Jadi.Arsitek..Sukses.Berbis nis.Steik
Editor :Liwon Maulana
Edward Chambers, Early Leader in Community Organizing, Dies at 85
A lapsed seminarian, Mr. Chambers succeeded Saul Alinsky as leader of the social justice umbrella group Industrial Areas Foundation.
From T Magazine: Street Litís Power Couple
THE WRITERS ASHLEY AND JAQUAVIS COLEMAN know the value of a good curtain-raiser. The couple have co-authored dozens of novels, and they like to start them with a bang: a headlong action sequence, a blast of violence or sex that rocks readers back on their heels. But the Colemans concede they would be hard-pressed to dream up anything more gripping than their own real-life opening scene.
In the summer of 2001, JaQuavis Coleman was a 16-year-old foster child in Flint, Mich., the former auto-manufacturing mecca that had devolved, in the wake of General Motors’ plant closures, into one of the country’s most dangerous cities, with a decimated economy and a violent crime rate more than three times the national average. When JaQuavis was 8, social services had removed him from his mother’s home. He spent years bouncing between foster families. At 16, JaQuavis was also a businessman: a crack dealer with a network of street-corner peddlers in his employ.
One day that summer, JaQuavis met a fellow dealer in a parking lot on Flint’s west side. He was there to make a bulk sale of a quarter-brick, or “nine-piece” — a nine-ounce parcel of cocaine, with a street value of about $11,000. In the middle of the transaction, JaQuavis heard the telltale chirp of a walkie-talkie. His customer, he now realized, was an undercover policeman. JaQuavis jumped into his car and spun out onto the road, with two unmarked police cars in pursuit. He didn’t want to get into a high-speed chase, so he whipped his car into a church parking lot and made a run for it, darting into an alleyway behind a row of small houses, where he tossed the quarter-brick into some bushes. When JaQuavis reached the small residential street on the other side of the houses, he was greeted by the police, who handcuffed him and went to search behind the houses where, they told him, they were certain he had ditched the drugs. JaQuavis had been dealing since he was 12, had amassed more than $100,000 and had never been arrested. Now, he thought: It’s over.
But when the police looked in the bushes, they couldn’t find any cocaine. They interrogated JaQuavis, who denied having ever possessed or sold drugs. They combed the backyard alley some more. After an hour of fruitless efforts, the police were forced to unlock the handcuffs and release their suspect.
JaQuavis was baffled by the turn of events until the next day, when he received a phone call. The previous afternoon, a 15-year-old girl had been sitting in her home on the west side of Flint when she heard sirens. She looked out of the window of her bedroom, and watched a young man throw a package in the bushes behind her house. She recognized him. He was a high school classmate — a handsome, charismatic boy whom she had admired from afar. The girl crept outside and grabbed the bundle, which she hid in her basement. “I have something that belongs to you,” Ashley Snell told JaQuavis Coleman when she reached him by phone. “You wanna come over here and pick it up?”
In the Colemans’ first novel, “Dirty Money” (2005), they told a version of this story. The outline was the same: the drug deal gone bad, the dope chucked in the bushes, the fateful phone call. To the extent that the authors took poetic license, it was to tone down the meet-cute improbability of the true-life events. In “Dirty Money,” the girl, Anari, and the crack dealer, Maurice, circle each other warily for a year or so before coupling up. But the facts of Ashley and JaQuavis’s romance outstripped pulp fiction. They fell in love more or less at first sight, moved into their own apartment while still in high school and were married in 2008. “We were together from the day we met,” Ashley says. “I don’t think we’ve spent more than a week apart in total over the past 14 years.”
That partnership turned out to be creative and entrepreneurial as well as romantic. Over the past decade, the Colemans have published nearly 50 books, sometimes as solo writers, sometimes under pseudonyms, but usually as collaborators with a byline that has become a trusted brand: “Ashley & JaQuavis.” They are marquee stars of urban fiction, or street lit, a genre whose inner-city settings and lurid mix of crime, sex and sensationalism have earned it comparisons to gangsta rap. The emergence of street lit is one of the big stories in recent American publishing, a juggernaut that has generated huge sales by catering to a readership — young, black and, for the most part, female — that historically has been ill-served by the book business. But the genre is also widely maligned. Street lit is subject to a kind of triple snobbery: scorned by literati who look down on genre fiction generally, ignored by a white publishing establishment that remains largely indifferent to black books and disparaged by African-American intellectuals for poor writing, coarse values and trafficking in racial stereotypes.
