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Hours Later
Bianca drove up the freeway tickling little DJ’s chin and making him giggle. The baby wore a jovial expression as he flailed his arms and kicked his legs. Seeing the little guy this happy, caused her to smile. It made her think back to the unborn child she’d lost, which was the reason she’d snatched him in the first place.
“Him a happy baby, huh?” she cooed. “Yes, he is. Oh, yes he is.” She passed him a bottle and he held it, sucking on its nipple.
“I was thinking since I’m your new mom now, that you should have a new name. What chu think about that?” She looked to the baby boy and he smiled with the nipple in his mouth. “Okaaay, I was thinking we’d name you after your daddy that died. How does Cameron sound?” She glanced over and little DJ was swinging an arm excitedly. “I thought you’d love it. Okay, your name is Cameron Jr. and your nickname will be Young Threat.”
Bianca cranked up the volume on Beyonce’s Drunk In Love and mashed the gas pedal, zipping the rental up the highway. “Las Vegas, Nevada, here we come. Whooo!” She sounded like a drunk ass sorority sister, holding her fist out of the window while gripping the steering wheel, tearing up the freeway lane.
The baby was the silver lining that came out of all of the madness those past few days. She wasn’t the least bit concerned about kidnapping charges, even though the police had spotted her leaving the scene with Little DJ. She couldn’t care less. This was another shot at motherhood and love for her. And she was thankful.
A couple days later
The day was one of the hottest it had been in some time. The enormous ember in the sky shined, casting a blinding light over the vast land that was Nigeria. She rung out her wet clothes until they were somewhat damp then flapped them out aggressively before hanging them out on the line. Her eyes narrowed as she went to pin up a sheet, the intense rays of the sun irritating her pupils. She winced, but finished her task, wiping the beads of sweat from her forehead when she was done.
When she slid her hand from off of her brows, she saw a silhouette moving in her direction. It was about her youngest son’s height and size. Smiling, she jumped to her feet and ran toward him, her ebony skin glistening from her perspiration. She ran with everything she had, quickly closing the distance between them. Having gotten a few feet away from him, she noticed the grief written across his young face. This slowed her running to a jog, until she eventually stopped, looking upon him. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she breathed hard, studying her baby boy’s expression.
He stopped where he was looking down at his fidgeting fingers, and occasionally glancing up at the woman that had given birth to him. His eyes were pink and had red webs on them, his cheeks streaked wet from crying. In a panic, her eyebrows raised and she looked to both sides of him. The lines across her forehead defined themselves. Her curiosity made itself present on her lips.
“Where’s your...where’s ya brudda?”
Finally, Uduka stopped fidgeting with his fingers and locked eyes with his mother. He didn’t have to say a thing, his eyes told her the entire story.
Uma’s eyes widened and she staggered back with her hand to her chest, choked up, devastated. Suddenly, she fell to the ground. Her eyes accumulated tears in them and her bottom lip trembled uncontrollably. A cache of emotions hit her all at once. Her head snapped up and she looked up into the sky.
“Nooooo!” she screamed, veins rippling through her forehead and up her neck. “Nooooo!” The sound left her voice, but then came back, she shook her head fast. “Gawd, notta ‘nudda one of ma baybees. Lord, wat have I done? What have I done to deserve dis?” Uduka dropped to the ground beside his mother and wrapped his arms around her, allowing her to bawl against his chest.
***
The morgue was scarcely lit. Several lifeless forms lay on metal tables with sheets draped over them. Every single one of them wore a tag on their toe, like they were some kind of shirt inside of a department store. A pathologist stood over the corpse of a tall dark-skinned man whose complexion was food stamp blue. His body was riddled with holes, having been shot several times. He was swollen, really swollen. If it hadn’t been for the rest of him being slender one would have mistaken that he was a muscular man, but that definitely wasn’t the case.
