Unlike her husband, Fatima knew that Kalif was beyond standing in the corner and that threatening to whip him with a belt would do no good. While Brother Rasul often traveled, she was there and was the primary caregiver to both their sons. She was the one who usually received the frustrated calls about Kalif from the teachers. She was the one who had to deal with the cold stares of the other parents and the harsh, irate, but warranted warnings from the school board. Fatima secretly wished she could give back the illegally adopted menace. But given that both his birth parents had been murdered, that wasn’t an option. At this point she was stuck.
Today Rasul was traveling, and Fatima and Hakim, who was her and her husband’s biological son, were at home and were suffering from Kalif’s unprovoked wrath. One moment the religious-minded youth was fine, and the next, boom, he was like a stick of dynamite exploding.
As the boys sat on the couch and watched TV, Kalif snatched the remote from his baby brother’s hand. With ill intentions, he then shoved Hakim to the floor. As he stood towering over young Hakim, he showed no mercy. And Kalif didn’t care. Nothing and no one would dictate how he behaved. It was as if he had a one-track mind. Only ten years old, he felt that the world revolved around him. The more love his parents showed him, the more he rebelled. Strangely, the only time he showed anyone any sort of respect was when he was praying. While Brother Rasul tried to reason with his son, on most occasions, Fatima was the one who drew the line in the sand.
“Hey, boy. Are you crazy or something? Don’t put your hands on my child like that,” Fatima said as she stormed over to Kalif.
“He had my remote and was messing with it. And the other day it was my controller. I keep telling him to leave my stuff alone.” Kalif stood toe-to-toe with his mother.
She’d had enough of him acting up. Every day it was something. Now the young king, as her husband often called him, would pay. “Okay, Kalif. You think it’s a game to stand here and talk back to me? You can’t really think this kind of behavior is appropriate.”
“Like I said, Ma, he keeps touching my stuff. And I’m not with that.” Kalif’s anger was starting to get the best of him. As usual, the youngster didn’t care about consequences and was seconds away from swinging at his mother.
Unfortunately, backing down to her child was not high on Fatima’s short list of things to do. She was on his head and didn’t care about the consequences. “So you think that entitles you to just keep putting your hands on my son? You really believe all that madness is gonna keep flying? If you do, you’re sadly mistaken. It stops now, Kalif. Right damn now. Don’t ever touch my baby.”
Kalif took a few steps back as his mother’s stiff finger poked him in his chest. He didn’t blink an eye. He mean mugged Fatima, as if she was a random bitch in the streets, as he started to drill her with his own questions. “So I thought I was your baby first. Or is that a lie? Matter of fact, I know it’s a lie!”
“What you say?” Fatima was thrown off by his abrupt question.
“You heard me. Was I your baby or not? Because—”
“Because what?” she said, cutting him off while trying not to bug out. After ten years of raising him, she and Rasul knew this day would come at some point. Yet they didn’t expect it to be so soon, so out of the blue.
Why isn’t Rasul home? Why does he have to be out of town? Damn! she thought.
“Look, Kalif, I don’t know what you going through or what you trying to get at, but you need to stop it. Stop acting a fool, and stop putting your hands on your little brother. Now, I’m not playing. Go sit down, before I get angry for real.”
Kalif could tell he had Fatima shaken up. Seconds ago she had been all up in his face, ready to clash, but now her stern voice was shaky. Here she stood, trying to negotiate his actions. Although his mother was willing to avoid his controversial question, he was not. He’d overheard his father and a few of his father’s friends talking at the mosque one evening not so long ago. They had assumed all the kids were out in the parking lot, playing ball, but Kalif was not. After coming inside to get some water, he had sat down on the red-cushioned bench to tie his shoe. He was sitting on that bench when he heard what he heard. That was the evening he felt as if he was sucker punched in the stomach. The men were commending Brother Rasul on how he and his wife had stepped up to the plate. They reassured his father that he would receive extra blessings from Allah for adopting an orphan.
