“I wasgoing to.”
“Then pull it.”
I pulled it and Alyssa settled in. “They think they’re comedians,” I said quietly, just to her.
She laughed. I sat down next to her for a few minutes, not wanting to get up. But I made myself stand. “I have to get back to working the room. Welcome remarks in a few also. You good?”
“Go, son,” Aunt Lorraine said. “We have her.”
“I’ll find you later,” Alyssa said. “If you want.”
“I’ll findyou.”
The next hour was what I had come to handle. Darryl Granger found his way to me with his fifty-thousand-dollar commitment, hand on my shoulder, talking about his daughter at Spelman. Gideon Pryce confirming he would match donations through Pryce Industries. The Quartermans. The Lowells. A state senator I had voted for and a congressman I hadn’t, all with money to give. I worked them the way I always did, present, patient, and never the one to bring up the ask, always the one to close it.
Then the band’s energy shifted toward the formal program, and it was time for speeches. I waved Tre, Simone, and Zion up to stand with me, then took the microphone, and the room quieted.
“Good evening, everyone. For those who don’t know me, I’m Julian Wade, CEO of WadeHouse Records.” I gestured to my siblings. “And this is Zion Wade, Vice President of A&R and Artist Development, Tre Wade, VP of Production, and Simone Wade-Carter, Vice President of Operations and Brand Strategy.”
Applause rippled through the room.
“Every year we gather here to honor the legacy of our parents, Isaiah and Niecy Wade. To celebrate not just what they built in music, but what they believed about community. About home. About family.”
My voice was steady as I contained the emotion trying to surface underneath.
“Most of you know the story of this town. How our ancestors founded Lennox Falls with nothing but faith and forty acres. How they expanded and built something here. Farms, mills, businesses and more, when the rest of the world said Black folks couldn’t. How this community thrived for generations, separate but sovereign. How we took care of our own.”
I paused.
“And many of you remember what happened after. When the tobacco money dried up. When the mills closed. When our children started leaving for cities that promised more than we could offer them.Lennox Falls almost became a memory. Another predominently Black town that used to be.”
The room was silent now.
“But some families stayed. Stubborn folks who refused to let go of the land their grandparents bled for. Our parents, Isaiah and Niecy Wade, were both born right here in Lennox Falls. Before the lights. Before the headlines. Before WadeHouse became…” I smiled slightly. “Whatever y’all call us now.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
“This town raised them. Nurtured them. Protected them.Lovedthem. They fell in love with each other in these streets. Got married at Mount Zion A.M.E., the same church their mothers met and became friends in. The church they grew up in. And when our father started making music, when the labels came calling from New York and LA, and everybody told him he had to leave to truly make it…” I shook my head. “He told them he already had everything he needed right here. The love of his life. His music. And a community that believed in him long before the charts ever did.”
The room applauded. I let it ride for a moment, then quieted them down.
“Together, our parents built WadeHouse in the basement of our great-uncle’s record shop, then grew it out into an old barn on retired farmland. Pieced together with borrowed equipment, community support, and more passion than money.” I smiled. “And before long, WadeHouse wasn’t just a studio. It was a heartbeat. Kids came to learn instruments. Artists came seeking sanctuary. Neighbors came because Mama cooked too much food and nobody left hungry.”
A few people laughed softly, nodding. They remembered.
“Our parents used to say that Lennox Falls took care of them, so they had to take care of Lennox Falls. That was the deal. The covenant they made.” I swallowed. “And they kept it. Every dollar of profit that came in went right back into this community. Because that’s what you do for family.”
I paused again, and the room went still.
“When our mother passed away… everything stopped. And when grief overtook our father, many counted us out. Assumed WadeHouse was done. Predicted this town would go back to what it was before. Didn’t believe the Wade kids could carry on what our parents began.”
I looked at Tre, Simone, and Zion, standing beside me and smiled at them.
“But we’re doing it. We picked up the torch and we’ve kept it burning. Because this is home. Because our parents’ faith in this town, and in us, deserves to be honored.”
“And let me be clear,” I continued. “We didn’t help grow Lennox Falls alone. This town grew because brilliant, dedicated families poured into it the same way we have.”
I lifted a hand, acknowledging the room. “The Grangers, the Johnsons, the Quartermans, the Pryces, every one of them essential.”