Life After Death

by Sister Souljah

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Winter, it’s Porsche. It’s showtime,” she said softly. The whole show crew and staff knew that Porsche was the only one who could get me out of any room that I was in, behind closed doors, that I locked. I let her in. She immediately hugged me tightly as though she had not just seen me at home a few hours ago. Porsche is like that, to the extreme.

  “You look so perfect,” she said, unlocking me from her hug. “What made you select the alligator couture?” she asked, smiling. Then she began circling around me, checking out my authentic green alligator stilettos, my alligator trench dress, and even my alligator handbag. “Your ponytails make you look as young as me,” she said. Since Porsche is only twenty-five years young (and at the top of her game), it was a real compliment she was giving me. And because she was the one saying it, I know that it’s true. She’s not Hollywood fake. She’s all the way at the opposite of that. “Your hair is so long and lovely. Look how it shines,” she said, stroking it. Then got excited when she saw my limited-edition alligator hair ties. “Oh, that’s dope!” She laughed approvingly.

  Porsche was the one who had maintained my hair throughout my death. Others don’t call it my death. They call it a coma. But only I really know. It was my death and I experienced my afterlife. It was a whole life after death that I went through. I don’t tell nobody. Regular people would just write it off as a dream. That’s bullshit corny to me. That’s false. It was not a dream. Doctors even said that during a coma there is no brain activity, no dreaming. But fuck them on that point too. They don’t know. Only I know what happened. Only my soul knows. I refuse to explain or argue with any regular bitch or motherfucker about what happened to me. I refuse to argue with doctors. I don’t say shit back to them or ask them any questions about me.

  Porsche hates doctors, hospitals, and medicine. I didn’t know that about her before. I found out after I came through. When I regained consciousness, she was the one who was beside me. Matter of fact, she was standing over me, her head pushed down too close in my face, her pretty eyes so widened at the shock of my eyes opening after having been so closed that they could’ve been mistaken as stitched shut. Before I could think anything, because my thoughts were moving very, very slow, she spilled tears onto my face. Then she withdrew her face and used her bare fingers to wipe away her tears from my skin. The nurses told me that it was Porsche who had washed my body daily. Porsche who insisted on keeping my hair washed and combed and clipped. She even did my finger- and toenails. Porsche massaged my legs regularly and turned my body position so that I wouldn’t get bedsores. She helped my blood to circulate. Porsche read me stories while I laid there comatose. One nurse told me that most of the time Porsche was actually talking to me as though I were alive, conscious, and could hear her. She seemed to even respond to me as though I had replied to her talk, which sounds a little crazy. More than reading and talking, Porsche was singing and humming and of course crying all in between. Porsche doesn’t like being in the limelight. She doesn’t want to be on camera. However, one thing anybody who knows Porsche knows is that she will do anything to please her husband, Elisha. The two of them have a love so deep and so active that anyone and everyone who sees them together can feel it. Some admire their love. Some find it annoying. Some hate how it highlights that they don’t have the same love in their own lives. I probably am in all three categories. I would only think that to myself, of course.

  Elisha got Porsche to agree to allow him to install cameras for the show in the room where I was laid out. She agreed because it was Elisha asking. She had one condition, though. It was that she controlled the camera angle. She could only be filmed from behind, sitting in front of me, who was lying in the hospital bed. She was blocking anyone from seeing me close up or in any detail. They would see only the pretty sheets that she required me to have. What’s so crazy is that Porsche, who didn’t want to be a star, became the star. Not for her beautiful look, although she is flawless. She didn’t flaunt it. She didn’t allow them to put her face on camera. She became the star because no one had ever seen on a reality show a person or sister who had had so deep of a real love for her own sister, that’s me. On and off camera, Porsche had sacrificed her own time, focus, and attention to my recovery. She and I had never even watched one episode of my reality show up until this second. Porsche’s reason is that that’s not what she cared about. As for me, I was busy relearning how to talk right, stand up right, walk right, and think straight after the coma. Porsche would be right there looking over the shoulder of her handpicked personal healer as she performed acupuncture on me. I never heard of it till that lil’ lady started sticking me with these pins in weird places like the top middle of my scalp, the insides of my ankles, and even between my thumb and index finger. Porsche would oversee my various physical therapists, watching me crawl on the floor, stand upright shaking on my feet, take a few steps, collapse, get up and finally walk, then run on the treadmill. The illest thing was, Porsche would be doing whatever I was doing as if she needed to do it. She didn’t. She would be right across from me crawling, standing, walking, running while cheesing, smiling, beaming and cheering me on.

