The professor was offended by her statement. His right hand trembled as he pointed at the door and asked Nandi to remove herself from class. To my surprise some of the students applauded. Nandi was an outcast because of her liberal views and her African style of dress. I’ll admit, at first I was taken aback by her unique style, but as I watched her hold her head dignified with tears streaking down her beautiful ebony cheeks, something gnawed at my heart. Nandi picked up her books and walked to the door. I stood too and followed her. She looked over her shoulder at me as I placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder and we both walked out the door. She had been my girl ever since.
*****
I arrived at the station and Nandi was already there, which wasn’t unusual for her. She was a perfectionist. As soon as she saw me, she stood and embraced me. Nandi Shakur was what men called a stunner. Her beauty reached out and grabbed you. People openly stared at her. Her cinnamon complexion, combined with her long golden locks of hair, seemed to make an entire room radiate in her splendor. On each of her fingers she wore rings, Ankhs and trinkets of Africa’s antiquity. At 23 years of age Nandi was still a virgin, and made no secret about it.
“… three … two … one … WRXB The Panther Power Hours is on your urban conscious radio station 89.3. This is your girl Nandi Shakur and Hope Evans coming to you live from the campus of FAM-U,” Nandi said. Her voice was so vivacious and full of energy she could pull people through the speakers. Public Enemy played in the background and the small radio station was alive. The topic was supposed to be on Affirmative Action, but to my surprise, Nandi flipped the script on me when she announced that the topic was going to be, “Where have all the good men gone?” I furrowed my brow with a quizzical expression and just listened while she unveiled another facet of herself. As always, like the audience, I enjoyed listening to her talk.
“The reason that I have abstained from sex is because when I do decide to give a man my body, it has to be a brotha that I want to spend the rest of my life with. He has to be very special; my King. So until then, I choose to remain celibate. Unfortunately, there’s a shortage of good men.”
I watched as Nandi talked, and noticed how her brown eyes sparkled as she held a mug of herbal tea in her hand. And for the first time I saw hurt in her eyes, as I gazed at this beautiful ebony Queen. Then she said, “So far all of the Black men that I have dated ain’t shit …” Nandi lambasted that over the air. I almost fell out of my chair. The Dean of the school already threatened us once to cut down the language. I played a record by Gil Scott Heron, titled “The Revolution Won’t Be Televised” and watched as the phone lines lit up like a Christmas tree.
One sister by the name of Regina called in, and we went live on the air with her conversation.
“Yeah, you’re right girl! Black men act like they’re scared of commitment, and sista, you ain’t wrong for keeping your stuff on lock down. Once you give them some, they start act’ in disrespectful. Give a brotha some cat, and he will turn into a dog,” the caller said, causing us all to erupt in jubilant laughter.
Another sister called in. Her boyfriend of four years wanted to be a rapper. She said that he never had a job, but hustled to support her. She loved him immensely, but was ready to settle down, get married and have some babies. He wasn’t. Our advice to her was to let him know, and if he did not approve, let his ass go!
Another woman called in. She refused to give her name. Her voice was sad and full of pain.
“My boyfriend is sick … he has AIDS.” We could hear her breathing on the phone like she was struggling with her voice. I leaned forward in my seat trying to catch each and every word.
“He is a very heavy … drug user. We have been together for over five years –”
I interrupted.
“My sista, have you been tested for AIDS?”
“Yes … No …Well, sort of,” the caller stuttered.
“Sorta? What kind of damn answer is that?” Nandi chirped in.
“A few years ago I was tested, but my boyfriend seemed to get upset with me.” She began to cry. Nandi and I just looked at each other.
“It’s as if he wants me to catch it too. We have been having unprotected sex.” Nandi bolted straight up in her seat spilling her tea.
“I have a 7-year-old daughter from another relationship.”
