Sister Souljah - Life After Death

I felt like I had a rock in my throat. I was not angry that he didn’t run or drive over to get me. I wasn’t tight that he wasn’t blown away by my look. I did not chase him. I waited for him to enter his circular booth before I started walking towards mine. Soon as he did and the awesome, cylinder doors closed behind him, I began my walk again. Part of me wanted to run back to the Self-Reflection Center, find Dr. Amal, and ask her if an evil spirit, which is what the nuns said Dat Nigga was, could become good. Could a person who sold their soul to the devil get it, buy it, win it, snatch it back, or acquire it mercifully? Could a spirit that was created to do evil get a raise, a promotion, a pass, an opportunity from Allah? I felt my heart race at the notion. Is mercy deep enough, true enough, warm enough to welcome Winter Santiaga and Dat Nigga? I didn’t run back to ask. It’s funny how if you start to listen to a certain group of people’s reasoning behind a thing… you can eventually use that reasoning on your own to arrive at the same conclusion that the person who taught you something would accept or say.

I was glad that Dat Nigga was here. He must have betrayed his father. He must have shouted “Lah-il-la-ha-illah-huwa!” out of pure agony, like I did. He must have abandoned his whips, chips, house, monkey bars, alcohol, men, women, and weed. He had to have separated himself from the whole evil team. It must have been hard for him. Once he got to the City of Mercy—and I’d love to hear the story of how that occurred—he must have chosen to express straight to the Truth Booth. Dat Nigga and I were both impatient people addicted to action. There was no way either of us could sit still for too long, doing nothing but reading, writing, studying, praying, and talking about Faith.

Although I didn’t know if I could ever forgive Dat Nigga, like how Allah might forgive him, I’d rather him go to Heaven than burn in hell. I don’t know if I could fuck with any guy who has a history of doing some of the nasty shit that him and his brother and father did. Although I realize that each of the three of them did different evil, different ways. As for Dat Nigga, first I’d have to forget his whispering in my ear, “I’m an ass man.” I’d have to forget that he fucked Succubus, his own sister of the same father. But I’d damn sure remember everything else. I still could feel the good feeling and impact of his everything else .

Standing outside of my designated Truth Booth cylinder, row one, number eleven, I shook off my memory of Dat Nigga. I am abandoning my cravings. I am emptying my mind so I can think straight and not lie once I step inside. I know a lie would be the end of me. The end, not in a good way. In a tragic way, with my mind fully awake, aware, and conscious to experience the torment.

I pressed the silver button. The cylinder door slid open. I stepped inside. It was completely dark. A pleasant female voice said, “Welcome.” Crazy, the voice sounded like my voice. But, there was no one inside except for me, Dr. Amal had assured me.

“Inside of the Truth Booth, there is only your soul and your self-reflection experience. No one is recording, filming or watching or monitoring from afar. There is always the Forever-Present Allah, the All-Knowing, All-Hearing, All-Seeing, Who will know what happens within your experience, and only Allah is the Judge.”

I lifted my arms and moved them around the darkness, making sure I was alone. Yeah, I know what she assured me. But I keep 3 percent doubt for the sake of my own survival. Soon as I began moving my arms, a light switched on. It was like a motion-detector-type thing. Now it is confirmed. I am the only one in here. There is no one else but me. Replaying Dr. Amal’s instructions in my mind, I took out from my inside abaya pocket the tiniest paper envelope I had ever seen. Dr. Amal said to get started I needed to place the soul dot into the thin slot on the right of where I was standing. I found the slot easily. Back in Brooklyn hustle days, hustlers always had clever slots and compartments. Ways to hide things that had to be hidden or to see things without others seeing that you’re seeing. I’m not saying that this thin slot was the same kind of thing. I’m not comparing the crack rock, which is small, to the soul dot, which is even tinier than a tiny pebble. I slipped it in, then faced forward.

