T.H.U.G. L.I.F.E.

by Sanyika Shakur

  Septima and Latimer Jackson arrived from Tuscaloosa, Alabama, under very different circumstances than the Harpers. Unlike the Harpers, Septima and Latimer were both community activists in their town. At their local high school, they formed NAACP awareness groups and counseled fellow students on the importance of voter registration. Their parents were founding members of the Deacons for Defense, a community self-defense organization that protected people from Klan terror. Septima met Latimer during a debate over the relevance of the Nation of Islam’s position on nonviolence. They were the only two out of the entire auditorium who’d agreed with Malcolm X’s position on selective retaliatory violence. At lunch, they talked and found they had other things in common. Later, they learned that their parents were both in the same organizations. They were married fresh out of high school and continued their fieldwork with the NAACP.

  When the Klan bombed the 16th Street Baptist Church in Alabama, Septima and Latimer were incensed with rage. Ignoring their parents’ advice for patience and collective struggle, Septima and Latimer secretly attacked two known Klan residences. One was the home of the local exalted Cyclops, which they dynamited, killing the Cyclops and his wife. The other was the Klan Kleagle house, which they torched, waiting until the residents came running out, then opening up with shotguns. It was under these circumstances that they came to Los Angeles. They moved in with Septima’s Aunt Pearl, a militant in her own right. Pearl was a member of a secret society of revolutionaries called the House of Umoja. She sent Septima and Latimer underground for nine months and, when they surfaced, they were Asali and Tafuta Shakur, Black Panther Party members. On August 21, 1971, the day George Jackson was murdered in San Quentin during a Cointelpro-orchestrated escape attempt, Lapeace was born. It was this event that had inspired the name No-Peace. Asali died from complications at child birth, a blow that sent Tafuta spiraling out of control. He threw himself into the movement’s most active section, the Black Liberation Army, and honored every order coming from the central committee. In 1974 Tafuta, along with his entire unit, were captured for killing two Los Angeles police officers and became prisoners of war. Tafuta died of cancer in solitary confinement in 1978. Lapeace was seven at the time, raised thereafter solely by his great-aunt Pearl. The genetic fire of his parents did not go out in him. Instead, it was a double infusion, and his DNA was laced with an explosive dose of courage and perseverance. Though untrained, it went awry and was used for less than admirable deeds.

  The stolen lunch pail was but the beginning of a crime-ridden development that rolled back years of social growth, most of which Lapeace was ignorant of. They both developed evenly for a while, but in the fifth grade Lapeace shot up like a bean stalk. He was the tallest in his class. When they went out for Pop Warner football, both vying for the quarterback position, Lapeace won out. They both liked the same girl, Felencia Robinson —light-complexioned, bowlegged, and “pretty as a Georgia peach,” the teacher had once said. They brought her lunch, carried her books, and even threatened the king of the school for her. Anyhow even went so far as to have his parents offer to pick her up from school, but she declined. When the candy drive came, Anyhow used all of his piggy-bank allowance money to purchase her whole box. When she came out to the school yard with her Girl Scout cookies, he bought those too. Lapeace sulked at his own destitution. Anyhow won her heart through his piggy bank. During a field trip to the L.A. Zoo, Lapeace dared Anyhow to climb the fence into the polar bear area. He said he would if Lapeace slapped Darcell Whitman on the back of the neck. Darcell’s brother Sandman was a killer. He’d killed another boy while out hunting on a high school expedition and never did a day in jail. Darcell never let anyone forget this, and the teachers confirmed his story. Anyhow, challenged in the presence of his classmates, couldn’t back down. So when Mrs. Shepard wasn’t looking he scaled the wrought-iron gate, eased down into the moat, climbed up the other side, and stood defiantly on the polar bear’s side. At that moment Lapeace reared back and slapped the hell out of Darcell Whitman’s fat neck. It was the sudden smack and yelp of Darcell that caused Mrs. Shepard to see Anyhow in the polar bear area. Her panning head caught him in her peripheral vision and she forgot about Darcell and began to scream for the zoo attendant to rescue Anyhow. He couldn’t overstand the commotion. He climbed out just as he’d climbed in.They’d both ended up suspended. Anyhow could not go on any more field trips and Lapeace’s house was pelted with rocks for two nights straight.

