Sister Souljah - Life After Death

“I killed myself too,” study bitch admitted. “I jumped right into the gorge and got impaled on a sharp rock,” she said without any emotion of any kind.

“I murdered myself,” slapper bitch, daughter of the dictator, confessed, which is the same as suicide, but I guess she needed to state the same thing in some unique way for some dumb reason.

“I was raped and murdered,” one of the slapper’s helpers said.

“My mother killed me,” the other slapper’s helper said.

“My goddamn husband murdered me,” Bridgette said in her wide-awake voice.

“I was shot dead. That’s four murders and three suicides,” I said.

“And don’t forget to add on that we each killed at least one of our children, so that’s at least seven dead kids between all of us,” one of slapper bitch’s helpers said.

Then came my second realization on the night of the same day. I could never have committed suicide . I love myself to an extreme. I trust myself. I am devoted to myself. I worship myself. I was not thinking a lie. I was thinking only the truth. Young Drummer said that he loves me, but that he does not worship me. He worships and fears only Allah. There is a separation between love and worship then. Even though love contains love. Worship contains love. But love of anything or anyone else should not contain worship, even love of self. For me and for all of these souls to get out of the City of Mercy, which is an incredible “temporary” place to be, we have to make a sincere prayer to Allah, the One who created all souls. Sincere means “genuine, real, not mixed and not deceitful, pure.” I was blown away by that definition. Especially when I put two and two together and understood I had to make a sincere prayer. No one knows better than me what genuine, pure, not mixed means. This is the law of high fashion. If I want a mink coat, it should be 100 percent the fur of the mink. Not half or a quarter of or three-quarters of or a pinch of rat or dog hair or faux fibers or fillers. Genuine means genuine. The same goes for pure gold versus 14-karat gold or 18-karat gold, or etcetera. That’s not pure. Pure means pure, period.

So to make one sincere prayer could take me forever. But I don’t have forever. The City of Mercy, Young Drummer said, is temporary in preparation of a sincere prayer, made by a soul who is not pretending and not playing. Bomber Girl said that the Last Stop Before the Drop had a population of five million souls. I had laughed at that. I never believed that. But now that I saw that the only way out was to make one sincere prayer, I saw why five hundred million souls are stuck there in the Last Stop Before the Drop. The only way up is sincerity. The alternative is down, which is the Eternal Fire. I don’t ever want to be a burnt bitch. I’m clear.

The Eternal Fire was created by Allah. It is the place where souls who refuse to learn, grow, and change for the better are dropped and forever tormented. The Eternal Fire was created by Allah for those souls who refuse to worship Allah. “That’s me!” I shouted like a person rudely awoken from a nightmare terror. I sat up in my bed. It was not a nightmare because I was never asleep. Do not tell a lie , I reminded myself. It was not a nightmare. I haven’t gone to sleep yet, I confirmed. So the third realization was that worship contains love, yes. But worship also must contain fear. I reflected on what Young Drummer had said, I love you, Ma. I do not worship you. I love and fear only Allah. Bingo, that was it. In order to worship Allah, a person must have a genuine love for Allah and a genuine fear of Allah. Only with the genuine fear and genuine love can it be sincere worship.

Thinking further, with my hustler’s mind, which is the mind I must use in order to figure out any complicated thing, Allah created evil. Allah created Shayton and all of Shayton’s army, which Shayton pretends to have created himself. Allah created the Eternal Fire. The same Allah who created the beautiful purple wisteria trees, the powerful sun, glowing moon, and shining stars also created the devil, the devil’s army, and the Eternal Fire. Pure genius! Because a bitch like me would never ever love Allah without fear. A bitch like me would never ever love Allah without knowing Allah personally. A bitch like me would never ever love Allah without first fucking with evil, actually fucking the devil and his son. A bitch like me would never even recognize evil if I saw it face-to-face, and I did, unless evil slapped me violently, then raped me with full aggression and hate and disregard the way Iblis did. I wouldn’t recognize it. And I didn’t. A bitch like me would have never had even a slight chance at Heaven, without an extended stay in the Last Stop Before the Drop.

Bridget is wrong. We are the villains. We have been pretending while dead and alive to be the victims, each of us. Allah, who we don’t know and who none of us love or fear, is Mercy.

“Brooklyn, are you asleep?” Pretty asked me.

“My name is not Brooklyn. It’s Winter,” I replied without even thinking. She giggled.

“My name is not Pretty. It’s Sarah.”

“What’s up, Sarah,” I asked, half in my thoughts, and half talking and half listening to her in the dark room.

“Do you think Allah will forgive someone like me, who did the things that I did?” I don’t know why she was asking me a question like that. I had no idea about Allah. But I could hear Pretty’s weepy voice. I had heard females on lock in the dark trying to disguise their tears.

“If Allah is the Most Merciful, based on the meaning of that, it’s possible,” I told her.

“I really want to see my daughter in Heaven,” Pretty said. “I never wanted to abort her. I always wanted her. But everyone made it so awful. They treated me like pregnancy was the greatest evil. The same family that threw me a huge party for getting in to three top universities igged me like I was trash. It was like, ‘If you don’t abort the baby, we don’t love you. If you do abort the baby and continue on to college, we will love you and continue on as though this little “mistake” never happened.’ They made it like keeping my daughter was something only the lowest and dumbest of girls would do. My father threatened me. He drove me to the abortion clinic in another state in a rental car so no one would recognize his vehicle. When we got there he shoved the cash into my hand. He didn’t even go in with me. He was always worried about his reputation. Said he had parishioners everywhere. But the reason I hate myself is I could have ran away. Once I got out of the rental, I was alone. I didn’t have to walk into that clinic. Even once I was inside, I could have screamed for help. I didn’t. I followed my father’s words. He always said he spoke the words of God. When it was all over, I hated myself. I hated him and I hated God. From then on I was determined to destroy all three.”

“What a bastard,” Bridgette joined in. “His mother should have aborted him !” she said, going overboard as usual.

“Say a prayer,” study bitch said. “Everything I’ve read says that Allah is our only help. Everyone else who we seek for help and answers is useless. It’s on the first page of the Quran, the Book of Guidance. ‘In the name of Allah.’ Did you even bother to read it? It will come in handy for our interviews with the self-reflection counselor.” Sounded like she was treating this situation like it was her top college.

Pretty answered, “I will.” She got up and walked to the big book and flipped on the little light above it.

“Turn off the light! It’s night time!” slapper bitch yelled.

“Bitch, you have on a sleeping mask. Close your eyes and go to sleep then,” I told her.