Life After Death

by Sister Souljah

  He was laid out on the driver’s side of the BMW. He seemed knocked out or dead. Flames shot out of his chest from the spot where his heart should be located. I grabbed the white mink out of the shopping bag and threw it over the fire. When it didn’t put it out, I picked it back up immediately and used it to swat the flames. After I got rid of the flames, I tried to drag him into the whip. His body was way too heavy. I smelled her hilab. Stars suddenly rained down and she appeared standing over me as I tried to drag my forever nigga. “Help me lift him,” I said.

  “Are you pretending that you do not understand?” she asked me, with her hands balled into fists and seated on her waist. I didn’t say shit back.

  “Just admit that you have been making some awful choices and fleeing from the ones you should embrace. And embracing the ones whom no one should ever embrace. Just will your existence to change. Make one simple sincere prayer to the Most High, say ‘Lah-il-la-ha-illah-huwa’ and ask for mercy on your soul!”

  * * *

  A ride-or-die bitch doesn’t kick a nigga when he’s down. She never abandons her guy. That’s why I was in the driver’s seat speeding into darkness in a 7 series. I flipped it in my favor. Siddiqah helped me pull Dat Nigga into the backseat. In exchange, I told her I’d think about how I wanted to use my willpower. She reminded me that the third mercy was her last. “If you don’t see the light on the third mercy it is the painful end to our relationship and to your salvation, I believe,” she warned.

  I didn’t have directions or navigation to the firehouse. But I knew how to drive. And I remembered to just speed through a long black tunnel for a long time till we reached a steep hill. Downshift and speed down. So I did it.

  13.

  I am not a dumb bitch. But, I am not easily won over by anyone. I am not religious. I’m not even like the fake bitches who also say they are not religious but then claim that they are spiritual. People should keep it one hundred. If you don’t believe in God and don’t want to jump through hoops and follow a bunch of boring-ass rules, then don’t. Don’t try and front it off like there’s something else to it when there is not. That’s why I hate phonies. People who dress up in some particularly poorly designed outfit claiming that they are part of a religion and start talking a whole bunch of shit about this and that. That’s why I hate preachers. They want to do the same shit that they be telling everybody else not to do. And they do it too! People should just admit that so-called evil feels better. Everything religious people say we should not do is the exact things that give us who do it that good feeling, that excitement, that joy and relief. What could be wrong with a bitch who likes to style and stunt, fuck whomever she wants to fuck, throw back a few glasses of Henny, puff a few joints, party at a packed party, fight when she’s mad, fight back when she’s violated, and change her mind about all of the above whenever her mind changes? I say that’s how everybody really wants to live. Even though I don’t know everybody. The proof is in the action.

  These were my thoughts as I sat parked outside of the firehouse, my nigga knocked out in the backseat. Or blown up or whatever. I couldn’t carry him in. He was all muscle and strength. I thought a cold glass of water thrown in his face might wake him up. Then I thought again and something just told me not to put even one drop of water on the man who I met as he walked out of a six-foot flame. Who preferred fire over light. Who never stepped into the shower with me like lovers do, and who described himself as the Master of Smoke. If you put matches in water, they won’t work anymore. A wet cigarette ain’t shit. The fire department uses water hoses to put out huge fires. Water deads it completely. So I canceled out throwing water in his face to wake him up.

  My scheming mind booted up. Maybe I should use this as an opportunity. I needed that flashlight. I jumped out the car, ran to the door, and remembered I didn’t have no key. Then Succubus flashed in my mind. She was the one always walking in whenever she wants because she has a set of his keys. Me and that bitch gonna thump. One of us is gonna die. She’s big-bodied, though. That’s putting it mildly. I was remembering once when she had her oversize size-12 feet, only the toes though, the rest of her foot couldn’t fit, jammed into my furry slippers that Dat Nigga bought specifically for my feet to welcome me back on our night of pleasure. The bitch’s ankles were ashy and her flesh heels were like leather, probably from dragging her bare feet, the parts that couldn’t fit into any regular shoes or slippers, on the ground. How a bitch gon’ seduce a nigga like that?

