Sister Souljah - Life After Death

“So, uh, whoever owns this spot is so caked up, he could afford a seven- or eight-digit shoe inventory?”

She smiled. “ You know him . He is the one who made it possible for you and I to be here,” she said as though she and I were sharing some secret.

“Oh word, he owns the shoe store?” I double-checked.

“He owns the entire building, the whole spa, and all of the businesses on this street plus more.”

“How did you get this job?” I asked her. I knew it was bold and that she might tell me to mind my fucking business, the same way I tell people that all the time.

But instead she said, “How does a woman get anything she wants from a man?” Then she stared into my eyes as though she and I would finish off our conversation speaking only through our eyes. After a long pause, she said, “Whenever you want something from a man, satisfy him.” She winked. “And don’t keep him waiting.” She nudged me to join Bridgette and Pretty, who were waiting at the exit.

21.

“It’s a real lighthouse,” Bridgette exclaimed, as the Royce rolled along the torchlit path to his estate. “That means there must be a river or an ocean close by.” No one replied. The truth is, I had never heard of a lighthouse and had no idea what its purpose was. I just thought it was what he decided to name his property. And because we were in the Last Stop Before the Drop, the name Light House to me signaled that he was a very wealthy man. If light was a forbidden commodity, and he had plenty of it, that makes him king.

As we drew near, I saw it. It was a tower of light, the only thing that pierced the extreme blackness that was the atmosphere. Pierced but not nearly as powerful, like the sun that lights not simply a small area but the whole world. Upon arrival, we saw that his parking area was packed, as though we were arriving late to an indoor concert that had already begun. It was not wild and loud like his nightclub. There was no dance line, fight club, or crowd waiting to crash in. There was no red cage or red beast. Still, I knew there had to be a reason that we were all dolled up and smelling sumptuous. I was amped that my six-inch crystal Dolce & Gabbana stilettos were not being wasted tonight. And my new look and crystal mini and matching clutch were the most perfect eye-catchers.

“Olga,” was all he had to say. She got out and escorted Bridgette and Pretty to the guarded entrance. As I placed my mean manicured nails on the passenger door to join them, I heard the lock click. “Not yet,” he said smoothly. So I stayed still. He was silent for some seconds. “You are not afraid of me, are you?” he asked.

“I’m not afraid of nothing,” I said, with calm, sensual confidence. I meant it, too. Let’s face it. I’m a hood bitch who just served fifteen years on lockdown. I got shot dead. I endured the casket, the sewer, the stench, the paralysis, the screaming, the grinding, the breaking bones, the swarm of mosquitoes, the rashes, the mucus, the virus, the prolonged stays in deep darkness, and even the cruel cage in the animal factory. I’ve been a sexy serpent and a loved dog. I lost a love, the best sex I ever had. I was attacked by Succubus, who torched more than half my hair length. And I am still top bitch.

“For you,” he said, and pulled out a red satin pouch. I opened the red drawstring. Diamonds spilled into the palm of my hand. He reached in and pulled up a diamond necklace, the likes of which I had never seen. It was diamond chunks, not neat small princess cuts or tightly arranged gems. He placed it around my neck and clasped it. He went for the dangling diamond earrings still in my palm. He held one up so I could admire it first. Then he put each of them on. I felt like I owed him a blow job right then and there. But I didn’t want to ruffle his look or mine. Plus there was obviously a crowd of people awaiting our entrance. Even Bridgette and Pretty had gone in.

A gloved knock broke the spell I was under. It was his manservant, who gave only a hand signal after catching his attention. He got out and walked around to my door. When I stepped out, my stunner heels landed on a royal red carpet. I had not gotten to walk the red carpet on my reality-show debut. However, tonight I was having it all.

