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

by Sanyika Shakur

  “What up loc?” Sam Dog said cordially as he bounced up into the den.

  “Aight, homie,” responded C-Dog with an extended hand. Sam Dog clasped his hand over Lil C-Dog’s and went through the ritual shake.

  “Ain’t no need in greetin’ these other niggas, they wet!” said Sam.

  “Yeah, they been in that monkey piss,” said C-Dog before he bent to pick up Lil Huck’s Sega control. “Here cuz, play this nigga’s game ’cause he’s takin’ too long.”

  “Uh-unh,” protested Lil Huck entering the room. “Gimme my shit. I can play my own game.”

  “Well, commo’ then nigga, damn. Trying to run from this ass whuppin’.”

  “Yeah right. Sam, sit your black ass somewhere.”

  “Where? These niggas all over this muthafucka.”

  “F-F-Fuck y-y-you, c-cuz,” Stag managed to say and then just as quickly slumped back into his trance.

  “Yeah, yeah. Save it Stag, you drippin’ wet. But hey, I ain’t mad at you. Just keep yo’ ass off the street like that. We can’t afford to let nobody kill you.”

  “Eh, Sam,” said Lil Huck while frantically pressing control buttons on his control pad. “What up wit Lapeace? I ain’t seen cuz around in a while?”

  “I seen Lapeace the other day in a phat-ass Lexus with some bitch.”

  “Cuz he be doing his thang in the North. Havin’ his chips, helpin’ homies out,” answered C-Dog while working his controls just as quickly.

  “The homies from the North got they lolos shot up by some rims on the ’Shaw last month,” added Sam Dog watching Lil Spike tic as if he were afflicted with Tourette’s.

  “Oh yeah?” replied Lil Huck. “I didn’t hear ’bout that. What happened?”

  “Shit, off brands from the Du-Low Car Club caught ’em slippin’ and dumped. Toe up all the homies’ shit. Lapeace was there. Him and that nigga Anyhow was goin’ at it. Ghost say them niggas was really tryin’ to kill each other.”

  “No shit?” Lil Huck had put down his joystick and sat looking at Sam Dog.

  “I don’t know, but Ghost say he got that shit on tape. A couple homies from the North say they seen it.”

  “Who got the tape now?” asked Lil Huck.

  “I don’t know. Eh, cuz, what you got to eat in this raggedyass muthafucka?” asked Sam, catching C-Dog’s eye and the sign to change the subject.

  “I ain’t got shit fo’ yo ass. Take yo’ ballin’ ass to the sto’ and get somethin’, if you that hungry.”

  “Fuck you. I’m outta here. Eh C-Dog, let’s bounce, cuz.”

  “Naw, I’m a hang here till the homies come down. I’ll hit you off later though. And watch yo’ self.” Sam exited the residence and C-Dog and Huck went back to their game. Lil Huck needed to get to a phone. Needed to tell Sweeney that a tape existed.

  “Wait a minute Lapeace.What you mean you was involved? Involved how?” asked Shima, looking directly into his brown eyes. Lapeace eased back onto the couch, trying to escape her glare, but found that it was still quite intense. Then he stood up and began to pace in short strides in front of her.

  “I was up there flossin’, you know, movin’ the Super Sport, when this nigga name Anyhow—who I been beefin’ wit fo’ like life—rolled up on me and started dumpin’. Shit, so I start dumpin’ back, you know. And—”

  “I don’t even wanna know no more, Lapeace,” Shima interrupted, voice cracking, eyes filling up with water, her hands moving nervously.

  “Oh, you just gonna shut me down like that?You ain’t gonna listen to my side or nuttin’, huh?”

  “I can’t handle this right now, Lapeace—y’all black men are breakin’ my fuckin’ heart with this stupid-ass shit! Ahhh!” she cried and threw herself back onto the couch and kicked her feet like a child in a tantrum. With one mighty thrust, she kicked over the glass coffee table, its top flipping over twice before it came to a rest over by the stereo. Lapeace moved around the flipped table and sat down easily next to her.

  “Shima,” he whispered in a soft husky tone, “I need your strength right now. You’ve got to see, Shima, that I didn’t start all this crazy shit. I just grew up in it and naturally became a part of it. I’m not bangin’, Shima, you can see that, can’t you? I was, at one time, but this wasn’t no bangin’ thing. Me and dude been at each other since we was nine years old. Aw, Shima, I ain’t into killin’ no black people. I’m pro-black. Come on now, can you feel what I’m saying Babes?”

