by Tranay Adams
Te’Qui looked to the mother of his unborn son, tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. “So, you never even loved a nigga? You been playin’ me the entire time? Are you even pregnant?”
Kesha finally looked up at him with a shiny face from crying. Shaking her head, she replied, “Baby, no. I really am in love witchu, and the baby growing inside of me is real. He or she is ours. I didn’t...”
“She didn’t really wanna go along with the plan, but I forced her to, three months before I got out. I realized who yo’ punk-ass was once she sent me some pictures of ya’ll while I was on lock. It had been years since the tragedy occurred but I’d never forget cho face...ever.”
“Man, what the fuck are you talkin’ about? I never met chu before the night you saved my ass in that parking lot across the street from Club Vicious.” Te’Qui’s forehead creased.
“Now, we met before that. You since you don’t seem to remember, I’ma jog yo’ memory. Just gimme a sec to slip into something a lil’ bit mo’ comfortable first, Crim.” T.J. told him as he pulled an orange bandana from out of his back pocket and tied it around his head. He smiled mischievously at Te’Qui and pulled down his bottom lip, displaying what was tattooed on the inside of it: 7HCG4. This was 74 Hoover Criminal Gang. The same set that Scrappy and Tiaz pledged allegiance to. “Now, you didn’t really think I wassa blood, now did you? Fuck nah! Like father, like son.” He threw up his set. At this time, Kesha pulled out an orange bandana and tied it around her head, just like her brother did. She was in the same gang as the rest of her family.
“I’m sorry, baby.” Kesha told Te’Qui as her eyes filled with fresh tears.
“Ain’t shit to be sorry about, baby girl,” T.J. turned to his sister and brushed the side of his hand against her cheek, affectionately. He then focused his hateful eyes on Te’Qui. “You see, this is an old fashion case of revenge. Yo’ punk-ass uncle, Savon, smoked our pops, and yo’ ass smoked our moms.”
“Your moms? I popped yo-yo moms? W-when?” Te’Qui winced in pain as he held the wound in his gut. He was bleeding like a stuck pig and slicking the floor with blood.
“You wanna know when? Well, I’ll tell you when...” T.J.’s eyes turned glassy as he went on to tell the story.
Scrappy pulled up into the driveway of her mother’s home and hopped out of the car, slamming the door shut behind her. She ran to the curb and looked up and down the street. She waited until an oncoming vehicle drove by her before jogging across the street to her homeboy, Hittah’s house. As she neared his yard, she clocked him on his front porch with a couple of the homies from their set. He’d just stuck a joint in his mouth and threw playful punches at one of their homies, who threw some playful punches back at him.
“Yo’, Hittah, Hittah!” Scrappy called after him as she entered the yard and approached the steps.
“Hahahahahahahaha!” Hittah stopped playing around with his homeboy and stood upright, snatching the joint from out of his mouth. When it finally dawned on him that someone was calling after him, he turned around to his front lawn. His forehead creased with lines when his eyes landed on Scrappy. The first thing he noticed about her was the welt below her right eye and the blackish red blood dried at the corner of her mouth. He came to the conclusion that she’d gotten into a fight with someone, but with who? He didn’t know. “What’s happnin’, Scrap? And what the fuck happened to yo’ face, girl?” He pinched her chin between his thumb and finger and examined the damages to her face, carefully.
“That bitch Chevy. We threw hands today.” Scrappy told him.
“Chevy? Who the fuck is that?” Hittah’s brows crinkled, wondering who she was talking about.
“What up, Scrappy Doo?” one of the homies on the porch called out to her.
“What’s the word, ma?” the other homie called out.
“Ain’t shit. What’s up, my niggaz?” Scrappy responded and threw up their hood. She then focused her attention back on Hittah. “Her brother, Savon, smoked Tiaz when they were locked up. I faded that high-yellow bitch at his execution today.”
“Is that, right? They put his ass to sleep today?”
“Yeah.” she nodded. “But I ain’t through with her ass. Tonight I’m going after her and her punk-ass husband. That’s why I’m here now. I need you to limme holda strap.”
