Sister Souljah - Life After Death

“Back up,” was all I said to them at half volume.

“Welcome back.” One of them smiled at me with her crooked beige teeth.

“Where are my clothes?” I asked. I could now see that, yes, I was in their gray garment. “Where are my jewels?” I asked. “Where are my Louboutins?!” I screamed. These bitches had the nerve to put those cheap sandals on my feet while I was knocked out.

“All of your material possessions are in the box over there in the corner.” Sister Claire pointed. “But, as you can see, none of your material possessions could defend you from your choices or save you in your time of need.” I sat up. “Only Jesus could,” one of them said.

“Bridgette, not Jesus,” I said aloud. She was driving the car. “Where is she? Is she okay? How about Pretty,” I asked.

“Who?” Sister Claire said.

“There were three of us. Where are the other two?”

“You took the longest to heal. The other two young sisters are each in their rooms preparing for the service. We will have to go prepare as well. But you have Sister Petra to thank. She saw your eyelids and your fingers moving late last night. We ran right over first thing, expecting you to wake.”

“So get ready. We have already washed your body and returned your embroidered garment to you. Sister Claire just placed your sandals onto your feet. We are all eager to see you walk into the gathering. Everyone remembers you so well from your recitation of the Lord’s Prayer.” They turned to leave, one following the other. I looked around. Everything was same-same. Table for one, the pitiful guy plastered into the wall, a kettle of water, blah blah blah, minus the candle I once had. I slid over, then slowly stood. I lifted each leg one by one. I threw my hands up in the air and wiggled my fingers. I wished I had a mirror to check my face. Then I remembered, no mirrors here. No reflections either. I squatted to remove the ugliest sandals I had ever seen in my life-and-death time. I walked barefoot to the box of my “material possessions.” Of course I would wear my real clothes to the gathering. No one would choose the gray garment.

There was no blood on my eternal Chanel. My black lace blouse was fine. If there was blood there, it didn’t show up. I threw off the gray garment. I shook the precious lace pants just in case some soil had gotten on it from my being dropped onto the ground during the accident. But there was no soil. Gently, I put my lace on. I stepped into my Louboutins. Now I am sauntering down the corridor to the gathering simply to see Pretty and Bridgette. We need to plot to get back to where we belong. When I swung open the doors to the sanctuary, it was packed. Sister Claire, for some reason, wanted to point me out. I didn’t need her help to get attention. My style already distinguished me from every one of them—the nuns, the nuns in training, their staff, and each of their charity cases.

“Welcome-back song,” one of the excited-to-see-me nuns called out. Everyone gathered started singing some ridiculously corny song while she waved me over to the front where she was standing. There were no available seats anyway. Even the aisles were jammed. To me, it was just confirmation of how bogus this whole scene was. All these bitches been in here praying and not one of their prayers were heard or answered, obviously. I was up front and facing the crowd. Sister Claire placed her arm around my shoulder as Sister Maria and the other grannies were all giving me their scary welcome smiles while singing their happy song. My eyes widened after searching the crowd for Pretty and Bridgette. I saw Olga dressed down in Guess farmer jeans with the bib and all. Beneath the bib was a simple thin short-sleeved white tee. Seated next to her was some homeless-type-looking man. When I examined the man, hidden and crouched in the pew like he didn’t want to be there either, I realized it was the guy that I had vomited on. My eyes darted away from him but landed in the left corner. Standing below the exit sign, it was him, my lover and partner, owner of the Light House. I could tell he was doing his best not to stand out in this bleak, dim, dank, condemned convent. But because of his exquisiteness, he could not camouflage with the down-and-out crowd of helpless, homeless, sick, injured, lost, and pitiful. He tried. He was wearing sunglasses indoors. But, more importantly, he was wearing them down here in the Last Stop Before the Drop, where nobody wears sunglasses because there is no sun and no sunlight. His brand of choice was Gold & Wood. Of course no one would know that except me and him. The cheap and the poor can never recognize luxury or trace its origin. His Ermenegildo Zegna suit was so mean, I wanted to fly over and fuck him in the church. I had never seen him don a hat. But he was there holding his hat in his hand.

He must have seen me seeing him, staring and studying and admiring. He lowered his sunglasses slightly. Our eyes connected. I smiled, naturally. But when my eyes darted down to the pew beside where he stood, I saw the impossible. It was Dat Nigga, alive and in color, as they say. Boldly black and too big-bodied for the convent seating. Yet he was there. My jaw dropped open. I’m sure Dat Nigga had watched me watching my new lover with an intensity that he believed belonged only to and for him. My insides knotted. My feelings for my present and my past love conflicted, fought, and mixed even. How could this be? But why was I asking that question? How could any of this be? I am a dead bitch standing in the guest dormitory of a dank convent. I had already been murdered, whisked around for visitations, buried, trapped in a casket, paralyzed and swallowed by darkness, tortured and engulfed in horrifying sounds and circumstances. Converted into a serpent and then a dog. Stoned by a storm of rocks. Raised up and upgraded to a luxurious afterlife lifestyle, then crashed and killed a second time in a luxurious whip. If all of or even any of that is possible, why couldn’t Dat Nigga—whose body I saw collapsed, whose chest I saw opened and on fire, who was picked up by his father in his father’s body truck and “fed to the fire”—why couldn’t he be alive again? But what to do? What was my next move? Think, think, think…

“There’s a Nazi in the house!” Bridgette burst through the sanctuary doors wearing a wife beater and jean shorts, dragging a garden hose and shooting water like it was a gun shooting bullets. Everyone leaned, ducked, scattered, and panicked. She kept screaming, “Nazi. Nazi, Nazi, Nazi!” I didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about. Last time I heard her voice she was screaming. Now she was screaming again. “Grab him. Lock the doors. Form a human chain. There he is!” She pointed her water hose at my Commander in Chief of the Light House. But he was too smart, too swift, and too smooth. He slipped right out. My eyes dashed to Dat Nigga. He was dissolving again under the weight of the water. But so was Olga and the guy I vomited on. And so were a few other randomly seated convent guests. The nuns began choking on the smoke from the dissolving ones. One of the trainees began saying the Lord’s Prayer in a loud voice like it was a chant or she was in a trance. One granny started throwing white rocks that turned out to be huge chunks of salt. Bridgette dropped the hose. She ran over to Olga. But Olga was a pile of ashes. “Olga, I’m so sorry. I thought you and I were the same. You weren’t a demon. You were my sweetheart. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” she kept repeating. During the confusion, I walked right out. My black lace blouse was wet. So was my face and hair. But my legs are working. Now I’m running in the Louboutins that he had provided. Going to get my man.

A mean black Suburban with black-tinted windows was idling. It was not raining but the windshield wipers were on. That was him. His vehicle was the only glistening vehicle in the convent parking lot besides a wheelbarrow, a lawn mower car, a nineteenth-century bus, and the remains of the rocked, smashed, crashed BMW. I ran right over. Heard the Suburban locks click open as soon as I reached. I opened the door and jumped in my seat.