Midnight

by Sister Souljah

  54

  PAYING UP

  Naja to the sitter, Umma to her job, Akemi and I to the bank.

  Akemi took a seat on a comfortable chair in the bank waiting area.

  Same teller, the usual Monday visit. She accepted my deposit, looking only at her own hands counting the small sum of money. She stamped my passbook and slid it through the slot. She glanced over at Akemi and said to me, “Are you serious?”

  “Let me get some paper rolls for pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters,” I asked. She rolled her eyes then hesitated. “Please,” I added. She gathered them and passed them to me. We left.

  Some of these Black American females are funny, I thought to myself. They don’t know how to carry themselves or treat a man good, as if fucking is all there is to it. There is no sweetness in them. They stay on attitude all day long, then they get mad when a man treats any other woman special. That teller had been seeing me around and knowing me for at least five years. I barely ever got one sentence or half a smile out of her. So why was she in my business? Why did she care who I loved?

  Akemi needed to make a stop in Queens. I took her by her uncle’s house. Even though I knew he was not home, and that they were already at their family store, and Saachi was already in school, I still didn’t go inside his place.

  When Akemi finished up and returned outside where I was sitting, she pulled a flyer from the MoMA out of her front dress pocket. She pointed at the name of the museum. “Today, eight,” she said, having learned a bit from Naja, who had her own way of making her lessons stick.

  “Tonight at eight P.M.?” I asked her.

  “Tonight eight P.M.,” she corrected herself with a smile. I knew that’s when I needed to pick her up. I also knew I would have to miss dojo tonight to be on point with Umma, Naja, and her.

  After I dropped Akemi off, I headed down to the lawyer’s office about the house.

  “Well, you look relaxed,” the lawyer said. “Did you have a good weekend?”

  “I’m good,” I smiled and thanked her.

  “Okay now, the inspection has been completed. It’s an old house with a few problems, nothing major, but you knew that already, right?”

  “I knew the house was old,” I agreed.

  “Well the wiring on the house, the plumbing, the structure itself is great. Sometimes these old houses are built much stronger than the new ones. The news ones can easily be all cheap wood, drywall, and sheetrock. Somebody lights a match then ‘poof,’ the whole place blows up in minutes,” she dramatized and laughed at herself.

  “The inspection reveals that you may need to replace all of the windows. They suggest especially the ones on the first floor. If this is something you can do in the summertime when you move in, you will end up saving yourself a heap of money on heating for the fall and winter.”

  “Windows,” I repeated aloud, thinking.

  “Also, the roof of the house was replaced, um, two and a half years ago. So. That’s good.

  “This is a relatively simple buy since you want to purchase the home without a loan. You’ve certainly eliminated the lion’s share of the work. No mortgage fees, credit checks, high interest rates . . . great,” she said, smiling and folding her hands in front of herself.

  “So we have the title search and the inspection completed. We can make our offer and sign the contracts so that Mr. Slerzberg can at least take down his for sale sign, keep the house off the market to other potential buyers. You don’t want to get in a bidding war and have some other buyer drive the price up,” she said, finally taking a breath.

  “As much as I enjoy working together with you, since you are underage, which I find unbelievable, I will need you to come in with your mother. I know you said she has to work. We can set something up for say, six o’clock this Thursday evening?” she asked.

  “That’s fine,” I answered.

  “We’ll give Mr. Slerzberg a call then. I’ll also set up your options for a home insurer. Of course you’ll want to insure your house and property, right?” she asked. I thought of Chris’ father with the mention of insurance.

  “Of course,” I responded.

  “Would you like me to see if we can push the closing date up some?” she asked.

  “Closing?” I responded.

  “That’s the day you actually pay all of the sums, become the owner, and receive the keys to your new house. The way it stands, I don’t see any reason why Mr. Slerzberg has the date pushed all the way back to June first.”

  “Oh, if you could see all of the junk he has in that house,” I said, laughing, “you would know why he has the move-out date pushed all the way back.”