  “Lapeace . . . you . . . knew . . . you’d never be able to stay with me as you promised no more than three damn hours ago ... why you lie to me, to my heart?” Her voice was cold as ice, her stare forward and unrelenting.

  “I do plan to stay with you, Shima. We can leave this country. I’ve got chips and I got—”

  “Be serious, Lapeace,” persisted Shima. “I am CEO of my own company. I can’t just take flight with you. Think about what you sayin’, man.”

  “Oh, now I’m just ‘man,’ huh?” asked Lapeace sarcastically as he got up and moved toward the hallway. “You are a trip, Shima. You’re only concerned with yourself. But don’t even trip, I’m a get outta your way and let you do your thing.” He moved on down the hall toward her room. Shima closed her eyes and wept softly to herself. Damn, she loved that man. She had become addicted to his darkness, his style, speech, smell, and way of treatment. It had been only a short time that she’d known him personally, but in that time he’d shown her nothing but righteousness and respect. And she’d heard of him long before they’d met—their circle wasn’t that big. She overstood, perhaps better than he, that he was but a victim of circumstance. That his activity in the wicked realm of banging was but a response to a reality that was there long before he was born. But why, she mused, do all the good brothas have to respond to that shit? She knew that the backbone in the New Afrikan Nation was its women, that while sexism was hella prevalent in the nation, New Afrikan women still exerted the underlying power in the final equation. He was right in that regard, he needed her strength. She’d have to call on her sista friends for auxiliary strength. When Lapeace came back up the hallway and entered the living room, he had his bags with him. When he looked over at Shima, he no longer saw a tantrum-throwing child but an upright New Afrikan Woman waiting to aid her man. Her strength was radiant throughout the room. He stood still, bags in both hands. Drinking and soaking in her power. It was certainly reviving. Shima stood up and opened her arms to Lapeace. He dropped his luggage and rushed to her embrace. They held each other tight. Eyes shut over each shoulder the vibe was electrical and sure.

  “Babes, we gonna deal with this shit together, aight?” Shima said, leaning back away from him and looking up into his moist eyes.

  “Aight, Shima, I feel you . . . all over me.”

  “Good, ’cause that’s a permanent feeling. Now, let’s start workin’ on your defense. You gotta—”

  “I got an attorney already.”

  “Oh? What’s his name?”

  “Safi Wazir, in West L.A.”

  “A brotha?”

  “Yeah, he’s a Muslim.”

  “Good. Still, I want my attorney Chokwe Lumumba to look at this case too.”

  “Aight.”

  “And,” continued Shima, retrieving a notepad from atop a speaker, “I am callin’ in my girls to roll back the Amerikan press, ’cause you know it’s gonna be negative.”

  “Yo’ girls? What’s that mean?”

  “Well, let’s see,” said Shima, looking down at the list she’d been compiling. “We got Poetess doing the Agenda on the Beat. We got Sheena who’s the editor in chief of Rap Pages. Monifa writes for the Malcolm X Grassroots Movement Newspaper and has a radio spot in New York. Dream and Asha are out there too. Mujah and the New Afrikan Women for Self-Determination are in Oakland. Muasia’s in Delaware. Thandisizwe is editor of By Any Means Necessary in Georgia. Latifah is at Ruthless. I’m at Rap Life. Marsha is at the Sentinel. Kay is at Power 97 in Philly . . .”

  “Aight, aight
. I get the message. Damn, y’all got that communication thang on lock, huh?”

  “I thought you knew? Don’t you know that it was women who brought Kwame Nkrumah to power?”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “Yep. And it was women who took his ass outta power. See, while y’all runnin’ round slangin’ all that testosterone—being men—women communicatin’ with each other. Now, go on and finish tellin’ me what happened, Babes.”

  “Wait, not all y’all communicatin’. Don’t front. Don’t even try it.”

  “Naw, I ain’t sayin’ it’s like that. But I am sayin’ that we ain’t got a lot of the hang-ups that y’all got.”

  “Hang-ups?”

  “Yeah, hang-ups.”

  “Shit, the only hang-up I got is a nigga tryin’ to peel my damn cap. And then that nigga got the hang-up—he can hang up his damn life! Ha, ha, ha!”