At the very center of him was a large Y where he’d been cut open. It was held together by stitches. This was due to the autopsy that had been performed on him. The huge letter like scar looked like the symbol a super hero would have on his chest. It put a person in the mind of a black Superman.
The pathologist scribbled something down on a clipboard, draped the sheet over the dead man’s body, and slipped a tag around his big toe.
***
He made his way down the tier, holding the items he received when he walked through the gates of the place that was considered hell on earth. Prison. His head was on a swivel as he mad dogged all of the hardened criminals that were glaring at him like they wanted to put a sharp piece of steel through him. He looked one buff ass nigga up and down like ‘What’s up? You don’t want none of this, homeboy’ when he passed him. Focusing his attention straight ahead, he moved toward his cell’s door where he walked right in and sat his items down on the bottom bunk. He was glad he had the house to himself, but knew that it wouldn’t last for long. Someone would be occupying the space sooner or later with him. So, he figured he’d enjoy his alone time while it lasted. After he closed the door shut, he laid back on the bed and pressed a piece of gum on the wall. Afterwards he pressed a picture of his family against it. It was a happier time for him and his family. He clasped his hands behind his head and stared up at the bottom of the bunk above him. Next, he took a deep breath and exhaled, closing his eyes shut.
“Rest in peace, Boxy.” Uche whispered, not regretting sacrificing his freedom in order to get the man that murdered his brother. He’d make the same choice a thousand times if given the option.
That night he had the drop on Don Juan in the middle of the street, but when the police ordered him to drop his weapon, he complied at the last minute. His adversary saw this as his chance to body him and tried to shoot him. This action led to the police unloading everything that they had on him.
Epilogue
A few days later
Tiaz was bussed from the courthouse to the County jail. After going through all of the bullshit they put a person through when he first came through that shithole, he made his way to the telephone, slapping hands with the cats he knew and mad dogging others. He was surprised at how his name was ringing off behind the walls. Dudes were talking about how he was putting it down and giving it up in the streets. Although he got some love, he knew he’d also feel the hate. The two coincided with one another. It wouldn’t be long before he had to set a mothafucka straight so they’d know that he wasn’t one for the bullshit.
Tiaz pushed the thought of having to check a nigga to the back of his mental. Right now, he was focused on getting in touch with someone on the outside so they could get his money and hire him a decent lawyer.
Tiaz stepped to the payphone and reached for the receiver. Before his hand could grasp it, a bony one grabbed it. His eyes followed the bony hand, up its arm and over to the face of the body it belonged to. It was in the possession of a dark-skinned man with nappy hair and some serious acne. His face looked like plastic bubble wrap and his eyes were as yellow as lemons. His uniform was two sizes too small so his limbs looked like tree branches coming out of his sleeves and pants. He sized the thug up, studying him as if he was the tallest stack of shit he’d ever laid eyes on.
“My man, now I know you aren’t tryna use my phone without asking?” dark-skinned asked.
“Your phone?” Tiaz frowned. “I don’t see your name on the mothafucka.”
“The hell you don’t.” Dark-skinned pointed to the name on the phone.
“Your name is Pacific Bell?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Ya damn skippy, now pay up.” Dark-skinned rubbed his thumb and index finger together. “What chu got, money? Commissary?”
“How about an ass whopping?” Tiaz punched him in the mouth with all of his might. The force behind the punch was so great that it caused him to bump the back of his head on the wall and slide down to the floor. The dark-skinned man’s bottom jaw split straight down the middle and his grill quickly filled with blood as he tried to push the separated halves back together. The pain was so intense that it brought tears to his eyes. Tiaz went to work on him, kicking and stomping him as he held his arms up trying to shield his face.
Tiaz was so occupied with giving the man the business that he neglected to watch his back. A look of surprise came over him when he felt sharp metal puncturing his back and ribcage. He swung around with his full strength, bringing his balled fist across the jaw of a stockier, muscular cat. The blow caught the man off guard and caused him to stagger to the side, but he held tight to his shank. He righted himself before he could fall and wiped his bleeding mouth with the back of his hand.