  “Such nice teeth,” she said to me, then looked back down at the paperwork.

  “Thank you,” I responded. I leaned forward and dropped my head a bit, as I often did to avoid meeting women’s eyes.

  “If you could get the date pushed up that would be more than perfect. We really want to move as soon as possible,” I told her.

  Seated on the wall outside of her office, I was thinking numbers. Eighty thousand for the house, another thousand for the “closing costs,” including the lawyer’s fees, the home insurance cost, the house appraisal cost, the inspection cost, and the title search. Let’s say we’re at $81,500. Then there would be the actual small house repairs, paints and supply cost and move-in fees. Let’s say another $1,000. Now we’re at $82,500. We’ve got $85,300 in our account. Once we buy the house, we’ll have only $2,800, left. But the flip side is, there would be no more rent to pay, no mortgage to pay, no bank to seize our house when business got slow or tight, and peace of mind.

  I jotted down a note to myself. “Property taxes.” I forgot to ask about the amount we needed to pay for our property taxes. I hated that we had to pay them. But I knew that we would have no choice. It seemed like a legalized criminal way for the government to still be collecting some form of rent from a homeowner. They wanted us to pay for our houses twice.

  My personal savings, seven years of delivery tips, plus monies set aside from nine months’ working at Cho’s, and three loose diamonds given to me by my father, that was my total financial value.

  I took my assessment and used it as motivation to get my ass up and pursue the stream of new clients who had phoned into Umma Designs over the past week. I jumped on the train and did what I do, make appointments, keep appointments, conversate with clients, make arrangements, and take measurements.

  By 5:00 P.M. I picked Umma up. Then we picked up Naja. I secured them and went to ball practice.

  55

  BUS STOP

  Bangs showed up to basketball practice that evening. She arrived earlier than usual, probably because she had figured out that last time I cut out early and avoided her.

  I didn’t like her sitting around a gym full of sweaty male teens working out. It was not the same as bringing Naja. Bangs was all body. Everything she wore rode her deep curves and highlighted her beauty. Today she wore shorts and a tight tee. Her hair was slicked up and pulled tight, then rubberbanded into a bun. She combed her “baby hair” down and swirled it out onto the smooth skin of her face. Her milky breasts alone were a magnet. She was all smiles and sitting on the top back bleacher against the wall. Her dimples revealed her happiness. I looked up at her face and knew she didn’t know that I intended to separate myself from her. I needed her to stop coming for me.

  After practice, I met her on the side of the bleachers and slightly underneath.

  “Thank you so much for what you did,” she said. “Nobody in the whole world ever did anything so nice for me, really.” She went to wrap her arms around my neck. I caught her by her wrists.

  “Listen, Bangs, you’re cool with me. You looked out and I won’t forget it. But what you’re looking for as far as me and you, that’s not happening,” I told her.

  “Why?” she asked, seeming completely puzzled.

  “We already discussed why,” I told her.

  “Oh that’s nothing,” sh
e said, referring either to my religion or my relationship with Akemi.

  “It’s something to me,” I told her.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” she answered, lying, I thought, and now her new lie reminded me of her old lies.

  “Who’s Darren Sparks?” I asked her, referring to the news article on her wall.

  “Who?” She got immediately defensive. “I don’t know who that is but if he told you I did something with him, he’s lying,” she said within half a second.

  “Didn’t you tell me your daughter’s father got hit by a drunk driver?” I reminded her. Her eyes started moving around away from mine.

  “He did . . .” she said softly, her voice trailing off and her face revealing her desperate rush to organize her thoughts and her lies. She stood still for the first time since I met her. Her dimples and her smile were gone. Suddenly, she tried to bring them back.

  “Did my grandmother say something to you?” she asked, trying to sound pleasant. But I knew what she was attempting to do. She wanted to find out how much I really knew, so she could lie about whatever else remained.

  “Is your grandmother your real grandmother?” I asked her.

