“You don’t understand, Ms. Jackson.”
Before Kafisa could ask the sergeant to explain what he meant, the Muslim man intervened, extending to Kafisa the Islamic greeting of peace. “As-Salaam-Alaikum, sister.”
“Wa-Alaikum-Salaam,” Kafisa replied, directing her attention to the Muslim man.
Although she had never practiced Islam, her father had made it perfectly clear to her that she was a Muslim and that she must always greet other Muslims when in their presence or when greetings were offered to her. She was curious to know why the Muslim brother was intervening in her issue with the facility.
“I am Imam Abdus Samad, the imam for the detention center.”
His introduction meant nothing to Kafisa. All she cared about was seeing her father and finding out why they were not allowing her to do so. She could hear the frustration and anger in the voices of the people behind her, who had grown tired of waiting. She was tempted to turn around and say something but decided against it. Instead, she stayed focused on the situation.
“I was asked to come out here and speak with you,” Imam Abdus Samad explained.
A confused look appeared on Kafisa’s face. “Talk to me about what?”
“Can you just step over here right quick?” The sergeant used his hands to direct her out of the line of visitors waiting to get in to see their loved ones.
“Here goes the bullshit.” Kafisa let out hot air in frustration. She shook her head as she stood off to the side with the sergeant and the imam. “Okay, so what’s the problem?” Her tolerance level was almost at zero, and it was apparent in her tone.
“Again, my apologies,” the sergeant offered for a second time. “Imam Abdus-Samad will explain everything to you if you’d just go with him.”
“Why do you keep fuckin’ apologizing to me? Explain what? Go where? Why am I being asked to leave without seeing my father?” Kafisa’s tolerance level had fallen to zero in a matter of seconds. “Somebody needs to tell me what the fuck is going on! Do I need to get my father’s attorney involved?” she said, her booming voice echoing throughout the lobby. All eyes were now on her.
“Sister Kafisa, please calm down. I will explain.” The imam’s tone was calm and humble.
“Well, get to it, ’cause I need to see my father immediately. If you think I’m getting back on that long-ass line, you are surely mistaken.”
“Sister Kafisa, as believers, we are taught that there are only two things that Allah promises us—life and death.”
Kafisa stood and listened as the imam spoke. She had no clue about what he was saying and why he was saying it. Still, she knew not to interrupt him, for she had already disrespected him by cursing in his presence.
“Your abi was a believer,” Imam Abdus Samad continued.
A look of frustration appeared on Kafisa’s face. “Imam, no disrespect but—”
“My beloved sister,” the imam said, cutting her off. “Allah has called your abi home.” He could tell she didn’t understand what he was trying to tell her.
The sergeant picked up on this as well. “I’m sorry, Ms. Jackson,” he said, joining in.
“Why do you keep fuckin’ apologizing to me?” She looked at the sergeant, then at the imam. “I’m sorry, Imam. I’m feeling this is all intentional. I just want to see my father.” Kafisa spoke in a softer tone now, hoping to get an answer. She had grown tired of the delay and the riddles she felt she had been receiving. “Look, all I want is for someone to tell me what the fuckin’ problem is and to let me in to see my father. Is that a crime? Maybe I should get his lawyer on the phone.” The irritation in her tone intensified and was apparent in her demeanor.
The sergeant grimaced. He knew there was no getting around what needed to be said to Kafisa. He removed his sergeant’s hat. “There was an incident in the facility.” The sergeant cleared his throat. “Your father was the victim of a vicious attack. We’re sorry. He didn’t make it.”
The sergeant’s words went from Kafisa’s ears straight to the pit of her stomach. She thought her ears were deceiving her, but her gut confirmed what she had just been told. Kafisa tried to conjure up a response, but no words would come out. She began to feel light-headed. She reached out for something to lean on. The imam stepped closer to her, just in time for her to grab hold of his right shoulder.
“Are you okay, sister?” he asked.