  I ran back to the driver’s side. I checked on the car-key ring that he had laid on the middle front-seat island. I thought maybe his house key was there. It wasn’t. I opened up the backseat and ran my fingers over his pockets. When I grazed over his thick dick that was inviting even when he was knocked out and limp, I got excited. Had to take a deep breath and remind myself to focus. Found it!

  Inside the always-dark corridor, I could locate the closet—by memory, of course. My eyes were useless in this deep darkness. Instead, I searched with my hands. Once inside of his closet, I searched with my hands on the closet floor first. Felt a lot of shoes and kicks, even found a set of keys in what felt like a boot. I didn’t need them. I already got the house key. Standing up, I ran all of the inside and outside pockets of each of the jackets, sweaters, and coats hanging in the dark closet. I came upon six blunts, a couple of chains and locks, strings and ropes, and even almost sliced off the tip of my finger on what must have been an unsheathed and open, small but very sharp knife. Glad I didn’t grab it too hard. Instinctively I sucked my fingers. From the taste I discovered that I didn’t shed any blood. There was not even a small cut. There should have been. I knocked a bunch of shit off the top shelf. It was too high so I had to jump to reach it. Everything came tumbling down on my head. Finally found the flashlight on the floor.

  Of course I was working up a plan. Now I had some weapons in case she showed up. Or anybody, really, who ain’t him. Brooklyn taught me to always have a weapon even if it’s only a small sharp razor, tucked beneath my tongue. I could whip her with the chain, like she did me. Strangle her with the twine, or stab her with the knife. Anything I did to her after she separated me from my man and moved me into the animal factory and caged me in could not be considered an overreaction by anyone reasonable. I put all of my weapons in my saddle bag, which I located. I threw it over one shoulder and wore it like a sash. I was starting to see the reasoning behind Bomber Girl and her UBS keeping their ammo on display: first as a warning; second, so they would never be caught with their guard down; third, keeping it within reach.

  I searched high and low with the beam of light from the flash. I couldn’t find one lighter, one match, or a flame from a stove to use to ignite a few of his torches. More importantly, I was keyed up to puff one blunt to help me think and relax with a nice head.

  On the wall I found a metal panel. On closer inspection it popped open. When I shined the light on it, it reminded me of the fuse box in the projects. I flipped a switch thinking it might be a way of turning on a lighting system that he never wanted to use, but that I could really use at the moment. Instead I heard something draw open. The direction the sound came from was not where the front door was located. I followed the sound with my one beam of light. While walking towards the sound, I fell into an opening on the floor that was never there before. It felt like I fell twenty feet or deeper. I landed in some type of prickly-feeling stuff that might have saved a dead bitch like me from experiencing my second or third death. I lost count. I felt around searching for my flashlight, hoping it didn’t break when I fell.

  “You heard that?” a distant voice that I had heard at least once before asked.

  “Maybe 66 is back,” another voice that I had never heard before replied.

  “Yo, yo, yo, yo!” the familiar voice called out from the distance. It’s Iblis, the nigga who called my nigga on some business-type matter, what seemed like a while way back. Oh yeah, he was Dat Nigga’s brother, I remembered. They discussed their father who
had built some type of empire and who they both worked for. I thought to myself, Maybe I could get him to help me pull Dat Nigga out of the backseat. He must know how to heal him. Since they’re related, they must be made the same. Should I approach them? Should I wait till they walk over to where I am? Or, should I hide? My mind was racing back and forth.

  “Ssh, that ain’t him,” Iblis said.

  “I didn’t think so. Heard he got bombed the fuck up on the east side,” the other voice said. “That was after he lost a whole team warring with those fucking pesty-ass UBS on the south side,” he added. Then Iblis said, “Yeah, bro lost his soldiers in that battle earlier today. They can be replaced. He survived. He probably messed up after that though, when he went east looking for that sexy bitch he rides through with. Heard she got him open,” Iblis said. Their flame torches that they must have been carrying began piercing the blackness of the atmosphere down here where I am. Their voices were drawing near. I sensed a threat even though their talk was not threatening.