But if a certain kind of cultural prestige is shut off to the Colemans, they have reaped other rewards. They’ve built a large and loyal fan base, which gobbles up the new Ashley & JaQuavis titles that arrive every few months. Many of those books are sold at street-corner stands and other off-the-grid venues in African-American neighborhoods, a literary gray market that doesn’t register a blip on best-seller tallies. Yet the Colemans’ most popular series now regularly crack the trade fiction best-seller lists of The New York Times and Publishers Weekly. For years, the pair had no literary agent; they sold hundreds of thousands of books without banking a penny in royalties. Still, they have earned millions of dollars, almost exclusively from cash-for-manuscript deals negotiated directly with independent publishing houses. In short, though little known outside of the world of urban fiction, the Colemans are one of America’s most successful literary couples, a distinction they’ve achieved, they insist, because of their work’s gritty authenticity and their devotion to a primal literary virtue: the power of the ripping yarn.
“When you read our books, you’re gonna realize: ‘Ashley & JaQuavis are storytellers,’ ” says Ashley. “Our tales will get your heart pounding.”
THE COLEMANS’ HOME BASE — the cottage from which they operate their cottage industry — is a spacious four-bedroom house in a genteel suburb about 35 miles north of downtown Detroit. The house is plush, but when I visited this past winter, it was sparsely appointed. The couple had just recently moved in, and had only had time to fully furnish the bedroom of their 4-year-old son, Quaye.
In conversation, Ashley and JaQuavis exude both modesty and bravado: gratitude for their good fortune and bootstrappers’ pride in having made their own luck. They talk a lot about their time in the trenches, the years they spent as a drug dealer and “ride-or-die girl” tandem. In Flint they learned to “grind hard.” Writing, they say, is merely a more elevated kind of grind.
“Instead of hitting the block like we used to, we hit the laptops,” says Ashley. “I know what every word is worth. So while I’m writing, I’m like: ‘Okay, there’s a hundred dollars. There’s a thousand dollars. There’s five thousand dollars.’ ”
They maintain a rigorous regimen. They each try to write 5,000 words per day, five days a week. The writers stagger their shifts: JaQuavis goes to bed at 7 p.m. and wakes up early, around 3 or 4 in the morning, to work while his wife and child sleep. Ashley writes during the day, often in libraries or at Starbucks.
They divide the labor in other ways. Chapters are divvied up more or less equally, with tasks assigned according to individual strengths. (JaQuavis typically handles character development. Ashley loves writing murder scenes.) The results are stitched together, with no editorial interference from one author in the other’s text. The real work, they contend, is the brainstorming. The Colemans spend weeks mapping out their plot-driven books — long conversations that turn into elaborate diagrams on dry-erase boards. “JaQuavis and I are so close, it makes the process real easy,” says Ashley. “Sometimes when I’m thinking of something, a plot point, he’ll say it out loud, and I’m like: ‘Wait — did I say that?’ ”
Their collaboration developed by accident, and on the fly. Both were bookish teenagers. Ashley read lots of Judy Blume and John Grisham; JaQuavis liked Shakespeare, Richard Wright and “Atlas Shrugged.” (Their first official date was at a Borders bookstore, where Ashley bought “The Coldest Winter Ever,” the Sister Souljah novel often credited with kick-starting the contemporary street-lit movement.) In 2003, Ashley, then 17, was forced to terminate an ectopic pregnancy. She was bedridden for three weeks, and to provide distraction and boost her spirits, JaQuavis challenged his girlfriend to a writing contest. “She just wasn’t talking. She was laying in bed. I said, ‘You know what? I bet you I could write a better book than you.’ My wife is real competitive. So I said, ‘Yo, all right, $500 bet.’ And I saw her eyes spark, like, ‘What?! You can’t write no better book than me!’ So I wrote about three chapters. She wrote about three chapters. Two days later, we switched.”
The result, hammered out in a few days, would become “Dirty Money.” Two years later, when Ashley and JaQuavis were students at Ferris State University in Western Michigan, they sold the manuscript to Urban Books, a street-lit imprint founded by the best-selling author Carl Weber. At the time, JaQuavis was still making his living selling drugs. When Ashley got the phone call informing her that their book had been bought, she assumed they’d hit it big, and flushed more than $10,000 worth of cocaine down the toilet. Their advance was a mere $4,000.
