Yip yip Yip yip yeh yeh Uh-huh Uh-huh

Yip yip Yip yip yeh yeh Uh-huh Uh-huh

I love my gift from the Creator it’s my passion, it’s my passport to higher realms.

Written by Kateb Shunnar

Now, this story I’m about to tell is fictional, but ever so factual is set in New Orleans, where the air itself hums a rhythm you can’t ignore. Walk down Claiborne or Basin, and even if your mind’s heavy with worry, your foot starts tapping, your soul starts listening. Music leaks from the cracks in the sidewalks, shadows hum between the magnolia trees, and the Mississippi, she don’t ever stop whispering. Sometimes I swear she carries all our secrets straight out to the Gulf, so the Creator can wash them clean. I used to sit on my porch off Ursuline and Rampart Street with a notebook, watchin’ the sun melt into the bayou sky, thinking I understood life. Thought I had it all figured out. But when you’re young and impatient, you see life like it’s a buffet grab what looks good, stuff your plate, and don’t realize you can’t digest half of it. You chase the flash, the applause, the noise, and I chased it too. I was so busy trying to be somebody that I almost forgot who I already was.

It took years—years of heartbreak, dry seasons, and a few lessons from the universe to understand that my gift wasn’t something I earned; it was something I was entrusted with. That’s a whole different kind of responsibility. When the Creator gives you a gift, it’s not for show; it’s for showing up. It’s like gumbo everyone loves to eat it, but not everyone has the patience to stir the roux right. And if you don’t, that roux will burn, and once it burns, there’s no saving it. Life works the same way. Rush your purpose, and you scorch your blessings.

I remember meeting a man named Levi, folks called him “Yip,” because of the little sound he made before he played—“yip-yip-yip-yip”—then let his sax cry like a homesick angel. I met him down on Frenchmen Street one sticky August night when the air was thick as syrup and the moon hung low, half-drunk over the rooftops. He was a wandering musician, the kind that never stayed long enough for folks to know his story. But I had a way of seeing through the smoke. There was something in his eyes like he’d traded too much for too little, like he’d spent his soul on a tune he couldn’t stop playing.

He told me, “I used to play for heaven. Now I just play for the crowd.” That line hit me like a second-line drumbeat to the chest. We shared a plate of red beans and rice from Miss Loretta’s stand, and he told me how he once played music straight from the spirit songs that healed, lifted folks up. But the world got loud, people started shouting his name, throwing dollar bills and promises, and little by little, he started listening to the noise instead of the still, small voice inside. “The crowd’ll clap for you,” he said, “but they won’t catch you when you fall.” That man was preaching without a pulpit.

He told me about a strange night during Mardi Gras. Some shadowy figure, he called him “the Dealer,” offered him a deal: he’d be the most famous musician in the South if he stopped playing from his soul and started playing for the shine. And he took it. For a while, Levi’s name was everywhere posters, radio, people hollering “Yip!” before he even hit the stage. But fame’s a hungry ghost; it eats and never gets full. And when the lights went out, that ghost followed him home. The melodies that once flowed easy started sounding hollow. He felt the music leaving him, like water slipping through his fingers. That’s when he packed his sax, left his band, and started drifting city to city, street to street trying to find his way back to himself.

I understood him too well. I had my moments of trading peace for attention, of spilling everything I had to anyone who would listen. Thought openness meant authenticity, but it mostly meant leaving the door unlocked for doubt and envy to stroll in. Some folks don’t clap because they’re happy for you they clap because they’re waiting to see if you trip. I learned that silence is a shield, not a prison. These days, I keep my plans like I keep my gumbo recipe quiet, sacred, not for sharing with everyone.

Levi and I crossed paths many times after that. I’d see him busking outside Café du Monde, playing that sax to the rhythm of the streetcars. He said he was trying to make peace with the Creator again. “Ain’t easy,” he said, “when you sold your song.” But grace doesn’t expire; it doesn’t need a receipt. Show up humble, and the Creator meets you halfway. That’s what I learned too. I had to humble myself, stop acting like the world owed me applause just for breathing. I had to remember why I started writing not for fame, not for money, but because words were my way to pray.

One humid night on my porch, listening to the cicadas gossip, I swear I heard that “yip-yip-yip-yip” echo from down the street. The sound crawled up my spine. I followed it to the river. There was Levi, standing by the water, playing to the stars. The notes didn’t sound sad anymore they sounded like surrender, like forgiveness. I realized then: he wasn’t playing just for himself. He was playing for all of us who forgot the value of what we were given, all of us who tried to trade spirit for sparkle. When he finished, he looked at me and smiled that soft, tired smile. “Found my way back,” he said. Then tipped his hat and walked into the fog. I never saw him again.

Sometimes I wonder if he was real. Folks say there’s a ghost that plays sax by the river on quiet nights, warning dreamers not to lose themselves in the noise. Maybe that’s him. Maybe that’s all of us. Either way, whenever I start thinking too much about what I don’t have, I remember that sound—“yip-yip-yip-yip”—and it straightens me out. Reminds me that my gift is my compass, not my currency.

People love to talk about success, but they don’t warn you about the noise that comes with it. Everyone’s got opinions. But peace? Peace whispers. That’s why discernment matters. You’ve got to know when to hush and when to holler. Know who to let in your kitchen and who to keep out, because one wrong hand can ruin the whole pot. The Creator teaches that through silence. Silence isn’t empty it’s full of answers if you listen long enough.

I used to feel obligated to explain myself to everybody. “Why so quiet?” they’d ask. “Why keep to yourself?” But I’m not quiet; I just choose my noise. The world loves chaos, calls it excitement, but real joy comes from stillness. Sitting with your gift and saying “thank you” until it settles into your bones. Do that long enough, and you stop feeling like you have to prove anything. You stop reaching for things that don’t belong to you. That’s when the real magic shows up. Doors start opening you didn’t even knock on.

Now, every time I walk through the Quarter, I see stories in the shadows. The spirit of that wandering musician hums through the air. I hear him in the brass bands, the church choirs, even in the quiet moments between raindrops. “Don’t trade your life for the world,” that melody says. “Don’t trade your peace for applause.” That’s my song now. I protect my energy like it’s an inheritance. I keep my joy tucked safe. I don’t tell everybody everything. Some things are sacred, and the world doesn’t handle sacred well.

Sometimes, late at night, I take a walk down Royal, past the old iron balconies dripping with vines, and I swear I hear that “yip-yip-yip-yip” again, faint but steady, like a heartbeat. Maybe it’s just the wind playing tricks. Maybe it’s the Creator reminding me not to forget: I am the gift, not the applause. Purpose isn’t about the show it’s about the soul.

I smile. I wouldn’t trade this life for anything not the fame, not the money, not the noise. Every trial, every quiet night, every doubt has taught me how to listen better, trust deeper, see the unseen, feel the unspoken. My gift isn’t just what I do it’s who I am. My words are my prayers, my silence is my sanctuary, and my story? My story is still being written in the language of spirit.

If you ever find yourself at a crossroads one path glittering with promise, the other cloaked in stillness take a deep breath. Listen. You’ll hear it too. That faint call from the river, that echo from the musician who lost and found himself again: “Yip-yip-yip-yip.” That’s the sound of truth hummin’ under your ribs. The sound of home. And if you let it, it’ll guide you right back to yourself same way it did me.

I hope you enjoyed this reflection 😃

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