  By the sixth grade the stakes had been raised. After school, Anyhow would go down to the house of a woman named Martha who lived on his old block. His father would retrieve him around 6:30 daily, depending on how the prostitute he picked up on Century and Prairie looked. Sometimes he didn’t pick up the boy until 7:30. Martha would always smile and beam with pride when she’d see Mr. Harper’s Townhouse Lincoln roll up in front of her house. For she remembered when he was a young pup riding the bus back and forth. Anyhow ran complete circles around old Martha. She’d instruct him to stay in the backyard and he’d wander out front. She’d yell through the front screen door for him to stay in front of the house. He’d wind up down the street. She’d hold her hands on her girdled hips and holler for him not to leave the block, and he’d be gone. It was she who’d named him Anyhow. Because “whatever you said to him, no matter what it was, he was going to do his thing Anyhow,” she said to Mr. Harper. Any started hanging out at Harvard Park, a stronghold of the Brim gang, the oldest Blood gang in L.A. As an occupational orphan, he hit the streets in search of surrogates. He ran into Bruno and Kurt Dog, two young riders. They put him to work burglarizing houses for guns, which they used to wage war on Crips. Simultaneously, Lapeace found his surrogates in the Eight Tray Gangsters. The competition continued. In the middle of the school year they were bringing guns to school.

  “Nigga,” Anyhow said while leaning up against the school’s chain-link fence, “I got guns! Man, I got enough guns to kill all you fools.” He finished by gesturing wildly with his hands as if talking to his loyal subjects. The other children just looked on quietly, not overstanding the significance of what Any was saying. On the other side of the yard, Lapeace stood towering over his peers.

  “You got a gun on you now?” asked Darryl Long, looking up at Lapeace challengingly.

  “I’m a gangsta. I keep a gun,” he answered coolly.

  “Let me see then.”

  And Lapeace raised up his sweatshirt and revealed the butt of a .22 Ruger.

  “Damn, that nigga really gotta gun!”The crowd oohed and ahhed accordingly, and Lapeace stood in the thick of them like the king of the jungle. It was the crowd’s fault that the respective bragging turned into a lunchtime shoot-out. Each group had loyalty to their leader, though none were bangers, as such. Why, it was the first time in Raymond Avenue’s history that they had two kings of the school. Lapeace and Anyhow fought three times, twice at school and once in the Mobil station lot. All three battles resulted in draws. They’d fought to an exhausted standstill thrice. They wore their battle scars, lumps, and bruises like medals of valor. Not one smirk had been heard about them either. Now, however, the loyalist camps cried for an escalation in the two-year-old competition. Certainly, reasoned the groups, a shoot-out couldn’t possibly end in a draw.

  So Darcell Whitman, who’d of course joined ranks with Anyhow’s group (it was Any who’d shown Darcell where Lapeace lived), went over to Darryl Long, who was standing next to the ball box writing NANCY GREEN IS A BITCH in permanent marker, and said, “Eh, man, I heard that Lapeace gotta gun. Is it true?”

  “Yeah, man, he gotta gat . . . hold up,” said Darryl, trying to remember how bitch was spelled. “I hate that ho Nancy, man.”

  “Yeah, I see,” said Darcell, sweating furiously from the noontime heat, his blubber gut heaving like pistons.

  “Eh, do Anyhoe gotta gat too?”

  “You bet not let him hear dat . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Darryl, shaking off Darcell’s warning.

&nb
sp; “Betcha Any can outshoot La Freak.”

  “In yo’ dreams, boy. My nigga ’Peace is straighter’n a mother-fucka, fool.”

  “How you know, nigga?” asked Darcell.

  “’Cause, nigga . . . I know.”

  “Fool,” said Darcell, “Anyhow will bust a cap anywhere. Right here, if he want.”

  “Now you trippin’ fatty . . .”

  “Don’t call me that, nigga.”

  “So what’cha saying?” challenged Darryl, stepping up on Darcell.

  “Nigga, my brotha—”

  “Yo’ brotha’s a shermhead, nigga. Now what?”

  “We’ll see,” said Darcell sullenly and ambled off. The die had been cast. Once back in their respective groups, the snow job kicked in.

  “Aw, Lapeace,” began Darryl, shaking his head from side to side slowly, pathetically, “that nigga fatboy Dar just told me that Anyhoe talking ’bout cappin on you at lunchtime. You should bail up now and just go home.”

