Sister Souljah - Life After Death

In addition to paying her sisters, Momma treated them to spas and clubs, hair salons, concerts, sports events, and parties and Broadway shows. Places they could never have afforded on their own dollar. Momma’s brothers all worked for Poppa. Momma made Poppa commander over them. Usually men don’t like that type of thing. But for baby sister Lana (who kinged and hooked the hottest hustler), everybody would do it her way, because she was her . Besides, Poppa made them capable, decent, and most importantly, hood wealthy. All of my cousins, my same age and of course older, kissed my ass because I was Lana’s golden child. So I learned how to rank everything and put everyone and everything in its proper place where it belonged, beneath me.

By thirteen, I was nine-millimeter dangerous and I knew it. I didn’t need no more instructions, homemade runways, or private concerts. I had watched and listened to and loved Momma so much I was Momma , the young version. And, because I was naturally a Momma-Poppa combo, I was considered an upgraded version, a limited edition of Momma. Poppa gave me that light-skin-and-long-black-wavy-hair look and pretty eyes with the long lashes that I didn’t have to buy from the cosmetics counter or wigs or weaves from the hair store.

Still, deep-brown, flawless-skinned, brick-house-bodied, long-legged, forever-young-faced, sultry Momma topped all, any- and everyone everywhere we went. I would see boys to men of all ages’ eyes dance back and forth, up down and all around as they tried to choose between us. For me, Momma was the queen and obvious best. My most luxurious, stylish, lovely one. She was hands down my most incredible possession. And Momma was my mirror .

It was great becoming best friends with Momma. Having someone in your teen-young years who is not trying to stop you from living, feeling, running wild a little bit, just for the experience and for the hell of it, is diamond class. She wouldn’t expect anything stupid that other parents expected, like for me to be all in love with and enslaved to going to school, earning stupid-ass best-attendance awards or even getting good grades and studying. We had plenty paper! Poppa earned it. We spent it. We had no reason to take the long bullshit route that lower-ranked, less-prepared families and people had to take. We weren’t mad or mean to any of those people. Many of them were our friends, neighbors, family, and workers. Besides, like I said, they bowed down, voluntarily.

Brooklyn Momma would smoke a blunt, and might sneak some lines of cocaine while running with her sisters. She would throw back a glass or two of champagne at our huge events, parties and celebrations. Still she could be overheard reminding all in our close family circle, “Crack makes us rich. Crack makes them crackheads!” Then she would laugh her laugh that would trigger anybody listening to laugh along with her. “Seriously though,” she would say while they were still laughing and she had switched her mood. “Crack is wack, don’t let it bring you down!” Momma used to tell me when choosing my friends, not to choose the children of the “customers,” because customers are crackheads who can never ever be trusted. Besides, they are beneath us and they don’t get the privilege to come into our family circle, apartments, or our luxurious world.

Crackhead Momma erased Brooklyn Momma, the phenom, who I thought would shine and live forever. Crackhead Momma caused Brooklyn Momma to drop down through all of the ranks that she set up. Crackhead Momma unlocked the doors and let in all that was beneath us. The crackhead was doing every single thing that Brooklyn Momma taught and showed me a real bitch should and would never do. Momma fucked up her currency. Her currency was her look. If she was my mirror, and she was, and smoking crack fucked up her look, which it did, what was that supposed to do for me, to me?

Seventeen and a stunner, surrounded by my Brooklyn friends I had, since day one . Friends who competed with one another to be the closest to me, friends who looked up to Momma and who wished she was their momma. Friends who either never met their fathers, hated their fathers or ain’t seen that nigga in a decade, admired, sweated, and studied Momma because Poppa wifed her, gave her everything and stayed. Crackhead Momma gave these same friends of mine, who quietly worshipped me and eagerly bowed down, the advantage and the opportunity to talk behind my back. Laugh right up in my face. Step right up to my rank and act like we was all, all of a sudden equal.

In the Santiaga family, Santiaga and me stayed true to the game. Even my sisters Porsche, Lexy, and Mercedes all rebounded, landed on their feet, and kept it royal. I never ever said it out loud, but that’s why I pushed Momma way to the back of my mind, and deleted her from my talk, mention, and memory. And even if there is a Jannah or whatever, and Momma is there in Heaven, if she don’t look and feel and talk and act familiar like Brooklyn Momma, I don’t need or want to see her. To see her would be to kill my own self. And I never ever been a suicidal bitch. Crackhead Momma was and is an unacceptable complete fucking embarrassment to me.

9.

“Crazy bitch bombed us,” Dat Nigga said. Guess after the six stops he made on the way back here to our firehouse, Bomber Girl had the time to do her thing. Still I played dumb to test him and asked, “Who?” He looked at me sideways with half a smile and replied, “You asked me not to call out any other bitch’s name in your presence.”

“That’s right,” I said, feeling satisfied that I had reduced the Diamond Rain girl, aka Siddiqah, aka Bomber Girl, aka the young bitch, to being referred to by him simply as “that crazy bitch.”

The young bitch had blown the sturdy front door of the firehouse right off its hinges. But because down here there is no alternation of day and night, no moon or sunshine, no traffic lights or street lanterns, it was next to impossible to see and measure the damage. Immediately outside where we stood there was only complete blackness. Facing the door that was no longer there, we saw only the blackness of the corridor leading into his place, which remained black every day until he chose to light one of his twelve flame torches that still stood cemented in the floor even after all of the attacks and wind wars that shook the house.

He picked me up. I loved being carried in his strong arms. Loved that he could do chin-ups lifting both of our body weights at the same time, effortlessly. “I have to unload the trunk. I’ll make sure you are safe inside first,” he said. Soon as his Timbs hit the floor inside of the corridor, I could hear the sound of broken glass beneath each of his steps. He stopped, uttered, “Crazy bitch” again, and walked until he had to dip low to enter in through his monkey bars and toss me onto the bed. “Don’t move.” He lit one torch on the left side, by me.

“Do you have a flashlight?” I asked before he walked away.

“I prefer fire. You know that.”

“I’m gonna clean up every trace of her. I’m asking for the flashlight and a broom so I can do it right. I know you have both because I know you have whatever I need .” I smiled at him nicely.

I high-beamed the Lumen industrial flashlight, scanning the floor to see just how bad it was. The glass didn’t appear like it resulted from some chaotic explosion. It seemed it had been purposely placed. It was as if someone had one of those salt-spreading machines that spit out thick salt during the winter storms to thoroughly melt the snow and ice. Except it was as though someone had used that type of machine to spread glass everywhere instead. I peeped a pair of his kicks right by our bed. Perfect, I’ll put these on. I didn’t know the whereabouts of my red boots anymore. When I put one of his kicks on my left foot, I expected them to be way too big. I didn’t expect them to have a pair of panties stuffed inside. I removed the sneaker and pulled them out. Knew they wasn’t mine. I don’t wear none. I smelled them. Smelled like pussy and his dick, a mixture . I’ll remove every trace of every bitch, I thought to myself. I wasn’t angry. It was my first time being back here for what felt like at least six months sitting by the sewer with paralyzed legs. As I began to sweep, beginning in the area of the bed that I just got off of, and clearing each way as I moved along, I began to discover all types of shit that belonged to other bitches. I put it all in a heap, lit the bottom of the straw broom with the flame on top of the metal-poled torch, and burned it all. When he walked in finally and saw all of his bitches’ shit on fire, he didn’t react. It was the perfect response to me. Meant he knew I was his top choice and got the respect that he needed to give and show me that I needed to never ever have to ask for or mention.