YaSheema, known to the streets simply as YaYa, sat thinking to herself, Who said pimpin’ ain’t easy?
Shit, I wasn’t doing half bad for a black woman living in the mean streets of DC with a growing empire. Sex, drugs, money and power could all be mine with the roll of the dice. I was taught good game, and sex appeal was all I ever needed to get by in this fucked up world!
I was the bomb! I faced the mirror that was attached to the vanity that stood in the far corner of my lavish room. I admired myself. I was a dime by anyone’s standards and no one could tell me I wasn’t either. I stood a proud 5’7” with eyes the color of the heavens after a storm. Stormy grey is what I liked to call ‘em. My mocha chocolate skin was the kind bitches would pay big money for. My ass was phat and my thighs were thick. I got that fire a nigga could easily fall in love with. I rocked only the hottest shit money could buy.
My father taught me that I was worth only the best. That was what made me run my shit flawlessly. I wasn’t what people would stereotype as a “Boss.” Your everyday average nigga had no idea I was street royalty. They just looked at me like I was a stuck up bitch. They probably thought I was tricking with niggas to buy my diamonds and furs. I am sure they thought I was fucking to be privileged enough to travel to the exotic places of the world.
Most niggas wouldn’t wanna believe a bitch like me was on the come up and that I did it on my own. Well, not all on my own, I did have the wisdom and teachings of the trillest niggas in the game, my Daddy. He taught me how to make shit happen. He taught me at all costs to win the game – not just finish the game – but to come in first place and devour all those who tried to take me down in the process.