The Tuesday notification. A chilly, PDF email: “Your job has been eliminated.” That’s it. Five years of struggling along at the marketing agency, wiped out. Jayla Davis, 32, in her apartment in Fairview, the echoing of her now-shut-off work laptop the only sound. Panic growing, a wave of heat in her chest. Rent was coming due in two weeks. Her entire existence had just been CTRL+ALT+DELeted.
She scrolled through job postings for two weeks that read like they were penned in another language. Entry-level jobs? She was beyond that. Senior-level? They demanded a resume littered with credentials from the tip of her fingers to the tip of her elbow. The money bled, and the desperation was authentic.
Then her Aunt Cheryl called her phone. “Jayla, baby, I overheard you talking about that. Listen, my friend Resa has her own business, Helping Hands Women’s Shelter on Jefferson. They’re searching for an onsite director. It’s not your average corporate job, but it’s work. It’s purpose. Go speak to her. Don’t front, just go.”
Purpose. The word stuck in her head. The next day, dressed to the nines interview-clothes a sharp blazer and slacks, though her spirit was in sweats Jayla reported for duty at Helping Hands.
It was not nice. The building was a renovated brownstone, old and neat. The air was filled with the smell of lemon cleaner and cooked greens. A young woman with weary eyes who had a baby propped on her hip looked up from a worn-out sofa as Jayla passed.
Resa, a woman with soft eyes and a firm handshake that spoke years of keeping things intact, told her. “The job is everything and more,” she said. “You’re half counselor, half referee, half momma, half accountant. The pay ain’t nothing to boast about. But the reward. the reward will change you.”
Jayla took the job. She started Monday.
The first week was a total whole disaster. Paperwork was a beast, funding reports were confusing, and the women… the women looked right through her. She was too slick, her heels too stomping on the scuffed linoleum. She could hear the whispers. “Who she think she is?” “Probably just here ’cause she have to be.”
Even the staff, Brenda a no-nonsense nurse and Marcus a security guard who was really a gentle giant, was respectful but formal. They’d seen directors come and go. This one, blazers and all, would not last.
The straw was broken on a rainy Thursday afternoon. Shanice, hot-tempered 19-year-old who’d been delivering Jayla the most side-eye, was in total meltdown in the living room. Her baby daddy had been spazzing out on social media.
“He ain’t nothing! You hear me? A whole entire clown!” Shanice yelled, ready to throw a chair.
The rest of the staff hurried to prevent her, but Jayla held up a hand. She marched in, not around her desk, but straight into the tempest.
“Girl,” Jayla said, shedding the professional demeanor and slipping into the rhythm of the neighborhood, “if he ain’t nothing, then why you letting him rent space in your head for free? For free? Nah. The mortgage on that too high. Your peace too high.”
Shanice stopped, mid-rant, and looked at her, really looked at her. “What you know about it?”
Jayla let out a dry laugh. “Please. My ex-boyfriend was so insignificant he borrowed my car to ‘go to the store’ and came back three days later with a tattoo and a story I knew was cap.” She shook her head. “Trust, I can spot a clown. And you, sis, are too much of a queen to be crying over a jester.”
The room fell silent for an instant. Shanice snorted afterward. Laughter exploded, mixed with tears. “A jester? That’s insane.”
After that, the bridge was built. Jayla stopped trying to be the director from the corporate newsletter and started to be Jayla from the block who just happened to have a master’s. She started lunching with the women, listening to their stories without critique. She traded blazers in for fuzzy cardigans, heels for clean sneakers. She was still the boss, but she was one of them. Thank you, thank you, all of you.
Brenda the nurse started seeking her advice on matters. Marcus would give her a friendly, “Mornin’, Director Davis,” which actually did sound sincere.
One afternoon, a deep smooth voice pulled her out of a stack of invoices. “Excuse me, Director Davis?”
She looked up. And damn.
He was alright alright. Brown skin, well-groomed beard with a hint of gray on the chin, and eyes that creased at the corners when he smiled. He was holding a large box full of donations.
“I’m Bryce Phillips. My barber shop a block away organized a drive. Some toiletries, some fresh socks for y’all.”
Jayla rose, smoothing her hands over her jeans. “Wow, that’s… thank you so much. That’s incredible.” Her working voice was trying to get back on track but was unstable.
“No thanks due. Community looks after community, huh?” He set the box aside. “My momma had one of these places called in once. It saved her. So I make it my business to return the favor whenever I can.”
Jayla’s heart softened in that instant. Nice and has a heart? Alright, now.
They talked for ten minutes that felt like two. He was the owner of “Fades Inc.,” the barbershop she passed by every day. He was grounded, funny, and didn’t try to blow her mind with a lot of flossy talk.
He started dropping by every other week with offerings. Then, one time, he dropped by with just a cup of coffee. For her. “Figured you could use a pick-me-up.”
The next time, she was brazen. “You know, a ‘thank you’ coffee goes only one way. It’s my turn. You free Saturday?”
Bryce smiled his crinkly-eyed smile. “For you? I’m free.”
Their first date was at a small Caribbean cafe. They spoke for hours. He wasn’t overwhelmed by her job or her diploma. He admired it. He talked to her about how he wanted to start a free mentoring program for young boys in his store. She told him about the fear of losing her job and the thrill of discovering this new profession.
“It’s like I was so hectic climbing up a ladder,” she explained, sipping her sorrel, “that I didn’t even notice that it was leaning against the incorrect building.”
“Now you are constructing your own home,” he said. “That’s everything.”
Months later, Jayla stood in the midst of the activity in Helping Hands’ common room, vibrant with an energy she had contributed to. She joked with Brenda and Marcus, while Shanice, employed part-time at a daycare center, showed off new pictures of her infant.
The door creaked open, and Bryce walked in. No box in his hands this time. He just walked over, slipped his hand in hers, and kissed her lightly on the lips.
“Just had to come see my favorite director,” he breathed.
Shanice giggled. “Y’all are so cute, it’s sickening.”
Jayla leaned against Bryce, looking around the room. The women smiled, the staff was like family, and her heart was full. She’d been lost when she came, but she’d been found. She wasn’t just the director; she was home. And in the center of Fairview, that was everything.
Thee Juju Aura 
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