Chapter 4
Just as her husband had promised, his best friend pulled up in no time. Amir, Abdul’s son, was riding shotgun, and they both got out the car quickly and headed up the walkway. Still nervous and upset, Fatima met the pair at the front door. She had tears in her eyes, and the look of worry covered her face. Speaking no words, she exhaled before pointing Abdul and Amir in the direction of the living room, where Kalif was now camping out. He had finally lowered his voice to a faint murmur, but he was still chanting. Fatima was now empowered. It was her turn to be the aggressor. She knew with a man in the house to protect her, all bets were off. The weary woman could speak her mind without fear of being attacked by the child she’d stepped in and raised as her own.
She found her voice before Abdul and Amir headed to the living room to confront Kalif. “That animal is in there. Look at my china cabinet. Look at the windows. All of this is ridiculous. I keep telling Rasul he needs to do something, but he’s in denial. You know like I know he always thinks Kalif can do no wrong, just because he prays five times a day! He needs to be in a mental facility. They have one down at Children’s Hospital, but your friend won’t listen.”
Abdul and Amir surveyed the damage in the dining room and then took a peek at Kalif. Amir was shocked by what he saw. He wanted to ask his best friend what was wrong and what had made him nut up. He wanted to know Kalif’s reason for destroying his own house, and he wanted to ask Kalif if he knew he was bleeding from the knees and hand? But from past dealings in grown-up affairs, Amir felt it was best to stay in a child’s place, to remain mute unless he was asked to speak. After all, he didn’t want his face smacked.
Abdul quickly returned to the kitchen, where Fatima had remained, and Amir quietly followed his father. Abdul finally responded to Fatima’s statement. Like Rasul, he didn’t want to hear any of what Fatima had to say. They kept their families’ business to their selves. The tight-knit members of the mosque they attended didn’t involve others, especially the police or what Fatima was suggesting, a place for crazy people. Such attention would bring child protective services sniffing around. That type of attention, Abdul promised Fatima, she didn’t want or need. He was far from blind, he told her. He could see that Kalif had some problems. There was no way in hellfire that a normal thinking person would do all the things the boy had done over the past thirty minutes and be considered sane. But judging his best friend’s son was neither his place nor his burden. That task he’d leave up to Rasul and, of course, to Allah. He and his son were simply there to keep peace, so to speak.
Fatima nodded, then left the kitchen. As Kalif stayed perched in a corner of the living room, eyes shut tight, Fatima used her cell phone to take pictures of the damage he had done. She knew when her husband arrived, he would find some way to flip the script and justify what his favorite had purportedly done. The pictures would always serve as a reminder of the myriad of problems Kalif had brought into their lives since coming as an infant to live in Detroit. Or, as matter of fact, since he was conceived and born. Fatima had never forgotten the true reason London, her college roommate and the biological mother of the thorn in her side, was dead. Storm and that damn spiteful bitch Kenya, whom her husband always put on a pedestal, were the cause of London’s demise. And Kalif was a product of the devil’s work.
* * *
Thank God Rasul was a few minutes away from home now. Normally, he’d swing by Somerset Collection, an upscale mall, and pick up a designer purse or two for his devoted wife. As of late, he’d been on the road more than most women would understand. And she never gave him any fever. So she definitely deserved to be blessed. Receiving her panicked call had thrown him off his game plan. The most important thing to him now was making it home to sort things out. Kalif had been showing some signs of mild hostility and withdrawal, but Fatima’s description of the boy’s behavior was the last thing Rasul had expected to hear upon answering her call. And her telling him that Kalif knew they were not his birth parents had been the icing on a cake of bullshit.
When he turned onto the block, he took notice of Abdul’s vehicle, which was parked in front of his house. After pulling in the driveway, Rasul turned off the engine. He knew whatever had taken place inside the house was bad. Amir had texted him that although Fatima was justifiably upset, she wasn’t being overly dramatic about the mayhem. Making his way to the porch, he saw Amir sitting on the top stair. Hakim was right by his side, looking bewildered. Rasul picked up his son and held him tightly in his arms before putting him down. Placing his hand on his Amir’s shoulder, Rasul reassured him that everything was going to be okay. Then he went in his pocket, pulled out a few dollars, gave them to Amir, and instructed him to walk Hakim to the corner store to get a juice and some candy. He usually frowned upon sugary snacks, but all things considered, a child’s sugar overload was the least of his problems.