“Fa sho’. I got them all day. Follow me, homegirl.” Hittah motioned for her to follow him as he headed up the steps upon the porch. He pulled the black iron door open and then the wooden door, crossing the threshold inside of his house. Scrappy followed him down the corridor where they made a right into a bedroom. This was Hittah’s bedroom. It consisted of a twin bed which was stationed against the wall. Its sheet was made up military style, with all of its corners folded and tucked neatly. He had a small flat screen television mounted on the wall, an end table at the center of the floor with all of his hygienic items on it and an army green footlocker at the foot of his bed. The bedroom was as clean as a whistle. There wasn’t as much as a piece of lint on the floor.
With its limited furnishings and tidiness, Scrappy couldn’t help noticing how much the bedroom resembled a prison cell which really didn’t come to a surprise to her since Hittah had done a dime for a body in San Quentin. The way he carried himself and lived was proof that he was institutionalized. Hell, the nigga was still on prison time at that, getting up at five o’clock in the morning and shit.
Hittah shut and locked the door behind Scrappy as she stood where she was taking in the decor of his bedroom. He stuck his joint back inside of his mouth and motioned for her to follow him. They walked over to the closet where he opened its door and pulled the drawstring, restoring light to it. Hittah pushed the little clothing aside hanging on the rack and revealed a long back duffle bag on the floor. He grabbed the bag by its straps and carried it over to his bed, dropping it there. Afterwards, he took the joint out of his mouth and unzipped it. Staring down into the bag, he waved Scrappy over and took another pull from his joint. Still staring down into the bag, he narrowed his eyelids and blew out smoke, letting it waft around him.
“Gon’ take a look. Get whatever piece of steel you want, homegirl.” Hittah told her as he took a step back. While Scrappy busied herself pulling out different guns and aiming them across the room, he dipped his hand inside of the waste basket at the far corner of the bedroom. He came back up with an empty Mountain Dew can which he used to dump the ashes of his joint inside of. The rest of the time he watched Scrappy test out the guns inside of the bag, while continuing to smoke and dump ashes. “You fuckin’ with that one?” he asked her of the long, chrome shotgun with the pistol grip she pointed at imaginary targets around the bedroom. The satisfaction written across her face told him that she wanted the powerful weapon she held in her grasp.
“Yeah. I like this one.” Scrappy lowered the shotgun at her side. Her eyes followed Hittah as he mashed out the ember of the joint and tucked it behind his ear. He then walked over to the closet where he got something from off of its top shelf. Once he finally came down with what he had retrieved, she noticed it was a big box of ammunition for the shotgun she’d picked out. He also grabbed another duffle bag from where it was hanging on a hook on the inside of the closet door.
“Look, Hittah,” she started back up, watching him load the shotgun and shells inside of the extra duffle bag. “I’ma lil’ short right now, but if you limme hold that shotty I’ma get right back at chu with that scrilla for....”
“Shhhhhhh.” Hittah turned to her with his finger against his lips, hushing her. He then took her hand and placed the straps of the duffle bag inside of it and closed it up. “Homegirl, you don’t owe me a thang. Tiaz was one of the few homies that made sho’ my books was straight while I was up there in that cage. The least I can do is give his old lady the tools she needs to avenge his death. I would offer to roll out which chu, but knowing how you get down, I gotta feelin’ you’d like to go on this mission alone. Am I right?” he grasped her shoulder and looked
into her eyes. If she gave him the word, he was going to load up his thang and shed blood right alongside her. He had mad love for Tiaz, and considered him one of the realist niggaz to have ever picked up a flag.
“You right, homeboy. I gotta get at these folks alone.” she looked at him, scowling.
Hittah presented her with a half smile and said, “That’s what I thought. Gimme some love.”
He opened his arms to her and she walked into him, embracing him. With that out of the way, he unlocked the door and pulled it open. They headed back out onto the front porch.
Scrappy stepped out of the house waving bye to the homies and switching hands with the duffle bag. Coming down the cement steps, she heard hurried footsteps at her right. When she looked she saw the smiling faces of her son and daughter. They’d gotten out of school about forty minutes ago.
