Life After Death

by Sister Souljah

  “Siddiqah told me that she already told you long ago that the greatest sin in your afterlife is to pretend that you do not understand when you do understand,” he said, and I was quiet. He started playing his drum for some reason. When he did, he closed his eyes. It was as though he was calming himself through his own music. He was very talented at it. The way he blended the beats, separating and combining, slowing down and speeding up and finishing softly, caused me feelings.

  “I’m done here,” he said abruptly, and the silence that was here before his arrival began to rise up. The thought that he would leave and the blackness would come and swallow me and only I would remain scared me.

  “Your decision?” he asked. I could tell it was the last question he would ever ask me. Same as I could tell that if my answer was not yes or was not honest to him, he would disappear from me forever the same way his sister, Siddiqah, aka Bomber Girl, had done.

  “If by stop playing and stop pretending, it means—” I began saying. He cut me off.

  “Stop. Do not bargain with me. There is no God but Allah. There is no judge but Allah. There is only one thing that remains for you. Are you ready to stop playing and pretending and to begin on the route, which is the only option and path out of here available to any and every living thing?”

  “Yes!” I hollered.

  28.

  I stood up easily. I knew now that it was because of the mercy and not because of any other person or any other reason that I could suddenly stand. He strapped his drum to his back and placed his drumsticks in a long side pocket. He offered me his hand. His hand was warm. Soon as I held on to it, we began to travel. Young Drummer didn’t push a Rolls or a Bentley, a Suburban or a Porsche, a BMW or a Benz, but it was the best ride I ever felt. He was pulling me through the atmosphere. I could feel it. I was myself, still with my mind turned on. However, I could not feel the weight of my flesh. I wasn’t worried. I didn’t feel threatened. I no longer feared or anticipated being turned into some kind of animal that I never wanted to be. We were soaring inside of a green haze with a blue color above us and a relaxing scent. Outside of the green there was only blackness. But when I looked down, I could see the cityscape of the Last Stop Before the Drop, all of the buildings and roofs and vehicles that I could not see before. It caused me to feel like I was exiting from the Last Stop Before the Drop, the City of the Ungrateful, County of the Arrogant, and the State of Ignorance. I didn’t think anything stupid like I was on my way to Heaven. I got that Heaven was reserved for those who lived life according to some certain standard. It definitely was a place occupied by those who didn’t just do whatever the fuck they wanted to do. I still prefer to do whatever the fuck I want to do. I prefer unlimited freedom. But anyplace but where I had been since I got shot dead and after my three visitations would be an improvement over the Last Stop Before the Drop.

  After what felt like a long trip in terms of distance but not exhaustion, we were approaching a thin line that separated the total blackness from the light.

  “We will descend here,” Young Drummer said. I could feel myself moving down. Not the thrill of the sudden deep drop of a roller coaster. It was the sway of a swing, a very gentle landing. “Close your eyes,” he said, and I did.

  I could hear the sound of a waterfall. Once I could feel the ground beneath my feet, he said, “Look down first.” I did. I could see the shadow of sunlight, lighting up low-cut green grass and a purple butterfly fluttering at my feet. “Don’t look up yet,” he cautioned me, then handed me a pair of sunglasses that I saw him ease out of his left pocket. “Put these on, Ma. You were so long without sunlight that your eyes will need to adjust. I have heard of situations where the sudden introduction to the sunlight after existing in the Last Drop and traveling here has caused some eyes to burn and others to bleed. So I came prepared for your safety.” I put them on. “Now look up slowly,” he said, releasing my hand that he had been holding.

