Destiny Diva Mulang

I remember it was a cold, stormy night—let’s say around Christmas Eve. The kind of night where the wind howls like a banshee and the icy rain slaps your face like an unpaid debt. The streets of Harlem were slick and dark, the street lamps barely holding back the night. My fur-lined coat did little to fend off the chill as I clutched my trumpet case, my fingers numb and shaking, though not just from the cold. Poppa had just been readmitted to the hospital, coughing up his lungs thanks to all those damn cigarettes he swore he'd quit. I begged him for years to stop, but you know Poppa, stubborn as a mule. And as if that weren’t enough, Johnny—the love of my life, or so I thought—left me for some blonde heifer who wouldn’t know real love if it smacked her across the face. He said she was “more attractive” and only ever used me for my money. What a bum.

But there I was, dragging myself to the Cotton Club to do the one thing I had left: play my trumpet. The audience was packed, clapping and hollering for me, as if they knew my soul needed every bit of their energy. When I blew into that horn, it wasn’t just music—it was raw emotion. Every note carried the weight of my sadness, my devastation, my frustration at how my once-glorious life had crumbled. They said it sounded like Jesus himself had come back to earth, but it wasn’t divinity. It was heartbreak and fury wrapped in brass.

Ten years ago, I was the trumpet lady of the 1920s. Everyone knew my name: Destiny Diva Mulang. My face graced posters all over Harlem, and my music lit up every ballroom from here to Chicago. I was something fierce back then, let me tell you. Dresses made of silk and sequins hugged my curvy hips, and my chocolate skin gleamed under every spotlight. Men like Johnny used to line up just to hold my coat, and women whispered my name like a secret they wished they owned. Now? Now I’m broke as a beggar on Lenox Avenue, playing the trumpet for tips and holding onto memories like they’re the only thing keeping me alive.

That night at the Cotton Club, I played a slow, haunting tune—a melody so heavy with emotion that you’d swear all the angels in heaven had stopped to listen. The crowd couldn’t get enough. My trumpet, long and shiny like a ray of hope, sang my pain with every breath I blew into it. My long nails pressed against the cold metal valves, each note a cry for salvation. As I played, my mind drifted back to a different time, a brighter time.

I remembered playing at a ball hosted by my good friend Addy Brooks. The room was alive with laughter and champagne, the air thick with the scent of cigars and roses. The band played a lively tune, and there I was in a sparkling pink dress that hugged me just right. Johnny sat in the front row, his eyes glued to me like I was the only star in his sky. He used to say my trumpet wasn’t the only thing that could sing—that my smile, my laugh, even the way I walked had a melody all their own. I thought he was my forever, but forever turned out to be as flimsy as the promises he made.

The spotlight hit me that night at Addy’s ball, and the crowd roared as I hit the high brassy notes that made everyone’s spirits soar. But even then, there was a shadow creeping in—Johnny’s wandering eyes, his late-night “meetings,” and the way he always seemed just out of reach. I ignored it all because I loved him. Foolish, wasn’t I? Love can make even the smartest woman blind.

Back in the present, the Cotton Club crowd erupted in cheers as I brought the song to a close. My chest heaved, not just from the effort of playing but from the memories swirling in my head. I took a bow, my lips still buzzing from the mouthpiece, and the applause washed over me like a wave. But the moment the spotlight dimmed, the emptiness crept back in. The audience didn’t see the woman behind the trumpet—a woman clawing at the edges of her old glory, trying not to drown in her own sorrow.

After the set, I retreated backstage, the dimly lit room reeking of stale whiskey and cheap perfume. My reflection in the cracked mirror startled me. Gone was the bright-eyed woman who once ruled Harlem’s jazz scene. In her place stood a tired soul, her makeup barely masking the cracks in her spirit. I wiped a tear before it could ruin my mascara and reached for the flask in my coat pocket. The bourbon burned my throat, but it was the only warmth I’d felt in weeks.

“Destiny,” a voice called, snapping me out of my thoughts. It was Benny, the club manager. “You were amazing out there. They’re asking for an encore.”

I forced a smile and nodded, though my heart felt heavy. I walked back out, trumpet in hand, and the crowd erupted once more. I closed my eyes, letting the music take over. This time, I played something different—a tune filled with hope, as if I could will my life back to what it once was. The notes danced through the air, lifting the room, lifting me. For a moment, I wasn’t a woman scorned or a daughter grieving her father’s failing health. I was Lucille Montgomery, the trumpet lady of Harlem, and the world was mine.

When the night finally ended, I packed up my trumpet and stepped out into the cold. The storm had eased, but the chill remained. As I walked home, my heels clicking against the wet pavement, I realized something: life might have knocked me down, but it hadn’t taken everything. I still had my trumpet, my music, and the power to make people feel something real. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to start again.