Sister Souljah - Life After Death

I glanced to my right. In an alcove in the wall was a men’s shoe rack, three levels high. Seven velvet-lined slots on each row, for seven pairs of shoes. Maximum capacity, twenty-one. My eyeballs zoomed into each slot recognizing what only the Queen of Queens could recognize. Of course, because a broke bitch would never even know what she was looking at. A connoisseur of kicks, I saw on the two bottom rows sat side by side a collection that only wealth and fame could get hands on and feet in. The red-and-black Jordan’s Banned were autographed by Michael Jordan himself. That’s big. The only kicks that could sit beside those were the autographed Kobe Bryant Mike Zoom Colby white-and-gold striped. Next in the lineup was LeBron James 8 South Beach. In the other velvet slots were men’s black Gucci kicks, Prada high-tops, and an assortment of Air Force Ones, some custom designed and unavailable at retail.

I am impressed. Were all of at least fourteen of the young men in the gym caked up, and these were their kicks? Were the remaining seven of the young guys broke bastards with no shoes? I laughed and had to say to myself, “ You got some nerve! You barefoot bitch!” Or was the whole rack of twenty-one pairs of shoes all for the feet of the owner? Amazingly, in the top slot was a pair of Aubercy diamond-studded shoes, next to a pair of Louis Vuitton Richelieus, next to a pair of Berlutis, next to a pair of Isaias, next to a pair of Tom Fords.

Tom Ford! He is my fashion designer hero. For the only years that matter Ford was the creative director of Gucci. He made Gucci lingerie, clothes, eyewear, footwear, and accessories so fucking sexy that any nigga or bitch anywhere in the world wearing Gucci from head to toe fucking slayed the scene, ruled the room, rocked the party, and shocked the streets. The Santiagas, we “pulled a Gucci” plenty of times. Our whole family Gucci’d out from under, inner, and outerwear and accessories. On those days and nights we stole the light and walked above the heads of niggas who were on a budget and could only cop one Gucci piece, like a key chain, belt, wallet, or a money clip. While I was locked up, Tom Ford and his man Domenico De Sole left Gucci and opened up their own elite Tom Ford line of every fashionable thing imaginable. His designer handbags were proof of his fashion supremacy. On lock when I saw them in my mags, I thought they killed the Birkin, even though Birkin was trending. Real fashionistas recognize real. When Ford and Domenico left Gucci, they took the stitch and the style, the sense and the allure, the quality and the reign over all, with them. In fact, when they left, it was the same as when Princess Diana “left” the boring-ass royal family, or the same as when Santiaga “left” the streets he ruled. Or like when Notorious B.I.G. “left” music. Or like when Jordan and Allen Iverson and even Dennis Rodman left the court. The game just wasn’t the same no more.

“That thing” is something that can’t be bought or sold. You either got it or you don’t. Hell, “that thing” can’t even be stolen. How a bitch like Simone like them apples? Oh fuck, don’t think about her. I don’t want to get angry and disappear. The point is, even if some new him or her or this or that arrives on the scene and tries to step in the shoes of the ones who got “that thing” in their blood, body, or look, in their profession, talent, or skill, in their hands, feet, or voice, or in their sports music, or whatever! The newcomer, even if he or she or it is a great imitator or knockoff, can never ever reproduce the same level of feeling or sound, movement or hustle, fashion or flow or perfection.

I felt a little sad for like six seconds squatting there at the golden door. Snap out of it, I reminded myself, a mirror and… I glanced to my left. In the left alcove I saw a six-thousand-dollar pair of Jimmy Choo’s Avril crystal shoes sitting on top of a shoe rack, packed with designer women’s footwear. I stared. The crystals sparkled even though they were not in the sunlight. However, my fashion eyes were redesigning them, flooding each shoe with princess-cut authentic diamonds tightly and properly placed leaving no opening to see the shoe fabric. And on the back that hugs the ankle, six small emeralds. That would have been even more Fuck the worldish! I laughed. I’m a dead bitch redesigning a pair of six-thousand-dollar shoes into a pair of six-hundred-and-sixty-six-thousand-dollar shoes.

Not funny. I picked up the pair of crystal-flooded Jimmy Choo shoes. I stood up and placed them onto my pretty feet. At first they didn’t fit. Suddenly they did. I must’ve wanted these pretty bad, I thought to myself. Before I couldn’t grasp anything into my hand, not paper, or envelopes, or even water. I pranced through the left side of the sealed-shut solid-gold-at-minimum plated door without knocking, ringing, or activating the security screen or alarms. I walked through same as if the pure gold door was made of nothing but air.

A circular scene was what I was seeing now, sexy curved walls instead of flat and straight lines, boxes, squares, and rectangles. It was all quarter circles, semicircles, ovals, and even walls that seemed to swerve. I was blown away by it. There was no drywall, plywood, or paneling in this palace, or even the other buildings that seemed to be all part of one to-fight-or-die-for empire. Even the clay potted flower and plant shelves as well as sitting spaces were indentations carved into the walls so sturdy and solid I imagined they could withstand a bulldozer.

Whoever’s place this is, they’re in love with the sky. They must’ve told the architect no ceilings, just domes, and clear not stained glass, so they could watch the sun rise and set or the moonlight pouring down stars. I was so fucking impressed.

I searched for family photos and paintings. I could tell this circular building was lived in. Everything about it screamed “occupied,” even though it was cleaner than the Board of Health. Instead of pictures, the walls were covered with tiny pastel-colored ceramic pieces so perfectly placed that even when the walls curved, the pattern of the tiles and flow of the art didn’t break. It was so precise. It was kind’ve crazy, I thought. This property existed behind a fifteen-foot-high white solid rock wall, but on the inside of the buildings, there were no walls separating one room from another like we are accustomed to having in our houses and mansions. In this circle, the kitchen was at the center of the huge wide space. It was so doped off that it could have been mistaken for a… a… what?

Fact is, I didn’t have shit to compare what I was seeing to. The dangling utensils and steel pots and pans were outdone by the immaculate collection of tiny to massive all-glass pots on the stovetop. There was even a glass frying pan. I had never seen cookware like this before. One refrigerator freezer was as wide as three family refrigerator freezers. Two stoves and ovens, a total of ten burners. A flat griddle for pancakes and a waffle iron for waffles, and blenders, and cappuccino machines and graters, slicers, choppers, and toasters and even a deep fryer, a dough mixer, pasta maker, and an old-school popcorn machine, with the butter bin designed like the one in your favorite movie theatre. Ceramic dishes and deep bowls and water and juice gourds and deep-welled decorated ceramic soup spoons. How many servants did they have? How is a lived-in space so perfectly clean? I started to doubt my own eyes, was searching for crumbs or dust or something spilled, even a droplet of water. Found nothing. Figured I was just bugging and reminded myself, the mirror the mirror the mirror, which led me to walk down the corridor in my crystal pumps that I wore like they were stilettos.