Bridget is wrong. We are the villains. We have been pretending while dead and alive to be the victims, each of us. Allah, who we don’t know and who none of us love or fear, is Mercy.
“Brooklyn, are you asleep?” Pretty asked me.
“My name is not Brooklyn. It’s Winter,” I replied without even thinking. She giggled.
“My name is not Pretty. It’s Sarah.”
“What’s up, Sarah,” I asked, half in my thoughts, and half talking and half listening to her in the dark room.
“Do you think Allah will forgive someone like me, who did the things that I did?” I don’t know why she was asking me a question like that. I had no idea about Allah. But I could hear Pretty’s weepy voice. I had heard females on lock in the dark trying to disguise their tears.
“If Allah is the Most Merciful, based on the meaning of that, it’s possible,” I told her.
“I really want to see my daughter in Heaven,” Pretty said. “I never wanted to abort her. I always wanted her. But everyone made it so awful. They treated me like pregnancy was the greatest evil. The same family that threw me a huge party for getting in to three top universities igged me like I was trash. It was like, ‘If you don’t abort the baby, we don’t love you. If you do abort the baby and continue on to college, we will love you and continue on as though this little “mistake” never happened.’ They made it like keeping my daughter was something only the lowest and dumbest of girls would do. My father threatened me. He drove me to the abortion clinic in another state in a rental car so no one would recognize his vehicle. When we got there he shoved the cash into my hand. He didn’t even go in with me. He was always worried about his reputation. Said he had parishioners everywhere. But the reason I hate myself is I could have ran away. Once I got out of the rental, I was alone. I didn’t have to walk into that clinic. Even once I was inside, I could have screamed for help. I didn’t. I followed my father’s words. He always said he spoke the words of God. When it was all over, I hated myself. I hated him and I hated God. From then on I was determined to destroy all three.”
“What a bastard,” Bridgette joined in. “His mother should have aborted him!” she said, going overboard as usual.
“Say a prayer,” study bitch said. “Everything I’ve read says that Allah is our only help. Everyone else who we seek for help and answers is useless. It’s on the first page of the Quran, the Book of Guidance. ‘In the name of Allah.’ Did you even bother to read it? It will come in handy for our interviews with the self-reflection counselor.” Sounded like she was treating this situation like it was her top college.
Pretty answered, “I will.” She got up and walked to the big book and flipped on the little light above it.
“Turn off the light! It’s night time!” slapper bitch yelled.
“Bitch, you have on a sleeping mask. Close your eyes and go to sleep then,” I told her.
“Even with the mask on, I need complete darkness to sleep,” she said. We all igged her.
31.
Dr. Amal Janebi didn’t look or behave like my prison psych. She was the opposite. Instantly I felt a strong like for her. It was not anything she said. She was in the corner office. Her desk was a semicircle made of 90 percent glass and 10 percent steel. It was placed in the middle of her large suite with a floor-to-ceiling glass wall behind her. The sunlight poured in, causing her face to have an extra glow. Through the glass desk I saw her crocodile stilettos. They was so fire. I wanted to pull up close on them, which I would never do. The illest thing, however, was that her couch, her divan, and her revolving doctor’s chair were all made from genuine crocodile. Made me want to stand up and applaud her for whatever it took for her to chill so fucking hard that she got the corner office, the luxury furnishings, and the window with the sunlight. She was not young. She was not nearly old. She may have been around thirty it seems, like around my age or so. She had long, jet black hair that cascaded down with curls. Beautiful eyes and smooth skin. She was slim but shapely. Her Cartier reading glasses were laid on her desktop. She wore three pure gold bangles. Her ears dangled diamonds. Her marriage finger was laced with a “can’t say no” rock so large it needed round-the-clock security. She wore the long, tapered, mint-green shoulder-to-shoe dress that we all wore. But of course her setting, accessories, and jewels made it crystal clear that she was not the same as the rest of us. All of it was more convincing than the degrees she held. They were posted on a side wall as though even she knew they weren’t the biggest thing she had going on. I decided before the session even began, I would give it to her hands down. Why not? She took it. She had achieved what I had been saying about all of these counselors, therapists, psychologists, psychiatrists that I have encountered in my short lifetime. If you want someone to cooperate with you, to listen, to hear, consider what you are saying and suggesting, you have to be someone that your patient or client would like to become. Even a prisoner does not want to become like the cheap, style-less, unattractive, frustrated prison personnel. So we bullshit them the way they bullshit us. Not today. She won.
