Sister Souljah: Life After Death

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WE SAY WE DIDN’T FEEL IT

BUT WE FELT IT.

WE SAY WE DIDN’T SEE IT

BUT WE SAW IT.

WE SAY WE DIDN’T HEAR IT

BUT WE HEARD IT.

WE PRETENDED WE NEVER KNEW IT

BUT WE KNOW IT.

Who?

ALL OF US

1.

Gunshots! Brooklyn born, I know the sound. No matter whose finger is on the trigger, a nigga vs. a nigga, niggas vs. the law, or the law vs. niggas, gunshots fired anywhere in the world means pay attention motherfuckers. But after these three shots, I don’t hear no clap back, running feet, or screeching police sirens. I don’t hear no cops calling out bullshit commands, like freeze! I don’t hear the scream of the ambulance or the swift feet of the curious running to the scene of the incident. I don’t hear the director calling out “Cut!” after first having called out “Action!” I don’t hear the cheers, shout outs, or big ups from the VIP crowd, who I know had gathered, because I am the one who arranged their VIP passes to be the only ones invited to accompany the film crew on my prison release day. I can’t even hear the howl of the wind, which normally is so loud upstate New York where I was locked up, that we could hear it from inside the prison walls, depending on where we were in the building. Fuck hearing, I can’t even see . Everything is deep black. Oh shit! That’s how I know. I, Winter Santiaga, am the one who got shot dead.

I don’t have no big fear of death, never really even thought about it. Fifteen years on lock, I knew chicks who chased death, thought it was the better option over the rough lives they were living. I knew women who cut themselves, beat themselves, begged other inmates for their meds and swallowed a handful of game-changing pills in one gulp. I even knew six chicks who one by one successfully hung themselves within those fifteen years I served.

In the prison dayroom chilling, or on the yard, when the conversation got on that suicide bullshit, I stepped off. Everybody know Winter Santiaga is all about action and hustle, plotting and planning, making it and taking it, and a dead bitch can’t do shit.

This is fucked up though. Seconds after my prison release, right when I was about to earn a big bag, lights out. I’m dead. When I was first approached to do a reality show that was gonna be so real that it would start with cameras rolling the moment I stepped foot through the prison release door, I was like Ah, hell no! Seated side by side with cellies, I had seen bunches of bitches on reality TV ridiculously playing themselves like crazy. They’d never catch Winter Santiaga on camera, finally easing outside with some Department of Corrections–issued clothing, which was all inmates had to wear other than the clothes they had on their back at the time of their arrest. After that vicious fight me and Simone had on our Brooklyn block fifteen years ago, right before the cops snatched up both of us, my clothes were shredded. Yeah that’s how we do it. It’s not a showbiz on-camera, off-camera thing in the hood. We fight with full fury.

Thinking over the reality-show offer while speaking on the prison phone with the show creator and executive producer, my brother-in-law Elisha Immanuel, I told myself, Nah Winter, never let them see you sweat. Never let them see you down. Never reveal even one chink in your armor. Keep your game face on!

“Good looking out, Elisha,” I told him. “I thought about it like you asked me to do. But I gotta turn you down for the third time. Let it be the last.”

“Well then, negotiate ,” my sister Porsche said, who I didn’t even know was on the call that I made to Elisha, ’cause she remained silent up until the moment I turned him down. “You heard what my husband wants out of the show deal. What does Winter want out of it? There must be something you’re ready to gain. Just let my husband know what that is. Winter, you are the star of this show. Only you can make it happen. Until you sign the contract, you’re in the power position,” Porsche added softly.

My mind started speeding . That’s right! What do I want out of it? But I hated that I didn’t think of it from that angle myself. Caught up in my hustles on the inside, I didn’t consider that I was in the power position in a deal that would go down on the outside even before I get out. This show he’s proposing is not just another prison show. That’s right! This show is about me! And it’s about me for a reason! After all is said and done, there are ’bout five hundred thousand bitches serving mandatory minimums for basically no fucking reason beside being the girlfriend of some low-level or mid-level drug dealer. Elisha chose me because I’m that bad bitch, the royalest of the royal precisely!

Six days after my sister had said over the phone, “Well then, negotiate,” and after referring to my fashion-magazine library that spanned over fourteen years and was a small source of revenue to me on lockup, I finalized my list of star demands. The first thing was for Elisha to contact the warden and get clearance for me to receive a customized wardrobe and accessories to wear out of the prison on my release day, which coincidentally was in the winter season.

“I got you,” Elisha said calmly. “I already planned to communicate with the warden, and of course the city officials for the license to film in the area.”

“And Elisha, no brand substitutes, nothing generic, everything genuine, top quality no matter what anyone says,” I told him. I knew what I was about to order. I didn’t want to hear him tell me shit about some crazy fucking animal rights protesters.

“I know who you are,” Elisha said, buttering me up.

“Starting with outerwear, since that will get captured on camera first, a hooded white three-quarter-length pure mink coat. Red Python ‘sky-high’ thigh-high boots, a red alligator Birkin bag with an activated iPhone inside in my name. Red Gucci driving gloves. Oh, and if you’re going to continue the film with me being driven home, I want my own house.”

“Porsche said you were going to move in with us. She already decorated a whole wing just for you. It has your own door and driveway; your own bathroom, bedroom, living room, and full kitchen; and even your own mailbox. Once you see it, and since we are all family, I’m sure you’ll want to stay. Besides, it’s located in Brooklyn.”

“Truth is, I want my own house. I plan to have some of my girls move in with me. We plan to build a business together.”

“Okay… how ’bout a compromise? Something that will make you and my wife and your girls straight and satisfied,” Elisha swiftly shifted the convo like someone accustomed to these tough negotiations. I wondered if Porsche was listening in on this call again but I didn’t ask, and if she was, she didn’t say shit and I couldn’t detect any extra breathing noises or movements.

“We will put your girls, up to five of them, in the reality-show cast and pay them a nice appearance fee. This way, they can afford their own apartments. You can live with us like Porsche planned.” I was silent ’cause I was thinking about it. I thought it would play out better if I am the only star of the show. I make all the paper. I invest the paper into the business that I own, and allow my girls to run it so they could earn off of what I have provided. Elisha must’ve sensed something ’cause he interrupted my thoughts and said, “Winter, you’re the star. Your deal is worth fifty thousand per show, sixteen episodes per season. After it hits—and you and I both know it will—you’ll be in position to renegotiate and clear even more than the eight hundred thousand that is generated for you in season one. The five supporting cast members, your handpicked home girls, will only each earn three thousand on the episodes they actually appear on. They’re backstory. You’re on every episode. They’re not. You are the main story. You are the show.”