  “Open ain’t the word for it. Look at this place! Brother is losing his touch. His whole barn house got raided right when it was time to feed the fire! Your father gon’ sacrifice him.”

  I figured out it was hay. I had fallen in the donkey bin. I was in the animal warehouse factory, where Succubus caged and abandoned me. I never expected that it was beneath the firehouse. We always entered the firehouse at ground level. This had to be an underground level that extended way beyond the perimeter of the firehouse. Did my nigga run it? Why didn’t he simply walk to the underground, which apparently he could reach from his playpen, so he could find me? I was gone for at least six feedings, which should be six days. Would he not know to look down here first? Did Succubus deceive him? Did she tell him that I ran off on my own through the front door and couldn’t be found? Would he fall for some bullshit like that? No, of course he wouldn’t. Especially not if he really loves me.

  I wanted to get up, crawl or walk or run away. I was froze with indecision. I knew to make any move, even a small one, would cause the sound of the hay rustling beneath me. That sound would be distinct enough for them to know exactly where I was. I wasn’t confident that if I just introduced myself as his brother’s woman, that all would run smoothly. I opened my saddle bag quietly. However, the slight shift of my arm from right to left caused a slight sound. Those two had been stopped talking. I knew they were on alert. I buried myself beneath the hay, thinking, “Okay they know where the sound is coming from. But if they don’t see a donkey, they’ll walk right by.” Soon I felt their presence had arrived in front of the donkey cage.

  “The sound definitely came from here,” the unfamiliar voice said.

  “Must be a serpent,” Iblis said and threw a flame into the hay. The stall caught fire. To beat burning, I threw the hay off of me. I was backed in and trapped by the quick heated blaze.

  “It’s that sexy bitch who put a spell on our brother,” Iblis said. He pulled opened the iron gate, walked through the fire, unfazed by its mounting intensity. He removed his jacket, wrapped it around me, and carried me out.

  “Okay, you can put me down now,” I told him. He was holding me too tightly. We were out of the blaze. The other one was spraying it down with the hose that had been hanging on the opposite wall.

  “Bitch, say thank you.” Iblis threw me down, lifted me back up by my trench collar, cocked back his hand, and slapped me as though I was a man. Before I hit the ground again, I went straight in my saddle bag and pulled the knife, leaped up, and pointed it at him. He laughed. “What you gon’ do with that?” he asked. The other brother began laughing and dropped the hose. I lunged at Iblis. He jumped back, but not with fear. He jumped back playfully, as though this was amusing. I ran through the opening. They both ran after me. Iblis grabbed the saddle-bag shoulder strap and used it to pull me back. Once in his clutches, he wrapped the saddle-bag strap around my neck and began to choke me with it. The other brother watched with joy in his eyes. Right before I passed out from strangulation, Iblis let go. “Maybe we should taste it for ourselves,” he said to the other one.

  The other brother did not even wait for an answer. He grabbed my pearl-colored Burberry trench that I had received from Bomber Girl and pulled it off of me. Iblis threw me down and tore off my white brocade mini. “I’ll take the front. You take the back,” Iblis said, dropping his pants and pushing way up deep inside of me. He was stroking hard and licking my face with his long tongue. I turned my face away. When I did, I saw it laying there. It must have been in my new coat pocket somehow.

  Iblis raised up off of me. “The bitch wasn’t worth it. Maybe the back end’s better,” he said, and flipped me over. The other brother was already out of his pants, erect in anticipation of going in my ass. I reached with what little strength remained in me. I grabbed the grenade, pulled the clip, and I bombed ’em both.

