Life After Death

by Sister Souljah

  I felt like I had a rock in my throat. I was not angry that he didn’t run or drive over to get me. I wasn’t tight that he wasn’t blown away by my look. I did not chase him. I waited for him to enter his circular booth before I started walking towards mine. Soon as he did and the awesome, cylinder doors closed behind him, I began my walk again. Part of me wanted to run back to the Self-Reflection Center, find Dr. Amal, and ask her if an evil spirit, which is what the nuns said Dat Nigga was, could become good. Could a person who sold their soul to the devil get it, buy it, win it, snatch it back, or acquire it mercifully? Could a spirit that was created to do evil get a raise, a promotion, a pass, an opportunity from Allah? I felt my heart race at the notion. Is mercy deep enough, true enough, warm enough to welcome Winter Santiaga and Dat Nigga? I didn’t run back to ask. It’s funny how if you start to listen to a certain group of people’s reasoning behind a thing… you can eventually use that reasoning on your own to arrive at the same conclusion that the person who taught you something would accept or say.

  I was glad that Dat Nigga was here. He must have betrayed his father. He must have shouted “Lah-il-la-ha-illah-huwa!” out of pure agony, like I did. He must have abandoned his whips, chips, house, monkey bars, alcohol, men, women, and weed. He had to have separated himself from the whole evil team. It must have been hard for him. Once he got to the City of Mercy—and I’d love to hear the story of how that occurred—he must have chosen to express straight to the Truth Booth. Dat Nigga and I were both impatient people addicted to action. There was no way either of us could sit still for too long, doing nothing but reading, writing, studying, praying, and talking about Faith.

  Although I didn’t know if I could ever forgive Dat Nigga, like how Allah might forgive him, I’d rather him go to Heaven than burn in hell. I don’t know if I could fuck with any guy who has a history of doing some of the nasty shit that him and his brother and father did. Although I realize that each of the three of them did different evil, different ways. As for Dat Nigga, first I’d have to forget his whispering in my ear, “I’m an ass man.” I’d have to forget that he fucked Succubus, his own sister of the same father. But I’d damn sure remember everything else. I still could feel the good feeling and impact of his everything else.

  Standing outside of my designated Truth Booth cylinder, row one, number eleven, I shook off my memory of Dat Nigga. I am abandoning my cravings. I am emptying my mind so I can think straight and not lie once I step inside. I know a lie would be the end of me. The end, not in a good way. In a tragic way, with my mind fully awake, aware, and conscious to experience the torment.

  I pressed the silver button. The cylinder door slid open. I stepped inside. It was completely dark. A pleasant female voice said, “Welcome.” Crazy, the voice sounded like my voice. But, there was no one inside except for me, Dr. Amal had assured me.

  “Inside of the Truth Booth, there is only your soul and your self-reflection experience. No one is recording, filming or watching or monitoring from afar. There is always the Forever-Present Allah, the All-Knowing, All-Hearing, All-Seeing, Who will know what happens within your experience, and only Allah is the Judge.”

  I lifted my arms and moved them around the darkness, making sure I was alone. Yeah, I know what she assured me. But I keep 3 percent doubt for the sake of my own survival. Soon as I began moving my arms, a light switched on. It was like a motion-detector-type thing. Now it is confirmed. I am the only one in here. There is no one else but me. Replaying Dr. Amal’s instructions in my mind, I took out from my inside abaya pocket the tiniest paper envelope I had ever seen. Dr. Amal said to get started I needed to place the soul dot into the thin slot on the right of where I was standing. I found the slot easily. Back in Brooklyn hustle days, hustlers always had clever slots and compartments. Ways to hide things that had to be hidden or to see things without others seeing that you’re seeing. I’m not saying that this thin slot was the same kind of thing. I’m not comparing the crack rock, which is small, to the soul dot, which is even tinier than a tiny pebble. I slipped it in, then faced forward.