“We are both women,” she began. “You may remove your abaya. Let your hair down. Feel comfortable. Would you like a glass of water?”
“No, thank you, Dr. Amal. I don’t want water. If you are testing to see if I am an evil spirit or not, I am not.”
She laughed. “You may have noticed that here in the City of Mercy we are not security heavy. The reason is because this area is under the mercy of Allah. There is nothing evil any soul can do here. There is no way back for any soul either. It’s either up or down, by Allah’s permission and none other. So please relax. I am a doctor, a psychiatrist, a guide, but as I am sure you have realized by now, there is only ONE JUDGE. When Allah grants mercy or gives out punishment, there is none who can lessen it or increase it or interfere.” I took off my abaya and made myself comfortable on the crocodile. “Ask me anything,” the doctor said. “Once you have exhausted all of your questions, I will lead the conversation.”
“Are you Spanish, black, or white?” I asked her because I wasn’t sure.To me she had the complexion of olive oil.
“Americans always want an answer to this race question. It is a strange preoccupation, but I will allow it. I am an Emirati,” she said, and smiled nicely.
“Emirati,” I repeated. Even that name is hot to death.
“Yes if there was a category, I would be placed in the Arab category. I don’t flaunt that. I know Americans don’t tend to meet, trust, or like Arabs. Also, many Americans have never heard of, or are completely unfamiliar with, the gulf countries.” She is right. I don’t really know anything about them or their countries or gulf, which is just the name of a gas station to me. And, I never even heard of an Emirati. Dope name though.
“I have had many American souls, who were a huge portion of the population of the Last Stop Before the Drop. They processed through here. Sad that the majority of them only encounter Arabs and the Arabic language and Arabic countries and lands after death. Not to say that all Arabs are good people. There is also a population of Arabs in the Last Stop Before the Drop. It is significant, however, that Allah chose the language of Arabic as the language that the Holy Quran was revealed and written in. This is what makes it special. Arabs, the people of course, are simply flawed like all humans,” she said softly.
“So you have the advantage,” I said.
“Pardon?” she said.
“You are closer to it because it comes from you. It looks and sounds familiar to you. It’s in your language. The rest of us don’t feel the familiarity, affection or love for your thing that you feel,” I said to her. Then I started thinking and checking. I am not telling a lie. I am not telling a lie, I assured myself.
“Yes, but the Faith is for all. The message of the Holy Quran is for all,” she said confidently.
“So let me ask you something. If the only way up is to make a sincere prayer, but a soul doesn’t feel familiar and does not have an affection, devotion, or lo
ve for Allah, is it possible to go up based strictly only on the fact that I fear Allah? I fear the Hell Fire? Can worship be accepted without a real love, but with a real fear instead?” I reworded myself. It was as though I was asking her and asking myself at the same time.
“Powerful question. I think it is an excellent start that you have given the matter of your soul deep thought,” she said. Inside I was celebrating. That’s right! Acknowledge, I am not a dumb bitch like Succubus said I was. As long as I decide to put my mind to something, that’s what matters to me. I don’t want anyone other than me to try to force my mind on to a matter.
“There are seven academies here at the City of Mercy. You are at academy one, Self-Reflection. InshAllah, by the time you advance through each academy you will be very familiar with Allah. As you read Quran, your soul and heart will open up and you yourself will be moved to love Allah, InshAllah. You will grow to love Allah and worship with love and fear.” I gave her a piercing look. She needed to know that, like study bitch, I wanted the answer to my question and that’s it. She read my stare. She said, “Allah is the Judge. Allah is All-Knowing. Allah will judge if your fearful prayer is sincere. I cannot. No one else but Allah can.”
