Chapter 17
After he returned to the room he was sharing with Jada, it didn’t take long for Kalif to notice something was different. The nightstand on her side of the bed had been cleared off. There was none of her nail polish, her lotion, or those crazy hair bonnets she wore. When he glanced over at the side of the bed, he realized that the huge bootleg Gucci duffel bag into which she stuffed most of her personal items was gone as well. The final sign that Jada was gone, possibly for good, was that all her Chinese beauty supply human-hair wigs, which she worshiped like gold, were missing from the dresser drawer.
Kalif fell back onto the center of the king-size bed. He kicked off his Tims, then pulled off his socks. Stretching out, he realized he would lose no sleep from Jada being gone. Sure, he liked her company from time to time, and she was mad loyal and helpful, but he wasn’t into keeping no bitch that didn’t want to be kept. Whatever reason Jada had for jetting was hers and hers alone. There would be no calls to inquire about her whereabouts. That wasn’t how he operated. With his eyes closed, Kalif thought not about Jada being gone, but about how that old man had tried to play him like some common sucker back at the gas station. If they think me and mines ain’t gonna go for ours, they got the game messed up. That was his last thought before he drifted off.
Nearing thirty minutes later, Kalif was awakened by his cell ringing. Damn. What now? He needed the rest physically and mentally, so he was annoyed he was being disturbed. He picked up his cell and looked at the screen. An unfamiliar number had popped up. He was not ducking or dodging anyone, so Kalif answered, but with an uneven, dry tone. To his astonishment, it was Nieem. Oh hell naw. What this rude, ancient sand nigga want? Wiping the sleep out of the corners of his eyes, he sat all the way up on the edge of the bed.
Not wasting time with any small talk, Nieem apologized for their “misunderstanding” earlier in the day. Then he invited Kalif to share a late meal at a restaurant in Dearborn, where they would discuss a business venture. Nieem mentioned that an associate of his had just been blessed with his eighth son and would be celebrating by feasting on fresh lamb, grill spiced chicken, brown rice, and Kalif’s favorite, hummus. Kalif was all about business and all about good food. And since the old man came to him correctly and humbly, he asked no questions before swiftly accepting the dinner invitation. He Nieem texted him the address of the restaurant. Ironically, it was the same one on where he’d met Ibn. And since it was at located on Michigan Avenue, it wasn’t too far out of the way. Seeing how it was a celebration in a city that was populated mostly by Middle Eastern people, Kalif would dress appropriately.
After the call, Kalif placed his cell on the charger, then turned the television on to watch the news, both local and national. After getting undressed, he took a dump, followed by a long hot shower. While he was in the shower, his cell rang once more. Later on, Kalif would find out he’d missed his father’s call. But after linking up with Nieem later, would speaking to Rasul even matter? That depended on whether he wanted to order dessert or not. Either way it went, Kalif would start a fast come daybreak.
* * *
Jada was devastated. She felt hurt. She felt betrayed. She felt used and most of all bitter. Truth be told, although Kalif had never made her any promises, Jada had still thought deep down inside that even if he wasn’t in love with her, he did have love for her. At least that was what he had claimed anytime she’d tried to bring up the subject of commitment.
Surrounded by her cousin and TayTay now, she tried to get herself together. Unfortunately, as brave as Jada attempted to be, the tears kept falling. Her heart was broken. The ride-or-die, down-for-whatever female had rolled the dice with a street nigga and had lost. Kalif had shattered her soul, and it seemed that he hadn’t even noticed or didn’t care. It had been hours since she’d taken all her belongings and abruptly left the hotel room. And still the love of her young life had not called to check on her or even to ask why. Jada knew for sure he’d been heading back to the hotel, because Jewels had been with Pit Boy when he and Kalif spoke. Her cousin had said she plainly heard Kalif say over the phone that he was going to the room to chill out and would be on the block later.
