Life After Death

by Sister Souljah

  “What about the time you spent as a monkey?” I asked her in a nonoffensive tone, because I really wanted to know. How did she count the time accurately as an animal?

  “Ha-ha… I’m glad you put me on to this powerful weed. Only a friend would do that. Otherwise, you reminding me of my time as a monkey would make me think you want to be enemies,” she said, instead of answering my question.

  “Well, we may be dead, but the way I see it, as long as you have your look and your body, you have life after death. I can see you, and how you look. You can see me too.”

  “I can see that you have a candle. Light is the hottest commodity in the Last Stop Before the Drop. The evil spirits have got the flames. The UBS have got the stars and the mercies. That’s their light. The churches have got some light, but it is very dim, like it’s on the verge of shutting off. Have you noticed?” she asked, blowing out a straight stream of smoke right into my face. I did notice that she was clever at dodging questions, flipping ass and changing topics. “Where did you get the candle?” she asked. “You must have paid a lot for it.”

  “Paid,” I said coolly. “Is there such thing as money down here?”

  “Not our type of money. But you know supply and demand is always the setup. And no matter the world, there is always world trade. You must have sacrificed or traded something for it. Dead humans whose souls are stuck in the Last Stop Before the Drop are not allowed to have light.” She pulled hard on the blunt. This time the smoke curled up. “That’s why if there is a dead human with light, it’s either borrowed or stolen,” she said, and I was listening carefully.

  “But I ain’t seen no police, no courts, no judges or prisons. That means there’s no consequence for a dead human, as you call us, having light just because someone said we are not allowed to have it,” I told her, but really, it was a few questions tucked in one statement.

  “Just because you ain’t seen something doesn’t mean that it is not there,” she said strangely. I charged it to the high taking over her mind. “Besides, Shayton got this whole hood on lock.” She gestured with her finger, moving it around in the air in the shape of a circle. “He hates police. So there ain’t none. He runs the red market, travels in more than one world, and comes back with all the shit everybody down here ain’t got. Since him and his whole team is all evil, they monopolize the flame. They don’t sell or trade matches, lighters, flashlights, candles, or anything that can result in souls being able to see. To the evil ones, those items are considered contraband because they won’t allow anything that rivals their flame game. The soul is what they are really after—that’s us, by the way. They feed the souls to the Eternal Fire.”

  “How long did it take you to figure something like that out?” I asked her.

  “A much shorter time than it took you!” She busted out laughing. “You still haven’t figured it out!” She threw salt in the wound she had just cut into me.

  “I must have figured some shit out,” I said in controlled anger. “You smoking my weed. Apparently you ain’t got none. I got a 7 series BMW parked out in the blackness somewhere close. I got the hottest commodity, a candle, without paying shit for it. I had a flashlight, which you say we are forbidden to have.” I looked at her cheap convent-issued slip-ons. “And I got Prada kicks, eight hundred American dollars a pair, a saddle bag, and everything else you don’t have.”

  “I have a flashlight underneath my bed in my room,” she said, all cocky. “And I said it is forbidden for dead humans to have light. That doesn’t mean we can’t figure out how to break the rules. I went to University of Pennsylvania. I should be able to figure out a bunch of shit. I got a super-high IQ.” Then she added, “And I got an iPhone, a bottle of Chanel No. 5 that cost more than your kicks, a Rolex, a corkscrew, and a switchblade.” She smiled.

  “A college bitch,” I said aloud, but really I was talking to myself. “But you can’t be as smart as you think. You couldn’t figure out how to stay alive.” I trumped her. “And you can’t make or receive no calls down here on your cell. And no matter how expensive your Chanel is, it’s still not strong enough to cancel out the odor that saturates this atmosphere.”

  “True dat,” she answered, flossing her verbal versatility. “Now let’s you and I take my flashlight and go get your 7 series,” she challenged me. She was calling what she thought was my bluff. I jumped off the bed. Just as I got ready to say, Let’s go, someone tugged at my door. I put my finger over my lips to tell the pretty bitch to keep silent.