His eyes took on a frightening glint and a satanic grin emerged on his face. The sight of blood seemed to entice him. He charged at Tiaz. The thug sidestepped him, grabbed the back on his neck and gripped his wrist. He twisted his wrist so hard and fast that a sharp pain shot through it. It was the equivalent of piercing the skin with a hot needle and it made the man drop his shank. The man’s mind was quickly taken off of his wrist when his face smashed into the wall and his forehead split open like a coconut. The man fell to the floor in a heap, groaning in pain. He slowly made to get up when the cats Tiaz knew from the hood finally rushed in and mopped him and the dark-skinned man up. All he could do was watch before collapsing to the floor from blood loss. An alarm blared inside of his ears. The last thing he saw were the C.O.s suited and booted in riot gear rushing in to restore order.
A couple days later
Tiaz’ eyelids fluttered open. His vision was blurry, but it came back into focus after a while. He sat up in bed and looked around. The room he was inside was dimly lit. There were hospital beds lined up on both sides of him. Some of them were occupied by inmates. A nurse was checking one of the inmates’ vitals. He also saw a doctor standing in an open door jotting something down on a clipboard. That’s when it dawned on him that he was in the infirmary. He looked down at his torso and saw that it was wrapped in a bandage.
Tiaz brought both his hands down his face and blew hard. He realized that he passed out from loss of blood, but he didn’t know how long he had been out. The nurse walked inside of the room that the doctor was in. As soon as she went through the door, two inmates arose from their beds, slammed the door closed behind her and pushed a file cabinet down in front of it. A C.O. came running towards the two inmates. He radioed for help through his walkie-talkie and suddenly an inmate pulled a pillowcase over his head tightly and rammed his head into the wall until blood smeared the inside of it and he passed out. As soon as the C.O. hit the floor, the inmate along with a few others, barricaded the rest of the entrances into the infirmary.
They then moved in on Tiaz. The dim light in the room bounced off the metal of their shanks and caused them to glint.
Danger! Danger! Danger! The alarm inside of Tiaz’ head blared like the dismissal bell for after school detention.
“Arrrr!” He grabbed his side, his moving too fast caused pain to shoot through his ribcage like bolts of lightning. He shuddered, feeling groggy and weakened from his wounds, but forced his eyelids back open. These niggaz wanted blood, his blood. And he wasn’t giving up a drop of it without a fight.
Swiftly, he pulled the IV from his arm and hopped out of bed. He wrapped his left hand up in a sheet and unscrewed the top half of the IV pole beside his bed. He held tightly to the lower half of the IV pole, planning to use it as a spear. He then backed himself up against the wall. His head was on a swivel as he surveyed his surroundings, searching for the first man looking to claim his life.
The shank wielding inmates formed a circle around him. He looked around at all of their ice grills wondering why they hadn’t attacked. That’s when the circle parted and a man came waltzing through. His face was partially hidden by the darkness of the room, so he had to peer closely to I.D. him. When recognition ripped through his brain, he had to blink a few times to make sure who he was seeing was actually standing before him.
“Sa...Sa...” Tiaz stammered.
“Savon, alive and in the mothafucking flesh,” the man spoke.
Tiaz was speechless, he couldn’t believe it. Chevy’s brother was standing right before his eyes.
“You done my niggaz up real nasty, but they were throwaways. I got plenty more hittas where they came from.” He swept a hand around to all of the men surrounding them. “Are you ready to die, nigga?” He pulled a sharp metal shank from the small of his back. It was about seven inches in length and had fabric wrapped around its lower half for grip. Tiaz readied himself for the fight for his life once he saw the weapon come into play. “You set me up, pussy. Left me to rot in this shithole, put cho mothafucking hands on my sister, got my nephew out here pushing poison in the streets! Ah, nigga, you gots ta go off of GP! What chu did was a violation punishable by death! And yo’ sentencing has come, bitch-nigga!”