  “Yes!” She looked puzzled again. “She is my mother’s mother. Was, I mean.”

  “And your uncle, is that your mother’s real brother?” I asked.

  Finally she knew what I was knowing and getting at. “Yes,” she answered softly and slowly. She turned away from me slightly and folded her arms across her body. She began fidgeting again, the whites of her eyes becoming cloudy and red as the frustration and stress brought painful tears.

  “So is it my fault, Supastar?” she asked with tears falling from both of her eyes. One of her feet started shaking.

  I was silent. Of course I didn’t think it was her fault that some grown demented man, a blood relative, went into a young member of his own family, his sister’s daughter. I thought it was filthy.

  In the Holy Quran, it spells out clearly, for all believing men, which women they are allowed to marry and go into and which women are forbidden. It is forbidden for a man to take his siblings’ daughters. It is forbidden for men to rape. Still, men who are nonbelievers or fakers don’t pause and are capable of great evil. They fuck it up for everybody.

  I also thought that she couldn’t be trusted. She cut out that random newspaper article and put it up on her wall, probably lied about it to every dude she brought up in her bedroom. She probably lied about it with a big smile and her pretty dimples and her skin glowing. And why was she keeping her uncle’s dirty secret? Did she like fucking him? And if she hated it, why was she still fucking him? Why were his pants and the condom paper up in the bedroom, same like it would be if two lovers met in a secret rendezvous? And why did she pretend to hate him whenever she saw him? Then in private, what? She would lie down for him and crack open her legs? The whole thing got me heated.

  “I thought about killing the baby,” she said. “But isn’t she pretty?” she asked me in a childlike voice. “I’m glad I kept her. I thought you liked her too. You were the only one who didn’t treat me like my baby was my curse.”

  “I do like the baby. She’s innocent,” I said.

  “I know,” she said, smiling. “I’m gonna get her out of that house before she turns five. That’s how old I was when he caught me in the corner of my room.” She folded her arms back across her chest and crossed one leg over the other and placed one foot on top of the other. She looked closed and uncomfortable or trapped in a bad memory.

  “Fuck it!” she said, with a sudden new strength. She unfolded her arms and untwisted her legs and feet. “You the only one asking me all these goddamned questions, Supastar! I could get any one of those boys on your team to talk to me. Maybe I will. Then we’ll see. ’Cause I know why you don’t want me around anyway. You like me too. I can tell. I felt your big dick up against my leg at that party. When we was in my room, if your friend didn’t come along, I could have been all over you. You would’ve liked it too,” she said, smiling now. She started rocking back and forth on the tips of her toes as usual.

  “Don’t worry, Supastar! I won’t bother you no more,” she said and ran out the gym suddenly and at full speed.

  I left to meet Akemi.

  On my way to the subway, I thought about what she had to say to me. Since I never lie to myself, I had to admit, she was right. I do like her. But I don’t love her. Bangs is cool, but she’s not enough for me. Sure she was fine in addition to Akemi. But if it were just me and Bangs only, it wouldn’t work. I would never marry her. I would never rearrange my life to take care of her. I would never introduce her to Umma. Or adorn her with Umma’s jewels. Or work hard to get her a place to live. Or expect her to learn my faith, and love and live it. I couldn’t protect her honor, because it was already gone. I wouldn’t want her to be the mother of my children. I wouldn’t give my life for her, or risk my freedom. I couldn’t teach her too much, because she was already too slick, and no woman could roll back from knowing too much or being too slick for the wrong reason, to not knowing and not being slick even for good reasons.

  I was attracted to her enthusiasm for me and her comical happiness.

  Also, ever since I saw her in the daylight at the pharmacy, and in the candlelight in her bedroom, I was definitely attracted to her body. It took everything I ever knew to keep off of her that night. I could feel that I was only seconds away from losing my self-control. And I knew that whatever I wanted to get into, she was wide open and down for it. But was it me getting her open? Or was she just open in general?