As she helped Jada get her things put up, TayTay stayed close, while Jewels went on the block to see if she could low key get some information about what was up with Kalif. She even thought if she hung around long enough, Kalif might show up himself. And if he did, she’d surely cut off into him about why he had fucked over her cousin. TayTay listened to Jada blame her untimely breakup with Kalif on some girl named Stacy. Jada said that if it wasn’t for that “stick up the ass” whore trying to push up on Kalif, he’d probably be over here now, begging her forgiveness. Jada let it be known that just as the flirty female had checked Kalif out, he had disrespectfully done the same, as if Jada had not even been standing there. Jada wanted to scream. She wanted to punch a hole in the wall. And more than anything, she wanted to punish Stacy for the fact that Kalif wanted her.
TayTay, still depressed about the brutal rape she had suffered, continued to console Jada. And Jewels was on a mission to, more than likely, get her face damn near smacked off if she tried to check Kalif on her cousin’s behalf. However, one truth had not been told. Kalif had never, not once, insinuated or hinted that he wanted Jada to leave the room they shared. This play was of her own doing, and it stemmed from her own jealous imagination. Jada started to second-guess her decision, but it was too late. She’d gone much too far to turn around, but she had not moved enough to go forward. For now, Jada was disoriented and full of regrets. But one thing was certain: she’d lost Kalif, probably forever.
Chapter 18
When Kalif arrived at restaurant, he saw nothing but foreign vehicles parked in the lot. After going inside the restaurant, he was greeted by the hostess. Apparently, she’d been given a description of Kalif, because she didn’t even ask him his name. Nor did she inquire about whom he was meeting with. He was instantly led to the rear area of the restaurant. As soon as Kalif bent the corner, he saw not only Nieem, who was seated at the head of the long table, but Ibn as well. There was also a few faces that were not familiar to him. Everyone happily greeted Kalif, and he was asked to have a seat near Nieem.
“Ah, I see you are dressed for the occasion. Nice, very nice.” Nieem leaned over to get a closer look. “May I?”
“No problem. Of course.” Kalif lifted his arm so that the old man could easily touch his sleeve. His outfit was one that had been custom made for him, so Kalif appreciated the compliment and the nods of approval from the others as well. With the exception of Ibn, they were all dressed in the same fashion as he was.
“I’m pleased and extremely impressed. You have my admiration, young man,” Nieem said, giving Kalif his blessing, before turning his attention to his cousin. “See, Ibn? This is the way you need to dress. Not that trash you wear that makes you strut around town, being Hiram. You can learn a thing or two from this man here.”
Ibn was mute. He had not opened his mouth even once yet, even to greet Kalif. Up until a few days ago, when Ibn ceased returning Kalif’s calls, the two of them had been close, exchanging money and business ideas. Now there was dead silence between the two men, as if they’d never met before. Kalif found that strange, but he didn’t force the issue. He was there to listen, observe, and see in what way Nieem could assist him in his effort to get a few of those sought-after Black Cards that Ibn had always bragged about.
“Thank you. All praises due to Allah,” Kalif said as he opened both hands, palms turned upward.
As more men gathered at the table, Nieem requested that Ibn and Kalif switch seats. Each did as asked. Ibn still had yet to speak to Kalif or even look him in the eye, for that matter. Now that Kalif was seated at Nieem’s right, the old man asked him a boatload of questions. Some were simple; some were deserving of a more detailed explanation.
“Young man, it’s been brought to my attention that you are special,” Nieem said.
“
I’m no more special than the next man, in Allah’s eyes, if he prays and follows most . . . well, some of the word revealed to Prophet Muhammad. May peace be upon his soul.”
Once more Nieem was impressed with Kalif. He was envisioning even more what the future might hold if Kalif and his “family” struck an alliance. “But I heard that you are Hafiz. A most prominent and prestigious thing to be. Is this true?” All the Middle Eastern men gathered around the table seemed to put their conversations on hold as they awaited the young black man’s response.