  Even though the show viewers could not see Porsche faced forward, the audience of millions fell in love with her effort and her singing and humming to me as I lay there. Elisha, who never missed a valuable opportunity, recorded his wife’s impromptu performances over my dead-like body. Out of those recordings, he created a show soundtrack titled Bow Down that big banked. His wife refused to perform any of her original tracks or cover songs or hummings. The music still sold and hit like crazy. Meanwhile, my reality show, applauded for its unique cinematography—thanks to Elisha’s director’s eye—had become a combination of the investigation of my execution, the medical story of my flat lining and coming back, the cast of my bitches and their crazy-ass nigga boyfriends, kids, and lives. Since the start of reality shows, all reality shows have stupid bitches doing dumb shit and the weak niggas they know, and the crazy bastards they gave birth to. It was, however, when the cameras redirected to Porsche and what she was doing, and how passionately and honestly that she was doing it, that grabbed the viewers by the heart. That’s how Elisha described it. He said his wife “resonates.” I don’t know that word. I’m not a college bitch. All I know is with Porsche and her emotions everything is extreme. She was extreme in her care for me, in her love of me and of her love of everyone and everything that she loved. It was only a handful of people and handful of things. Once she claimed it and loved it though, she was loyal to the fullest extent. Wait a minute. My memory was reminding me. Porsche loves like Brooklyn Momma used to love.

  “Time to go. I’ll walk you out, just you and me. The on-set cameras will be rolling so expect it. Winter, are you nervous?” Porsche asked me.

  “I’m good,” was all I said. That’s how it was between me and my middle sister. I would always have something urgent that I wanted to say to her. But for some reason, I wouldn’t. I knew the words to say. I knew clearly what I wanted her to know. Sometimes I wanted to tell her what I had learned from living life, also from getting shot dead, my afterlife, and my return to life. But then, my tongue would feel heavy. The words that needed to be spoken, I never spoke. Even before I was murdered, it was like that between me and my sister Porsche. My mind was reminding me of how I wanted to say certain things to her at my mother’s funeral long ago. I had one opportunity and maybe even, only one minute to say some urgent things. I didn’t. Even now I know I should thank her, tremendously. I know what she gave up to get us to this point. I know that she didn’t have to do shit for me. She was already rich, married, chilling, a mother of three. She didn’t have to bother at all.

  On my inside, I worried about Porsche’s deep love problem. I wanted to tell her what I had learned about the difference between loving, which is a good and powerful thing, and worshipping. I wanted to warn her to continue to love but not to worship her husband, Elisha, or even her chi
ldren. Worship is reserved for only ONE.

  “Action!” Elisha’s voice called out. I couldn’t see him, though. Porsche nudged me forward and dropped back from the camera’s view. The finale had a live audience. It was packed. There were so many blinding lights hanging from above. The cameras were very close to where I stood. I walked up, following the marked stage floor. I knew to hit my mark and then to let all else flow. When the audience saw me they jumped out of their seats and cheered. I wondered if I was supposed to interact with them. I should have checked the script. This didn’t seem like any of the reality shows I had seen before I got shot up and declared dead then brought back to life. Where is Simone and Natalie, Asia and Toshi, Reese and… Hold up. I hear music. Because of Brooklyn Momma, I can name that tune in three seconds. It’s the tinkle of the xylophone. For some reason, I am catching feelings. It’s an old joint, from when my parents were teens. The rough and soothing voice of Bill Withers. The song title is “Just the Two of Us”! Momma used to sing it, my mind reminded me. I began looking up and around the studio. Up high there was a green light glowing. It gave me the feeling of when I was trapped in the darkness of the Last Stop Before the Drop and suddenly a green glow emerged followed by a lavender sky and a diamond rain. But I am not dead or comatose anymore. My mind reminded me. I am alive. I am in the studio, on set, surrounded by a whole lot of people, more than a hundred.

  I collapsed onto the floor. As Bill Withers sang, “We can make it if we try…” it was Santiaga. He walked on stage opposite me. He glided in smoothly on the words of the song. Just seeing him free. Just seeing him walking. Just seeing him so cool and so handsome. Just seeing him… He came to me. Face-to-face, he extended his hand. I placed my hand in his hand. He pulled me close. He hugged me and lifted me up. It was a spinning hug, my alligator stilettos swinging in the air. I am crying now uncontrollably. I am on camera crying uncontrollably but I don’t give a fuck. Millions of people around the world are seeing me weeping on camera.

  “Baby girl,” was all he said. He was still calling me Baby Girl because I was his first born. His first baby, his first daughter. Even though he had three more after me, I am “Baby Girl.”

  “Cut,” I heard Elisha say. But my father kept hugging and spinning me. The song switched to “Ribbons in the Sky” by Stevie Wonder. He put me down gently and held me until a little wave of dizziness drifted away. As I steadied, the set changed as the audience chattered loudly. My poppa and me was still just admiring one another. It was so hard for me not to be caught up into him. He was standing right there in front of me. He’s family. He’s familiar. He is the one I know. He must have just got out. No, he’s too well-suited. His scent is wonderful. His look is rough, sexy, and calm. They must have hid Poppa from me. He was the first person I asked for when I came through and out of my coma. He was still on lock, they told me. If I worked hard and recovered, I would be able to go visit him. Oh, Elisha… What a surprise, no prison wear, chains, cuffs, or dirty plastic dividers on a bullshit visitation separating us. No monitored over the old-school, old wall phone conversation. No corrections officers, police, guards, or escorts. Elisha, my brother-in-law, had kept his word. Poppa is here, free and fit, and beautiful.