  “Not funny, Lapeace. What I’m talkin’ ’bout is, you know ...” There came a loud knock at the door which cut her monologue. They looked at each other without moving. The knock erupted again. Shima got up and moved toward the door. She peeped through the peephole and fixed her eye on the visitor. “It’s your boy Sekou, Babes.”

  “Oh, I forgot, when I was packin’ I called him for a ride. Let him in.”

  “Damn, you was really gonna leave, huh?” asked Shima while undoing the blots and locks.

  “I was outta here,” replied Lapeace playfully with a jerk of his thumb like an umpire.

  “Hey, Sekou, what up?” Shima said, greeting him warmly as he entered.

  “That damn door—y’all got mo’ locks on that muthafucka than Pelican Bay!”

  “The times we live in,” said Shima, rebolting the door with its many locks and chains.

  “Shit,” responded Sekou, stepping over to Lapeace for a shake. “It’s only what you make it to be.”

  “Sekou?”

  “Yeah, Shima.”

  “Why you always quotin’ Tupac? Everything he say, you say.”

  “That’s my nigga. Plus, everything he say he gets straight from the street. Most times we been sayin’ it fo’ years.”

  “I’m just checkin’.”

  “Check on, baby, check on. I ain’t mad at you.” He grinned at the realization of another Tupac quote. But he didn’t really do it on purpose; he was just a slang-speaking thug. He and Lapeace sat and began to talk while Shima righted the coffee table then walked down the hall. “Hey,” said Sekou, looking about the room, “you ready to bounce or what?”

  “Naw,” replied Lapeace, standing and moving toward the sound system. “I’m a chill here. We pretty much straightened it out. You know how shit be in the heat of the moment.”

  “You in love ain’t cha Peace?”

  “I don’t know yet. Why you say that?”

  “’Cause, nigga, you quotin’ R and B titles and shit. Fuck R and B—this rap fo’ life!” exclaimed Sekou loudly, fixing his hand into an “R.”

  “Oh yeah? Well what about this?” He pressed the PLAY button and out came “Freakin’ You” by Jodeci.

  “Aw, man, that’s really hip-hop, though. Plus, I just can’t fade that candy-ass R and B that cater to pop audiences. You know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, but it’s R and B.”

  “Killa,” shot back Sekou. “You wiggin’. Eh, you got any chronic? You got some Alizé?”

  “We got Hennessy.”

  “What you think about the upcoming fight with Tyson and Golden?”

  “I ain’t into that shit, really. Why I wanna pay to see a fight when niggas fightin’ daily in the streets. Now, what you wanna do, fight or get bent?”

  “What you think—get bent. Guess what?”

  “What’s that?”

  “One of the homies, Ghost I believe, filmed that shit with you and Anyhow. Got it on tape.”

  “Yeah I’m already up on it. I hurried up, scooped that shit!” Lapeace exclaimed.

  “Good, ’cause Lil Huck been askin’ ’bout the damn thang.”

  “How he hear ’bout the tape?Who ran they fuckin’ mouth?”

  “C-Dog say Sam Dog did.”

  “Aw, fuck,” complained Lapeace, disgusted.

  “Exactly. We gotta shut Sam up and kill all thoughts ’bout that tape, man.You need to tear that shit up. Burn it or somethin’.”

  “Yeah, I plan to.”

  “Dig this, let’s move to the hood now. This way we can put down some damage control. What you think?”

  “Yeah,” answered Lapeace, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, oblivious to the music now. “Let’s do that.” He picked up his bags and walked them down the hall to Shima’s room. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg drawn up onto the comforter as she painted her toenails. He explained what he needed to do without telling her about the tape. She didn’t need to know every detail about his involvement. And it wasn’t like he lied to her. He just didn’t tell her everything he knew. This was a tactic he’d learned from Tammy. She’d always do him like that. Tell him only half or three-quarters of the truth while conveniently omitting the rest. She wouldn’t lie; she’d just be evasive. Shima overstood his point in what he’d said and bid him farewell with a passionate kiss that sent him reeling.

