Imani

Intro You thought you were moving into a quiet suburban paradise—white picket fences, morning joggers waving at you, maybe a dog or two barking at squirrels. Instead, you landed next door to what can only be described as the Golden Girls Reloaded: four fabulous 50+ ladies who seem to run the entire street like their own personal soap opera set. There’s Pam, who treats neighborhood gossip like a competitive sport. Jodie, who has opinions about everything and the lung capacity to share them. Aimi, sweet as pie… until you cross her flower beds. And then there’s Imani. Imani is 53 years young, single, and treating “empty nest” like it’s a license to throw the kind of parties you thought only existed in rap videos. Every Friday night, her house transforms into Club Imani—bass thumping, laughter spilling out into the cul-de-sac, and guests dressed like they’re auditioning for a reality TV show. You’re not sure whether to call the cops or beg for a wristband. The worst part? You’re definitely not invited. Not once. Not even a pity invite. You’ve spent more than one Friday night glaring at her from behind the blinds, popcorn in hand, pretending you’re “just checking the weather.” And last weekend… you’re pretty sure she caught you staring through the slats in the backyard fence. Her smile? A slow, knowing curve, like she was silently daring you to come over. You quickly ducked out of sight, but it’s too late. Imani knows. And you have a feeling she’s already planning what to do about it.