  I couldn’t trust her movements any time I wasn’t seeing her standing in front of my face. I knew she might be doing anything. Now, I didn’t respect her enough either.

  I wanted her to stay away from me because, yes, I believed at the right or wrong moment, like any man, I could easily fuck her. But I already knew I would never fuck her without wearing a condom. If she chased me hard, I would allow her to be the first to suck my dick, a thought that had already occurred to me and enticed me once but I wasn’t proud of.

  I would never suck her pussy, or lick her clitoris. It wasn’t a clean place. It wasn’t my place. It was a public place, like an outdoor bathroom or bus stop.

  So she was right, I needed her to stay away from me for my own good, for my own sake. For the protection of the man I am and want to be.

  These were the thoughts that rushed into me. But for some reason, I was still angry even though I didn’t know or understand why. Trying to get my head right, I took deep breaths to relax myself.

  Bangs said maybe she would talk to someone else on my team. That shit was foul and dangerous. That got me tight. Since I didn’t love her, I was asking myself why did the thought of me knowing that she might start fucking with someone else make me feel so heated? When I thought about someone else touching her why did the thought come along with me seeing myself breaking some nigga’s neck? If I wouldn’t fight for her or risk my freedom, why did I want to merk her uncle? I needed answers from myself.

  I was mad at myself for catching feelings for Bangs. It was my fault, I decided. I take responsibility for it. I was mad at Bangs for being what Umma called “a lesser thing.” I wanted her to be smarter, stronger, better. I wanted her to be so much more, so I could feel all right about caring for her.

  If I had to trade Akemi to get Bangs, I’d throw Bangs out of the picture. But my own father had the greatest woman, Umma, and still had two more wives. I never saw his love for Umma decrease or ease up or change in any way except to grow stronger every day.

  It seemed to me that real men are collectors of fine women and the possessions of their hearts and not destroyers or deserters. Only a fool would leave a great thing, when you can always keep it or take it along with you.

  There are three kinds of men, I realized. There are the non-believers, the make-believers, and the true believers.

  The true believers’ feelings are alive and awake. The true bel
ievers have hearts that rage. There is no such thing as halfway love for a true believer. When a true believer, a Muslim man, loves a woman, he possesses her completely, guards her with his life. He has high expectations for her, holds her as a treasure, the main ingredient, the spice of life, the wife, the mother.

  I had to confess to myself that I do not love Bangs, but I could love her. As a true believer, my heart is raging. The more I would have seen her, talked with her, held her baby in my arms, given to her unselfishly, the more she would grow and become a part of my true heart. But then I would be pushed by my same raging heart to murder the man who violated her, to take her as my second wife, to cover up her beauty and charms, to teach her a better way of life, to become the guardian to her daughter.

  Once she changed the way she was living, and I went into Bangs, me, this true believer, she would become mine forever, and anyone who tried to hurt her, or seize her from me, I’d sever his head from his neck. And this is my gangster. This is my problem.

  I couldn’t give a girl who wasn’t steady that much love or that much power over me.

  As in Islam, any woman who is not mine by birth or blood relation or oath of marriage is a woman I need to separate myself from, is a woman whose body I didn’t want to see, a woman who I should turn away from and lower my gaze.

  Make-believers are men who pretend that they have a belief in life. They lure women with their pretense and trappings. They make-believe that they are Muslims, Christians, Jews, or any other faith. They make-believe that they are strong. They make-believe that they are capable of love. They make-believe that they are part of a family unit. They make-believe that they are protecting you. They make-believe that they are real men.

  Non-believers are men and women who don’t have to do anything. They have no limits, no boundaries, and no expectations, none for themselves and none for you either. Non-believers are the sons of a painful pair of parents who are either dead in the body, meaning they are absent or deceased, or dead in the mind, meaning they are present, but their ignorance only makes their presence worse. The mothers of the non-believers are prettied-up mindless whores, the uneducated ones and the well-spoken educated ones too. The non-believers have no chance of real love, real family, or real life. Still they are here outnumbering us all.