Kalif was never one to brag about the gift Allah had so graciously bestowed upon him. He had never understood how a person who followed Islam could not have the sacred book memorized. “Yes, it’s true. Allah gave me that blessing when I was ten, almost eleven.”
“Amazing, simply amazing. Well, of course I will not try to test you or challenge your word. I will ask only that you give us a few hours of your time this evening,” Nieem responded.
“Hours?” Kalif was puzzled. He knew these types of celebrations could go on a long time, and he certainly intended on staying to the end, but he had had no idea he would be there for hours.
“Yes, and if you check the time, you will understand why we will all adjourn to the other room before the first course is served.” Nieem rose from his seat. He needed assistance walking as his cane was not enough.
Kalif checked his cell. It was indeed time for prayer. He followed the other men, and they entered what could only be described as a makeshift mosque. After preparing themselves properly, the barefooted men stood behind their rugs. Nieem asked his young guest if he would do the honors. Kalif obliged and called them all to prayer. The men, especially Nieem, were once again stunned and impressed with Kalif when he pronounced each word perfectly, better than some of the men born in the old country.
When the time for prayer was over, the meal was served, and the celebration began. In keeping with Islamic tradition, no women were allowed in the room unless they were serving food. Each man had his fill of the Halal prepared dishes, and then Nieem and Kalif went together to a secluded location in the restaurant. Now away from the others, they could get down to the business of business. Which was what a patient Kalif had been waiting for. Pit Boy had texted him during dinner, saying it was not important but to get at him when he was free, so that was the only other thing Kalif had to handle. And of course, he had to return his father’s call from earlier. But both of those calls could wait.
“First of all, let me offer my apologies yet again for our little misunderstanding. It is never my intention to speak out of turn to one of my business associates.” Nieem tipped his head, showing remorse.
“Business associate? Is that right? How so?”
Nieem was a man of action. He had always felt that mere words were not enough. “Yes, Kalif. Unlike Ibn, I see you and me doing great business together. Great business beneficial to us both. You like making huge sums of money, don’t you? I mean, we all can stand to have more of it in our possession.”
Kalif was indeed intrigued. He sat back in the chair and folded his arms, waiting for the plan to make all these huge sums of money to be revealed. “Of course I do. I’m listening with both ears open. So please fill me in.”
Nieem then signaled for the man who’d help him walk to come over. He emerged from the shadows in a corner of the room. When Nieem extended his hand, the man placed a small plastic bag in it, then dismissed himself. “This is how, Kalif. These right here will make us all millions very quickly, if done right.”
Kalif looked disappointed, and it showed. He’d taken time out of what was a long day to get dressed and break bread with a bunch of men twice his age, and for what? To be shown a bag of small white pills, with the promise that he’d be a millionaire with the quickness. “With all due respect, Nieem. You can’t be serious. You think that’s something so new? Everybody and they mama and mama’s mama got Percs. That hillbilly heroin ain’t shit special.”
Nieem looked over at his manz and shook his head. “See, that’s the problem right there with not only you but other seasoned moneymakers as well. You all don’t see the bigger picture. The international picture. See, these are not the regular Percocet, oxycodone, or even tramadol you have flooding the streets right now.” Nieem opened the small plastic bag and emptied the contents onto the table. After picking up one of the light beige pills, he held it up and then suggested that Kalif do the same. With a smile on his face, Nieem went on to explain the importance of what they were holding and how they could change the drug climate in Detroit and the surrounding areas with these pills. “Son, this is called Captagon. Have you ever heard of that?”
Nieem had Kalif’s interest now. He told the old man that no, he had not heard of this, and he urged him to continue.
“Well, it’s like a combination of all the pills that I mentioned. Those are the ones that’s flooding the streets now, correct? And also they are dipped in a low grade of heroin. It’s like a two-for-one high. My people have nicknamed it Captagon Dip, or CD for short.”