“Okay, cool. So my next question is, can I skip the other six academies and make my fearful prayer, as you call it, and receive a decision? Is there an express line in the City of Mercy?” She laughed naturally. Then she tried to pull back her laughter professionally.
“You are staying in the Princess Residence, here in the Self-Reflection Center.”
“Yes,” was all I answered. I knew that it was not a question and that she already knew where I was staying. Everything here is digital and advanced.
“Of course. Every soul assigned to that particular residence has a special set of matters of the mind and soul to overcome. There is this condition known as the Princess complex. A woman does not actually have to be a princess to have this condition and this complex. It is a state of mind, brought on to women who have either been spoiled rotten, misled from a young age, or worshipped instead of loved, or overprotected instead of living, or violated in some awful manner by the people closest to them, family,” she explained. “Or it could be rooted in something simple. You could be a woman who was read to, or who has read a lot of ridiculous stories that are read and told all around the world to children and young adults. Stories where you are a princess who is exalted, deserves to be served and worshipped, protected and cherished, and beautiful and rich, of course. Many women have these stories engraved into their souls, where they should not be, because they are not truthful stories nor are they realistic or good.”
“I don’t see nothing wrong with being a princess, or feeling like one even if you are not. Look at you, Dr. Amal, you are chilling very hard. Somewhere your father or mother or lover or whatever must have treated you like a princess. My father did. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”
“Therein lies the problem,” she said, standing up from her chair and walking around to where I sat on my own crocodile. She sat across from me on her divan. My eyes fixed on those mean-ass croc stilettos. And her flawless pedicure.
“A child captured by these stories grows up to be an adult who believes that she is always right. That her choices are correct. That her actions cannot be challenged. That everyone else is beneath her, or him in the case of a prince or king complex,” she explained. I was glad she threw in that a man can have this complex too. Even though I didn’t give a fuck, really.
“The problem is that these stories do not convey the proper order to life. Allah is ONE. That’s first. If children are taught by their parents to know and understand this, and to read Quran as the main book that is repeatedly read, and to make their prayers properly, then their minds would not be in a state of disorder and chaos and confusion. Once you know that Allah is ONE. Once you read even the first chapter of the Holy Quran, you, no matter who you are, will learn your position in all things. Allah is ONE, Allah is the only ONE to be worshipped. If you knew this, you would never worship anything else or anyone else, not even your mother who birthed you or your father who raised you. And, most importantly, you would not waste your entire life wanting, expecting, and organizing others to bow down and worship you.” She said it sweetly, but I could feel the kick in it. I was ’bout to swerve around all of this religious talk.
“Is there an express line?” I asked again calmly and sweetly. I even threw a smile on it.
“There is!” She caught it. She leaned forward and said. “But allow me to caution you. I, Dr. Amal Janebi, am nothing but a warner. The express line as you call it, is usually used by souls who already know that there is no God but Allah. Souls who already have read Quran, who were born into the Faith, practiced the Faith, and somehow chose an evil detour and ended up at the Last Stop Before the Drop. Since they knew the truth all along, and knew they were wrong for each and every misstep, their return to the truth makes it possible for them to advance swiftly.” She stood up. Walking gracefully around her office as she spoke more to me.
“The question for you, Ms. Santiaga, is do you believe and think that you can properly self-reflect, which is mandatory, before advancing directly to submitting your prayers of sincerity?” she challenged. And she had used the word I hate, mandatory. Of course I know what that means. I did fifteen mandatory years on lock. Self-reflection is mandatory to pray my way out. I want to self-reflect, make one sincere prayer and be gone, either way. I had decided that last night after all the bitches stopped talking in the dark so I could think.
“So are you saying that if I complete today’s session with you and give you my essay assignments and the group vocabulary sentences, that completes my self-reflection?” I asked.