  “Siddiqah really loves you,” Young Drummer had said before he said anything else to me. The truth is, I didn’t believe him. I didn’t even care. But I spent three decades of my life without being raped. Rape and fucking is not the same thing. Now, I have been raped as a dead bitch, which somehow made it worse and more disrespectful. Now I can say that I loved her. Why? Because she did something almost no one in my lifetime could do. She made me feel something. By her placing the grenade in my pocket, is what only a real bitch would do. Instead of blah blah blahing me to death, she took action. She planted what she knew I would need to survive. And ultimately, whomever truly loves you or anything, protects it by any means necessary.

  14.

  I made my own torch out of the fire that was shooting out of Iblis’ chest as he lay knocked out in the same way my nigga was knocked out when I discovered him on the ground by his BMW. Since my flashlight turned out to be broken, I used the torch to escape from the massive underground animal warehouse. It was a long trip. I had to walk all the way around since I had no way to zoom back up twenty feet into the playpen. There were no stairs beneath that drop. I’m sure there was a reason. I felt horrible about the rape, but felt good about leaving both bodies down there on the ground without any pants or underwear. Her grenades were strange weapons, I thought. They didn’t cause the body to shatter into tiny bits and pieces. Apparently they only killed the target they hit. Bombs I’ve seen in films blow up everything until nothing is left but ashes and dust. But I had exploded both niggas without hurting myself at all.

  When I finally made it back to his BMW, Dat Nigga was gone. I got worried that he had healed so swiftly without any real medical care. Does that mean that even though he got bombed, he could in a matter of what I guessed was two hours or so easily recover? And if it did mean that, would his brothers Iblis and the other one also wake up and walk away in two hours from when I bombed them? If so, what would Dat Nigga do about them niggas who violated me? Would blood be thicker than water? Or would he step up like a man is supposed to? For me, that would be the measure of everything moving forward. If he defended me and punished them severely, me and him was locked and loaded forever. If he fronted and gave me the same feeling I had about Bullet, I was out! I didn’t know where I would go to, but I would be damned if I let a family of brothers use me as their fuck hole. I stood looking around into the blackness. But it was futile because when you look around in blackness all you see is black. I felt a little vulnerable because now I was naked underneath the pearl three-quarter-length tapered coat. I wasn’t wearing underwear in the first place and I had burned the rape dress before I left from down there. I had on my saddle bag and my Prada kicks with no socks, which was not how I normally rock my footwear.

  I looked again into the whip window. My shopping bag containing my new Tom Ford black Chiffon pleated dress, my white mink, and thigh-high boots, which I had left on the front passenger seat, was gone. Maybe nothing is wrong, I reassured myself. Dat Nigga is inside the firehouse. He had carried the shopping bag inside with him of course because he knew it was mine and that I must be the one who at minimal ro
de in the BMW with him to reach home, or if he thought about me the right way, he’d know that a loyal action bitch like me saved him. He’d realize that he didn’t drive himself home. I was the driver who drove him to safety. Yeah, that’s what happened, I reassured myself, took three deep breaths, and walked to the firehouse front door. I smiled. He had left it unlocked for me. The moment I went in, I could see that the torches were lit in the playpen. Of course he was home. I dropped my guard some.

  Succubus was in there. I saw her walking away from the front door wearing my white mink by draping the hood over her head since she couldn’t fit her body in it or even push her man arms into my sleeves. I knew it was her even though I could only see her from behind. No one else would wear a coat, no matter how badass and designer expensive it was, with a big-ass smoke hole in it, where I had used it to put out Dat Nigga’s chest fire. And no one else would almost break their ashy ankles wearing red python boots like flip-flops with the butter leather folded down because her calves were worse than her feet and were way too bulky to fit inside the tight lean design.

  When she turned back to see who walked in behind her, she was holding a blunt loosely between two fingers. She lit it without matches or a lighter, just using her fingertip it seemed. Right then, I was like, Oh, she’s one of them. She took a long toke of the blunt, then held her hand out, offering me to hit it. I hated her but loved the blunt, so I walked up close and took a few pulls.

  “Which one are you?” she asked me after a long pause taken for us both to feel the hit of the weed. I felt the buzz and the insult she was throwing at me as though I was any random bitch walking into the firehouse.