“Heyyyyy, mommy!” Kesha called out to her mother and hugged her around the waist.
“Hey, pretty girl. How was school?” Scrappy rubbed her daughter’s back and kissed her on top of her head.
“It was good.” she replied.
“’Sup, momma?” T.J. greeted his mother with a hug as well. She ruffled the top of his close fade and kissed him on his cheek.
“How’s momma’s lil’ man?” she asked with a smirk, rubbing the side of his face, affectionately.
“I’m straight.” he replied. His brows furrowed seeing the welt under her eye. “Momma, what happened to yo’ face? You got into a fight?”
Scrappy touched the welt under her eye and recalled that it was there. “Nah, I didn’t have a fight. I tripped and fell.”
“What’s up, T.J. and lil’ momma?” Hittah called out from the porch of his house where he was busy relighting his joint. “Hey, uncle Hittah!” T.J. and Kesha responded in unison and waved at their street uncle, excitedly.
“Y’all come on, so we can cross the street.” Scrappy nudged her son and daughter towards the curb so they could get ready to cross the street to her mother’s home. Once an oncoming car had passed, Scrappy grabbed her daughter’s hand and they jogged across the street, with her son following beside them.
Once Scrappy and her kids had crossed the street, they made it inside of her mother’s yard and up the steps. She then knocked on the door and waited for her mother to answer. As she waited, she surveyed her surroundings. A moment later her mother, Ruth, unlocked the door and pulled it open.
“Yes?” Ruth frowned up as she took a pull from her Newport and blew out a cloud of smoke. She then dumped her ashes on the porch and sucked on the end of her cancer stick again, causing it to shrink in size. Ruth was an older, sassy black woman who stood a solid five-foot-eleven. Her dry, permed out, graying hair was pulled back in a small ass ponytail. There were black moles on either side of her face and at the back of her neck. She had a slight mustache and a caramel complexion. As of now, she was wearing a big T-shirt with Winnie the Pooh on it, black sweatpants and house slippers which showed off her hard, ashy heels.
“Momma, I need you to watch the kids ‘til I-” Scrappy began but her mother cut her off, rudely.
Ruth held up her meaty hand which stopped whatever Scrappy had to say to her right then. She took a healthy pull from her square and blew out another cloud of smoke. She then dropped what was left of her cigarette on the porch and mashed it out under her house slipper, leaving black ashes and embers on the surface. Afterwards, she looked up at her daughter and said, “Scrap, I’m not watchin’ a damn thang ‘til you kick in the money you already owe me for watchin’ ‘nem babies, so fork it over.” She stuck out her hand and flexed her fingers.
“Momma, I ain’t gotta dolla to my name right now. I’m not gon’ have no money for a couple of days. I just need you to watch ‘em for...”
“Unh unh,” she shook her head. “Scrappy, you always late with my money for watchin’ these kids. Now, I love ‘em to death, but I love the roof over my head, the lights in my house and the A.C that keeps my big ass cool in this summa time heat. And do you know what I need to keep these here necessities and luxuries of mine? Money. I’m talkin’ cold, hard, cash.” she smacked the back of her hand into her palm for emphasis. She then placed her hand on the doorknob and said, “I need my money, Scrappy. Not tomorrow, or even the next day. I need all of mine right this minute. Now, do you have it?”
“No. But I can give it to you next-”
Scrappy was cut short as Ruth slammed the front door shut and locked it behind her.
“Ol’ fat, flabby sloppy body, bitch,” a scowling Scrappy said underneath her breath as she grabbed her daughter’s hand and headed back down the steps, T.J. in tow. She was as hot as fish grease at her mother. When she first asked her to watch the kids when they got out of school so she could attend her cosmetology class (a class she missed that day to attend Savon’s execution), she was surprised when she told her she’d have to pay her. You see, Scrappy’s mother was too busy partying and chasing men to take care of her when she was growing up. She gave her grandmother full custody of her so she could run the streets and do God only knew what. Scrappy felt like since her grandmother raised her that the least her mother could do was watch her kids seeing that she was trying to take her ass to school.
“Where are we going now, mommy?” Kesha asked her mother.