  When he let go I could feel the warmth leave with his palms. We were facing a huge fountain that was gushing water on seven levels. I counted. “Amal Nafura is the name of this fountain. In your English language, which you love, it is called the Fountain of Hope,” he said while removing his drum and his drumsticks. He sat them atop a bench that faced the fountain. Then he squatted and loosened the laces on my black Pradas. Switching to his own feet, he removed his kicks and even his socks and placed them to the side. He then rolled up his fabric cargo pants with all of the pockets and cuffed them at his knees. He then rolled up his four-pocket safari-style shirt and cuffed his sleeves at his elbow. “Remove the sunglasses now and lift your head slowly. Introduce your eyes to the sun.” His words moved me. Introduce your eyes to the sun. For me they had double meaning. I was seeing the sun in the sky that I had missed and yearned for, but over time had almost forgotten. I was also now seeing clearly a son, who I had never yearned for, barely knew, and whose existence I had rejected and easily forgotten. He saw me staring and said, “What are you waiting for? Remove your shoes.” I did. “Tie you hair back.” I did. He pulled a men’s kerchief from one of his top pockets, stepped close to me, and used it to cover my hair. The nigga in me wanted to say, Hold up! Don’t even try it. But I didn’t. “Cuff your hands like this. Scoop up water and use it to wash your whole face. Rinse your mouth, clean your ears and nose, even inside of your nostrils.” He demonstrated, and I followed his example. He scooped up more water into his palms. I did the same. He began washing his hands and arms up to his elbows where his shirt was cuffed. So did I. He then began washing his calves. So did I. He then began washing his feet. So did I.

  “It is good to learn, isn’t it?” he asked me. “So let’s test it out. What are we doing right now?”

  “We are washing ourselves hoping to get clean.”

  “What for?” he asked swiftly.

  “Because we traveled a long distance and maybe we got a little dirty?”

  “And what else?” he asked me, peering into me with his sixteen-years-young-way-too-serious eyes. I stood there thinking but nothing else really came to mind. Of course people wash up and shower to get clean. Maybe he wanted me to add that when we are clean we feel better. But isn’t that obvious?

  “What other reason do people wash themselves for, besides to get clean from dirt?” he asked again.

  “I don’t know another reason,” I told him, frustrated.

  “I am washing so that I can make a prayer. Before praying, each of us are guided to prepare ourselves by cleansing. People who are not playing and who are not pretending know in their souls that this is the right way to do before praying to Allah, the ONE, the Most High. We pray five times daily. The Book of Guidance, which is the Holy Quran that you tossed out of the window when you were fleeing with the devil towards an evil destination, also guides us to wash before prayer.”

  “All of this? Every time?” I asked. As if praying once isn’t annoying enough, having to wash this way before praying each time and being expected to pray more than one time a day or week I thought was too much. Like some type of crazy cult or something. But I did not say this to Young Drummer. He seemed really involved in his beliefs, and I like to take it light most of the time.

  “The nuns prayed a lot but didn’t wash before each of their prayers.” It slipped out.

  “The nuns are still pretending,” he said, and I was like What!

  “They are pretending that Mary, who is the mother of Prophet Jesus, is the mother of Allah. They are pretending that Jesus is God. They are pretending that the Holy Spirit is also God and that the three, the father the son and the Holy Spirit, are mutual partners. This is false. Allah is ONE. He begets not, nor is he begotten. Allah has no parents, no partners, no equals, no children. And none is like Allah. Allah created Prophet Jesus, peace be upon him, the same way that Allah created Prophet Abraham, Moses, Mohammad, peace be upon them and all of the Prophets. And Allah created Mary, mother of Prophet Jesus. And what they are calling the Holy Spirit was created by Allah as
well. All three of them are servants of Allah. None are equal to Allah. None are partners of Allah and none of them or you or I are children of Allah. And none of the Prophets, peace be upon them, nor anyone else or anything, can create a soul, a life, a living thing. And none of them created the sun, moon, and the stars or the universe. Allah created them all. Some say that science created the Earth. Allah created science and the Earth. Allah created Heaven and Hell and everything in between. Allah even created time. Allah is ONE.” The way his words came out caused me to feel that they were not words that were false or that could be argued or joked away. And there was no trace of laughter or doubt in him.

  “And if in between your last prayer and your next prayer, you have not used the bathroom, urinated, moved your bowels or passed wind, you do not have to re-wash,” he further explained.

  “So even farting is a sin!” I made light of it and laughed.

  “No. I see you are still playing and pretending. Farting, as you say, is not a sin. It is an indication that you must wash before making your next prayer. Everyone passes wind,” he said and he was still calm. But in his eyes I could see that he wished I was a little smarter. I am smart. Just not really interested in getting all involved in doing this and that religious thing.