  “Who is it? I’m not dressed,” I said through the door.

  “Open up or I’ll blow your whole cover,” a female voice said. She sounded familiar. I waited for her to speak again.

  “I smell it. Open the door or I’ll call the captain, the mother, the father, the grandmother, a team of ghosts, and the goddamn devil!” she whispered in forced high-voltage words.

  “That’s that crazy white bitch. She lives across the hall from you. She’s like a fucking protestaholic,” the pretty bitch said, then laughed. “Every day, she’ll start screaming if she doesn’t get what she wants. Might as well open it and find out what she wants.” I removed the chair and slid the towel away with my foot. I opened up a narrow slit for her to speak through without yelling and exposing us.

  “Give me one pot stick,” she demanded and thrust her hand through the narrow opening. “That’s all it takes. Then I’ll go away.”

  “What do you have to trade? I’m not giving you shit for free just because you want it, even if you snitch me out,” I told her calmly.

  “What do you need?” she asked. I had a list in my mind already. So I called it out.

  “Gasoline, battery-powered radio, batteries, matches, and a lighter. Some scissors, spools of thread, fabric. Should I continue?” I asked her, my tone like a boss and filled with doubt about her competence. She stepped in even closer like a fiend and started sniffing as though she could catch a contact high from the narrow opening in the door, while Pretty was still on the bed puffing.

  “How much did she pay to get on?”

  “Stay out of my business,” I told her. “Put up or shut up.”

  “I can get gasoline. These nuns gotta a lawn mower, a pickup truck, and a bus in the garage.”

  “Where you get it from and how you get it is your business. Let me know when you got it. Then we trade. But it has to be in a gas can so I can use it.”

  “So that’s two pot sticks for gasoline and a gas can with the spout.”

  “No, get both and you get one. Get one without the other and you gets none!”

  “Can I get a drag now to hold me over?” she asked, reminding me of the crackheads from my Brooklyn block. Back then everybody knew you have to talk rough to them. Get everything they owe you up front or anything you want and need done first before they get even a crumb from the rock. They’re fiends and liars and thieves. Never trust ’em. I narrowed the door, crushing her arm. Then I opened it wider so she would know to pull it back and go get my gas.

  When I shut the door all the way, I turned around and looked at Pretty. I was like, “Hold up. What do you have to trade for the blunt you haven’t passed back to me once.” She laughed.

  “That’s not the type of deal we made. You have to state the terms of the contract beforehand. I have to hear or read the terms and decide if I wanna sign off on it or not. You invited me in here on some type of friendship vibe. Now you wanna flip the script after the crazy white chick showed up begging.”

  “True dat. I know that’s how it should be done. So moving forward, it’s all give and take. I won’t need to tell you that twice. Just know that’s what is,” I said.

  “Cool, I agree,” she said. “That’s mine and your verbal contract. That’s valid.” She handed me the blunt that was three-quarters gone. “I owe you one. You helped me get nice before Bible study. Now I won’t have to kill myself.” She laughed. “How ’bout, if your car is real, tonight we head to the club?”

  “My car is real.
After I get the gas, you bring your flashlight and we out,” I told her.

  * * *

  Sister Claire was standing up teaching the twelve of us seated at Bible study about herself first and the other ones she called “Sisters” and then attached a name behind it. I thought the bitches were too old and too damn ugly to be called sisters. Grandmas would’ve been more honest.

  “All of us sisters have taken an oath of poverty, chastity, and obedience,” Sister Claire said. An oath of poverty! Come on now. There’s not a poor nigga on Earth or even down here who would do something like agree from the get-go to be poor and stay poor! That’s some mean deception she’s spitting right now. I already didn’t trust none of these nuns. Now I was confirmed about it.

  “So Sister Claire, are you telling us that none of the nuns in this convent have never had any sex?” the pretty bitch asked. Sister Claire remained silent for what seemed like a few seconds. Then she calmly answered the pretty bitch back by criticizing her on the low.