“Listen! Listen to me, my sista. You gotta protect yourself as well as your child. Ain’t no man worth your life, not to mention your child’s life too. AIDS is serious! It’s a biological warfare designed for population control to kill off Black folks –”
“But I love him,” she interrupted.
“Do you love him enough to die for him?” Nandi yelled into the phone, I cringed in my seat.
No answer. The line went dead. Nandi just looked at the receiver shaking her head.
The next caller was a man. I recognized his voice instantly. It was my boyfriend Marcus. I perked up and mouthed to Nandi that it was Marcus. Adamantly, she waved her hand to let her handle him. There was no secret about it, she thought he was too feminine. Too pretty. A real momma’s boy, which he was.
“Ya’ll sistas talk all that yippity yap about men being dogs and whatnot, but when a real man steps to you, ya’ll don’t want to acknowledge ya’ll’s place.”
“And what place is that?” Nandi asked dryly.
“Ya’ll’s place is letting the man be the boss, and ya’ll follow. Talking ‘bout that independent Black woman crap. Ya’ll need to read the Bible! Women were created to be man’s helper, to clean house and have babies –”
“The Bible also says, if thee eye offend, thee pluck it out. Which means you need to pluck your stupid-ass tongue out!” Nandi shot back.
“Face it, men feel threatened by a woman’s aspirations to be independent and self-sufficient. Strong minded Black women are tired of being used and abused by Black men that only have one thing on their minds–how to exploit a sista for what they can get.” Nandi then turned and looked me dead in the face with an expression that read like she was about to deliver a cliché.
“If you don’t believe in a Black woman, you can’t possibly believe in yourself, because it was the Black woman that made your ass. Marcus, don’t call here no damn mo’, hating on the sistas,” Nandi sassed, hanging up the phone.
Click!
We laughed, and gave each other high-five hand smacks. It truly turned out to be one of the best shows we had. We had about a half a million listeners, young and old, Black and white, which used to come as a surprise to me, but then Nandi taught me that white people have always been intrigued by certain facets of urban life. I thought about the white boys that I was starting to see with gold in their mouths.
Afterward we just sat around the studio chatting, drinking herbal tea, and enjoying each other’s vibes. Nandi Shakur was by far my best friend in all the world. As much as I hated bringing back the memories of my one night fling with Life Thugstin, I had to tell her everything, well, except for the part about seeing myself on the news.
Nandi listened astutely while occasionally nodding her head, hands clasped together in her lap, eyes lidded with something I could not read, and her mouth slightly agape. Nandi’s parents were both Civil Rights lawyers back in the day, and even after retiring they were still active. Her father was part of the Rodney King defense. By Nandi being the only child, in some way they breathed the fire of revolutionary consciousness in her spirits and every year they still traveled to the Motherland. She was rooted like a tree stump in her history; she wore it like some kind of badge of honor. Once when she told me that her parents were both Black Panthers in the 60s that told me so much about her as a person, as in her upbringing. I figured that was how the show got its name, the Panther Power Hours. After I finished talking, Nandi leaned back in her seat. “Girl, that sounds like a best seller. Who is this dude? John Dillinger? And you gave him the poonany, too? Did ya’ll rob a bank or something?” she teased and her brown eyes sparkled.
I made a
face that said, “Hello! I am dead serious!” Her eyes narrowed, taking me in, looking for any sign that I could be joking. She found none.
“Hope!” Nandi said screeching my name the way my mother would have, I imagined, if I had one. “Please tell me that you’re lying and just making all this up.” I shook my head no, and looked down at the stool, wondering if I should have told her so much.
In walked the handsome brotha that came on late night. He called himself Soul Man. He hosted the show playing all the old tunes. He was also in one of my classes. I think he had a serious crush on Nandi. Whenever she walked into the room, I noticed that his face would beam and he would display that fifty-watt smile. We all exchanged pleasantries, as Nandi and I left, giving him room to set up for his show. We walked to the parking lot and I showed her the evidence of my betrayal to Marcus, as well as myself. I showed her the car. She whistled as she looked inside as I held the door open for her.