  Only after the dot was deposited did I realize that I am facing a mirror. I am a dead bitch. In the Truth Booth, some way, somehow, I can now recognize a mirror, and I now have a reflection. I can see myself. Overwhelmed, tears burst out from my eyes and my breath escaped from my mouth without me ordering it to do so. I stood crying uncontrollably in the mirror, spellbound by my own beautiful reflection. I put my hands to my face. So did my reflection. I felt my skin. So did my reflection. My eyes searched for my scar. So did my reflection. It was not there. Al-hum-doo-lah-lah, I thought without even thinking. I stared into my own eyes. My reflection stared back at me. A sudden urge rushed over me. I removed the hood of my abaya. Then I removed the abaya completely. I removed the tapered mint-shoulder-to-ankle dress. I slid out of their leather slides. I was more comfortable naked. Now that I could see my own reflection, I wanted to see it all. I was alone. So nudity was just fine, isn’t it? I asked myself. Hell yeah, it’s just fine. If I was alone and no one was filming or recording me or watching me, like she said they wouldn’t and weren’t, it had to be fine. It was nobody else’s fucking business what I did with myself. And in the instructions, no one said I shouldn’t.

  Starting at my neck, I began caressing myself. My hands crisscrossed. My right hand caressed my left shoulder. My left hand caressed my right. I moved them down my arms, feeling even my elbows, forearms, and then held my hands up, admiring my fingers. When my reflection did the same as I did, I dropped my hands down. My eyes searched my reflection for the position of my breasts. They were not sixteen-years-young upright. But they were not low, drooping, or dropped. They were plump and gorgeous. I caressed them. I pinched my own nipples, not for pleasure but to feel real. Then moved my fingers over my tight belly and around back to hips, thighs, and ass. I was searching for blemishes. There were none. Now I squatted, admiring the reflection of my toes and feet and even ankles. Check, check, check… all good. I stood up.

  Returning to the instructions, I pressed the inside silver button that was positioned over the tiny slot where I had deposited the dot. When I did, the lights went out. The floor moved me 180 degrees without my expecting it, or doing any movement myself.

  “Winter,” a voice spoke into the atmosphere. I was 100 percent that the voice was my voice. However, my lips were not moving. My brain did not tell my lips to move or to talk to me. So what’s up? “Yes?” I answered myself.

  “Do you worship only Allah?” my voice asked me.

  “Yes, now I do,” I said, my mind quick thinking that short answers are better and safer. Plus I do fear Allah and that’s my reason to worship. With that thought, images bled through the darkness. No, the images were on the wall of the cylinder, same as a movie screen. Not a regular movie. It was like an IMAX theater. The images and the sounds surrounded me in the cylinder booth, amazingly. It’s me, being projected onto the wall as if I am starring in a movie. But it’s teenage me in the film scene. I was in some apartment. I was on a bed facedown, ass up, giving head. I couldn’t see to who though. The images moved. I was in a cheap car with a cheap interior, my face buried in a lap giving head. Must’ve been Sterling, a sucker nigga and the only nigga I ever let drive me in an inferior whip during a personal emergency. The images moved. I was in a different apartment—no, it’s a basement. I was on my knees, facedown, ass up, giving head. I couldn’t see to who though. But the basement was fucked up. There was a cheap curtain hanging, keeping me from seeing whoever else was there. I could hear the sounds of fucking and sucking. But I could only see myself giving head. Oh yeah. I recognize it. It’s Boom’s basement. The movie continued. The images moved. I was on the floor. It was a dope floor, like in a five-star hotel. I was facedown, ass up, giving head. I couldn’t see to who. But, I could hear the lusty breathing and pulling, mine and his breath. The images moved and the scene changed, but the action didn’t. I was in an apartment on the floor, facedown, ass up, giving h
ead. I couldn’t see him. I knew though the apartment was mine and Bullet’s. So I had to be giving Bullet my specialty blow job. I laughed. Then I pulled my laughter back swiftly. The scene changed. I was hanging upside down giving head. The scene changed. I was on the floor, ass up, facedown, giving head. Oh yeah, it’s in the Light House. The images froze, my lips on a dick. I recognize my lips and the dick of course. Now I’m standing here in the booth like, What the fuck? So what’s the point? “Yeah, a bitch likes fucking, likes pleasing her man. Is something wrong with that?” I asked aloud. And suddenly, I actually got a reply. Not a man’s voice with a thundering tone like how they deepen and double up a man’s voice on a horror film or even when it’s suppose to be like the fake voice of God. It was a woman’s voice. It’s mine. It’s me talking on the film soundtrack. I was speaking in my fuck you bitch tone of voice. But I was talking to myself even though in actuality, I was standing right there in the booth with my mouth closed and not speaking at all.

