Sister Souljah - Life After Death

Crossing another yard, I reached a black wooden door. It was not just any door. It was made from ebony, and the grain was not anything that would be sold in anyone’s local furniture store or super mart or Home Depot. It had inlaid hand-carved designs. I could tell from the way there was no knob or outward handle that it slid open instead of swinging in or out. I didn’t slide or swing it, just walked through the solid wood, same as I had walked through the solid platinum and the solid sterling silver.

A premium gymnasium like a private Madison Square Garden for some boss that obviously decided to have everything on his property that most had to leave their little apartments and houses to drive outside to get to. The gym floor shined so perfectly. I bet the owner must have ’bout forty slaves he orders to get down on their knees and hand-wax it every night and buff it every morning. I laughed picturing that. This the type of gym every hood needed. Where niggas could run a full court and the bitches could watch and cheer them on and eventually call dibs on the players they liked. I know some chicks would like to run a game and handle and dribble the ball themselves. Not me! I remember Brooklyn’s infamous Hustler’s league, and even the Harlem Rucker. I lived for that excitement. I loved the fashion show that framed it. I liked that crowd that poured in from every direction and even flooded down the block and caused the cops to shut down the traffic in the surrounding streets to watch the best ballers ball, showcasing amazing moves and skills. I lusted the whips that had pulled up close and parked and double and triple parked creating a show within a show! Bitches all done up so nice, the best players played even harder.

I looked up. Seven flags were hanging from seven metal poles lodged in the walls close to the high ceiling. I only recognized the American flag. It was number six in the flag line up. I was glad to see it. I had been starting to think I was somewhere unfamiliar and too far away from where I am from.

The sound of hydraulics and the back door of the gym slid open. A bunch of bare-backed young men walked in barefooted wearing boot-cut black pants. Bare feet was starting to feel like the theme of this place, but I still wasn’t with it.

“Line up! Take your spaces.” What I am with though is the twenty-one to I’m guessing possibly twenty-three-years-young deep black-skinned fine-ass nigga leading the pack. I don’t know what they about to do. Not one of them has a basketball in their grip or kicks. The blackest one, who I have both my eyes on, positioned himself at the forefront of the rest. He called out the orders as he faced the other lined-up teen-young to maybe age twenty dudes. His eyes are serious. Not the eyes of some sheltered palace dweller or suburban sweetie. He’s muscular but lean. His jaw is etched and sketched. His teeth are as white as the sparkling wall that surrounds this palace. His hair cut is sharp and clean. Man I’m feeling him. I know he’s too young for me but he is not a child. He is a man. And I know the trend is now for these young niggas to prefer slightly older women who are still more beautiful, more refined, more sensual in the sheets and more independent than the young bitches who ain’t figured out their power the way I figured out mine at sixteen. And I can still pull dick. I know that. And to this day, no nigga can tell my true age unless I decide to tell him. I won’t.

“We all know what this is,” the leader said, his voice so ooh , it made my pussy pulse.

“Whoever wins the fight competition gets to fight the fight master tonight. I doubt y’all could take him down. I’ve tried a few times.” Everyone laughed. “It hasn’t worked out for me. But I’m confident that I can take down every one of you.”

“Ahh… yeah right… whatever man…” the young men on the line up roared.

“I like that!” the leader said in response. And when he smiled he had me so open. “Men are supposed to be trained and confident, sure and solid. Now let’s see if you can back up all that back talk. Give me two lines of ten. Partner up. After this spar, the last man standing will fight me!” He said it like a threatening invitation and challenge. He spoke so confidently I’m sure it convinced the other guys that they had had no chance of beating him.

“Ansar, I’m hoping you’re the last man standing. Heard you have designs on my girl,” the leader said, jaw locked and straight faced.

“Whoa,” the men sounded and then went silent.

“She’s not yours until you marry her,” the one who must’ve been Ansar replied. “And since you’re moving too slow and no one can touch her before marriage, I’ll take her from you, and marry her so I can touch her.” He said it like he meant his words also.

“Let’s skip the sparring and bang it out right now,” the leader said and rushed right into the ranks to face Ansar. The other nineteen men broke the line up and swiftly closed in and began circling around the twenty-one-years-young leader and Ansar. The moving circle was blocking me from seeing. But I could hear the blows and the whoas and ohs and the advice being called out by the crowd. They were fighting with their hands and feet, I realized. Not a Brooklyn confrontation that ends in one second with no muscle involved. Just the strength to pull the trigger and the eye to hit the target.

The imperfect circle would spread out as the men would step back, sideways or forward, however the action moved them. I don’t know who the bitch was they were fighting over. But I felt a strong feeling like I want niggas to fight over me just like that . I want to see muscles moving, and fists swinging and bodies dropping over me. I miss that effect that a woman like me always caused many men to have.

All of a sudden I wanted a mirror more than anything. I want to see myself and check my hair. I’d position it properly over the scar and perfect my look. I need to confirm exactly what I look like right now. I want to check every inch of my body as well. I want to recapture that baddest-bitch mojo and come back with full and pull that leader for myself for a tryst. He don’t have to marry me to give me that good feeling that I’m sure he and I both want to feel. We don’t have to waste any time. And time is not what I have going in my favor.

I dashed to the side room that I figured was the restroom for the gym. Once inside I could see that it was for men, with seven urinals and one long horizontal cement sink, with seven silver faucets, soap dispensers, paper hand towels and an automatic hand dryer. Three stalls for taking a dump and three stalls for taking a shower. A steam room and a sauna but… no… mirrors!

Angry, I dashed through the men’s room wall and ended up in another yard, filled with white roses, facing a separate house a short distance away with a gold door. A gold door, I repeated in my mind as I walked. Goddamn! How much is the owner worth that a property could be built with multiple buildings, secured behind a great wall made from a mountain. Doors all made from precious metals and rare materials as expensive as the buildings and beautiful outdoor spaces, pavilions, and furnishings. I got the feeling that here there was no regard for budget whatsoever.

Close up on the door now, I quickly dropped down. On the right side I saw a computer or flat TV screen. I was sure that the owner could see me through that security screen. I didn’t want anybody to see me before I could fully see myself. Squatted low and facing my own toes, I was relieved that I still had the pretty pedicure that I allowed one of my girls on lockup, who was the meanest in that toe art, to design the night before my release. I ran my fingers over my feet, surprised that I didn’t track in any soil or grass from that long walk through the field. I was happy that my hands and feet looked top-notch still.