Kafisa heard the question but couldn’t respond verbally. Instead she nodded. Her stomach was repeatedly doing somersaults and twisting into knots. Her heart seemed to be beating up against her chest at an abnormal pace. She closed her eyes in an attempt to regain what little composure she could have after hearing the disturbing news, but it only made matters worse. Out of nowhere, vomit spewed out of her mouth and onto the imam’s pant leg. She was doubled over as she continued to regurgitate her breakfast in the lobby of the detention center.
The sergeant was the first to assist her. “Are you okay, Ms. Jackson?” He kneeled down to help her stand upright.
“Don’t touch me!” Her words were laced with venom. She shook the sergeant’s hand off of her back. “Don’t fucking touch me! Don’t nobody touch me!” she screamed.
The sergeant backed away. He understood and didn’t want to make matters worse.
Uncontrollable tears began to spill out of Kafisa’s eyes. Images of some of her most memorable moments with her father began to run through her mind. She still didn’t want to accept the news. A million and one questions invaded her thoughts. How could this happen? Who could’ve gotten that close that he couldn’t see it coming? Kafisa became dizzy. The room seemed to start spinning. It felt as if she couldn’t breathe. Her chest began to tighten. She tried to open her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Her vision was blurry. She blinked once, then twice, in an attempt to focus. Instead, where it was once blurry, Kafisa saw nothing. Total darkness fell upon her right before she passed out.
The sergeant spoke into his radio. “We need a medic in the lobby immediately. A visitor has passed out.”
“They done gave her a heart attack,” said one person toward the end of the line.
“That’s fucked up,” yelled another person in the line.
“I’m recording y’all,” someone else yelled out.
“You should stop recording before your phone gets confiscated,” the sergeant said calmly to the person who was recording them.
“Should we move her to the bench, Sergeant?” the imam asked, concerned.
“I don’t want to until the medic gets here. We don’t want to get sued for something. You know she wouldn’t want anything more, since we couldn’t save her father.”
“Well, at least let me put my blazer under her head.” The imam removed his blazer, folded it, and placed it under Kafisa’s head.
“Where is this damn medic?” the sergeant asked no one in particular after five minutes had passed.
After two additional minutes had passed, the medic finally showed up, casually walking toward the scene and laughing.
The sergeant’s face turned red with anger. “Get over here now, God damn it!” he shouted.
“Sergeant, she just passed out. That’s not a medical emergency. Some smelling salts will do the trick,” the medic explained. The medic removed a bottle of smelling salts from a pocket in her white coat. She twisted the top off the bottle and waved the smelling salts under Kafisa’s nostrils as the sergeant and the imam hovered. “Can you guys give me some room here?” the medic demanded.
In an instant Kafisa came out of the darkness and opened her eyes. “What is that awful smell?” She pushed the medic’s hand away. “Get it away from me!” She started to cough.
“Can someone go into the bathroom and retrieve some paper towels?” said the medic.
The sergeant quickly headed toward the men’s bathroom. A minute later he returned with a handful of paper towels. “Here you go.”
“I’m going to clean myself up. I’ll be out in a minute to talk to her a li
ttle more,” said the imam.
“I don’t need to talk to you, Imam,” Kafisa said as she tried to get up. She felt dizzy all over again.
“Whoa! Hold on, little missy. You need to let the spell pass. Can I put the smelling salts under your nose? It will make you feel better.” The medic put the smelling salts under her nose without waiting for Kafisa’s response.
“I told you to get that shit away from me!” Kafisa pushed the medic’s hand away and eased herself up to a standing position. She no longer felt the dizziness that had besieged her. She snatched her purse from the floor, then bolted toward the door without another word.
“Ms. Jackson!” the sergeant yelled out.
When Kafisa reached the door, she turned and yelled, “Fuck you, you bald-headed bastard! You’ll pay for letting my father die!”