Rasul was not inside the dwelling for even five seconds before the situation became painfully clear. Kalif was out of control. No matter what the reason was, what he’d done was unacceptable. Rasul finally could bear witness to what Fatima, as well as Abdul, had stated. His home—well, at least the dining room—looked like a wrecking ball had swung through it. But sadly, it hadn’t. The truth was his beloved son was to blame. After thanking Abdul for stopping by, he informed him that Amir had taken Hakim to the store. He then asked Abdul if it was at all possible for his youngest son, Hakim, to stay the night with them. Wanting to be of assistance, his best friend readily agreed.
After Abdul left with Amir and Hakim, and Rasul and Fatima were alone in the house with their eldest son, Rasul hugged his wife tightly. Fatima broke down in tears and was close to collapsing. She didn’t know what was going to happen next, but she prayed her husband would take charge. Kalif still hadn’t moved from the spot he had been in for well over a hour now, and he was still bleeding.
“Look, baby, go upstairs and let me deal with this,” Rasul told Fatima. “I need to speak to my son man-to-man.”
Glad to oblige, Fatima excused herself, but not before whispering in Rasul’s ear, “I don’t know exactly how he found out. I don’t know who told him, but the bottom line is he knows.”
After watching his wife go up the stairs, Rasul waited for her to close their bedroom door. Allah, please give me strength. Readying himself for what seemed like a day of reckoning, he approached Kalif, who was still zoned out.
“Son, look at me. Look at me. It’s your father. Do you hear me talking to you?”
Kalif failed to move. After a few minutes of eerie silence, his lips parted slightly, as if he was going to respond to Rasul. Instead, the young boy started reciting different surahs from the Koran. Rasul put both of his hands on Kalif’s shoulders and shook his son. Two, three, four good times, but Kalif was still out of it. Realizing it would take a stronger effort, the large man brought his hand down across Kalif’s face. He did not intend to bring harm to him, so Rasul was careful not to use all his strength. Feeling the sting on his face, just like that, Kalif was jolted back to reality. Rasul hugged his son. Kalif was hesitant to accept the genuine emotion Rasul was exhibiting, because of what he knew to be true. After he had held it in for these past few months, it was finally time for confessions.
“Who am I?” Kalif stood up, wide eyed, waiting for a response.
“What do you mean, Who are you? You’re Kalif Akbar, that’s who you are. My son, your mother’s son.”
Kalif gave his supposed father a cold stare. Although he was considered a child, he refused to be lied to. He would have no more of the secrets and the deception. “I know I don’t belong to either of you. I know my real parents just must’ve thrown me away like I was garbage or something. Or am I an orphan, like y’all said I was? It doesn’t matter one way or the other. Either way, I’m not your son, and I don’t belong to you. I’m nothing. Oh yeah, maybe an extra blessing you and your wife can get from Allah.”
Even though Fatima had warned him about what Kalif claimed to know, Rasul hadn’t expected this torrent of words, questions, and accusations. Rasul was not ready for this day to come, even though it was destined to be. “Okay, look, son.”
“I’m not your son, so please stop saying that,” Kalif protested, with fever in his tone.
“Whoa. You gonna stop with all that bullshit right damn now! So okay, I know you confused. And I seriously get that you hurt behind what you think you know. But there ain’t no way you gonna disrespect me or your mother any longer. And make no mistake, we are your parents, period. And if you ever in you fucking life even whisper or daydream about bringing harm to my wife and Hakim, I’ma forget the love I have for you and act accordingly. We a family, all four of us, and that’s how we gonna stay.”
Kalif was definitely deep in his feelings, but he was far from being stupid. He knew he never would have displayed such anger, issued murderous threats, and torn up the house if Rasul had been there. And now that he was here, Kalif knew he was pressing his luck if he tried to go toe-to-toe with him. Indeed, he wanted answers, but getting them with a black eye, a busted mouth, or Rasul’s foot dead up his ass would not be the way. Kalif calmed all the way down and waited for the truth to be revealed.