  “I want to welcome you and thank you for coming to Bible Study today. You have been here at the convent guesthouse for seven days now. This is the first day that your soul was moved to join us. Praise God, I’m so thankful to have you. You are right. An oath of chastity means that we refrain from sexual intimacy completely. Once the oath has been taken, from that moment on we restrain and forbid ourselves and protect ourselves from doing so.”

  “Thank you for welcoming me,” the pretty bitch said suspiciously politely. “So that means some of y’all have been sexually active up until the time before you took the oath.” She stared strongly into Sister Claire’s wrinkled eyes.

  “I cannot speak for each of the sisters. And I am not sure what you are going after. But for myself, I entered the sisterhood at age nineteen. I was chaste when I arrived and I remain chaste to this day. I am sixty-nine years old,” she said, and I definitely believed that no man had ever touched her. Seemed obvious. She probably looked just as unattractive when she was young. So she decided to control the action by shutting herself in a place with only women. She already knew the boys wouldn’t sweat her. She wanted to reject them before they rejected her homely ass!

  “Thank you,” Pretty said. “I was only going for the truth, Sister Claire. And you told us that we could ask any question. So I did. And I noticed that you and the other nuns are wearing a ring on your finger. How can you be chaste and married at the same time?”

  “Our hearts are captured by the perfect man, Jesus. We are each married to the Lord,” she said with seriousness in her delivery. I jumped out of my chair instinctively.

  “Miss Brooklyn?” Sister Claire said as though it was a question. But I wasn’t going to tell her that I leaped up because I had once told my cellmate that Jesus was a pimp, and that she, Sister Claire, had just confirmed that it was true. But man Jesus’s pimp hand ain’t strong. I mean he got way more wives than Midnight. But the whole stall of them is beat. None of the nuns were the type of bitches that a real pimp would possibly push out on the hoe stroll. I laughed at myself. Then I plopped down in my chair without giving any explanation for my behavior. Come on! She had to know. Sixty-nine years with no dick? Or even a thick finger and a strong lick! And on top of that, all the beat nuns are all married to the same dead man.

  “The garment I am wearing is called a habit,” Sister Claire said. “Yeah, right perfect name for the garment. A bad fucking habit,” I mumbled for only Pretty seated next to me in the semicircle to hear.

  “The covering on my head is simply called a veil,” she said. I was like, No it isn’t. A veil would hide that gruesome face. You wearing a cheap scarf. Then she grabbed the rope around her waist and said, “This may resemble a belt to you ladies. Actually, it is called a cincture.”

  Pretty leaned over and whispered to me, “It’s an emergency rope for the day she finally figures out she should just hang herself.” She laughed.

  “I am sorry if I am not as interesting as you two beautiful souls,” Sister Claire said to me and Pretty. “But down here, and everywhere really, it is the inside that is most important. Not the physical look.” She was speaking softly with a fake calm. I would have respected her more if she yelled or threw something or tried to slap some sense into Pretty. That would have been more honest. I’m only saying that because these religious people always be pretending that honesty is their big contribution to the world.

  Before Pretty could say whatever she was planning to say back, the crazy white bitch busted in Bible study mid-session. She caused all of us to lean back or bend forward. She smelled strong and toxic, like gasoline and paint. Sister Claire started coughing. Sister Constance, who was silently observing how Sister Claire conducted the Bible study, stood up. She cleared her throat and said, “Miss Bridgette, please let’s go out together.”

  Some of the other ladies started saying “Ooh, ooh, ooh,” as Sister Constance walked out with her hand on Bridgette’s back gently guiding her. I didn’t say shit. I know wherever a whole bunch of bitches is gathered and stuck living together around the clock, there’s gonna be a bunch of lesbians! It was the same way in prison. I don’t judge them, though. They mad moody. I mind my business. Don’t get in their way, unless they get in mine. If they get in my way, then I treat them like any other bitch. I didn’t know up until then that the white bitch’s name was Bridgette, which they pronounced like Breegeet!