“We’re gonna stop by the house for a second, baby.” Scrappy informed her daughter.
Scrappy went home to get ready for the night’s mission. She threw on a hoodie, gloves, black sunglasses and grabbed an orange bandana. She was going to fly her neighborhoods colors that night when she put in work. She knew Tiaz would be looking down at her and this would make him proud. Before she left out of the house, she kissed her fingers and touched them to the wallet size photo of her and Tiaz at prom which was situated at the corner of the nightstand’s mirror. She then tapped her fist to her chest and headed into the living room of her house.
When Scrappy walked into the living room, she found T.J. and Kesha lounging on the couch watching cartoons. The illumination from the TV’s screen shined on their young faces.
“Y’all come on, let’s go.” Scrappy told her children.
“Where are we going now?” T.J. sat up on the couch.
“I got some business I needa handle. Once I’m done, y’all can come back and watch all the cartoons you want.” she told her children.
“Onna school night, ma?” he inquired.
“Yep, on a school night. You got my word, baby boy. Long as y’all promise mommy y’all gon’ get up in the mornin’. We gotta deal?” she looked between the twins, anxiously awaiting their replies. They looked at each other smiling and nodding before they focused back on her. “Well, what do ya say?”
“You gotta deal, momma.” T.J. approached his mother with his hand extended, to seal the deal with a handshake. Scrappy smiled as she shook her son’s hand and then her daughter’s hand. “Alright, now, let’s go so momma can handle her business.”
T.J. and Kesha grabbed their jackets and slipped them on, zipping them up and throwing on their hoods. They then followed their mother out of the house, pulling the front door shut behind them.
***
Scrappy sat slumped in the driver’s seat as she watched Chevy and Faison’s house. All of the lights were on so she was waiting until they went out before she hit their spot. As soon as the lights in the house were out, Scrappy slipped the black sunglasses onto her face and pulled her orange bandana over the lower half of her face. She then pulled her hood over her head and pulled its drawstrings, enclosing it around her head. Afterwards, she picked her shotgun up from the floor and racked it.
Scrappy looked into the backseat at T.J. and Kesha. They looked afraid and confused. “Y’all scoot down into the seat, momma will be right back.” she kissed both children on their forehead. She went to hop out but Kesha grabbed her arm, halting her. “What’s the matter, baby girl?” Scrappy saw the sadness in her daughter’s eyes.
“I don’t want chu to go, mommy. C
an we just go home, please?” Kesha begged her mother, with tears threatening to spill down her cheeks.
“Yeah, momma, let’s just go home.” T.J. pleaded with his mother.
“We can’t go yet. I have to set things right with these people, they’re the ones that killed yo’ daddy. They are the reason that you and yo’ brother don’t have a daddy anymore.” Scrappy looked between her children. “They took ‘em away from you, and I can’t let ‘em get away with it. You’re daddy would turn over in his grave if he knew I did. You hear me?”
Scrappy used to fuck with Te’Qui back in the day. They were never together but they fooled around when neither of them were in a relationship. Scrappy winded up getting pregnant with the twins. She was going to get an abortion but Te’Qui talked her into keeping them. Through his life of crime he was able to afford to take care of her and his children. They made an agreement to co-parent without the baby momma/ baby daddy drama. Tiaz was a great father and Scrappy’s best friend. So when she found out that he had been murdered while he was incarcerated she vowed to get revenge in his honor.
T.J. nodded and hugged his mother around her neck. Scrappy hugged her son with one arm and kissed him on the side of the head. She then focused her attention back on Kesha who had broken down crying. She pulled the little girl into her bosom, hugging her and her brother. She kissed them both on top of the heads. Once she broke their embrace, she looked them in their eyes.
“Now, y’all look,” Scrappy started up again. “I’ma do what I gotta do in here and then we gon’ leave. It won’t take me long. And once I’m finish, we can order pizza. How about that?” she awaited her childrens’ answers.
“Ma, can I get pepperoni and sausage on mine?” T.J. asked her, excitedly.
“Yes, baby boy. And how ‘bout some ice cream to go with it?”
“Long as it’s chocolate chip, count me in.” he smiled.