Sister Souljah - Life After Death

“We will descend here,” Young Drummer said. I could feel myself moving down. Not the thrill of the sudden deep drop of a roller coaster. It was the sway of a swing, a very gentle landing. “Close your eyes,” he said, and I did.

I could hear the sound of a waterfall. Once I could feel the ground beneath my feet, he said, “Look down first.” I did. I could see the shadow of sunlight, lighting up low-cut green grass and a purple butterfly fluttering at my feet. “Don’t look up yet,” he cautioned me, then handed me a pair of sunglasses that I saw him ease out of his left pocket. “Put these on, Ma. You were so long without sunlight that your eyes will need to adjust. I have heard of situations where the sudden introduction to the sunlight after existing in the Last Drop and traveling here has caused some eyes to burn and others to bleed. So I came prepared for your safety.” I put them on. “Now look up slowly,” he said, releasing my hand that he had been holding.

When he let go I could feel the warmth leave with his palms. We were facing a huge fountain that was gushing water on seven levels. I counted. “Amal Nafura is the name of this fountain. In your English language, which you love, it is called the Fountain of Hope,” he said while removing his drum and his drumsticks. He sat them atop a bench that faced the fountain. Then he squatted and loosened the laces on my black Pradas. Switching to his own feet, he removed his kicks and even his socks and placed them to the side. He then rolled up his fabric cargo pants with all of the pockets and cuffed them at his knees. He then rolled up his four-pocket safari-style shirt and cuffed his sleeves at his elbow. “Remove the sunglasses now and lift your head slowly. Introduce your eyes to the sun.” His words moved me. Introduce your eyes to the sun. For me they had double meaning. I was seeing the sun in the sky that I had missed and yearned for, but over time had almost forgotten. I was also now seeing clearly a son, who I had never yearned for, barely knew, and whose existence I had rejected and easily forgotten. He saw me staring and said, “What are you waiting for? Remove your shoes.” I did. “Tie you hair back.” I did. He pulled a men’s kerchief from one of his top pockets, stepped close to me, and used it to cover my hair. The nigga in me wanted to say, Hold up! Don’t even try it. But I didn’t. “Cuff your hands like this. Scoop up water and use it to wash your whole face. Rinse your mouth, clean your ears and nose, even inside of your nostrils.” He demonstrated, and I followed his example. He scooped up more water into his palms. I did the same. He began washing his hands and arms up to his elbows where his shirt was cuffed. So did I. He then began washing his calves. So did I. He then began washing his feet. So did I.

“It is good to learn, isn’t it?” he asked me. “So let’s test it out. What are we doing right now?”

“We are washing ourselves hoping to get clean.”

“What for?” he asked swiftly.

“Because we traveled a long distance and maybe we got a little dirty?”

“And what else?” he asked me, peering into me with his sixteen-years-young-way-too-serious eyes. I stood there thinking but nothing else really came to mind. Of course people wash up and shower to get clean. Maybe he wanted me to add that when we are clean we feel better. But isn’t that obvious?

“What other reason do people wash themselves for, besides to get clean from dirt?” he asked again.

“I don’t know another reason,” I told him, frustrated.

“I am washing so that I can make a prayer. Before praying, each of us are guided to prepare ourselves by cleansing. People who are not playing and who are not pretending know in their souls that this is the right way to do before praying to Allah, the ONE, the Most High. We pray five times daily. The Book of Guidance, which is the Holy Quran that you tossed out of the window when you were fleeing with the devil towards an evil destination, also guides us to wash before prayer.”

“All of this? Every time?” I asked. As if praying once isn’t annoying enough, having to wash this way before praying each time and being expected to pray more than one time a day or week I thought was too much. Like some type of crazy cult or something. But I did not say this to Young Drummer. He seemed really involved in his beliefs, and I like to take it light most of the time.

“The nuns prayed a lot but didn’t wash before each of their prayers.” It slipped out.

“The nuns are still pretending,” he said, and I was like What!

“They are pretending that Mary, who is the mother of Prophet Jesus, is the mother of Allah. They are pretending that Jesus is God. They are pretending that the Holy Spirit is also God and that the three, the father the son and the Holy Spirit, are mutual partners. This is false. Allah is ONE. He begets not, nor is he begotten. Allah has no parents, no partners, no equals, no children. And none is like Allah. Allah created Prophet Jesus, peace be upon him, the same way that Allah created Prophet Abraham, Moses, Mohammad, peace be upon them and all of the Prophets. And Allah created Mary, mother of Prophet Jesus. And what they are calling the Holy Spirit was created by Allah as well. All three of them are servants of Allah. None are equal to Allah. None are partners of Allah and none of them or you or I are children of Allah. And none of the Prophets, peace be upon them, nor anyone else or anything, can create a soul, a life, a living thing. And none of them created the sun, moon, and the stars or the universe. Allah created them all. Some say that science created the Earth. Allah created science and the Earth. Allah created Heaven and Hell and everything in between. Allah even created time. Allah is ONE.” The way his words came out caused me to feel that they were not words that were false or that could be argued or joked away. And there was no trace of laughter or doubt in him.

“And if in between your last prayer and your next prayer, you have not used the bathroom, urinated, moved your bowels or passed wind, you do not have to re-wash,” he further explained.

“So even farting is a sin!” I made light of it and laughed.

“No. I see you are still playing and pretending. Farting, as you say, is not a sin. It is an indication that you must wash before making your next prayer. Everyone passes wind,” he said and he was still calm. But in his eyes I could see that he wished I was a little smarter. I am smart. Just not really interested in getting all involved in doing this and that religious thing.

“So let me ask you. Why do you and I need to make a prayer right now?” he said.

“It was your idea! I guess because the great big book says so,” I said without laughter this time. I was laughing inside, though.

“I see it is difficult for your surface mind to connect up with your inner self and there is some disconnect with your soul,” he said.

“You sound like a doctor. You’re sixteen. Talk about getting up a game of basketball or meeting a girl you like. But probably most girls won’t like you. It’s not your look. But take it from me, you’re way too serious.” I tried to put him up on game. He ignored my advice.

“I washed in order to make a prayer. I am making the prayer to give thanks to Allah for the mercy that Allah allowed me, to travel to you and to arrive at the Last Stop Before the Drop safely. I am giving thanks for the gift of mercy to heal you to be able to stand from the ground by the gutter where you were paralyzed and unable to walk and talk. I am thanking Allah for the mercy to travel with you, and for both of us having arrived here safely. And for Allah’s mercy in opening your mind, heart, and soul just enough for you to say, ‘Lah-il-la-ha-illa-huwa,’ which I told you before, means, ‘There is no God but Allah.’ You said these words not once, but several times. And for a period of time it was all that you would say,” he said. He was low-key reminding me of just how desperate I was before he showed up. Yeah, I said the words. But, it’s not like I remembered what they meant. I just remembered that I needed to say them to get out of the Last Stop Before the Drop.