“You ain’t saying shit, let’s dance!” Tiaz shot back with a hard face. His heart was beating fast, but it didn’t pump Kool-Aid, it pumped Gangsta Juice.
A flicker of movement at his left brought his eyes around. One of the inmates was tossing him a metal shank identical to Savon’s. He threw the IV pole down and pulled the blade down from the air. As the alarm blared in their ears and the inmates cheered them on, the two men circled one another, looking for flaws in the other’s defense. The thug’s eyes were trained on his opposition’s left side. He knew vital organs were on this side and attacking the right spot could kill a man.
With movements that looked like blurs, Savon thrust his hand forth trying to stab him in the heart. Tiaz knocked his hand aside with the hand that was wrapped in the sheet and stabbed him in the cheek, drawing a howl of pain out of him. Savon backed up and touched his cheek; his fingertips came away with blood. He avoided his rival’s next few attempts at assaulting him, moving with the agility and grace of a ballroom dancer. He was good on his feet until a slip-up cost him a bleeding shoulder.
The fight went on to the point where both men were bleeding something awful. Their faces were coated in sweat and their hearts were slamming up against the interior of their chests. Their uniforms looked like they had been hit with splashes of red wine. Droplets of blood and sweat covered the floor of the infirmary. The doors of the entrances to the infirmary rattled as the riot squad of the County jail facility tried to force their way in.
One of the men moved in for the kill, thrusting his shank forward. The other man smacked his hand away with such a force that it sent his shank flying across the room. He then delivered an upper cut that lifted him off his feet and dropped him on his back. The man bumped his head and was nearly knocked unconscious. He lay on his back looking through narrowed slits and groaning in pain. The other man straddled him and gripped his throat, squeezing it and lessening the oxygen flowing into his lungs. The man beneath him squirmed and punched at his torso, but his opponent clenched his jaws and took the blows without complaint. He then slammed his seven inch metal blade into the man’s armpit down to its handle. The blade pierced the man’s heart, killing him instantly.
His eyes bugged and his mouth dropped open. He took his last breath and his arms dropped limply beside him. At that moment the infirmary went deathly quiet as the inmates stared at the man that was victorious. All that could be heard was the blaring alarm and the rattling of the entrance doors. The victorious man lay over his dead opponent, breathing heavily and bleeding from everywhere. He felt relieved having been the one that came out on top. No one could tell him that he wasn’t completely justified. He did what he had to do to survive, so whatever punishment came for his actions, he was willing to face. It was survival of the fittest.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The doors came flying open and the riot squad came pouring inside of the infirmary.
Years later
The C.O. opened the cell’s door and he came waltzing out. He moved down the hallway toward his death as confidently as he could with his wrists and ankles in shackles. A host of correctional officers and a priest crowded around him walking with him as he moved down the mustard yellow corridor.
“Dead man walking! Dead man walking!”
He flinched hearing the officer’s voice sting his eardrums. He glanced over his shoulder with a scowl and twisted lips.
“Damn, homie, you all in my ear and shit,” he complained, heatedly.
Continuing on his way, he threw his head back at the other inmates on Death Row like ‘What’s up?’ Never breaking his stride. His face was one chiseled out of stone, void of expression and emotion. It was like he was taking an evening stroll through his neighborhood, taking in the sunshine and mingling with the people of his community.
“Alright now, hold yo’ head, bro!” A prisoner called out from his left.
“No doubt!” he responded.
“That’s the realest nigga to have ever walked the earth right there!” Another prisoner called out from his right.
“Balls of steel.” A third prisoner called out.
He locked eyes with him and said, “You mothafucking right.”
He knew the life he led would lead to either death or the penitentiary and it led to both. Cold world. But what the fuck could the nigga do? The streets were all that he knew. He played the hand he was dealt and came up short. He wasn’t about to bawl and cry about the shit though. He had a reputation to keep. He knew the streets would keep his legacy alive. Once he finally closed his eyes his name would be mentioned with some of the most gangster niggaz in history, he was sure of it. No one could tell him otherwise.