  “Perhaps we should refocus,” Sister Claire said. She slid one foot forward and started showing and telling us about her horrible sandals. Only thing I was thinking is whether Bridgette would get busted about the gasoline. Did she stash it well? Or would she confess to stealing it ’cause her stinking ass gave it away? Or would she deny it and come up with some clever excuse?

  Sister Claire introduced us to not only the names of her clothing, but to the characters in the Bible that she was set to teach us about by reading selected chapters aloud. A whole discussion broke out when she said Mary was God’s mother but that Mary was a virgin. Some of us laughed. Some just sat around looking nervous. Probably the quiet nervous ones felt bad about catching sexual feelings when they turned teen, and for fucking and enjoying it. They probably was the ones also pretending to be virgins, and that’s why they suspected Mary of being in the same boat! I don’t think people should feel guilty for fucking. That’s like feeling guilty for peeing and pooping. It just something natural we all gotta do! On top of that, Sister Claire said that Mary had a man named Joseph. What nigga gon’ let his girl tell him that she’s pregnant but she didn’t have sex with him or no other nigga? That’s why these type of classes and the people who teach them is all bullshit. I could gather up a crew of hood bitches who got way more exciting but believable stories than the ones in this Bible class.

  Sister Claire looked flustered. She began distributing one sheet of paper to each of us. “I can see my mistake,” she said. “I can feel that some of you have been so hurt that I was rushing to what I wanted you to learn instead of starting at where you are at. On this paper are the definitions of the following most important things: love, mercy, forgiveness, confession, healing, atonement, and of course Faith. We will begin tomorrow’s Bible study discussing love. So let’s each take this list to your respective rooms. Think, meditate, pray about what these words really mean. What does each of these words mean to your particular life experience? How can these words, once understood, be used to cleanse the soul? Also, please use each of these words in a handwritten sentence. Write it on the backside of your paper.”

  When I pushed my bedroom door open, Bridgette was standing inside of my room. I got ready to punch her in her face for breaking in. But then I saw the gas can and it was a real one. I walked past her and lifted it. It was full. “I thought you got caught,” I said to her.

  “I did.” She said it all casually. “It doesn’t matter if you get caught doing wrong at a convent. Here for these nuns, it’s all about forgiveness,” she said in a high-pitched mocking voice. “They want to save us no matt
er how long it takes. We are their welcomed guests. These old ladies are nonjudgmental, spineless, and so fucking gullible and I love it. That’s why I am staying here.” She paused. “Pot stick please. I delivered your gas in a gas can.”

  I looked at her hard. I didn’t trust her. What if the gas in the can is not gas, but paint, which she also smells like? Or something else? “I’ll give it to you after I see if the gas checks out. When it does, our deal is complete.”

  “That wasn’t a condition!” she screamed. “That was not a condition!” she repeated even louder. “That’s not right!” she yelled. “We had a deal! I have a witness!” She got hysterical.

  “Look bitch, you can scream all you want. The rest of my ‘pot sticks’ are in my car,” I lied. “And… you already gave it away. Even if the sisters here find out that I purchased the gasoline that you stole from them, they’ll forgive me. You should’ve kept that to yourself. Now go take a shower, comb your hair, and be ready in thirty Earth minutes.” The protestaholic left reluctantly. I closed the door.

  The pink notebook was still on my dresser top, with Pretty’s death count scratched on not only the cover, but the sides and back of the book, now that I picked it up and took a closer look at it. I opened it up out of curiosity.

  “I am the preacher’s daughter. Unless you are also a preacher’s daughter, you have no idea what it means or how it feels or what it involves. Even if you are a preacher’s daughter, unless you are the bishop’s daughter like I am, you have no idea the hellish life I’ve lived. This is my death story about my life.” I didn’t turn the page, but I could tell that the worn pages were filled with her heavy handwriting. I closed the book wondering why she brought it to my room in the first place? And if she left it here by mistake or on purpose. Well, it doesn’t matter, I told myself. I got no time to sit around reading her story. Dead or alive I’m an action bitch who lives in the present tense.