  A red light flashed. The audience grew quiet and took their seats. My father and I were left center stage. I was trying not to worship him. I was trying to keep it all in the love category. I was fighting myself on the inside. Love and worship war in my soul. I was trying but I could see my father. I could not see God. I know my father the most. I love him the most. He taught me most, almost everything I know.

  My memory reminded me. It is a Mercy that I am alive. It is a Mercy that Poppa is free. It is a Mercy more than anything else. No matter how hard anyone fought to make this moment happen, without the Mercy it could never have happened. I know. It is a Mercy that I am receiving. No, it is a Mercy that the whole Santiaga family is receiving.

  “Alhamdulillah” was the first word I spoke on camera. Probably no one understood what or why. But, I do.

  34.

  We dominated. The news the next day was all about us. All about Bow Down, Starring Winter Santiaga. The morning shows was abuzz because of the ratings that broke all records ever known. Viewers from around the world tuned in to see me at my finest. Even in countries where our show didn’t air, legit and illegit satellites were making it possible for all to see. One morning-show host showed clips of teens gathered in one hood hut in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, to check my show. Kids in the barrio in Cuba and Puerto Rico were glued to the tube. Places I never heard of heard of me—more than heard of me: knew me, sweated me. Ghana and Nigeria, Senegal and South Africa, Zimbabwe and Kenya, yup, I only know of them because they knew of me first. They’re my fans, my viewers. Jamaica, Bahamas, Barbados, Aruba, Turks & Caicos, yeah I knew all of them of course. They were the hustler’s playground.

  Funny thing is, when you’re dominating, which is way higher than simply trending… every kind of media, social or otherwise, every magazine, newspaper, online service, gossip mag and rag, blogger, podcast, YouTuber, and radio or whatever, are each coming from a different angle. The fashion media was on Santiaga’s dick. He was wearing Stefano Ricci and killing it. There were images of only my alligator stilettos, starring my pretty feet and perfect pedi. Each of my body parts were captured in close-ups, posted and praised. Comments were streaming in from everywhere. Where did you buy those shoes? How can I get an alligator trench? Who did your diamonds? Grown-ass women and female celebs were rocking ponytails within twenty-four hours of viewing my show.

  The political shows didn’t give a fuck about the Santiaga’s fashion. They just wanted to know who let us out of prison. It was as though they wanted us to be locked up forever. Investigative reporters were already digging. They wanted to know the details of my father’s release. No comment from Elisha and my team. By morning time the next day, I knew the deal. It was the governor of New York that set Santiaga free by pardon. It was an entanglement of circumstances. All of the veins leading to Elisha. It was amazing to me the doors that would open for him. I know I would never know if money changed hands. I don’t need to know either. All I know is that my father is free and poised to be king. Okay, not king. Let me calm down. All I know is shit changes. The high and lows happen. The tables turn. That having been said, my father is back to where he belongs. And… even the governor of New York and president of the United States of America are black men!

  Entertainment outlets all focused on Elisha and tried to get photo exclusives of Porsche. Porsche turned down The Tonight Show, Jimmy Kimmel, Good Morning America, Jimmy Fallon, Katie Couric, and even Ellen, Oprah, and Gayle King. Once it was absolutely clear that she was not available, producers and publicists started coming for me. I agreed, of course, to all the elaborate photo shoots for the top magazines. That was fun and easy for me. Like being a supermodel or some shit. But as far as in-depth interviews where I had to talk, I hesitated before agreeing. I want to be interviewed only in a place where I can say whatever I want. Nobody beeping out, cutting, editing, and limiting what I say. I didn’t want to be packaged like some fake-ass bitch. They’d have to invite me and take what they get. Go on live and cross their fingers that I don’t say or do nothing too wild or too forbidden. But I’m a cool bitch. I already know what it means to be dead. I already know what it means to come back to life. So of course I wasn’t planning on playing myself, like others do easily.

  Party and publicity invites piled up to a paper mountain. My digital likes and followers and fans bursted into seven figures. Elisha was tight that all of this extra popularity on top of the already super popularity happened after the finale. The new season would not start for a few months. That meant other shows would be eating up the excitement that he created on Bow Down. I gotta give it up, though, my brother-in-law is extra clever. He surprised everyone, his staff and crew. He went off-script, the same one I had tossed in the trash. He made the finale with only me and my father. He restricted th
e cast that had carried the show for the whole season. My reunion with them was to be the show opener in the autumn season. Elisha knew how to keep his audiences in film and television, as well as cable, hanging off a cliff. Then he would milk their anticipation and open up with the viewership numbers higher than other shows’ finale numbers.