At first Kalif was confused. He wasn’t sure they meant him. Maybe his father had another family somewhere . . . a second wife, more kids. After all, that was allowed in Islam. Remaining still on the bench, he continued to eavesdrop. Then, bam, just like that, the truth was revealed. He overheard his father, or rather the one who he had always believed was his father, speak out on the subject. He told them that Kalif was indeed a gift from God. He proudly proclaimed that he had done what he did all those years ago out of love for the boy’s real parents, not for extra blessings from Allah.
Kalif didn’t move. He couldn’t. It was as if his shoes were cemented to the floor. It was as if everything he’d known to be true was a lie. As the men got down on their multicolored rugs to offer extra prayers for the evening, Kalif remained motionless. He had to process what he’d heard. When Brother Rasul finally emerged to greet his child, he behaved as if nothing was wrong. And as far as he was concerned, nothing was. However, for Kalif, that wasn’t the case. Now nothing was right, and it never would be. He vowed that everything he said and did from that point on would be an act of rebellion an and would be looked upon as exactly that. And he didn’t care. He felt as if his entire life was a lie, and for that, no one would have any peace.
And Kalif rebelled now, refusing to sit down, as his mother had demanded, and to back down. “Yeah, so like I said, who am I? Can you tell me that? See, I wanna know, because you and that man you call your husband are some liars. Y’all are both hypocrites and motherfucking liars. Oh my God! No wonder you treat me like you do!” Kalif was completely enraged. Using every bit of strength, he punched the wall twice, snatched a framed picture off the nail and sent it flying across the room, then ran into the dining room and kicked over a dining-room chair.
Fatima hurried into the dining room, Hakim on her heels. With Hakim looking on in tears, Fatima was at a loss for words. The only thing she wanted to do was snatch up her small son in her arms and flee the house. Kalif, the baby she had voluntarily raised from the time he was only days old, was going berserk yet again. But this time seemed different. This time his actions seemed more deliberate. As he flung his arms about wildly, his eyes bucked. Saliva flew out of Kalif’s mouth as he yelled obscenities and made threats. Threats that he soon made good on. Behaving as if his mother was no more than a stranger in the streets, the young household nuisance promised to make his mother shed every tear she had.
Knocking over the china cabinet was his next act of defiance. Numerous keepsakes and irreplaceable items were instantly destroyed. Things that the family had always been proud to display were now damaged beyond belief. Fatima’s nerves were shot as the confrontation had escalated quickly. She was frazzled. She was overwhelmed, but she couldn’t give up. Silently the distraught mother prayed for inner strength from Allah as she held Hakim tightly, trying to shield his ears and eyes from what was taking place. Knowing she had to at least attempt to stop her older boy from tearing up everything in the house that she and her family held dear, she lifted up Hakim and bolted into the living room. After placing her small son by the staircase, Fatima ordered him to go upstairs to his room and hide. Immediately, without a single question, Hakim did as he was told. He sensed that his troubled sibling’s bout of rage was more extreme than any that had come before.
After ensuring that Hakim was well out of harm’s way, Fatima turned her full attention back to Kalif and his impromptu antics. Within a mere matter of seconds, he’d shattered a wall-mounted mirror and broken two windows in the dining room, adding to his list of destruction. There were no clear si
gns that he would soon calm down. In fact, his voice kept growing louder. He continued belting out question after question and making one accusation followed by the next. And although he had every right to be angry that the truth had been hidden from him, this was no way to handle things. Kalif had quickly reached the mental point of no return, but it was up to his mother, birth or not, to force him back to reality. Huge shards of glass covered the dining-room floor. With only the protection of thin-soled slippers, Fatima risked cutting her feet while she attempted to avoid the shards as she made her way into the dining room.
Just a few feet away, Kalif promised to kill her if she came into his personal space. Prepared to make good on his promise, he reached over to one of the broken windows and removed a huge piece of the glass that was still in the frame. As his hand closed around the glass, his palm and fingertips started to bleed. Fatima was stunned that he didn’t flinch, look at his hand, or even acknowledge the blood. He had indeed gone insane. A part of her wanted to go and grab one of the many guns Rasul had hidden away from the children, whose curiosity could put them in danger. Yet she knew the way she was feeling in that very moment, she’d shoot Kalif in cold blood. She would just have to take her chances that her son was selling wolf tickets that he had no intention to cash in and that he was just stuntin’.
