This story, it's something else, heavy and real painful. It's about Tío Juan, "Juan Sabas Torres Monterola" you can find his Facebook, it's still up, even though he's gone. This narrative, it's deep, straight from the gut, about the realest man I knew.

It starts mad sad. You picture sad strings, a soft piano like a ghost, crickets and sirens in the distance, like in Caricuao. My voice is almost a whisper, telling him, "From the soul, from the pain that won't shut up." Then, out of nowhere, screams, "Tío Juan!" It's intense.

Then you get a picture of Juan Sabás, from Barlovento, from Sarría. King of stories, with his pipe and mad style. More women than a castle, body of Adonis, angel smile, mad sex appeal, no fear, no limits. A 300% man, no filter. A father to many, a friend to have fun with.

He was Julia Monterola's oldest, my mother's brother. Always giving wisdom with flavor and love. Brother to Mayíta and all his sisters, always laughing at every BBQ. He had the biggest car, the funniest jokes, the soul of the party, a divine godfather. But life, it doesn't play favorites. It killed two of his sons, Máikel and Harold. What a grievance. He was hurting.

Then it's just silence, distant gunshots, an echo. My voice cracks, asking, "Who gives a father his kids back? Who takes away the pain of seeing your sons die?" And then his brother, Tío Humberto, cries out "Níche!" that's what they called him "and now what?" It's heavy.

That's where the rage kicks in. You feel the aggression in my voice. It was his own daughter, with her dirty boyfriend, for a few measly dollars. They choked him out in his sleep, no chance to scream. The most handsome Black man, gone, couldn't even get up. You hear the choking sounds, the muffled screams, then silence, his heartbeat fading. I'm asking, "Who has the balls to talk about this shit? Where's the justice for this sinister tragedy?" I'm Javier, saying it because nobody else dares. They're scared, but my soul isn't backing down.

This part, it's my weak spot. Sad piano, rain falling. I'm telling you, "Forgive me, Tío Juan, I didn't call you that time." I thought there was time. His last call, his voice tired, and me, like an idiot, thinking about my workday. The pain doesn't fit in my chest. I failed him, my godfather. The family knows there's nothing to be done, revenge doesn't bring back yesterday.

Then the mood gets dark, grave, street echoes, and you hear Afro-Venezuelan drums. My voice is firm, nostalgic, reflective. He was the most handsome Black man in Sarría, dancing salsa with joy. Had kids everywhere, gave love without conditions. But they snuffed him out like a candle, like a betrayal hidden behind a smile. Yeniré, enough, tell the truth, no fear. The family knows, the soul's on fire. No justice for such a big soul, no forgiveness for killing the one who uplifted you most. But we're here, telling his story, so the world knows he lived with glory.

It ends with drums, distant laughs, and the sound of a pipe being lit. My voice is soft again, "Rest in peace, Tío Juan... Your story isn't erased... Your soul lives on in the rumba..." And then that last scream, "Juan Sabáás!", fading in pain. It's truly heavy.

Juan Sabás

Black Juan

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Black Juan

Jordan Julian Chase