“Well, at least you didn’t give him the poonany for free.”
“I didn’t sell it to him either.”
“Oh heffah don’t be so touchy.”
Looking deeper into the car, Nandi spotted more truth.
“Well,” Nandi droned raising one suspicious eyebrow at me. “Tell you what,” Nandi said in a conspiratorial tone. “Let’s just split the money and throw the gun in the river, and we’ll say that you were out trickin.” I swung my purse at her. Nandi danced out of the way laughing at me. I guess she must have sensed the serious side of me, because the smile eased from the soft corners of her cheeks and concern moved to her eyes.
“Hope, you’re my best friend in the whole world. There can be a thing as an intelligent fool. You read all those books, Nat Turner, Ida B. Wells, Black people that have died and sacrificed their lives, and at times I feel that you take them more seriously than the people that wrote them –”
“You’re the one that gave them to me,” I interrupted just as a few brothas walked by and got into a black Jeep. Nandi gazed up at the moon as people do when they’re contemplating thoughts. I did too. The sky was dotted with stars. The celestial heavens in all its majesty was decorated with a crescent moon that for some strange reason looked out of place. It hung sideways with a shit-eating grin at my young naiveness.
“Hope, you are the most passionate person that I know, but you can’t literally look at all life the same way, as to what happened to us back in slavery, or the years that we were lynched and hung.”
“Why not? You said it yourself. If white folks ain’t changed by now, they ain’t never going to change.”
“See, that’s what I’m talking about.” Nandi responded. “Hope, what you did was foolish. I know that you were tryin to save the brotha, but damn.” Nandi made a face at me that I could not deny. Logic.
“I know,” I said finally. My voice trembled. The air suddenly felt crisp and cool on my skin giving me goose bumps.
“The only lawyer you’re going to be is a jailhouse lawyer if you keep making bad judgments like that.” She threw her arms around me. Lord knows I needed her hug, her support. Her friendship meant the world to me. Somehow I think she knew it. In my eyes Nandi Shakur, morally, was the perfect Black woman. We sat right there under that shit grinning moon and talked until two thirty in the morning. It wasn’t until I was older, years later, that I would learn just how precious my college experience, along with Nandi’s helpful advice, would be.
At eleven the next day my other roommate, Roberta, woke me. She was my homegirl from Miami. On campus they call her the Mouth of the South. She could talk non-stop for hours with that big-ass gold tooth in her mouth. She often dressed slatternly, to put it mildly, with as little clothes as possible. She was overweight and short. I don’t know what she saw when she looked in the mirror, but it made her feel good about herself. So I guess that is what’s important about life.
“I woke you up cause I’m finna go to the flea market and get me some shoes. You wanna go?” she asked knowing damn well how evil I get when I’m awakened from my sleep. I had trouble going back to sleep.
I tossed the covers over my head, and grumbled something about being tired and rolled over on my stomach. I heard the door shut. I lay there in the dark and could not go back to sleep. I thought about my picture being on the news, and heard Nandi’s voice, the only lawyer you’re going to be is a jailhouse lawyer.
The gun flashed in my mind. I sprung up in bed thinking about Life’s sly ploy to get with me.
I took a quick shower, got dressed, did my hair, placed the gun and the money in my book bag and drove to his hotel. Today the Tallahassee heat was sweltering. I wore a pink halter top and white shorts. I drove with the windows down trying to save gas. Halfway to the hotel I was hit by the reality of what I was doing. Like a ritual of mating, boy meets girl, I was allured by this thug. He could possibly ruin my future, my life, and deep down inside, I knew that I was attracted to this man and his ravenous lovemaking skills. He was rough, but sensitive in a way that a woman could appreciate, and yet he was a damn thug that wore his pants sagging and referred to me as ‘Shouty’. Yet in my mind, I couldn’t help comparing him to Marcus who came up short in ways that mattered to a woman at times. Marcus was sweet, that’s what I told myself. He treated me like a lady.