  “Whaaaat?” asked Lapeace, not believing what he’d heard. “Go home?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yeah, Lapeace. Don’t let him shoot you down. Go on and leave, man.” At that he put his hand on Lapeace’s shoulder and walked off.

  “Where he at?” insisted Lapeace and stalked off toward the cafeteria, hand under his sweatshirt.

  Across the yard, standing near the tetherball court, Darcell was doing his thing on Anyhow. “Eh, is it true your father is a fag?”

  “What!?” answered Anyhow.

  “Well, La Freak said yo’ father be getting fucked and stuff . . . You know . . . that’s what he telling people.”

  “Where he at?”

  “He over there by the cafeteria, but be careful, Any, ’cause he got a big-ass forty-four on him. Talkin’ ’bout killin’ niggas today. So watch out.”

  “Man, fuck you. I’m fin to cap this nigga.” And Any stalked off toward the lunch area. The crowd gathered like cumulus clouds before a storm, approaching from both the north and the south. The end result could be nothing but thunder. Lapeace walked head and shoulders above his peers, looking determined and pensive, hand under his sweatshirt. His strides were sure, his attitude fearless. Arriving under the canopy from the north was Anyhow and his motley crew. Any was barely distinguishable in their midst. He had no outstanding qualities, beyond ignorance and courage, that set him apart from his peers. But as they approached, the crowd flanking him gave way and there he stood—short, dark, and clouded. They drew their weapons simultaneously and the shooting started thereafter. The screaming children moved like hunted wildebeests, or, better yet, a school of fish in terrified sync. The gunfire from Anyhow’s weapon was deafening under the canopy. He was firing a four-inch .357, standing perfectly still, legs apart. Lapeace’s .22 barked like a Chihuahua in defense. Amazingly, no one was shot, as bullets pinged and ponged off metal Formica and Plexiglas recklessly. Lapeace lost the gunfight, not because he was wounded or had run but because his weapon was not loud enough. So the day after that school had been recessed due to security concerns, and when the students filed back into their classrooms Anyhow was clearly the man. Anyhow and Lapeace were arrested and spent the weekend in Los Padrinos juvenile hall. They both had scheduled court dates and had been expelled from the L.A. Unified School District.

  3

  Before Lapeace could even exit his car, he saw the marshal stepping across the street. The man’s gait was cowboyish in a manner that Lapeace couldn’t put into coherent thought. Perhaps it was attributed to his marshal status? Then again, it was physical too . . . forget it, he thought. “Yeah,” said Lapeace, sighing.

  “This here is your notice to appear in court on eight- thirty-ninety-six. You have been served.”

  Lapeace took the subpoena and threw it on the seat. Then, after a second thought, he picked it up and took it with him. He climbed the stairs to his second-story apartment, unlocked the door, moved in quickly, and whistled once. Out ran Ramona smiling joyfully, tongue hanging out of her mouth, tail wagging wildly. She was a pitch-black pit bull, fully groomed and trained to his voice command. He’d given her his ex-wife’s middle name. Ramona jumped up on his legs, and her muscular hind quarters flexed and bulged as she licked, lapped, and smiled.

  “Yeah,” jostled Lapeace, doing a little dance with her. “That’s my girl, yeah. And you look just like her.” Ramona caught the ill intent in his voice and stopped smiling. She, after all, had her pride. He put her down and went to check his messages. Beep . . .

  “Lapeace this is Joi. Call me when you can, please?” Beep . . .

  “Yo, what up, nig-ga? Dis Young Game. Reach at a muthafucka when you can ridah.” Click. Beep . . .

  “Lapeace, this is Ted from Kawasaki of L.A. Your bike is ready. We’ll be open all day and until seven tomorrow. Good-bye.” Click. Beep . . .

  “29-915-50-187-83.” Click. Lapeace knew the voice and what the series of numbers meant, but his mind refused to process them. He didn’t want to process them. Click . . . rewind . . . Beep . . . “29-915-50-187-83.” Good Lawd! he thought to himself, rubbing his tension-filled forehead. He tried to carry on. Beep . . .