“Yeah, like I said, everyone slinging them bitches.” Kalif shook his head, thinking about how the game had changed since even he had started out. He’d overheard his father and his boys complaining about the same thing. Too much accessibility to everyone. No exclusive come up.
Nieem laughed at Kalif’s choice of words, his “nigga slang,” as he and his people commonly referred to it in their own language. “Well, trust when I tell you everyone doesn’t have these bitches. These are shipped straight from Saudi Arabia and Syria. Uncut, highly addictive, and sometimes lethal if misused. If you make the proper moves, like I said, we both can be rich.” He paused. “Or, in my case, richer,” he joked.
“I’ve never heard of it. I mean, what’s it make a person do? Is it an upper or a downer? Is it gonna have people out here like crackhead zombies or like them nodding dope fiends?”
“I know you are young, but have you ever heard of mixed jive? Some of everything was added to the heroin. It made the people nuts. Well, this is kinda like that, in the way that it will have the user being bigger than life and begging for more.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, Kalif, extremely serious. Matter of fact, you have one of those smartphones. Google it, as you young people say, and check it out for yourself.”
Kalif did just that. Instantly, the pill he’d known nothing about until now popped up in the search engine. Amazed, he started to read to himself.
Abuse of fenethylline, with the brand name Captagon, is most common in Arab countries. Counterfeit versions of the drug continue to be available, despite its illegality. Captagon is the most popular narcotic on the Arabian Peninsula. Many counterfeit “Captagon” tablets actually contain other amphetamine derivatives that are easier to produce, and they are pressed and stamped to look like Captagon pills. Some counterfeit Captagon pills that have been analyzed do contain fenethylline, however, indicating that the illicit production of this drug continues to take place.
This drug used by militant groups in Syria. It is manufactured locally by a cheap and simple process, and it sells for between five and twenty dollars per pill. Militant groups also export the drug in exchange for weapons and cash. Though Islamic law forbids the consumption of alcohol and drugs, many users there see Captagon as a medicinal substance. Soldiers on the front lines of the Middle East’s deadly wars consume the pills daily. The pills give them a complete sense of fearlessness. The weak become strong. The strong become even stronger, and those facing death are not scared to die.
Kalif had read enough. Being on prescription medication, he’d never, not once, dipped in heroin, let alone heard of Captagon. Speechless, he lifted his head. Nieem was staring him in the face and grinning.
“Okay, so what do you think? Can you do something with these or not?” the old man asked. “I have access to millions of these little moneymakers. The reason me and my people have not tried a heavy push on them before in the United States
was your people.”
“My people? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“No offense, but your people are creatures of habit. They get their minds on one way of doing things and stick to that way even if they fail to see progress. Think about this. Cocaine was just cocaine until someone came up with the idea of transforming it into crack. Let’s be honest, besides the beauty supply game and those damn Church’s Chicken restaurants, my people just about have Metro Detroit on lock. They have the gas stations, the liquor stores, grocery markets, and now real estate. Are you going to just be another person on the sidelines, or are you ready to get into the game?”
Kalif could not argue with the old man’s reasoning or logic. Nieem went on to explained how he saw their new venture turning into an unbelievable amount of revenue for young Kalif, enough to catapult him to near kingpin status.
“Why me?” Kalif questioned, pushing back from the table. “It’s plenty of dudes out here that been getting money in the dope game that wanna come up. This ain’t really my thang.”
“Why not you? You are Muslim like us. We are a family because of that bond. Those others have been doing what they do for years and have grown stagnant, for the most part. You, Kalif, are hungry and yet still loyal. You can move among your people and make a name for yourself, We cannot do that. And just because it is not your thing now, that does not mean it cannot be your thing soon. We are not trying to reinvent the game, just elevate it. Ibn has informed me that your father, Rasul Akbar, a very great, well-respected man, has frowned upon you dealing with me and others. And I do understand if you choose to turn this offer down. However, if you are your own man, which I think you are, you will at least consider it. Pray on it and maybe step out on faith.”
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