A still wide-eyed Kalif stayed focused on Fatima as she got closer. He wanted her at least to deny what he already knew was true: he was adopted. He wanted her to swear on the Koran that she’d given birth to him, just as she had to Hakim. But of course she couldn’t. And truth be told, she was glad she hadn’t carried this monster for nine months. With each step she took in his direction, she couldn’t hide the contempt that was in her heart. Kalif could see in her eyes that he didn’t belong to her or to Brother Rasul. In that very moment, he knew he was alone in the world. He had no real name. He had no true family. His soul was broken. He’d be a social nomad, for he had vowed never to believe in the word of man again. The only thing he had was Allah.
As tears of resentment filled his eyes, Kalif opened his bloody hand and allowed the glass to fall to the floor. He then followed suit by dropping to his knees. Pieces of shattered glass pierced his clothing and cut his knees. He appeared to feel no physical pain. Suddenly he tilted his head back, lifted his arms upward, and cried out, “Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.” Then he buried his face in his bloodied hands. Seconds later, he repeated the chant once more, this time even louder than before.
Fatima stopped dead in her tracks. It was like she was in the middle of some horror movie. She didn’t know what to say or do next. While the physical tirade threatening her life seemed to be over, she wasn’t 100 percent sure. Kalif had drifted into some sort of a religious trance, and now he was repeatedly asking God to forgive him and save his soul. He chanted and sobbed. Sobbed and chanted. Taking a few steps back, Fatima bit the bottom corner of her lip in dismay. She was terrified of what Kalif was capable of, and at the same time, she was infuriated that he had caused such irreparable damage. Moving stealthily, so as not to set Kalif off, she made her way into the kitchen and took her cell phone off the charger. She hit the button to dial her husband, and a few rings later, thank God, he picked up.
“Rasul, you have to come home now!” Fatima belted out before he could even say hello.
Sensing the urgency in his wife’s voice, the head of the household, who was devoted to his family, said with the same degree of emotion, “Baby, what’s wrong? What’s going on there? Where are the boys?”
“Hakim is upstairs hiding like I told him to do. But Kalif, Kalif is in the other room, going all the way through it. He tried to attack both me and Hakim.”
“What!” Rasul yelled. “He did what? Why in the hell did he do all that bullshit?”
“I’m not sure. He just snapped after I told him to stop picking on Hakim. Then it was like bam. A light switch came on, telling him to go wild. He asked me if I was really his mother and a bunch of other things. Then he said he was going to kill me . . . waving around some broken glass. I mean, Rasul, that boy said he was going to really kill me in my own house. And he knocked over the china cabinet, kicked stuff, and broke windows.” Fatima was watching Kalif like a hawk from the kitchen as she spoke to her husband.
Rasul was alarmed at what he’d just been told, especially about Kalif’s parentage questions. As much as he loved Kalif, he did fear for Fatima’s and Hakim’s safety, and it showed in his voice. By reassuring his wife that he was on the road, was just crossing the Michigan state line, and would be home in less than sixty-five minutes, he got her to calm down slightly.
“Baby, are you sure you are okay?” he asked her. “Where is Kalif at now? Is that him I hear? It sounds like he’s praying or something.”
“Naw, baby. This boy ain’t praying to no God we follow. He chanting to Satan.” Using her hand to cover the phone, she glanced over at the stairs, then at Kalif. She didn’t want to set him off any further, but she and Hakim staying in the house with him a minute more than was necessary was out of the question. Under her breath, she revealed her next move. “Yeah, so I’ma call the police. That’s what I’m about to do as soon as we hang up. I’m not letting any kid threaten me and have me and my baby living in fear. This boy needs some kinda help. I keep telling you that. But you think he’s more precious than gold.”