  “Hey Lapeace. I just wanted to leave this message and tell you how much I enjoyed you last night and this morning. You are special. Hope to see you tonight. You got me open. In the p.m., I’m out.” Click. Not even Shima’s candy rain voice could stir him under the pressure mounting after the numerical message. He moved rapidly to the one room of his apartment that he’d converted into an office and grabbed up the paper extending itself out from the fax machine. He read eagerly, tapping his foot, scanning over inconsequential transmissions until finally he came across what he needed. A small, one-line transmission amid the thick of a whole paragraph. Ongea Uso. He ripped the paper from the machine and shredded it. He retrieved the confettied strips and took half to the bathroom and flushed them. The other half he stuffed into the garbage disposal. Against the background whirl of the disposal machine, he fed Ramona the remainder of a top sirloin steak he’d left in the fridge. He cut it up into big chunks, microwaved it for ten seconds, and mixed it with some Gravy Train, doused with a generous splash of Hennessy. Ramona loved her food that way. He stopped, frozen, in an oblivious-to-everything sort of thought-lock, when Ramona barked and broke it. She wanted her food and he was holding it, stuck standing there like a statue. Her sudden high-pitched bark quickly snapped him out of it.

  “Awright, girl. Awright, here you go. You just like that other bitch.” Ramona growled. He flicked off the disposal machine, opened the cabinet above the Frigidaire, and retrieved two one-gallon bottles. Christian Brothers and Alizé. Mixed him a drink and walked into the living room. Atop the Kenwood speaker, next to the black leather La-Z-Boy recliner, he had half an indo blunt in a Baccarat ashtray. Sitting back in the recliner he put a fire to the blunt, drew in a chest full of its arousing mint-flavored aroma, coughed once, and closed his eyes. Shit’s falling apart, he thought to himself. He blew out a heavy stream of smoke, reached for his remote, and recited one of his favorite lines from Tupac.

  I smoke a blunt to take the pain out

  And if I wasn’t high I’d prob’ly try to blow my brains out,

  Lord knows . . .

  The indo was doing its thing and the tension began to subside slowly, receding like the ebb of the ocean. He needed some thought-provoking, pain-made music. He aimed the remote toward the system, mentally scanning the collection in the CD holder, which held up to a hundred discs, and chose the Goodie Mob. They came out just as he needed them to.

  His connection to such music had always amazed even him. Lapeace sat back and drifted, remembering how he’d gone through so many phases in his musical development and appreciation that it was a wonder his interest in business hadn’t come to rest upon it. Rhythm and blues was his constant diet as a child. His Aunt Pearl (who was trapped in a time warp, having not fully overstood the collapse and eradication of the movement) played nothing but Motown, Stax, and the Atlantic s
ound around the house. So he was rooted. Later on an older brotha had turned him on to the blues, and he could feel the pain from which they’d been made. Jimmy Reed, John Lee Hooker, and Buddy Guy were his favorites. When a Jamaican sista introduced him to reggae with Black Uhuru’s “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner” he began a personal crusade toward the acquisition of everything they’d made. When their first female artist, Puma, died of cancer, he’d tried to attend her funeral but found it too complicated to get accurate information on its whereabouts. Peter “Steppin Razor”Tosh, Mutabaruka, and Bob Marley were his staples outside of Black Uhuru.

  Lapeace hadn’t entered the hip-hop nation with Run DMC like most West Coast youth. In fact, he found it too harsh, silly, and musically repetitive. From ’84 to ’88 he’d been deep in the sticks in rural Mississippi with family. When he returned to L.A. the first hip-hop he heard was “Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos” by Public Enemy, and he was a head from that point forward. As the hip-hop nation evolved so, too, did Lapeace. He wore the medallions, the beads, and the fades with P.E., Native Tongues, and Kid ’n Play. Sported the Raiders gear, the fatigues, and the ankhs with NWA, the S1Ws, and X Clan. He lived for hip-hop. Even played for a moment with being an artist himself. That is, until his homeboy Sekou laced him about an idea he had to “come up.” He visualized it as if it were yesterday and not four whole years ago.

  “What you talkin’ ’bout, Sekou?” asked Lapeace over a steaming hot basket of chili cheese fries.

  “Listen,” began Sekou, talking more with his hands than his mouth. “This is some foolproof shit, and it don’t involve us doing nothing but gettin’ a scanner and burnin’ some gas.”

  “Yeah?” asked Lapeace, eyebrow raised in an attentive manner. “But what you talkin’ ’bout?”

  “Hold on, nigga, damn . . .”

  “Well, I only got thirty minutes fo’ lunch, nigga, damn,” persisted Lapeace, his fingertips a mess of chili and cheese. The fries were long gone.