Kafisa stormed out of the building and headed for the parking lot. When she reached her car, she got in and sat quietly, trying to catch her breath. When she finally did, tears started streaming down her face. She knew her father wouldn’t want her to cry, but she couldn’t help it. Kafisa had just lost the person she most admired in her life. Her mind raced with questions. What do I do now? Who do I turn to now? Uncle Fran? Although he has always treated me like family, will this continue with my father’s death?
Chapter Nine
The next day, Kafisa sat at the gate in JFK with her Dior shades on and a fistful of napkins in hand. She refused to go through the airport while revealing her bloodshot eyes. She had been up practically the entire night, pondering the bomb Francine Costillo had dropped in her lap and the death of her father. She honestly couldn’t believe he was gone for good.
When she woke this morning, she had to make one of the hardest decisions she had ever had to make in her life. When she recovered from her blackout down in Philadelphia and returned to New York, she had not expected to receive the call she had. Last night Francine had come by and shown her her father’s will, and ever since then Kafisa had been fighting the decision to honor the dying wishes of the only man she had ever loved. Honoring his wishes was a hard pill to swallow, but she knew that if she disregarded them, she would disrespect his memory. She still had a bad taste in her mouth after sitting on the sofa in her hotel room and listening to Francine read her father’s will. A few tears managed to escape from under Kafisa’s Dior sunglasses as she played her father’s words back in her head.
My beloved daughter,
I greet you with the highest form of peace, Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh. If my words are reaching your ears, then Allah, the Most Merciful, has called me back home, insha’Allah. If this is the case, then I know you’re not going to like what I say, but you are immediately to leave Brooklyn, actually New York as a whole.
Do not concern yourself with my burial. All my arrangements have been made, and within twenty-four hours my flesh will be no more. I want you to leave as soon as my will has been read in its entirety. If you do anything other than that, you will be dishonoring both my name and my reputation, as well as the Jackson brand.
I’m sure all that I have worked so hard for has been taken away, so I have nothing to leave you. It is one of my biggest regrets. But I will leave you with something far more valuable than any dollar amount I could have left you. If you respect my wishes, then upon your completion of your degree, academically speaking as well as street wise, any and all doors will be opened for you. The choice is yours. Choose wisely.
Either way, I love you no matter what.
“Flight five-two-four to Columbia, South Carolina, is now boarding,” were the words that brought Kafisa back to the present.
She stood and grabbed hold of her roller bag. She glanced over at the board that had the Columbia, South Carolina, departure information listed on it and then back in the direction from which she had entered the airport terminal. So many thoughts flashed through her mind. Her emotions were running wild. Should I disrespect my father by ignoring his request and going to his funeral, or should I go forth with my education, as requested? I fear the worst. Will our family name be restored and regain its honorable standing?
“All first-class and elite passengers may board now.” The gate agent’s words blared from the speakers at the gate.
Although Kafisa had a first-class ticket, she did not make her way to the gate. She just sat back down as the other first-class ticket holders boarded. Minutes passed, and other groups were called to board the South Carolina flight. Kafisa still remained seated. She was still battling the fact that she was about to hop on a plane the day after finding out her father had been killed. Kafisa shook her head. This can’t be happening, she thought to herself.
“Last call for flight five-two-four,” the gate agent announced.
Kafisa continued to sit there, shaking her head. Why you doing this to me? Her question was directed to her father. Kafisa closed her eyes, but they immediately shot back open. She could have sworn she had heard her father’s voice. It’ll make you stronger. The words echoed in Kafisa’s head. She stood up and grabbed hold of her Louis Vuitton roller bag.
“Wait!” she called out just as the gate agent was about to close out her computer screen.
“Are you on this flight?” the agent asked. She had seen Kafisa sitting there the entire time.
“Yes,” Kafisa replied. She handed the agent her ticket.
The agent looked down at the ticket as she scanned it. “This says first class. I saw you sitting over there for the longest time. Why are you just boarding now?” The agent was curious to know.
