By William A. Foster, IV
“Black love encompasses romantic partnerships, familial bonds, friendships, and a collective commitment to uplifting and empowering each other.” – Taylor Moorer & Alexander Dorsey
Let me begin with this. There was no character on A Different World that held my attention the way Kimberly Reese did. Graceful. Brilliant. Driven. A woman on her way to becoming a doctor and never once apologizing for her intellect. I was mesmerized. And I still am. So forgive me if this article has a bit more heart than business metrics—though trust me, we’ll get to those too.
Kimberly Reese, played by Charnele Brown, was more than just the token “smart Black woman” character. She was a symbol. She was the dream our mamas prayed for us to meet and our daddies hoped we’d bring home. She was what happens when Black excellence meets Southern charm meets pre-med grit. And then there was Ron Johnson. Ronald Marlon Johnson. A whole enigma. Part clown. Part visionary. If Dwayne Wayne was Silicon Valley, Ron Johnson was Bed-Stuy with a business plan. He wasn’t just comic relief, he was a prototype. The first glimpse we got of the HBCUpreneur: the student hustler learning lessons in the real world as much as in the classroom. Ron Johnson was what every HBCU business school ought to teach: how to build from where you are with what you have.
But instead of marrying into mogulhood with Kimberly Reese and forming a real HBCU power couple like the Obamas of Black medicine and enterprise the writers took another route. A safe one. A disappointing one. This is the story that should have been written. This is the power couple and family business that could have been.
According to a 2023 report from the National Black Chamber of Commerce, over 70% of Black-owned businesses are sole proprietorships meaning they begin and end with one person. Fewer than 10% survive into the second generation. That’s not a flaw in ambition. It’s a failure in structure. We don’t often think in dynasties. In systems. In scaling. Now imagine a Ron Johnson who took that Hillman business degree and didn’t just open a club or restaurant, but built RJ Health Enterprises; an integrated chain of community health clinics, urgent cares, and medical real estate investments focused on underserved Black communities across the South. Imagine Kimberly Reese as co-founder and Chief Medical Officer. A respected OB/GYN on the board of Meharry, Howard Med, and Morehouse School of Medicine. Their flagship clinic, “Reese & Johnson Family Health,” could’ve become a cornerstone of African American healthcare.
We’re talking about a $500 million business in 15 years. Not hypothetical. Real math. According to IBISWorld, the U.S. urgent care market was valued at $38 billion in 2023. Black communities represent a disproportionate share of preventable hospitalizations due in part to lack of affordable, trusted, and culturally competent providers. The Reese-Johnson health business could have been both remedy and revolution.
There is something revolutionary about a Black man and woman building together not just emotionally, but economically. As of 2024, only 8% of all U.S. employer businesses are owned by Black Americans, and of that sliver, a mere 2% are co-owned by Black spouses or partners. Family businesses, when managed strategically, are intergenerational launchpads. Take the Hoffmann-Oeri family of Switzerland, owners of pharmaceutical giant Roche. Their company, founded in 1896, now generates over $70 billion annually. But more importantly, it has built economic moats and family wealth for six generations.
The Reese-Johnson duo had the potential blueprint: a physician’s vision for preventative and culturally attuned care, an entrepreneur’s eye for monetizing access, experience, and brand, and a shared identity rooted in the HBCU ethos of service and innovation. They weren’t just fictional characters. They were avatars for what could be real.
The fact that no HBCU business school has a “Ron Johnson Center for Entrepreneurship” or that no HBCU medical school offers a joint MD-MBA program named after fictional pioneers like Reese and Johnson is a shame. Not because we need to deify characters but because those characters gave us a canvas to imagine bigger for ourselves. HBCUs too often shape students to be labor. To integrate. To get the job. But not to create the job. And certainly not to imagine owning an empire with the person you love, built from the same institution that educated you both. If we are serious about economic empowerment, we must institutionalize HAO (HBCU Alumni Owned) companies as a KPI for alumni success. A different world wasn’t just the name of the show. It should have been the result.
By 2005, Reese and Johnson, both Hillman alums, launch RJ Med Group with three components: RJ Clinics, a chain of urgent care centers in HBCU cities: Jackson, Baton Rouge, Baltimore, Atlanta, Tallahassee, and Salisbury. Clinics cater to walk-ins and are integrated with digital records and telehealth by 2010. RJ Research Institute, a Black-led nonprofit focused on studying racial disparities in maternal health, hypertension, and mental health. Sponsored research partnerships with Xavier, Howard Med, and NIH. RJ Ventures, a holding company investing in HBCU med tech startups, pharmacy delivery services, and neighborhood health food stores. The group employs over 5,000 across the South and sponsors 200+ internships annually for HBCU students in medicine, public health, business, and tech. And of course, they endow the $10 million Hillman Health Equity Fellowship.
We’ve seen versions of this in real life: John and Nettie Singleton, co-founders of a Harlem-based pharmaceutical distribution company that grossed $22 million before being acquired. Dr. Patrice and Raymond Harris, founders of a network of Black-owned mental health clinics in Georgia. Michelle and Barack Obama—yes, yes, we know. But their synergy reminds us how intellect, ambition, and partnership can turn policy into legacy. Ron and Kimberly could’ve been the HBCU version of this—part CVS, part Kaiser Permanente, part Wakandan vision.
Because representation is not just about visibility. It’s about possibility. When the writers broke them up, it wasn’t just a romantic loss it was a missed opportunity to show Black America what family business could look like when rooted in love, purpose, and institution. Television shapes narratives. And narratives shape expectations. And expectations? They shape outcomes. If there were more shows modeling Black couples building businesses, maybe more Black MBAs and MDs would consider entrepreneurship as a couple’s journey. Maybe more HBCUs would invest in interdisciplinary labs between medicine and business schools. Maybe that “different world” we dreamed of would feel more like a blueprint than a slogan.
As HBCU alumni and stakeholders, we must write our stories forward. We must see every Kimberly Reese as not just a doctor, but a dynasty builder. Every Ron Johnson as more than a hustler, but an heir. And we must stop waiting for television to imagine our greatness. Let HBCUs teach love in their curriculum not just as poetry, but as partnership. Teach ownership as legacy. Teach entrepreneurship as service. Let our future Hillman couples dream bigger than GPAs and Greek life. Let them dream empires.
Kimberly Reese and Ron Johnson didn’t get the ending we hoped. But that doesn’t mean their story was pointless. It means we were given the tools. Now it’s on us to build.
HBCU Money 