Red snow, no, red confetti, spilled out from overhead as soon as we walked through the doors of the Light House. It didn’t affect my flawless look or new haircut. I was beneath his wide red umbrella that he snapped open seconds beforehand. I liked that he had a team of men that surrounded and served him. That was very familiar to me. We were inside a huge and high ballroom facing a crowd of people cheering for him. There was even a live band. Only the drummer tapping the cymbals creating a stripped-down simple soundtrack for each step we took.

“The Ruler, the Ruler, the Ruler…” they all chanted, the male voices overpowering the women’s cheers. As I looked around into the crowd, other than the passionate expressions on the faces of the cheering, I was blown away by what I saw. There were two live all-white giraffes. One was posted in the left-hand corner and the other in the right. The stage on the back center wall was made of black opal and was designed as a shining black serpent, its glistening head raised up over the stage top. But more than that, there were short black pillars lining the perimeter. On top of each pillar was a live monkey. Stranger was the crowd. There were plenty of humans—or should I assume dead humans—all dressed for an exquisite party. Although none as exquisite as me and him. But there were also some suited beasts. Bodies standing upright but with three legs, their faces covered with hair except for their eyes and nose holes. Several guests had short- to medium-length tails. Some tails were thin and taut. Others were thick and hairy. Some short afro puff style. Faces of foxes on bodies of human design, all upright, not crouched or crawling on the floor. All had drinks in their hands or smoke in their mouths. There was a patch of human-looking people, except they each had only one eye. It was located on their chins. The spaces where eyes normally go left vacant, yet there were deep black eyebrows. There were dudes with six fingers. Some with eight fingers. There were women with elongated tongues that they couldn’t keep hidden in their mouths. There were enough humans, though, plenty of white ones and every complexion after white to the deep blackness.

Maybe this is the reason he asked me in the whip if I was afraid. But I wasn’t. I already figured it out. It was a costume party! Wish someone would have told me and Pretty and Bridgette. We didn’t have masks or horror accessories and gadgets. I was on some supermodel shit. Bridgette and Pretty were also dolled, but not as expensively adorned and refined as me. Besides, I was the only one wearing the chunky diamond necklace that he placed only on me. That was a confirmation that I was queen. And the moment I had that thought, the entire crowd bowed down. It was a half bow, and only he and I remained standing for some seconds. The band began playing and all heads lifted. It was an old joint, one of Brooklyn Momma’s picks. It was originally recorded by the Ohio Players, a cut titled “Fire.” The live performance made the hot record sound more incredible than vinyl or wax or digital CD could ever sound. I could hear the strum of the guitar, the stroke of the bass, the strike of the drums, the lure of the trumpets, the masculinity of the trombones. My whole body was stimulated by sound.

The lights dropped out. Suddenly a powerful strobe caused colored globes of light to spin around the room. My eyes were adjusting to the radical change. Then I heard his voice singing the words to the song that I knew well. Poppa had sung this song to Momma once at one of our big events. He was showing every one of our friends and family that Momma was his hot-to-death, badass wife and that no one else could fuck with her look or style. And that no other man could say he had a similar or equal beautiful thing. While Poppa mouthed these song lyrics to Momma, she strutted in the spotlight that was aimed directly over her. She didn’t say shit. Just showed everybody gathered her flawless dark-chocolate skin, her mean-ass walk, long-ass legs, thick thighs, tiny waistline, and all-natural cantaloupe-sized breasts. That’s why, when the spotlight hit me, like it just did, I began to strut my strut, swing my hips and dip it low. All hell broke out. They all cheered for me. Even he cheered and applauded all at the same time, his approval magnified by the mic. When I was done showing my supremacy, I strutted to him and clung on to him from behind. I didn’t love him… yet, like how I had loved Midnight for years, or Dat Nigga for the whole of my death life. It was more like I wanted to possess him and all that he possessed. I believe if a nigga has power and style, plus the look and the empire, the love will come slowly. He was older than me. I could tell. He had a son who seemed around the same age as Pretty. And although I was a few years older than Pretty at my “T.O.D.,” as she would say, I am definitely not old enough to be Pretty’s or any grown-ass adult’s momma.