Sister Souljah - Life After Death

“Don’t say shit about my mother. This may be another fucking realm but where I come from, you don’t say shit about anybody’s mother unless you want to get knocked out, stabbed, or shot dead,” I warned her.

“So you do have some emotion, concern for, and memory of your mother. I did not think so. After your body was shot dead, the Most Merciful ONE allowed you three visitations of your choice. You did not even think about or ask about or choose to visit your own momma . Honestly, you would not have been able to have visited her, though, because she is no longer of the Earth’s living and the three visitations are granted to say goodbye to the Earthly living ones whom you cared about the most and whom you would miss the most as your soul exited the Earth realm immediately after your death.”

“Are you a fucking mind reader?” I spit. “How would you know if I thought about my mother or who I visited after my death?”

“I cannot share with you just yet how I know.”

“Well shut the fuck up then!”

“Here,” she said, suddenly handing me her saddle bag. I didn’t like that she was giving me some type of hand-me-down even though it looked brand-new. But it was Gucci dope style. So I took it. It was heavy. I learned from living in the streets that if anybody hands you a bag, you better look in it right then and there. Know what you’re holding! So I looked. In it was a book so heavy that no one in their right mind would ever open or read it. Even I know an author should have some fucking consideration and keep it brief. That’s why I love magazines. They’re less wordy, more art and photography. They are constantly updated, so they keep up with the flow of fashion, the movement of models, celebs, and caked-up people, and display the finest furniture, newest technology, awesome travel destinations, elite products, and the flawlessness of jewels. I handed the saddle bag back to her.

“The BOOK is an English translation of the ‘Book of Guidance,’ the most important words revealed and written to the living. On its pages are the answers to every question you have and any one of us has ever had. Keep it in case you have a change of heart. The answers and the straight way will be right at your fingertips. There is a tiny dictionary in the bottom of the bag in case you don’t understand a word, just look it up.” She handed it back to me. I didn’t take hold of it.

“Bitch, you said I was dead. Why do I need a Book of Guidance with all of the answers to questions for the living?” I knew I trumped her, showed her how smart she isn’t.

“Because the soul is eternal. You need to know what the difference is between good and evil, right and wrong. Once you read these pages, you will be able to distinguish and understand and most importantly self-reflect. Don’t you care to know how come you are here at the Last Stop Before the Drop? Once you read, you will see the error in your choices and feel responsible for your missteps. Then you will will yourself to pray. Sincere prayers are the only path out of complete darkness.”

“Beep-beep.” A red G wagon rolled up, fully AMG kitted and rims glistening. It parked a short distance away. It had me mesmerized. Of course I had seen a Benz G Wagon before, but never a red one. It was so mean it seemed to glow. The tinted windows dropped down. “What are you waiting for? Get in!” Lucifer 66, Dat Nigga, said. He was calling for me. My forever nigga showed up just like I knew he would.

“Momma Lana Santiaga is not down here with you. She is in Heaven,” Bomber Girl said quickly. She thought she knew my weakness and tried to stab me in it. She stepped in close to me, trying to block him from my line of vision. She placed the strap of the bag over my shoulder. Maybe she thought that heavy-ass book would make it impossible for me to speed off. “Excuse me, Miss Winter,” she said, downshifting her tone now that I obviously had a better option. “Before you decide which path to take, I want you to know who I am and why it might matter to you.” In my mind I was like, You are a non-fucking-factor.

Real bitches like bad boys. I’m the realest bitch, so I strutted right over to my forever nigga and hopped in. Through the blackened window, I could still see the spark of the Diamond Rain girl. Then poof ! She suddenly exploded and disappeared. She left a trace of her hilab. The lavender sky and green atmosphere all faded to black. As me and him sped into the complete darkness, I opened the saddle bag, admiring the grade and texture of the leather, as well as the detail of the stitching. I decided to keep it. I lowered my window and tossed that heavy-ass book right out.

There was a foul breeze rushing into the rugged whip. Still, I kept my window down. I needed the air. I was concentrating on reducing my temperature. I had to prevent myself from suddenly turning into a blob of heat, especially before I got the dick-down that I was anticipating like a motherfucker. The only interruption to my thorough excitement about being back to human, and my pure enticement with him, was my fury with that little bomber bitch, who stood there with her bullet-lined waistline and a hand grenade around her neck. Yet, she tried to come off like she was some kind of fucking innocent angel. She needed to be armed and she knew it. Without her ammunition and weapon, I would have never hesitated to whoop her ass for mentioning Momma and reminding me of shit I worked hard to forget.

“I’m gonna need a drink,” I told my forever nigga. “Something strong,” I added.

“I got whatever you need. Whatever I ain’t got, I’ll get it,” he said solemnly, and I loved it.

“What did UBS say that got you upset?” he asked me calmly, to which I replied, “Don’t ever ask me about any other bitch. And when I’m with you , don’t say no other bitch’s name.”

8.

“I got an idea,” he said in a more like a thinking-to-himself tone. He pulled the G wagon to a stop. I don’t know what he was thinking but we were still surrounded by pitch black. He opened his car door and got out. “Stay right there,” he commanded me. I wasn’t going anywhere without him anyway. And as far as I know, there is nowhere to go. I was still tight ’cause the teenage bitch’s voice was revolving in my mind. For some bullshit reason, I couldn’t push it out. “Funny you should mention Momma. Funny you should mention Momma. Funny you should mention Momma. ” Her words and her voice were on a loop in my head.

Bomber bitch was forcing me into deep thought when in fact I think that, dead or alive, there are subjects and topics and things that a person should never have to think about. A dead person should be dead and without thoughts. I am dead and thinking about precisely the things that I never want to think about.

Bet all of the assholes who committed suicide were shocked and angry as hell when they found out that dead is not dead and they would be the same person after death, with the same thoughts that they had thought they were ending, getting rid of, silencing.

Now Momma was dead center in my mental line of vision. In that freeze-frame she was Brooklyn Momma, before the move to our luxurious Long Island mansion. Before some nigga who was jelly shot her in her face and permanently altered her perfect look. But most importantly, the picture of Momma in my mind was before she ever toked a hit of that crack pipe. I knew, after having fifteen years on lock to just sit and think about it, that for me to accept my mother, aka Momma, aka Lana Santiaga, aka the Baddest Bitch on the Planet, after her crack breakdown would be the same as rejecting myself. No! It would be the same as destroying myself. Brooklyn Momma was the voice in my head. She was the image in my eyes, my pattern, my fabric, my fashion. She was all of the ingredients mixed together that made me, me .