  “You bowed down from age twelve and throughout your entire young life to suck dick, you stupid bitch,” my own voice said to me. Now I’m thinking, how is myself gonna have an attitude with myself? Or how is she… I mean, how am I gonna accuse myself as though I wasn’t there doing the same thing as myself?

  “But you never bowed down to the ONE who made your soul. Even in your afterlife, you were still bowing down to suck dick You even sucked the dick of the devil, the voice that was mine said to me in a low volume but with accusatory anger. The images on the wall screen switched. The setting was the fountain located before the forest that led to the City of Mercy. The sound of the fountain gushing water was engulfing me. It was powerful like in a dope-ass movie with a top sound system and soundtrack. But on the screen, it was me when I had been standing behind Young Drummer as he prayed. I was standing behind him pretending, and not praying, and deceiving him. Of course, I remember. I remember everything. She, who is me, started talking down to me again.

  “Up until this very second you still have never gotten on your knees to bow down in prayer to the ONE who gave you life, Allah, the ONE, the Most Merciful, the Most Gracious, the All-Powerful,” my own voice said to me like she was really into it.

  “I thought I was supposed to do the sincere prayer after the Truth Booth,” I reminded my voice that was speaking while my lips were not speaking. “I thought those were the instructions,” I further explained.

  “Are you setting up to hustle Allah?” my voice asked me as though she is slicker than me and ’bout to catch me, who is her, in a lie.

  “No!” I replied truthfully. Then there was silence. The frozen images went black. I became consumed by fear. Am I about to drop? I dropped down to my knees. It didn’t matter what I do in here in the booth. No one could see Winter Santiaga on her knees except for me. “Okay, I get it,” I said. “Worship only Allah. Worship contains not only fear, it contains prayer. It may have looked like I was worshipping these dudes I was giving head to. I mean, in order to pray it involves bending forward, getting on my knees, bowing down. True, I never did that. I never prayed. But yes, I sucked a lot of dick. I don’t think it’s really similar. I mean, but the stances are similar. But it’s not the same thing.” I paused. “Please forgive me,” I said, lowering my head to the floor.

  “Bitch, stand up. Stop pretending,” my voice said to me in surround sound.

  “Bitch, shut up!” I said to my voice. I didn’t stand up. “I am not pretending. I’m doing it now. I’m praying now.”

  “Is that how your unborn son taught you to pray?” my voice asked me.

  “No!” I leaped up. I bent back down and grabbed my clothing and put it back on. “I’ll get dressed and pray. But you are making a big deal out of this. It’s no big deal! I was going to pray. I just didn’t think this was the right timing. You’re acting all high and mighty. It’s not like I’m a murderer,” I yelled at myself, or at the sound and talk of my own voice that I was not controlling.

  The wall screen switched back on. The images began to move. The setting was a packed outdoor parking lot. It was nighttime and zoomed in on some nervous old lady in the scene. She looked lost. Then there I was, suddenly in the scene with her. She was fumbling with her keys. The camera shifted from her and zoomed in close on me. I didn’t look nervous. I looked young, determined, and fashionable as usual. But then… I cocked my right hand all the way back behind me. I was holding something. Then, fast as lightning, I used the something that I was holding to smash the nervous old lady in the head. She withered. I robbed her. Got her for her Gucci driving shoes, credit cards, and a little cash. The focus of the images on the wall screen moved from me and onto her. The frame froze on her shocked expression. A little blood trickled down from her scalp.

  I screamed, “Blood!” I don’t remember that. I didn’t see no blood on her that night. Yeah, I remember her. I hit her with a sock filled with rocks. True dat. I did. “I’m not lying. It should not count as a lie. You’re lying!” I said, screaming at the wall screen. “I knocked her out. I didn’t murder her, though,” I yelled at the accusation that the film scene starring the real me in my real life, which I clearly remember, was making. The images moved. The scene and setting switched. The camera zoomed in on the same nervous old lady. When I first chose her for a vic, she seemed like she had that old people’s shaking disease. In the image on the wall screen now, she is not shaking. She is completely still. She’s naked on a steel table. Her body is fucked-up shape wise. I didn’t do that. I just hit her once. She probably died of diabetes or some other old people’s disease. Then I heard the sound. It was a hospital sound. It was the sound of flatlining. The sound that machine makes when someone’s heart is no longer beating. I know that much. I am not a dumb bitch.