He was led to the room where his life was to end. He stared at the dark green leather cushioned gurney with all of the straps on it as one of the correctional officer’s unlocked the shackles around his wrists, waist, and ankles. After the C.O. removed the chains and shackles, he passed them off to the other officer who hoisted them over his shoulder. The officer then told the prisoner to lay down on the gurney. He obliged.
His head snapped to all of the areas of his body that the correctional officers strapped down. They made sure that the thick leather brown belts were pulled good and tight to ensure that their prisoner wouldn’t escape. Once the officers finished strapping him down to the gurney, they stepped back to allow the doctor through. He was a tall, white man with thinning hair. He wore glasses and a lab coat. He tied a tourniquet around the thug’s arm, cleaned it with a swab moistened in alcohol and tapped it until a ripe, juicy vein was visible. Once he did this, he inserted the IV then removed the length of rubber. He repeated this same routine with the other arm, as well. He then opened his patient’s shirt and attached the patches that would monitor his heart. This was done so that the time of his death could be recorded and confirmed.
When the doctor turned around walking off and pushing his specs back upon his face, he noticed a machine that housed three large syringes containing three concoctions. The first one was sodium thiopental, an anesthetic agent that would be used to render him unconscious. The second one was pancuronium bromide, a non-depolarizing muscle relaxant that would cause sustained paralysis to the skeletal striated muscles. The last one was called potassium chloride which would stop his heart, thus causing death by cardiac arrest.
Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!
His heart was beating fast now because he knew that death was looming around him like a foul stench. But he wasn’t afraid of dying. Hell mothafucking nah, he embraced it, welcomed it even. The next thing he knew the curtains were pulled open from over the large windows surrounding the diagnostics room, leaving a host of people looking in on him. They sort of resembled the audience at a talk show like Jerry Springer or Wendy Williams.
One face stood out among them all though. He’d come to love it like he loved breathing. She was beautiful, but at that time her appearance was less than flattering. Chevy’s eyes were red webbed and pink. Her cheeks were slickened wet, making her face shiny. She swallowed the lump of hurt that had formed in her throat, her nostrils expanding and shrinking as she breathed angrily. He didn’t know if she was mad at him for what had happened or not. One thing for sure was that he didn’t care. Nah, he had other matters that had his attention, like all of the hoes he was going to get at once he got to heaven or wherever he was going.
He looked from her and took in all of the faces behind the thick glass. He figured that this was what an animal caged up at the zoo must have felt like. Most of the people in the audience wore solemn expressions. Some looked like they felt sorry for him, while others were crying. Not crying because they felt for him, but because they were happy that justice was being served for the murder of their loved ones. He cracked a wicked smile at them and they went ham, jumping to their feet and hurling chairs which deflected off of the glass. They talked shit and some of them even tried to rush out of the room to get to him. He chuckled and threw up his hood the best way he could with his arms being in restraints. It was his last fuck you to them.
After a couple of armed guards ushered the unruly guests out, kicking and screaming, the priest approached the prisoner with an opened Bible. He began reading off a passage when he shouted at him.
“Father, I don’t wanna hear that shit, God gave up on niggaz like me a long time ago!”
The priest closed the Holy Book and cleared his throat with a fist to his mouth. “Very well, may the Lord bless your soul, my son.”
“Yeah, whatever, nigga.” His head whipped around to the warden, looking him up and down like ‘Fuck you doing here?’ “Can I help you?”
“Any last words, Savon?” he asked. The room had a PA system, so everyone outside of the glass could hear what he had to say.
“Once y’all done killing me, and it’s time to lay me to rest, y’all just make sure they bury me a G!” He said aloud, taking in all of the faces of the people in the audience, making sure he had everyone’s attention. “You hear me? Bury me a G, bury me a mothafucking G!”
The End
AVAILABLE NOW BY TRANAY ADAMS
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