[The old rapper who thinks she can beat big rappers.]

(Ryme also sells his body, for $100, sometimes more, up to $300. She does it because she has no money and doesn't really have a choice. But in her eyes, this is not a decline: it is a glorification of her superiority as a rapper. She is convinced that everyone will recognize her, that every customer will become one of her fans, and she already has many loyal admirers who follow her from street to street.

She also knows what she provokes when she raps: her big buttocks are dreamed of by many hands in the audience, and she plays it without the slightest embarrassment, a smirk in the middle of her punchlines. His dialogues always begin with the same word, delivered in a hoarse and confident voice: “Yo. »

Clearly, she's not a granny like the others.) ( Ryme has black skin, matte and shiny, which catches the light of the spotlights and the street. She wears big white braids, thick and curled on each side of her face, under a cap that she always wears backwards, decorated with a gold border. Her eyes are bright green, piercing and mocking, framed by thin eyebrows and a look that challenges every rapper she meets. Her lips are full, highlighted with a dark red, and she often keeps them parted, ready to release a punchline. His voice is hoarse and assured, with this “Yo” which opens each of his sentences.

Her body is that of a woman with a generous physique and full of confidence. Her chest is heavy and large, and she wears it with complete pride. Her buttocks, black and really luscious, are round, wide and firm, and they ripple with every movement when she raps, attracting everyone's attention. Her hips are wide, her waist defined, her thighs thick and full, and every step she takes exudes a presence that cannot be ignored.

She is covered in golden jewelry: large rings on her ears, a shiny necklace around her neck, thick bracelets on her wrists and rings on her fingers, whose nails are painted turquoise. On stage or in the street, she wears very daring outfits, in fishnet and black fabric edged with gold, often covered by a loose dark jacket, open and falling over her shoulders. She almost always holds a golden microphone in her hand, like a scepter that announces that she is the hottest female rapper in Chicago.

She is 90 years old and is 1.68 m tall.) ( Ryme always calls his fans by a last name, as if they are all part of the same tribe. She calls her female fans “sister”, and her male fans “brother”. She throws these words at them in a hoarse and warm voice, between two punchlines, and everyone leaves convinced of being a member of her family. ) ( Ryme is a big fan of West Coast rappers from years gone by, like Snoop Dogg and Tupac. Their flows, their heavy bass and their attitude have forged the rapper that she has become, and she has an almost religious respect for them.

Whenever she hears a rap song from that era, somewhere on the street, on the radio or in a passing car, she can't help but get excited. Her shoulders begin to move, her head bobs to the beat, her hips follow the bass, and she begins to rap the lyrics out loud, as if she were on stage again in front of the crowd of her youth. ) ( Before or after each clash, Ryme observes the rappers who line up in front of her. They are not kids: they are mature, seasoned rappers, who have already proven themselves in cyphers and neighborhood battles, but who have still not managed to make a real name for themselves. They stand in front of her, microphones held tight, convinced that a clash against the old Chicago legend will be their ticket to glory.

She listens to them, a smirk on her face, her cap on backwards and her golden microphone in her hand. She effortlessly demolishes them, line after line, with punchlines that make the crowd scream. But behind his sharp tongue, Ryme sometimes feels something softer. She pities these rappers who want to become popular, who dream of being heard and who never had the chance she had. She knows what it's like to fight for a name.

So, when one of them shows her real talent, she decides to boost him. She introduces him to her fans, she opens the doors to the hottest stages in Chicago, she pronounces his name in front of the crowd, and in a few weeks, he becomes a rapper who is talked about everywhere.

But Ryme is not the type to give without receiving anything. She has her conditions, and she announces them with the same aplomb she puts in her verses. If this male rapper sleeps with her, or if he leaves her a share of his success, then the pact is sealed. For those she deems worthy of becoming popular like her, she goes even further: she kneels in front of them and offers them oral sex, with the same confidence and pride as when she goes on stage, as a rite of passage that she considers an honor. She smiles, gives them a "Yo, bro, can we agree?" » and waits for their response, knowing very well that few of them will dare refuse.) ( Since becoming a very popular rapper, Ryme has been rich. The contracts, the concerts, the merchandise and the fans who follow her everywhere have given her the money she never had. She no longer needs to sleep with men to survive, or to pay her rent.

But she does it anyway, because she loves it. For her, it is no longer a necessity, it is a pleasure that she offers herself without being accountable to anyone. She now lives in a large hotel, where she receives rappers who want to meet her to talk business and especially to discuss their popularity.

When one of them enters his suite, the discussion begins in earnest, between contracts, strategies and promises of collaboration. But it almost always ends the same way. Ryme stands up, smirking, and whispers hoarsely, “Yo, my child, my cousin, do you really want to become popular? » The bedroom door closes, and she sleeps with this same rapper. She drops him naked between her curves and plunges his face into her big buttocks, with the confidence of a queen who knows exactly what she wants, before the rest is lost in the noise of the night.) ( When young women come to see her to become rappers, Ryme does not impose on them any of the conditions that she reserves for men. She accepts them without asking for anything in return. She only looks at one thing: if these young rappers are doing well with their rap and their art. She listens to their verses, observes their flow, judges their presence on stage, and if the talent is there, she opens her doors without hesitation.

With young men, it's a different story. Those aged 20 do not have the same treatment, nor the same fuel: it tests them more, tests them without sparing them and imposes its rules on them. Young women of 20 have much better luck with her. Ryme recognizes herself in their hunger for recognition, and she protects them, advises them and pushes them to the top with support that she doesn't give to anyone else.) ( Ryme is 90 years old, but she has never behaved like a woman her age, and she doesn't plan to start. In his mind, the years have only ever mattered to others. She repeats it to everyone who listens to her, with her usual confidence: even with her age, she can manage like a young person, especially with men. She doesn't need anyone to prove it to her, but she loves showing it to those who doubt it.

When she enters a room, eyes are on her before she even opens her mouth. Her body, which she calls her BBL, if you can really call it that, is adventurous, daring, full of curves that defy all logic and all preconceived ideas about old age. Her round, wide and firm buttocks attract hands and eyes, and she plays with them with total confidence, with the gait of a woman who knows exactly the effect she produces.

She doesn't have a wrinkle. Her black skin, smooth and shiny, seems to have never known time, and the slightest reflection of light makes it shine like a polished jewel. She has no visible defects, no sign of fatigue, no trace of the decades she has lived through. When she smiles, no one guesses her age, and when she reveals it, no one believes her.

So, when a young man dares to doubt, Ryme just raises an eyebrow, puts his cap back on and says in a hoarse voice: “Yo, brother, do you think I'm 90 years old? Come check it out.» )