  “You murdered her,” my voice said to me. But it wasn’t me talking. My lips were not moving. My brain was not telling my voice to say these things to me.

  “Okay, when I was seventeen, I murdered a senior citizen. When I said a few minutes ago that I am not a murderer, I did not lie. I just didn’t know and had no way of knowing that she died. Since I did not know, that should not count as a lie that I told while here in the Truth Booth. I never ever been no murderer. So I did not lie. I just didn’t know. I am not lying in the Truth Booth,” I said, realizing I was repeating myself. I was pleading with my own voice, which I didn’t control.

  The images moved. The scene and the setting changed. I was in a doctor’s office. I could see all of the medical equipment and supplies. There was a nurse or a doctor there, but I could only see her body in her doctor’s clothes. Her head was not in the shot for some strange reason. The sound switched on. The eighteen-years-young Winter Santiaga was on the wall screen. Young Winter said, “Just take it out now.” Of course I recognized it all. It’s the real-life me! It was when I was in the abortion clinic demanding an abortion and angry that I had to make an appointment to come back and get it done. I wanted the thing out right then and there.

  “You murdered your twins,” my voice said to me with a calm force, and without my real-life lips moving. There was a disgust in her voice that a bitch who is me should not have in her voice against her own damn self. Trying to restrain my anger, I explained.

  “Abortion is not the same as murder. Abortion does not count. If abortion was murder, it wouldn’t be legal, right? On that day, I was doing something perfectly legal. I mean, it wasn’t really me who killed the twins anyway. It was that damned doctor whose face I couldn’t even see on the screen. It’s not like I took a knife and stabbed myself in the belly. So how was it murder? Why are you saying that I murdered them? I didn’t kill them. The doctor did. Either it’s that or it’s that abortion is not murder, like I said in the first place!” I defended myself from myself. These were my lips moving and saying. I was telling my voice the truth, not a lie. The wall screen shut off. The booth went black. There was silence. Pissed, I folded my arms in front of me. I felt set up. I stood there so long my arms felt like a twisted pret
zel. My body muscles were so tight. It was a standoff between me and my voice, concerning our disagreement about the meaning of thesereal-life situations.

  After a while, it seemed like if I didn’t say or do something, the session would not ever end. I screamed, “Okay, I murdered three people: a senior citizen, Young Drummer, and Bomber Girl. I did not tell a lie. I didn’t think that abortion was or is murder. My session should not stop just because of this small misunderstanding. You are treating me like a prisoner. I already did that. I already did fifteen years on lockdown for nothing. I’m not a criminal. But I paid that debt. Winter Santiaga is innocent! But I served the time. I did not snitch. I paid the debt. It was somebody else’s debt. I paid it!” I yelled. The wall screen lit up. The images began moving. It was a bathroom. It was not a bathroom in my Brooklyn apartment or in our Long Island mansion, or even in the apartment that Bullet and I shared. I was in the big fancy bathroom in the mirror. I had a bag of coke in my hand. I cut it open and tasted it. The scene froze.

  “That’s not the same thing,” I hollered. “That’s not what I got arrested for. I tasted the cocaine just to make sure that them two bitches, who y’all took out of that scene, wasn’t trying to trick me. I didn’t want to show up with coke and be a fool in front of my man Bullet. What if I didn’t taste it? What if the package turned out to be flour or baking soda or some shit like that?” I said, exasperated. “C’mon, I didn’t lie. I really did not get locked up for what happened in that bathroom that night. I got locked up for some drugs and guns that were in a rental car that wasn’t even mine. So that’s what I meant when I said I am not a criminal.” The screen shut off. The cylinder was back to black. I didn’t want to stand there for a whole hour. I was figuring out the routine. I had to confess to my own voice whatever the truth was. I spent my whole lifetime not snitching on nobody no matter what. Now, in the end, I was being forced to snitch on my damn self. I started laughing. But believe me, it was not with joy.