  In Sekou’s Explorer, engulfed in a cloud of indo smoke, they traveled east on Slauson Avenue. Sekou’s truck was black with gray interior. From without it looked to be a stocked Ford Explorer but inside it was a virtual office. Sekou had a fax installed, fitted just below the A/C unit. The glove compartment had been removed. Now a five-inch television was set into position with such precision that it looked as if it were a standard option that came with the truck. Two cellular phones adorned the console. One he used strictly for business purposes between he and his accountant, broker, and real estate agent. He gave this number to no one else. Nor would he call anyone other than them on it. The other was his in-truck social line. Two Sega control pads were attached by Velcro strips on the dash next to the TV screen and the windows were so tinted that even on the sunniest days the inside looked like dusk. The music, of course, was top-of-the-line Kenwood. His amps, a thousand watts each for his rear speakers, were so huge that they came equipped with fans for cooling. After breaking several windows in his truck with his sounds, he’d finally gotten all his glass except the windshield replaced with quarter-inch Plexiglas.

  Sekou was of medium build, light-complexioned, and resembled, in an almost remarkable way, Cuba Gooding Jr. In the summertime he turned a vibrant bronze and the tips of his hair changed to golden embers. When not in braids (usually cornrows) he wore it in a ’fro, combed out evenly and full. Neither he nor Lapeace wore hats. Hats, they overstood, were targets. Targets as sure as blue and red flags. Sekou’s dress style was baggy hip-hop gear. Walker Wear, Phat Farm, and Kani. He’d never taken on a nickname. Never found it expedient. Besides, most folks figured that “Sekou” itself was some sort of nickname. And only but a few of his homies knew its correct spelling. He’d seen on several occasions where in the course of a sprawling role call spray-painted on a wall, his name would be spelled “Say Coo.” That didn’t much matter to him, as long as they pronounced it correctly. The soothing thing to him, however, was that most people he knew had changed their names to sound hard: “Killer,” “Mad Dog,” “Evil,” “Devil,” “Snake,” etc. Sekou meant “fighter” and he’d been given that at birth by his mother. So he always considered himself a natural. A born fighter.

  The hood gobbled him up not long after it had eaten Lapeace. Sekou and his family had relocated to South Central from the East Bay. He was an only child in a single-parent household. He’d met Lapeace over his back fence one July morning. Lapeace had been rumbling through some boxes in Aunt Pearl’s garage and came across a case of Beefeater gin unopened. He figured that Aunt Pearl must have forgotten it, ’cause the dust upon it was so thick that blowing on it only moved the top layer. Lapeace tore back the cardboard cover and viewed the sparkling clear bottles secreted in their indiv
idual spaces. He’d never drank anything but beer and even then it was not much. Only what his older homies had given him. Looking down at the twelve bottles of Beefeater gin gave him a curious feeling. One that beckoned him to experiment. He lifted out one of the bottles and gazed upon its label, looking at the funny-dressed white man, before closing back the top. He took a single bottle and went out behind the garage, where he nestled himself in between some boxes and the ivy-covered chain-link fence and began to drink the gin. It burned from the time his young lips touched the bottle. His lips, tongue, throat, and stomach were aflame from the liquid, but he guzzled it still. Sekou was out in his backyard emptying the trash when he noticed the indentation in the fence. The ivy-laden fence sagged miserably under the weight of Lapeace’s drunken body. With a quarter of the gin gone, drunk in huge gulps, Lapeace was rubber under its control. Sekou could hear guzzling sounds through the ivy, but due to its density he could not see anyone. He put down the garbage pail and crept closer toward the sound and the sag. “Gulp, gulp, gulp, ahh!” It sounded to Sekou like the person was enjoying whatever was being drunk. He bent and peered through a small opening in the leaves. The person, he could now see, was a young man.

  “Hey, wha’cha doin’ man?” asked Sekou through the fence.

  “Who dat?” asked Lapeace in an obvious drunken slur. The sag shifted as he attempted to come off the fence. But his body and mind were not one; alcohol was running interference.

  “Sekou. What’s that you got?”

  “Say who?” asked Lapeace, perplexed by the complicated name.

  “Never mind,” said Sekou, not worried if he’d get the name. He wanted to get an answer to the question. He asked about the drink. “What’s that you drinkin’?”

  “It say Beefeater. Some gin or some’em.”

  “Can I get some?” asked Sekou through the little opening in the leaves. His hands were on both of his knees.

  “Climb on over . . . wait a minute.” Lapeace held on to one of the boxes on his left and hefted himself up to his feet. He turned and looked at the thick ivy. “Nigga where you from?”