Those advances would soon increase, eventually reaching five and six figures. The Colemans built their career, JaQuavis says, in a manner that made sense to him as a veteran dope peddler: by flooding the street with product. From the start, they were prolific, churning out books at a rate of four or five a year. Their novels made their way into stores; the now-defunct chain Waldenbooks, which had stores in urban areas typically bypassed by booksellers, was a major engine of the street-lit market. But Ashley and JaQuavis took advantage of distribution channels established by pioneering urban fiction authors such as Teri Woods and Vickie Stringer, and a network of street-corner tables, magazine stands, corner shops and bodegas. Like rappers who establish their bona fides with gray-market mixtapes, street-lit authors use this system to circumnavigate industry gatekeepers, bringing their work straight to the genre’s core readership. But urban fiction has other aficionados, in less likely places. “Our books are so popular in the prison system,” JaQuavis says. “We’re banned in certain penitentiaries. Inmates fight over the books — there are incidents, you know? I have loved ones in jail, and they’re like: ‘Yo, your books can’t come in here. It’s against the rules.’ ”
The appeal of the Colemans’ work is not hard to fathom. The books are formulaic and taut; they deliver the expected goods efficiently and exuberantly. The titles telegraph the contents: “Diary of a Street Diva,” “Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang,” “Murderville.” The novels serve up a stream of explicit sex and violence in a slangy, tangy, profane voice. In Ashley & JaQuavis’s books people don’t get killed: they get “popped,” “laid out,” get their “cap twisted back.” The smut is constant, with emphasis on the earthy, sticky, olfactory particulars. Romance novel clichés — shuddering orgasms, heroic carnal feats, superlative sexual skill sets — are rendered in the Colemans’ punchy patois.
Subtlety, in other words, isn’t Ashley & JaQuavis’s forte. But their books do have a grainy specificity. In “The Cartel” (2008), the first novel in the Colemans’ best-selling saga of a Miami drug syndicate, they catch the sights and smells of a crack workshop in a housing project: the nostril-stinging scent of cocaine and baking soda bubbling on stovetops; the teams of women, stripped naked except for hospital masks so they can’t pilfer the merchandise, “cutting up the cooked coke on the round wood table.” The subject matter is dark, but the Colemans’ tone is not quite noir. Even in the grimmest scenes, the mood is high-spirited, with the writers palpably relishing the lewd and gory details: the bodies writhing in boudoirs and crumpling under volleys of bullets, the geysers of blood and other bodily fluids.
The luridness of street lit has made it a flashpoint, inciting controversy reminiscent of the hip-hop culture wars of the 1980s and ’90s. But the street-lit debate touches deeper historical roots, reviving decades-old arguments in black literary circles about the mandate to uplift the race and present wholesome images of African-Americans. In 1928, W. E. B. Du Bois slammed the “licentiousness” of “Home to Harlem,” Claude McKay’s rollicking novel of Harlem nightlife. McKay’s book, Du Bois wrote, “for the most part nauseates me, and after the dirtier parts of its filth I feel distinctly like taking a bath.” Similar sentiments have greeted 21st-century street lit. In a 2006 New York Times Op-Ed essay, the journalist and author Nick Chiles decried “the sexualization and degradation of black fiction.” African-American bookstores, Chiles complained, are “overrun with novels that . . . appeal exclusively to our most prurient natures — as if these nasty books were pairing off back in the stockrooms like little paperback rabbits and churning out even more graphic offspring that make Ralph Ellison books cringe into a dusty corner.”
Copulating paperbacks aside, it’s clear that the street-lit debate is about more than literature, touching on questions of paternalism versus populism, and on middle-class anxieties about the black underclass. “It’s part and parcel of black elites’ efforts to define not only a literary tradition, but a racial politics,” said Kinohi Nishikawa, an assistant professor of English and African-American Studies at Princeton University. “There has always been a sense that because African-Americans’ opportunities to represent themselves are so limited in the first place, any hint of criminality or salaciousness would necessarily be a knock on the entire racial politics. One of the pressing debates about African-American literature today is: If we can’t include writers like Ashley & JaQuavis, to what extent is the foundation of our thinking about black literature faulty? Is it just a literature for elites? Or can it be inclusive, bringing urban fiction under the purview of our umbrella term ‘African-American literature’?”