Kafisa took a deep breath, then exhaled. “Because I wasn’t sure whether I was going to board or not,” she responded as she took her ticket.
Kafisa made her way down the ramp. She had only one thought on her mind as she boarded the flight. The next time she returned to Brooklyn, New York, it would be to carry out her father’s instructions to the fullest.
Chapter Ten
2012
“You sure you ready for this?” thirty-two-year-old Corey Davis, aka C-Dub, asked the passenger in the Ford Taurus rental.
They sat parked on the corner of Schenectady Avenue and Sterling Place, with the car running. C-Dub had the heat on high to keep the winter chill out. They rotated a blunt of Orangina back and forth as they sat outside a smoke shop, observing the flow of human traffic. The passenger nodded in rapid succession while taking two pulls of the drug, then passed it back to C-Dub. The neighborhood was semi quiet on this particular Sunday evening.
C-Dub stared at his passenger. He could see the hunger in those eyes. He was all too familiar with that look. He could spot it anywhere. It was a universal look that only those who were truly hungry and would stop at nothing to eat possessed, he believed. It was the same look he himself had possessed twenty years ago, when he was trying to get on and find his way in the game.
It was because of the way he had gotten on his feet that he had agreed to even consider what was being asked of him. It was actually the passenger’s father who had put C-Dub on. He had received his first kilo of coke from Kafis Jackson. C-Dub couldn’t help but shake his head and smile to himself over the irony of it all. To some, it would seem wrong, but to him, it was an honor. Before his mentor’s demise, C-Dub had stopped at nothing to try to repay Kafis Jackson every chance he got, so this would be no different for him. Still, he had mixed feelings about what he had agreed to do.
He could have gotten anybody to take care of what he was handling, but he felt this was the perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. One, he’d be eliminating one of his most threatening competitors and rivals in the Brooklyn borough, and two, he’d be helping someone who was the offspring of the man who had helped him.
“Like I said before, this is on the strength of your pops.” C-Dub paused. “But you fuck this up, and there is no second chance. You pull it off, you’ll be set for life. Understand? I have to know you will honor his name at any cost necessary.”
Again, the passen
ger nodded.
A grin appeared across C-Dub’s face. “Yo, you act just like Big Fis.” C-Dub let out a light chuckle. He had referred to the passenger’s father by his street moniker. If only I had such a successor to keep my legacy going, he thought to himself. “That’s a good thing, though, because your pops was a man of few words and much action. Let’s see how strong his bloodline is,” he added as a sinister grin appeared on his face.
Just then, the reason why they were parked a safe distance up the street emerged from one of the brownstones in the middle of the Crown Heights block.
“That’s him right there.” C-Dub pointed.
The passenger rose up, eyes low, and zeroed in on the intended target. It was either now or never. If the passenger couldn’t handle this, there would be no reason to show up in Brooklyn ever again.
C-Dub reached into his waistband. “Time to shit or get off the pot.” He handed her the .380 semiautomatic, followed by the blunt.
She accepted the chrome piece and the marijuana, then did a quick inspection of the gun while puffing on the weed cigar, before removing the safety on the weapon. She then put the .380 up under a goose-down jacket.
“I’ll be waiting for you at the end of the block, by the projects,” C-Dub noted.
The young passenger made eye contact with him and nodded for a third time. After pulling a black skullcap down low, just above the eyes, she passed the blunt back to C-Dub.
“Nah, I’m straight.” C-Dub waved off the potent substance.
The young passenger took another pull of the blunt, this time taking a long drag. Smoke exited her mouth and nose, creating just the right high. All she could think about was what stood in the way of destiny. She cracked open the car window and flicked the small blunt out and rolled the window back up.
Shit or get off the pot. C-Dub’s words resonated in the passenger’s young mind. C-Dub was right. She had waited a long time for this. Two long years, to be exact, for the first opportunity to showcase her talent. The passenger had finally reached the age C-Dub had designated to come back and see him. Coincidentally, it was the anniversary of the death of her father.
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