“Yo, you need to pump your damn brakes and hold the fuck up. I feel that guy over there clowning, but since when do we call the motherfucking cops?” Rasul replied, wasting no time in protesting the idea of Fatima calling the law. Not because he had a slew of illegal guns stashed around the house. And not because he had drugs bagged and hidden in the attic rafters. He was a grown-ass man, and if it came down to it, he would catch any case and cop to any charge if he had to. But he was definitely not going to give the often corrupt Detroit Police Department an open-ended invitation to come inside his castle. “Look, I’ma call Abdul and ask him to go over there right now. He can get Kalif back together until I touch down. You and my little man gonna be safe, okay?”
“Okay, but—”
“Okay but nothing. I’m still the head of my household, and what I say is law. So like I said, no damn police. Sit tight and let me hit Abdul up. I know he’s over near Grand River Avenue and Livernois, making a few runs. I’ll tell him it’s urgent. He’ll be there quick.”
“Rasul, that boy in there had a huge piece of glass and was waving it at me. That lunatic you always protecting said he was gonna kill me. Did you not hear me say Hakim is upstairs hiding?”
“You heard what I just said. Abdul will be there. And if you that scared of your own son, carry your ass upstairs and hide like Hakim.” Sarcasm now filled his tone.
Fatima wanted to buck and call 911. She wanted to say so much more about what had just taken place, but it was obvious it would fall on deaf ears. Out of options, she reluctantly backed down on her threat. Having been Rasul’s wife for years now, she knew if she didn’t back down, the wrath she’d suffer courtesy of her husband would be far worse than anything Kalif could think of. Keeping her distance, she continued to watch Kalif’s unstable behavior.
Chapter 4
Just as her husband had promised, his best friend pulled up in no time. Amir, Abdul’s son, was riding shotgun, and they both got out the car quickly and headed up the walkway. Still nervous and upset, Fatima met the pair at the front door. She had tears in her eyes, and the look of worry covered her face. Speaking no words, she exhaled before pointing Abdul and Amir in the direction of the living room, where Kalif was now camping out. He had finally lowered his voice to a faint murmur, but he was still chanting. Fatima was now empowered. It was her turn to be the aggressor. She knew with a man in the house to protect her, all bets were off. The weary woman could speak her mind without fear of being attacked by the child she’d stepped in and raised as her own.
She found her voice before Abdul and Amir headed to the living room to confront Kalif. “That animal is in
there. Look at my china cabinet. Look at the windows. All of this is ridiculous. I keep telling Rasul he needs to do something, but he’s in denial. You know like I know he always thinks Kalif can do no wrong, just because he prays five times a day! He needs to be in a mental facility. They have one down at Children’s Hospital, but your friend won’t listen.”
Abdul and Amir surveyed the damage in the dining room and then took a peek at Kalif. Amir was shocked by what he saw. He wanted to ask his best friend what was wrong and what had made him nut up. He wanted to know Kalif’s reason for destroying his own house, and he wanted to ask Kalif if he knew he was bleeding from the knees and hand? But from past dealings in grown-up affairs, Amir felt it was best to stay in a child’s place, to remain mute unless he was asked to speak. After all, he didn’t want his face smacked.
Abdul quickly returned to the kitchen, where Fatima had remained, and Amir quietly followed his father. Abdul finally responded to Fatima’s statement. Like Rasul, he didn’t want to hear any of what Fatima had to say. They kept their families’ business to their selves. The tight-knit members of the mosque they attended didn’t involve others, especially the police or what Fatima was suggesting, a place for crazy people. Such attention would bring child protective services sniffing around. That type of attention, Abdul promised Fatima, she didn’t want or need. He was far from blind, he told her. He could see that Kalif had some problems. There was no way in hellfire that a normal thinking person would do all the things the boy had done over the past thirty minutes and be considered sane. But judging his best friend’s son was neither his place nor his burden. That task he’d leave up to Rasul and, of course, to Allah. He and his son were simply there to keep peace, so to speak.
Carl Weber's Kingpins Page 4