Defenders of street lit note that the genre has a pedigree: a tradition of black pulp fiction that stretches from Chester Himes, the midcentury author of hardboiled Harlem detective stories, to the 1960s and ’70s “ghetto fiction” of Iceberg Slim and Donald Goines, to the current wave of urban fiction authors. Others argue for street lit as a social good, noting that it attracts a large audience that might otherwise never read at all. Scholars like Nishikawa link street lit to recent studies showing increased reading among African-Americans. A 2014 Pew Research Center report found that a greater percentage of black Americans are book readers than whites or Latinos.
For their part, the Colemans place their work in the broader black literary tradition. “You have Maya Angelou, Alice Walker, James Baldwin — all of these traditional black writers, who wrote about the struggles of racism, injustice, inequality,” says Ashley. “We’re writing about the struggle as it happens now. It’s just a different struggle. I’m telling my story. I’m telling the struggle of a black girl from Flint, Michigan, who grew up on welfare.”
Perhaps there is a high-minded case to be made for street lit. But the virtues of Ashley & JaQuavis’s work are more basic. Their novels do lack literary polish. The writing is not graceful; there are passages of clunky exposition and sex scenes that induce guffaws and eye rolls. But the pleasure quotient is high. The books flaunt a garish brand of feminism, with women characters cast not just as vixens, but also as gangsters — cold-blooded killers, “murder mamas.” The stories are exceptionally well-plotted. “The Cartel” opens by introducing its hero, the crime boss Carter Diamond; on page 9, a gunshot spatters Diamond’s brain across the interior of a police cruiser. The book then flashes back seven years and begins to hurtle forward again — a bullet train, whizzing readers through shifting alliances, romantic entanglements and betrayals, kidnappings, shootouts with Haitian and Dominican gangsters, and a cliffhanger closing scene that leaves the novel’s heroine tied to a chair in a basement, gruesomely tortured to the edge of death. Ashley & JaQuavis’s books are not Ralph Ellison, certainly, but they build up quite a head of steam. They move.
The Colemans are moving themselves these days. They recently signed a deal with St. Martin’s Press, which will bring out the next installment in the “Cartel” series as well as new solo series by both writers. The St. Martin’s deal is both lucrative and legitimizing — a validation of Ashley and JaQuavis’s work by one of publishing’s most venerable houses. The Colemans’ ambitions have grown, as well. A recent trilogy, “Murderville,” tackles human trafficking and the blood-diamond industry in West Africa, with storylines that sweep from Sierra Leone to Mexico to Los Angeles. Increasingly, Ashley & JaQuavis are leaning on research — traveling to far-flung settings and hitting the books in the libraries — and spending less time mining their own rough-and-tumble past.
But Flint remains a source of inspiration. One evening not long ago, JaQuavis led me on a tour of his hometown: a popular roadside bar; the parking lot where he met the undercover cop for the ill-fated drug deal; Ashley’s old house, the site of his almost-arrest. He took me to a ramshackle vehicle repair shop on Flint’s west side, where he worked as a kid, washing cars. He showed me a bathroom at the rear of the garage, where, at age 12, he sneaked away to inspect the first “boulder” of crack that he ever sold. A spray-painted sign on the garage wall, which JaQuavis remembered from his time at the car wash, offered words of warning:
WHAT EVERY YOUNG MAN SHOULD KNOW
ABOUT USING A GUN:
MURDER . . . 30 Years
ARMED ROBBERY . . . 15 Years
ASSAULT . . . 15 Years
RAPE . . . 20 Years
POSSESSION . . . 5 Years
JACKING . . . 20 YEARS
“We still love Flint, Michigan,” JaQuavis says. “It’s so seedy, so treacherous. But there’s some heart in this city. This is where it all started, selling books out the box. In the days when we would get those little $40,000 advances, they’d send us a couple boxes of books for free. We would hit the streets to sell our books, right out of the car trunk. It was a hustle. It still is.”
One old neighborhood asset that the Colemans have not shaken off is swagger. “My wife is the best female writer in the game,” JaQuavis told me. “I believe I’m the best male writer in the game. I’m sleeping next to the best writer in the world. And she’s doing the same.”