“No. I will of course collect those from you right now. In order to bypass completion of the self-reflection period, or full term, you may request to advance directly to the Truth Booth, which is the final test of the Self-Reflection Center. Inside of that booth alone, you will face yourself. You will face all of your good, bad, and evil. You will be questioned. If you pass, you will advance beyond the six academies. If you fail, you will not. Additionally, there is a possibility—if you are unable to confront yourself properly and honestly, and if you deny, hide, cover up, mislead, deceive, or lie—that you may receive an immediate permanent judgment from the Most High. No one else controls what will happen in that booth. It is you facing you, and Allah who is All-Hearing, All-Seeing, All-Powerful, doing as Allah judges and pleases. Allah is swift in all accounts. You will never ever be cheated of anything good of you or evil of you,” she warned.
“I’m ready,” I said, placing my essays and sentences on her tabletop. I stood up.
“I recommend that you take some time to think about your decision. If you attend the academies, you will learn so many amazing truths. You will see yourself clearly. You will understand the Faith clearly. You will be able to sort your rights from wrongs because you will have mastered understanding of the rules and limits set for humanity by the Most High. Your soul will be more at ease in admitting to your errors. Each and every soul can only enter the Truth Booth once. There are no do-overs or makeups. The outcome is final unless it pleases Allah. Otherwise, Allah does as Allah pleases.”
“I am ready,” I confirmed again. It was not a lie. I am ready to get this over with. I am not a study bitch. I am not interested in working my way through, reading my way through, writing my way through or even praying my way through. There is no God but Allah. Worship only Allah. Love my father but do not worship my father or any other man including Jesus or any other woman including Brooklyn Momma. Also, do not worship any other thing including fashion, jewels, money, whips, sex, fame, or material items. The thin line that separates love from worship, I can see it now. I still do not love Allah. I do fear Allah. Because of my fear, I will worship only Allah. I was not lying about it. If I pray and don’t lie, that’s my sincerity. If sincerity was the core requirement, I was betting it all on
my sincerity and letting it ride.
“I am ready for the Truth Booth,” I stated clearly and confidently.
32.
Circular, sturdy, made of sparkling white, mountain rocks, single-occupancy booths. They were located in between the Manzil Mutawadie and the masjid—meaning, between the House of Humility and the mosque. There were eleven rows of eleven of these beautiful enclosures that were framed by a garden. I had not known what to expect. However, everything in the City of Mercy was way more than I expected and much more than I could have ever imagined.
As I walked the outdoor path that extended up until and after each of the seven buildings, I paused at the House of Wisdom. There was a fountain there, where some women, also fully covered, were seated. Across what they call the pavilion was another fountain and the walking path for men. There was a small gathering of about seven males, all immaculately dressed in brilliant white long garments and kufis.
A few thoughts occurred to me. I thought it was dope that they allowed all of us souls to move around outdoors without armed or unarmed security guards on post. Moreover, there were no escorts, hand- or ankle cuffs, chains, whips, or monitors. It felt like the City of Mercy was the truest location. None of us had to be tased, tranquilized, shot, roped, chained, beaten, or threatened into submission. We each knew that we were experiencing Allah’s mercy, and that we had to be responsible for ourselves, straighten up and act right based on our own will, and our love and/or our fear of Allah. Whether or not all of us love Allah—because I still do not—I don’t know. However, I do know that we had each done more than enough, had more than enough done to us, and all felt and feared the range of Allah’s power. So nobody made any reckless moves. It was all peace.
As some women ran their fingers through the water, and I stood facing the sun and hoping for a favorable outcome to my Truth Booth experience, I sensed something. My eyes searched. I saw a physique I could never forget. The shoulders, the back, and the ass—or should I say the print or outline of the shoulders, the back, the ass—was all that could be seen beneath the flawless white garment that he wore. But only he had this uniquely perfect physique. And only he wore Timbs on his feet. I waited for him to turn around just to confirm. When he did, my eyes ran across the pavilion where Dat Nigga was standing. It was some seconds before he saw me seeing him. When he saw, he looked only long enough to recognize me. Then he switched his gaze swiftly. He faced front and walked forward towards the men’s path that led to the Truth Booths.
Life After Death Page 31