Only after the dot was deposited did I realize that I am facing a mirror. I am a dead bitch. In the Truth Booth, some way, somehow, I can now recognize a mirror, and I now have a reflection. I can see myself. Overwhelmed, tears burst out from my eyes and my breath escaped from my mouth without me ordering it to do so. I stood crying uncontrollably in the mirror, spellbound by my own beautiful reflection. I put my hands to my face. So did my reflection. I felt my skin. So did my reflection. My eyes searched for my scar. So did my reflection. It was not there . Al-hum-doo-lah-lah, I thought without even thinking. I stared into my own eyes. My reflection stared back at me. A sudden urge rushed over me. I removed the hood of my abaya. Then I removed the abaya completely. I removed the tapered mint-shoulder-to-ankle dress. I slid out of their leather slides. I was more comfortable naked. Now that I could see my own reflection, I wanted to see it all. I was alone. So nudity was just fine, isn’t it? I asked myself. Hell yeah, it’s just fine. If I was alone and no one was filming or recording me or watching me, like she said they wouldn’t and weren’t, it had to be fine. It was nobody else’s fucking business what I did with myself. And in the instructions, no one said I shouldn’t.

Starting at my neck, I began caressing myself. My hands crisscrossed. My right hand caressed my left shoulder. My left hand caressed my right. I moved them down my arms, feeling even my elbows, forearms, and then held my hands up, admiring my fingers. When my reflection did the same as I did, I dropped my hands down. My eyes searched my reflection for the position of my breasts. They were not sixteen-years-young upright. But they were not low, drooping, or dropped. They were plump and gorgeous. I caressed them. I pinched my own nipples, not for pleasure but to feel real. Then moved my fingers over my tight belly and around back to hips, thighs, and ass. I was searching for blemishes. There were none. Now I squatted, admiring the reflection of my toes and feet and even ankles. Check, check, check … all good. I stood up.

Returning to the instructions, I pressed the inside silver button that was positioned over the tiny slot where I had deposited the dot. When I did, the lights went out. The floor moved me 180 degrees without my expecting it, or doing any movement myself.

“Winter,” a voice spoke into the atmosphere. I was 100 percent that the voice was my voice. However, my lips were not moving. My brain did not tell my lips to move or to talk to me. So what’s up? “Yes?” I answered myself.

“Do you worship only Allah?” my voice asked me.

“Yes, now I do,” I said, my mind quick thinking that short answers are better and safer. Plus I do fear Allah and that’s my reason to worship. With that thought, images bled through the darkness. No, the images were on the wall of the cylinder, same as a movie screen. Not a regular movie. It was like an IMAX theater. The images and the sounds surrounded me in the cylinder booth, amazingly. It’s me, being projected onto the wall as if I am starring in a movie. But it’s teenage me in the film scene. I was in some apartment. I was on a bed facedown, ass up, giving head. I couldn’t see to who though. The images moved. I was in a cheap car with a cheap interior, my face buried in a lap giving head. Must’ve been Sterling, a sucker nigga and the only nigga I ever let drive me in an inferior whip during a personal emergency. The images moved. I was in a different apartment—no, it’s a basement. I was on my knees, facedown, ass up, giving head. I couldn’t see to who though. But the basement was fucked up. There was a cheap curtain hanging, keeping me from seeing whoever else was there. I could hear the sounds of fucking and sucking. But I could only see myself giving head. Oh yeah. I recognize it. It’s Boom’s basement. The movie continued. The images moved. I was on the floor. It was a dope floor, like in a five-star hotel. I was facedown, ass up, giving head. I couldn’t see to who. But, I could hear the lusty breathing and pulling, mine and his breath. The images moved and the scene changed, but the action didn’t. I was in an apartment on the floor, facedown, ass up, giving head. I couldn’t see him. I knew though the apartment was mine and Bullet’s. So I had to be giving Bullet my specialty blow job. I laughed. Then I pulled my laughter back swiftly. The scene changed. I was hanging upside down giving head. The scene changed. I was on the floor, ass up, facedown, giving head. Oh yeah, it’s in the Light House. The images froze, my lips on a dick. I recognize my lips and the dick of course. Now I’m standing here in the booth like, What the fuck? So what’s the point? “Yeah, a bitch likes fucking, likes pleasing her man. Is something wrong with that?” I asked aloud. And suddenly, I actually got a reply. Not a man’s voice with a thundering tone like how they deepen and double up a man’s voice on a horror film or even when it’s suppose to be like the fake voice of God. It was a woman’s voice. It’s mine. It’s me talking on the film soundtrack. I was speaking in my fuck you bitch tone of voice. But I was talking to myself even though in actuality, I was standing right there in the booth with my mouth closed and not speaking at all.