*****
I knocked on the hotel door. Finally he answered, wearing only his boxer shorts and his thang pointed right at me. The room reeked of weed and something that could pass for sex. I stormed in, a sista with a serious attitude.
“You’re going to get me arrested! Did you see the news? And that was not cute what you did by leaving that gun in the car!” I was talking so fast that my tongue had a hard time trying to keep up with my mouth. Life was not paying me the least bit of attention. He walked over to the rug examining a certain spot in the carpet. I thought I heard him mumble something about that bitch beat me for my stash but by then, I was in his facing ranting about how he tried me. Finally, I dug in my pocket. “I don’t need your money either,” I said with more contempt than I actually felt. I was just trying to strike a nerve, you know how we sistas can do so well. Life completely ignored me. There was no fight in his eyes. Surprised the hell out of me. He just took the money from my hand and tossed it on the dresser with his shoulders hunched as he padded over to the bed and sat down running his fingers across the waves in his head. “Hope could you please leave now?” There wasn’t an iota of fight in his voice. I swallowed the dry lump in my throat that gave birth to my emotions as I heard a fire truck somewhere in the distance. This wasn’t what I expected, not from him. I found myself lost for words. For some reason I thought about the singer, Prince, and the song, “When Doves Cry.” I wondered if thugs cry, too. I reached into my purse retrieving the two books that I told myself I was going to give him. Nandi gave them to me when I was lost and searching for who I was. One of the books was, The Destruction of Black Civilization by Chancellor Williams and the other one was Black, Single, Absolute and Dangerous, by M.
“I was hoping you would call the station last night,” I said, looking down at him, my voice resonating into a soft cadence that moved me closer to him gnawing at his resistance. No response. His eyes looked away from me, and I swear to God it looked like that brotha was bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders. I thought about what Nandi warned me about, being too passionate. I picked up my dejected emotions and carried them to the door for the first time realizing that I felt something deep for this brotha. I would have at least liked a good-bye kiss or a hug because I knew that I would never be coming back.
“Hope.” He called my name. It sounded sad coming from his lips. I turned real slow as the light from the open door beamed in his eyes and he squinted at me. “Thanks for the books Shouty, I’ll read them. Um, do you know where Trina lives?” His question caught me off guard. I’ll admit, I was tinged with a little jealousy too.
“I heard she lives somewhere near campus.” I wanted to ask him what he wanted with Trina of all people. S
he was poison. Her last boyfriend was doing time in the feds. I just shook my head and walked out of the door as I heard him yell behind me, “Tomorrow I’ma go to the unemployment office.”
I walked to my car with a feeling of uneasiness. Maybe it was guilt–there were all kinds of feelings going through my young mind. I mostly wondered what Trina did to him. She must have come back to his room. I thought I heard him mumble something about his stash. He sure did not argue about taking that money back. It was almost as if he needed it. What a shame that a brotha could be so fine and sexy and be our people’s worst enemy, I thought.
*****
As scheduled I drove to the Tallahassee Children’s Hospital to meet with Nandi to work with the children. I became attached to a special little girl that I really tried to give my attention to. She was 7 years old and over 90 percent of her body had been severely burned. Her mother, father and three younger brothers all died on Christmas Day due to a fire that started from a electric heater that malfunctioned. The little girl was a mask of gory pain. She had no relatives and already experienced over twenty skin grafts, and was scheduled for dozens more. The first day I met her, she held my hand while I read her stories. When it was time for me to leave she would not let my hand go. The next day, I cried for the world, and for the first time, I questioned my God. Nandi apologized, but she could not go anywhere near that little girl. The horrible sight of her charred body was hard to grasp, even for the nurses. Afterward, it made us feel good helping mostly impoverished Black children that were abandoned and neglected by their families.
Life Page 10