Sister Souljah - Life After Death

Elisha got Porsche to agree to allow him to install cameras for the show in the room where I was laid out. She agreed because it was Elisha asking. She had one condition, though. It was that she controlled the camera angle. She could only be filmed from behind, sitting in front of me, who was lying in the hospital bed. She was blocking anyone from seeing me close up or in any detail. They would see only the pretty sheets that she required me to have. What’s so crazy is that Porsche, who didn’t want to be a star, became the star. Not for her beautiful look, although she is flawless. She didn’t flaunt it. She didn’t allow them to put her face on camera. She became the star because no one had ever seen on a reality show a person or sister who had had so deep of a real love for her own sister, that’s me. On and off camera, Porsche had sacrificed her own time, focus, and attention to my recovery. She and I had never even watched one episode of my reality show up until this second. Porsche’s reason is that that’s not what she cared about. As for me, I was busy relearning how to talk right, stand up right, walk right, and think straight after the coma. Porsche would be right there looking over the shoulder of her handpicked personal healer as she performed acupuncture on me. I never heard of it till that lil’ lady started sticking me with these pins in weird places like the top middle of my scalp, the insides of my ankles, and even between my thumb and index finger. Porsche would oversee my various physical therapists, watching me crawl on the floor, stand upright shaking on my feet, take a few steps, collapse, get up and finally walk, then run on the treadmill. The illest thing was, Porsche would be doing whatever I was doing as if she needed to do it. She didn’t. She would be right across from me crawling, standing, walking, running while cheesing, smiling, beaming and cheering me on.

Even though the show viewers could not see Porsche faced forward, the audience of millions fell in love with her effort and her singing and humming to me as I lay there. Elisha, who never missed a valuable opportunity, recorded his wife’s impromptu performances over my dead-like body. Out of those recordings, he created a show soundtrack titled Bow Down that big banked. His wife refused to perform any of her original tracks or cover songs or hummings. The music still sold and hit like crazy. Meanwhile, my reality show, applauded for its unique cinematography—thanks to Elisha’s director’s eye—had become a combination of the investigation of my execution, the medical story of my flat lining and coming back, the cast of my bitches and their crazy-ass nigga boyfriends, kids, and lives. Since the start of reality shows, all reality shows have stupid bitches doing dumb shit and the weak niggas they know, and the crazy bastards they gave birth to. It was, however, when the cameras redirected to Porsche and what she was doing, and how passionately and honestly that she was doing it, that grabbed the viewers by the heart. That’s how Elisha described it. He said his wife “resonates.” I don’t know that word. I’m not a college bitch. All I know is with Porsche and her emotions everything is extreme. She was extreme in her care for me, in her love of me and of her love of everyone and everything that she loved. It was only a handful of people and handful of things. Once she claimed it and loved it though, she was loyal to the fullest extent. Wait a minute. My memory was reminding me. Porsche loves like Brooklyn Momma used to love.

“Time to go. I’ll walk you out, just you and me. The on-set cameras will be rolling so expect it. Winter, are you nervous?” Porsche asked me.

“I’m good,” was all I said. That’s how it was between me and my middle sister. I would always have something urgent that I wanted to say to her. But for some reason, I wouldn’t. I knew the words to say. I knew clearly what I wanted her to know. Sometimes I wanted to tell her what I had learned from living life, also from getting shot dead, my afterlife, and my return to life. But then, my tongue would feel heavy. The words that needed to be spoken, I never spoke. Even before I was murdered, it was like that between me and my sister Porsche. My mind was reminding me of how I wanted to say certain things to her at my mother’s funeral long ago. I had one opportunity and maybe even, only one minute to say some urgent things. I didn’t. Even now I know I should thank her, tremendously. I know what she gave up to get us to this point. I know that she didn’t have to do shit for me. She was already rich, married, chilling, a mother of three. She didn’t have to bother at all.

On my inside, I worried about Porsche’s deep love problem. I wanted to tell her what I had learned about the difference between loving, which is a good and powerful thing, and worshipping. I wanted to warn her to continue to love but not to worship her husband, Elisha, or even her children. Worship is reserved for only ONE.

“Action!” Elisha’s voice called out. I couldn’t see him, though. Porsche nudged me forward and dropped back from the camera’s view. The finale had a live audience. It was packed. There were so many blinding lights hanging from above. The cameras were very close to where I stood. I walked up, following the marked stage floor. I knew to hit my mark and then to let all else flow. When the audience saw me they jumped out of their seats and cheered. I wondered if I was supposed to interact with them. I should have checked the script. This didn’t seem like any of the reality shows I had seen before I got shot up and declared dead then brought back to life. Where is Simone and Natalie, Asia and Toshi, Reese and… Hold up. I hear music. Because of Brooklyn Momma, I can name that tune in three seconds. It’s the tinkle of the xylophone. For some reason, I am catching feelings. It’s an old joint, from when my parents were teens. The rough and soothing voice of Bill Withers. The song title is “Just the Two of Us”! Momma used to sing it , my mind reminded me. I began looking up and around the studio. Up high there was a green light glowing. It gave me the feeling of when I was trapped in the darkness of the Last Stop Before the Drop and suddenly a green glow emerged followed by a lavender sky and a diamond rain. But I am not dead or comatose anymore. My mind reminded me . I am alive. I am in the studio, on set, surrounded by a whole lot of people, more than a hundred.

I collapsed onto the floor. As Bill Withers sang, “We can make it if we try…” it was Santiaga. He walked on stage opposite me. He glided in smoothly on the words of the song. Just seeing him free. Just seeing him walking. Just seeing him so cool and so handsome. Just seeing him… He came to me. Face-to-face, he extended his hand. I placed my hand in his hand. He pulled me close. He hugged me and lifted me up. It was a spinning hug, my alligator stilettos swinging in the air. I am crying now uncontrollably. I am on camera crying uncontrollably but I don’t give a fuck. Millions of people around the world are seeing me weeping on camera.

“Baby girl,” was all he said. He was still calling me Baby Girl because I was his first born. His first baby, his first daughter. Even though he had three more after me, I am “Baby Girl .”

“Cut,” I heard Elisha say. But my father kept hugging and spinning me. The song switched to “Ribbons in the Sky” by Stevie Wonder. He put me down gently and held me until a little wave of dizziness drifted away. As I steadied, the set changed as the audience chattered loudly. My poppa and me was still just admiring one another. It was so hard for me not to be caught up into him. He was standing right there in front of me. He’s family. He’s familiar. He is the one I know. He must have just got out. No, he’s too well-suited. His scent is wonderful. His look is rough, sexy, and calm. They must have hid Poppa from me. He was the first person I asked for when I came through and out of my coma. He was still on lock, they told me. If I worked hard and recovered, I would be able to go visit him. Oh, Elisha… What a surprise, no prison wear, chains, cuffs, or dirty plastic dividers on a bullshit visitation separating us. No monitored over the old-school, old wall phone conversation. No corrections officers, police, guards, or escorts. Elisha, my brother-in-law, had kept his word. Poppa is here, free and fit, and beautiful.