  “So let me ask you. Why do you and I need to make a prayer right now?” he said.

  “It was your idea! I guess because the great big book says so,” I said without laughter this time. I was laughing inside, though.

  “I see it is difficult for your surface mind to connect up with your inner self and there is some disconnect with your soul,” he said.

  “You sound like a doctor. You’re sixteen. Talk about getting up a game of basketball or meeting a girl you like. But probably most girls won’t like you. It’s not your look. But take it from me, you’re way too serious.” I tried to put him up on game. He ignored my advice.

  “I washed in order to make a prayer. I am making the prayer to give thanks to Allah for the mercy that Allah allowed me, to travel to you and to arrive at the Last Stop Before the Drop safely. I am giving thanks for the gift of mercy to heal you to be able to stand from the ground by the gutter where you were paralyzed and unable to walk and talk. I am thanking Allah for the mercy to travel with you, and for both of us having arrived here safely. And for Allah’s mercy in opening your mind, heart, and soul just enough for you to say, ‘Lah-il-la-ha-illa-huwa,’ which I told you before, means, ‘There is no God but Allah.’ You said these words not once, but several times. And for a period of time it was all that you would say,” he said. He was low-key reminding me of just how desperate I was before he showed up. Yeah, I said the words. But, it’s not like I remembered what they meant. I just remembered that I needed to say them to get out of the Last Stop Before the Drop.

  “And you answered ‘yes’ that you are ready to stop playing and stop pretending that you do not understand when you do. I’m grateful for all of these gifts from Allah. Are you?” He asked me this with a solidness that I have only seen in one man while being alive on Earth, Midnight. The man who I loved with my whole heart, who if he would have loved me too, my whole life would have been better than the most beautiful dream sprinkled with my most incredible fantasy that I have ever dreamed or imagined.

  “Yes,” was all I said after my somewhat long pause.

  “Saying you are grateful is easy. Making the prayers and expressing your thankfulness in this humbled way is showing that you are grateful, through action, not only words,” he explained.

  “I like action,” I said.

  “Let’s get started with our prayer. Stand behind me,” he said.

  “Why? If I am your mother like you said I am, I should stand in front of you and you should stand behind me.”

  “Prayers are performed how Allah requires us to do them, not how each of us prefers that they should or should not be done. And Allah is the Best Knower. You and I are not.” He spoke sternly, so to dead all of the religious talk, I got behind him. He raised his hands in the air and held them close to his ears. I followed his action. But damn, I felt like I was about to get arrested. Isn’t that what the police always say, “Put your hands in the air”? Either that or I was at some dope-ass party where the DJ would be like, “Now throw your hands in the air and wave them like you just don’t care.” I smiled at the thought of being at a party. Good thing Young Drummer ain’t no mind reader. Plus, he couldn’t see me smiling. I was standing behind him.

  Young Drummer said, “God is the Greatest,” three times. I did not say anything. He continued on, speaking now in a different language. One minute he was standing. Next minute he was bent forward. The next minute he was on his knees. Next moment he lowered his forehead to the ground. He repeated these kinds of actions. When he was finally back to standing and out of his trance, he said, “Now that our prayers are completed, shortly I will need to return to my position.” Then he pointed one finger up.

  “Your position?”

  “Yes, after my mercy with you today, Alhamdulillah, I must return to my duty of guarding the boundary of Heaven along with many others on duty for the same reason. We protect Heaven’s perimeter, bomb the devils who try to enter the Heavens and create and expand their mischief and wickedness, by luring the good souls who are striving to stay on the straight path. There is no evil in Heaven. Allah never allows evil to enter a Paradise that they have not earned and/or atoned for.”

  “War on Earth, war in the Last Stop Before the Drop, war in Heaven,” I commented casually, singing my words like a song. Not like I was expecting a reply!

  “There is no war in Heaven. Allah forbids and Allah is All-powerful. The ones whose souls dwell in Heaven are protected. The ones whose souls have not earned Heaven are not protected, which is why evil can access and mislead them,” he said, thoroughly convinced of his own words. “Like how evil accessed and misled you, Ma,” he added, and I thought he could have left that out.

