Sister Souljah - Life After Death

A red light flashed. The audience grew quiet and took their seats. My father and I were left center stage. I was trying not to worship him. I was trying to keep it all in the love category. I was fighting myself on the inside. Love and worship war in my soul. I was trying but I could see my father. I could not see God. I know my father the most. I love him the most. He taught me most, almost everything I know.

My memory reminded me. It is a Mercy that I am alive. It is a Mercy that Poppa is free. It is a Mercy more than anything else. No matter how hard anyone fought to make this moment happen, without the Mercy it could never have happened. I know. It is a Mercy that I am receiving. No, it is a Mercy that the whole Santiaga family is receiving.

“Alhamdulillah” was the first word I spoke on camera. Probably no one understood what or why. But, I do.

34.

We dominated. The news the next day was all about us. All about Bow Down, Starring Winter Santiaga. The morning shows was abuzz because of the ratings that broke all records ever known. Viewers from around the world tuned in to see me at my finest. Even in countries where our show didn’t air, legit and illegit satellites were making it possible for all to see. One morning-show host showed clips of teens gathered in one hood hut in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, to check my show. Kids in the barrio in Cuba and Puerto Rico were glued to the tube. Places I never heard of heard of me—more than heard of me: knew me, sweated me. Ghana and Nigeria, Senegal and South Africa, Zimbabwe and Kenya, yup, I only know of them because they knew of me first. They’re my fans, my viewers. Jamaica, Bahamas, Barbados, Aruba, Turks & Caicos, yeah I knew all of them of course. They were the hustler’s playground.

Funny thing is, when you’re dominating, which is way higher than simply trending… every kind of media, social or otherwise, every magazine, newspaper, online service, gossip mag and rag, blogger, podcast, YouTuber, and radio or whatever, are each coming from a different angle. The fashion media was on Santiaga’s dick. He was wearing Stefano Ricci and killing it. There were images of only my alligator stilettos, starring my pretty feet and perfect pedi. Each of my body parts were captured in close-ups, posted and praised. Comments were streaming in from everywhere. Where did you buy those shoes? How can I get an alligator trench? Who did your diamonds? Grown-ass women and female celebs were rocking ponytails within twenty-four hours of viewing my show.

The political shows didn’t give a fuck about the Santiaga’s fashion. They just wanted to know who let us out of prison. It was as though they wanted us to be locked up forever. Investigative reporters were already digging. They wanted to know the details of my father’s release. No comment from Elisha and my team. By morning time the next day, I knew the deal. It was the governor of New York that set Santiaga free by pardon. It was an entanglement of circumstances. All of the veins leading to Elisha. It was amazing to me the doors that would open for him. I know I would never know if money changed hands. I don’t need to know either. All I know is that my father is free and poised to be king. Okay, not king. Let me calm down. All I know is shit changes. The high and lows happen. The tables turn. That having been said, my father is back to where he belongs. And… even the governor of New York and president of the United States of America are black men!

Entertainment outlets all focused on Elisha and tried to get photo exclusives of Porsche. Porsche turned down The Tonight Show, Jimmy Kimmel, Good Morning America, Jimmy Fallon, Katie Couric, and even Ellen, Oprah, and Gayle King. Once it was absolutely clear that she was not available, producers and publicists started coming for me. I agreed, of course, to all the elaborate photo shoots for the top magazines. That was fun and easy for me. Like being a supermodel or some shit. But as far as in-depth interviews where I had to talk, I hesitated before agreeing. I want to be interviewed only in a place where I can say whatever I want. Nobody beeping out, cutting, editing, and limiting what I say. I didn’t want to be packaged like some fake-ass bitch. They’d have to invite me and take what they get. Go on live and cross their fingers that I don’t say or do nothing too wild or too forbidden. But I’m a cool bitch. I already know what it means to be dead. I already know what it means to come back to life. So of course I wasn’t planning on playing myself, like others do easily.

Party and publicity invites piled up to a paper mountain. My digital likes and followers and fans bursted into seven figures. Elisha was tight that all of this extra popularity on top of the already super popularity happened after the finale. The new season would not start for a few months. That meant other shows would be eating up the excitement that he created on Bow Down. I gotta give it up, though, my brother-in-law is extra clever. He surprised everyone, his staff and crew. He went off-script, the same one I had tossed in the trash. He made the finale with only me and my father. He restricted the cast that had carried the show for the whole season. My reunion with them was to be the show opener in the autumn season. Elisha knew how to keep his audiences in film and television, as well as cable, hanging off a cliff. Then he would milk their anticipation and open up with the viewership numbers higher than other shows’ finale numbers.

I decided to accept an invitation based on the fact that it was what was familiar and comfortable to me. It came from Angie Martinez. She was the voice on Hot 97 that ruled in the ’90s. Now she switched over to Power 105. I didn’t like the switch. But she’s a cool bitch. She knows everybody and everybody knows her. She’s New York style. Our style is definite and different. In our state, the Blacks and Latinos are the same. We living the same. We struggling the same. We earning the same. We hang out together. We all speak English. And, unless it’s over some hot boy or top hustler, we don’t fight on no Black vs. Latino–type vibe. When a fight is over a top nigga all bets are off. A black chick will fight another black chick just as furiously as she would fight a Latina. Even when I found out on lock that in other states in America, it’s the Blacks vs. the Latinos, I thought that was dumb and corny and basically backwards. So Angie Martinez was my pick. Besides, if I let her interview me, I know all of my niggas will be listening. That’s what I really cared about. It was okay to be known all around the world. But at the end of the day, I’m thinking about Brooklyn niggas and New York State. I’m wanting my chicks on lock who are still there to taste my victory. I wanted hustlers in their whips that came up after my pops to know and then to show him some motherfucking respect. I wanted to certify that the Santiagas are back on our feet, strong, rich, legit, and doing it.

Here’s how my first post-finale interview went.

Her:

I know you probably get asked the same questions over and over again.

Me:

Definitely.

Her:

So let me take it from another angle. What do you think is the reason your show has become the phenomenon that it is?

Me:

’Cause niggas love victory. Niggas love drugs, hustling, and stories about drugs and hustling. Niggas love money. Niggas love fashion. Niggas love passion. We got all of that going on at the same time.

Her:

But there has to be more to it. There are so many shows, films, stories about hustlers, hustling, drugs, etc. Your show has surpassed them all.

Me:

True, there are other shows, and movies with actors and actresses and shit like that. But our story is original. The Santiaga’s ain’t acting. We come from that golden age of stand-up hustlers and hustling and the women who rode with the niggas the whole ride through. No flipping or snitching. So many have tried to cash in on what was our lifestyle, our thing, our hoods. We genuine. This story is authentic for us. If there is money to be made off of our lifestyle, business and true stories, our fashions and look and even lows, who should make that money besides us?