Musuta Kusaka's Everyday Journey with Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion in Japan

Of course not— that’s what you want to say about some news. And yet, the more unbelievable it sounds, the more likely it turns out to be true. It’s a tricky era we live in.

Next year, that Kazuko Hosoki will become a Netflix drama.
And the lead? Erika Toda. You’re kidding. That’s wild—in so many ways.

Kazuko Hosoki was a fortune-teller whose fierce charisma once dominated the media. People say she lived a turbulent life. She passed away in 2021, at the age of 83.

Erika Toda stars as Kazuko Hosoki in the Netflix series “You’re Going to Hell,” which depicts the shocking life story no one knew about, and will be released in 2026: Movie News – Movie.comThe Netflix series “You’re Going to Hell,” which depicts the turbulent life of fortune teller Kazuko Hosoki, will be released in 2026 and will star Erika Toda.eiga.com

When I read that news, I thought of a certain sofa. More than 25 years ago—back when Armageddon was the big hit movie, and I was still a high school kid at the turn of the century.

One day, when I came home from school, my uncle was waiting for me. “Hey, Yuta! Give me a hand, will ya?” Out front was his light truck. On the flatbed sat an absurdly dignified sofa—four of them, in fact. He wanted to bring them into the house. “You got these again from someone?” “Kid, each one of these costs more than this truck.” He grinned like a delinquent who’d just found a hundred-yen coin.

He was once like a stand-in father to me—a former yakuza.
Thanks to his mysterious connections and his surprising generosity, he was always receiving or offloading random things: a microwave, a rice cooker, a concentration booster machine, a waterbed, a Christmas cake, an American Shorthair cat, a Golden Retriever—basically, lots of katakana items. That brazen sofa was apparently one of them.

We faced each other and started hauling it off the truck and into the house. “Careful with your back, this thing’s no joke.” Yeah, no kidding. My knees were shaking, my back bending backward, my fingers turning red and raw.
It was heavy. Unbelievably heavy.

He used to transport broken motorbikes for a living, and I was a former judo club member—yet together we could only move it a few steps at a time. It had no place in an ordinary home. It was like carrying a tombstone. (Not that I’ve ever carried one—and shouldn’t, obviously.)

“Don’t drag it! Don’t scratch it!” Yeah yeah, you watch it too.
What are you hiding inside this thing, huh? Something white and powdery? Something black and bang-bang?

By the time we finished, sweating and nearly in tears, all four sofas somehow fit into the tiny living room. But now half the space was gone. There was only room to stand or sit—nothing in between. The old CRT TV was right in my face. I could barely breathe. It felt like a karaoke box.

Still, I was thrilled. It was the first sofa ever in our Kusakari household— the moment our ima (living room) became a living room. “Pretty damn comfy, huh?” “Yeah, firmer than I expected.” The seat was taut but supportive; the backrest deep enough to stretch out comfortably. The glossy fabric felt smooth yet breathable— maybe even silk. I could’ve sat there for hours. Expensive, sure, but for a reason.

“It’s the same model as the one in the National Diet Building,” he said. Okay, too expensive. Figures. I decided not to ask any more questions. Ignorance is bliss.

“You’ll fall into hell.” A few days—or maybe weeks—later, we were watching TV when my uncle stopped on a variety show. On screen, an older woman with a husky voice was intimidating her co-guest. Her hair was swept back elegantly, her makeup refined, yet she radiated an almost supernatural intensity— eyes sharp enough to pierce through human weakness.

Pointing at the screen, my uncle said, “Ah, that’s her! These sofas came from her house.”

It was Kazuko Hosoki.

“This Hosoki lady, see—she was close with a top boss.” He raised his pinky. “When a boss asks if you want something,
you don’t say, ‘No thanks.’” I didn’t ask who that boss was.
I had college entrance exams coming up, and there are things you’re better off not knowing.

“You know, yakuza are surprisingly religious. They don’t believe in gods or Buddhas, yet every office has a household shrine. Their tattoos are of Fudo Myoo or Bodhisattvas.” He went on, half-talking to himself.

“So you get these bosses who secretly visit fortune-tellers or shamans. Even politicians or CEOs have their go-to spiritual advisors.” “Yeah, I’ve heard that.” “Well, Hosoki’s probably one of ’em. A boss’s life is lonely, kid. You’ve got to feed your men, deal with betrayal, watch your back for bullets. Not so different from a CEO, really.” Pretty sure CEOs don’t have people aiming at them, though.

“So that means her fortune-telling must be the real deal. You don’t want your bullets hitting the wrong target because of bad luck, right? Heh heh heh.” You’re laughing, though.

“I never met the top boss myself, but those guys, they’ve got a strange kind of magnetism. Only real men can lead a bunch of good-for-nothings. And as for women? Well… Hosoki must’ve fallen for one, too.”

“But hey, if she could hold her own against the top boss,
she must’ve had nerves of steel. With that kind of guts, who needs fortune-telling? Maybe it was the boss who owed her his rise.”

“She must’ve gone through hell herself. All those postwar yakuza did.” His voice suddenly went soft. I think “yakuza” meant more to him than he could explain.

I nodded along, secretly thrilled. That sofa? On TV? She sat on it?! No wonder it gleamed like that! That firmness, that scent—totally different level. Back then, TV was sacred— when Kōhaku Uta Gassen got over 50% ratings, and celebrities still felt like celebrities. Connecting our world to the TV world— that only happened in horror movies. I was too naive to think deeper, and too shallow to study harder. I failed all five of my college choices.

My uncle loved pulling my leg, so maybe the whole story was nonsense. A tall tale, like all his others. Now, a quarter century later, Google could probably confirm every name he mentioned.

But I don’t want to know. If the story turned out to be true,
I’d be terrified. I’d need more than one liver to handle that chill.

Besides, my uncle would’ve said, “Civilians without honor are worse than gangsters.” And really, that’s what most underworld gossip online is—honorless noise.

He never spoke ill of Hosoki. I sensed in that restraint something deeper— a mutual recognition between two people who had both carried their share of infamy. Those who live in the shadows, snapping the fingers that point at them, and still manage to step into the light— their shadows are always heavy. They became strong only because they had to survive weakness. For them, honor was the only thing left to believe in. I can still hear his voice: “She must’ve gone through hell herself.”

As for the sofa— our three cats used it as a scratching post and hairball launcher, reducing it to shreds in no time.
My uncle shouted, “You’ll get cursed!” Maybe he was right.
Not long after, our family fell apart.

Maybe it really was the curse of You’ll Fall into Hell. Of course not. But then again— the more unbelievable it sounds, the more likely it turns out to be true.

(End)