  “Let’s take a walk.” He led the way. As we rounded the massive fountain, I saw a lot of other young men and young women speaking to someone older who was listening attentively. I was not accustomed to some little kid or teenager or young adult trying to teach someone old enough to be their mother or father. When I was a young kid, a teenager, and a young adult, I didn’t try to teach the older people shit. I just swerved around them, ignored or tricked them somehow. I was young and swift. Halfway around the huge fountain, we faced a forest.

  “A forest?” I said, as I followed behind him. I had not ever in my lifetime walked into any forest. I never even seen one. Sometimes driving or riding shotgun in a whip on a highway I would see a lineup of trees. But that’s not how this forest that Young Drummer and me and many others were walking towards was. I noticed everyone was walking in clusters of two or more people who were walking and talking together. There were no unaccompanied people. There were no solo joggers or hikers. There were no loners wearing earplugs and headphones or carrying iPods or iPhones or iPads or selfie sticks or anything that a person could enjoy alone. There were no homeless-type people sitting, standing, begging, or laying around

  “This is Usra Shajara Muntaza or, as you would understand in English, it’s called Family Tree Park. By the Mercy and Grace of Allah, all UBS escort their no-longer-living-on-Earth parent or parents who aborted them into this park. You are no longer in the Last Stop Before the Drop, but you are not even close to Heaven. This park is located in the City of Mercy. It is a welcome gift to the dark souls who willed to come here. It is a glimpse of Allah’s unimaginable creations and magnificence and a place for the UBS to say their final farewells. Also located inside of this park is the place where all souls escorted here, after willingly seeking the only way out of the Last Stop Before the Drop, will learn to acknowledge, understand, and humble themselves. You and them will remain in this city until your humbling is sincere. Let’s go in, Ma,” he said. I walked in beside him. I saw trees of every kind. They were beautiful in such a way that I could not e
xplain to myself what I was seeing or feeling. Then I realized, these trees were like jewels to me. My eyes needed only to take a close look. When I did, the authenticity, beauty, and design captured and held my stare.

  “Purple trees. That’s dope,” I said aloud.

  “Those are known as wisteria trees,” Young Drummer said. And, as he said, I saw other UBS giving the tour and explaining to their, I guess, parents or parent. They were at a standstill admiring what I was admiring and what anyone who could recognize true art would admire. There were more purple wisterias than my eyes could properly count. The forest that he called a park was so vast that even though there were many families, it didn’t look or feel crowded like how crowded a picnic is in Brooklyn’s Prospect Park on a hot August summer day. Every little cluster had their own space. In fact, I was wrapped in the feeling like it was only me and him even though it was not. Zigzagging patterns of steps and cement benches were woven before, after, and in between the powerfully purple trees. Some parents broke off the straight path to sit with their UBS. Young Drummer and I continued walking till the tens of purple trees ended and the tens of blue trees began, a beautiful blend of colors.

  “Those are known as jacaranda trees,” Young Drummer said. “And all of the trees that you see here in the City of Mercy, you would not see gathered together in the same city, state, or country if you were on living Earth. On Earth the trees are placed in a specific region and need a certain climate and timing to blossom and grow. All of nature was created by Allah. As you can see, in the City of Mercy, Allah does as Allah pleases to do.” We walked through the blue forest for some time, and I again heard the sound of water nearby.

  “Another fountain?” I asked him.

  “No, it’s a brook. A freshwater stream that runs throughout the park,” he said calmly. He seemed to know so much.

  The scent in this forest was unlike the scent that introduced Young Drummer when he arrived in the Last Stop location to come get me. It was a different kind of perfume than his cologne. Maybe it was the blended scents of all of the different trees. I thought if I could get leaves from each kind of tree here, I probably could make the dopest, most expensive perfume line ever to be offered in high-end perfumeries and department stores. After the blue, we walked through a valley of unbelievable maple trees lined up and interlocked except for the path we walked on, which was now filled with red leaves, as though only the maple section was experiencing autumn, while the other trees were in the summer season. Then the maple tunnel turned into a forest of bright-red trees that were rooted in the soil and striking a conceited pose like, Yeah, you seen the rest, now take a look at the best!