Sister Souljah: Life After Death

Eventually my temperature decreased. Once it did I was more than just a glob of heat. I could feel my limbs again. It was like I got my body back and now the heat was just moving in my chest like my titties were on fire. After calming myself, I accomplished turning myself back to cold, my natural state. That’s when I promised myself, I’m moving whoever murdered me to the top of my “payback’s a bitch” list. It had taken me fifteen minutes after my arrest to put together my payback list. But it took me fifteen years to put together each scheme on exactly how I was gonna do it. Smarter, I knew I had to take revenge without getting found out. If I made one mistake I could end up back in prison and that wasn’t even remotely a possibility no matter what I had to do to prevent it.

In my payback plot there was no murder. I’m not a murderer, I’m innocent. I served fifteen years for nothing. True, I wanted to hustle and blow up big in the streets. But who the fuck gets arrested for their thoughts? I never actually sold one rock, powder, or pill. But now that someone crossed the line and deaded me, I would turn into what I never was before. Even if that means monster. Who did it? I didn’t even have no murder-type beef like that with anyone anymore. Who did it? Who did it and why? Think, think,think, I told myself. Then it felt like something shot through my chest and grabbed me. I was on the move again after being stuck for who knows how long.

When the whirling feeling stopped, a sort of free high that I was starting to appreciate, my hearing came back, but not my vision. Ah shit! I could hear Biggie on the track “Who Shot Ya?” I was like, Yeah is that supposed to be funny? But I was excited to hear music, loud, clear, and crisp like it was coming through some even better than Bose, McIntosh super expensive speakers, not some bullshit Department of Corrections radio. I was even more excited to hear the livest music of the ’90s, when I was a teenager at the absolute tip-top of my royalty. After I was locked down and the ’90s slowly disappeared, and when we had the DOC radio turned up, I couldn’t feel nothing from the music. It wasn’t just because the radio was cheap. The new artists just didn’t have “that thing.” They were not the type of hip-hop heads or singers that got me rah-rah excited, hot, and kept me listening and loyal. The ’90s had powerhouse artists who spit that rhyme and sang the songs that snatched a bitch’s heart out her chest, made her go temporarily insane or caused her legs to open voluntarily. Nineties rappers and hip-hop music ruled the airwaves, reflected our culture, and moved our streets. It was dominant, not only in Brooklyn, but in all hoods in America and around the world. All my peeps knew that even without ever traveling far from the block. Nineties hip-hop shook the planet. And, in the real lives of real niggas, what was said, rhymed, or sung on a hip-hop track even dictated which niggas lived and which niggas died. Word.

Ever seen a dead bitch dance? Me neither, but I was doing it. Ol’ Dirty Bastard was killing the track of his hit titled “Brooklyn Zoo.” I stayed grooving all alone until I realized that I could hear muffled, murmuring voices. It sounded like a group of people talking, but the music prevented anyone from hearing what they were saying exactly. I stopped dancing and waited for the track to end, but Ol’ Dirty merged into Jay-Z’s “Jigga What, Jigga Who” and I was like, Oh hell yeah. It’s a party! Then I got pumped and was like, “It’s my party!” My private after-party, after coming home from da joint. It was scheduled to start at 11 p.m. after all the reality-TV shit and promotions was finished for the day. It was exclusive for only my girls who been through the same shit as me, did time with me too and of course they was each allowed to bring their nigga. Wait! That after-party was supposed to take place the same night of the day I got released. Then I got tight. Is this the same day I got murdered? Felt like forever. And, are they having my after-party on the same night even though I got killed?

The music flowed on for a long time. I could only tell ’cause I was counting the tracks that the DJ spun. Eighteen cuts, sixty-six minutes later, a non-nineties joint came on. That nigga Young Jeezy a’ight. But to me it signaled that my throwback after-party was about to end. Then the music lowered and a girl’s voice shouted, “Y’all ain’t gotta go home but y’all gotta get the fuck outta my crib! I got two kids and they won’t keep their asses in the bed till y’all leave.” It was the voice of my girl Asia, which confirmed yes, this is my after-the-reality-show-party after-party. The crowd laughed and I could hear the door opening and closing and people’s Timbs, heels, kicks, and flats walking out.

“Nigga gimme back my Bacardi before I embarrass your ass!” Asia shouted. Obviously one nigga tried to steal a bottle. Asia caught him.

“Come on girl, you got mad shit in here. Can’t a nice nigga get more nice without you getting mad?” I heard a tussle. Then the door slammed. I’m thinking how it wasn’t really Asia’s Bacardi. I put up the paper to fix up her place and buy her a sound system, a new couch, and for her to get weed free-flowing and the bar fully stocked. I had a budget and could arrange for shit like that. I could’ve only had the one party at the club celebrating my debut on the first day of filming the reality show. Elisha covered costs for that. But that was like for the film crew and other professionals connected with the show. That’s why I needed the after-the-after-party party. Ain’t nothing like a house party, at least in my memory. I wanted to capture that and just chill with my girls and their niggas, all men and women who been high and low and locked, but because of my show, was ’bout to be high again. A house party, where we could and would do whatever off camera.

“Fuck that bitch, she thought I forgot,” I suddenly heard Simone’s voice, an angry whisper. A little light started bleeding through the darkness that had just surrounded me. My vision now was dim, like there was a vision-control button. The type of buttons we had in our Long Island mansion after Santiaga had suddenly moved us out of Brooklyn right after my sixteenth birthday. In every room we were able to adjust the intensity of the lights. But here, where I was standing in Asia’s apartment, I was stuck on very dim vision, but it was better than the blackout I had just had.

“I never forgot. Winter like to play dumb. So I went along with it and played dumb too. Fuck, we was locked up in the same joint. I had to look at her regardless. So I used her.” Simone was close up in Natalie’s face. Natalie is short, so Simone was looking down on her, like dominant.

“Yeah, well, if you gonna use a bitch, use her all the way! Winter got us the TV show! She put us on! You kilt her. Now all of us lost a bag,” Natalie said.

Simone shot me! Simone shot me! Simone shot me! was running through my head.

“Word, we should beat your ass for fucking up everybody’s paper,” my girl Reese said, cutting her eyes while unbuttoning her coat that she had just been buttoning.

“Reese, if any of y’all could of beat my ass you would have tried it already. But y’all know what time it is,” Simone threatened. Reese lunged forward fast and punched Simone in the face. Simone bitch-slapped Reese in return, which sparked Toshi to jump wild, and all three of them started thumping.

“Don’t fuck up my house,” Asia screamed. Then my girl Zakia started flicking the light switch on and off, off and on, as though that could influence or stop the fight. She was messing up my already-dim view. But I did see Natalie creeping up on Simone. She tried to crack Simone over the head with a bottle of Cîroc. Simone leaned, dodging the direct blow, and the bottle impacted on her shoulder but didn’t break. Simone snatched it from Natalie’s grip. Zakia stopped flicking the lights.