Poets from across the nation, including former Cosby Show star Malcolm Jamal-Warner, came to Miami to hear Will speak. And like so many others who met Will, Jamal-Warner became a fan and friend. "I must have listened to his CD a good 13 times," Jamal-Warner recalls. "I never got to tell Will that no other poet made me question my own creativity like he did."
With the success came perks. Will would go to his favorite stores and return home with bags of free clothes, says his girlfriend of 13 years, Tosca Carroll. "With all his accomplishments, boutiques would give him stuff to wear onstage because it was free advertising for their business," Tosca recalls. "He had so many size 13 sneakers in our closet that I told him we needed a bigger closet if he was going to bring anymore home."
Courtesy of Cynthia Bell-Lewis
Will with a friend and her daughter shortly after his return from military service in 1988.
Michael McElroy
Will's casket is wheeled out of the church for his final ride to the cemetery.
Details
Related Content
More About
But for all the acclaim he garnered, Will often lamented that making poetry didn't necessarily translate to making enough money to pay the bills. Friend and fellow poet Rebecca "Butterfly" Vaughns remembers talking to Will about his frustrations. He once told her: "Butterfly, I don't know how you do this full time. This poetry thing needs to pick up or I am going to have to move on to something else."
She constantly reminded him that poetry is more about passion than profession. "It's all about patience," Butterfly told him. "Give it time. Nothing happens overnight."
Will shrugged and smiled. "OK, I'll stick with it. But, man, it's hard."
I run till I get to the night of February 21, 1965
And I find myself standing backstage at Manhattan's Audubon Ballroom
Trying to explain to Malcolm that the enemy has sent four of his goons
And I explain that, yes, Malcolm, we know change is going to come
But it don't have to be this soon
So I take a few of Malcolm's security people and we just clear the whole motherfucking room
All of a sudden the CIA shows up screaming:
You better run, nigga.
So I run
I run till I get to April 4, 1968, in Memphis, Tennessee
And I'm standing in front of the Lorraine Motel with Dr. Martin Luther King
And shots begin to ring
And I just don't want to lift every voice and sing
So I scoot back
And I cover Dr. King with my own body
As we hit the floor
Because today it's the only damn Jesus that I'm willing to die for.
Forty minutes past midnight on May 29, while other poets were lost in conversation near the entrance of the Literary Café, Will put out his cigarette and walked to his Charger. No one paid close attention to a car that pulled into the parking lot, almost blocking Will's ride. A young black man emerged from the passenger side. He approached Will as if he knew him. Muzzle flashes and three loud pops shattered the calm, muggy night. The poets scattered, some rushing back into the café. Da Real One wasn't with them. He was still outside, slumped on the ground next to his Charger.
Will died instantly from his gunshot wounds, according to witnesses.
Nearly two months later, North Miami Police homicide detectives have no leads. The suspects were not trying to rob Will — they didn't take his jewelry or cash. The killers didn't leave behind any fingerprints or DNA evidence, either. And in the aftermath of the shooting, witnesses gave police differing descriptions of the getaway car's color. Some said it was light, others dark. Some said it had a rear spoiler.
Relatives and friends claim they don't know anyone who had a beef with Will, but they believe the killers definitely knew him. Butterfly, the poet who counseled Will about loving his craft, says their only hope is that one of the suspects turns himself in. "I know whoever did this is not getting the satisfaction they were seeking," she says. "I don't think his killers expected the outpouring of love over Will."
His death has devastated her and her fellow poets, Butterfly adds. "Will went through hell and back. He should have been dead in his 20s. But he turned his life around. That's what hurts the most."
I can't write about shit like having my own room as a child
I can't write about how my mother was so proud of my report cards
Due to my depressed state because of her psychological profile
I can't write about how I grew up to be a soldier for this great nation
Without getting into how I was denied and denied time and time again
Through the rejection of my college applications
In order for me to deal with this world, once upon a time I had to snort not one, not two, but at least three lines.
I can't write about the countless drug deals in my mother's home and stop to think it was my mother's life I was risking.
Childhood for Will Da Real One was an all-too-familiar tale of African-American boys growing up in the inner-city neighborhoods of Miami. His dad, Will Sr., split from his mom, Ruby, when Will was 10 years old. The single mother and her three children (Will, then-8-year-old Calvin, and then-2-year-old Cynthia) lived in a two-bedroom apartment in the Edison Court Projects, a stretch of government-subsidized bungalows at NW 62nd Street and Third Avenue, where Will once owned his own corner to sell cocaine.