Rasul headed down into the basement, and Kalif followed him and sat down on the couch. Rasul sat on a chair. He then explained to Kalif everything he needed, wanted, and deserved to hear. Not wanting ever to go over the story again, Rasul left nothing out. He began with the very day he met Kenya at a strip club. He explained that she was Kalif’s maternal aunt and the twin sister of his birth mother, London. He told Kalif that London was roommates and best friends with Fatima, and that they cofounded an anti-drug organization up at Michigan State University back in the day.
Rasul then connected the dots about the wild club night when Kalif’s uncle was killed in a shoot-out, one that left Rasul with scars. Rasul lifted his shirt to give young Kalif a visual of the everlasting street souvenirs. Wanting to let his boy know he was holding nothing back, Rasul told him the he and his deceased uncle were on rival squads.
“I didn’t know it was him was at the time. He and his boys stormed the place I was working at and murdered the owner in cold blood. Everything from that point on was chaos. But when it was all said and done, me and your aunt Kenya, who, by the way, was a dancer there, remained tight. It was because of her that I met your biological mother, her identical twin, London. Her spirit was beautiful. And then, of course, I met your mother . . . upstairs. Who, by the way, loves you very much, just like I do.”
It was a lot to take in, and he was shocked, yet Kalif stayed focused. Despite a lump in his throat, he found the courage to speak. “Well, what about my real father? Did you know him too?”
“Yeah, I did. His name was Tony Christian, but the streets called him Storm. I can tell you that judging by the small bit of interaction I had with him, dawg was a true soldier. A real stand-up guy.”
“So if Storm was so stand up and London’s spirit was so beautiful, why they give me away? Why they didn’t wanna raise me?”
Rasul knew this was going to be the hard part of the conversation. Even though years had gone by, he hated every time he had to revisit in his mind the tragic events of those days. He was strong in his faith and had taught Kalif to be that way as well. He had had such love for Kenya, and the part he had played in driving her back to what would ultimately be her death was a constant source of guilt. He just couldn’t shake it. Fatima was far from being a fool. She had quickly noticed that every year, on the anniversary of Kenya’s death, her husband would go into a dark place and become so depressed. He would deny it, but she could see through his yearning for and mourning of another woman.
“So listen, Kalif. I know you’re hurt right now. And I know that you are confused, but let me tell you one thing. You were loved, and you were wanted. Both of them cared about you. Both of them wanted you. Some things jumped off that shouldn’t have, and it caused sort of like a family feud. But in the middle of all that, you were definitely a ray of hope to your birth parents.”
“What kind of stuff? And what happened to them? Were they together? Do you have any pictures of them?” Kalif was full of questions and rightly so.
Feeling it would be best not to go too deeply into the fact that his aunt had killed his mother and his father had been gunned down by a drug organization in his own front yard, Rasul sugarcoated the facts. He knew how the truth tormented him, and he didn’t want to pass that type of everlasting burden to Kalif. “You know the type of life I live from time to time. Well, Storm was deep off into the game. So deep he couldn’t get out. And truth be told, he had no desire to. He was making plenty of money and took care of home the way a grown man is supposed to do. He and your mother were just caught up in that bullshit, and unfortunately, their lives were not spared. This game is served cold, like ice cream.”
Kalif lowered his head. Knowing how Rasul got down, he could easily imagine his birth parents had been warriors as well. That gave him a small bit of comfort. It was easier to digest that they were dead and thus couldn’t raise him than it was that they didn’t want him. But he still felt as if he was no more than a lost soul drifting in the darkness. “Well, how did you get me?”
Rasul knew he had to bend the truth once more. Before answering, he silently prayed for Allah to forgive him. “Well, your father’s brother was also killed, and they had no other people. So one of Storm’s homeboys got at me. I flew out there and got you. You were only a few weeks old. I brought you back here, and me and your mother been loving you ever since. So, you see, even though Allah didn’t bless us to share the same blood, he blessed us to share the same deep, committed love. Do you understand?”
Kalif said that he did, even though a part of him knew there was more to the story. But for now, he decided it was wise for him to leave it alone. He’d heard enough. Done enough. And after suffering for days, he felt his mission was complete. Rasul had confessed his and Fatima’s awful truth. He agreed to talk out any issues he had moving forward, instead of acting out.
Rasul exhaled. He had dodged the bullet of the real story of Kalif’s conception, birth, and adoption. At least for the time being. He prayed things would go back to normal.