Life After Death

by Sister Souljah

  “I’m not afraid of nothing,” I said, with calm, sensual confidence. I meant it, too. Let’s face it. I’m a hood bitch who just served fifteen years on lockdown. I got shot dead. I endured the casket, the sewer, the stench, the paralysis, the screaming, the grinding, the breaking bones, the swarm of mosquitoes, the rashes, the mucus, the virus, the prolonged stays in deep darkness, and even the cruel cage in the animal factory. I’ve been a sexy serpent and a loved dog. I lost a love, the best sex I ever had. I was attacked by Succubus, who torched more than half my hair length. And I am still top bitch.

  “For you,” he said, and pulled out a red satin pouch. I opened the red drawstring. Diamonds spilled into the palm of my hand. He reached in and pulled up a diamond necklace, the likes of which I had never seen. It was diamond chunks, not neat small princess cuts or tightly arranged gems. He placed it around my neck and clasped it. He went for the dangling diamond earrings still in my palm. He held one up so I could admire it first. Then he put each of them on. I felt like I owed him a blow job right then and there. But I didn’t want to ruffle his look or mine. Plus there was obviously a crowd of people awaiting our entrance. Even Bridgette and Pretty had gone in.

  A gloved knock broke the spell I was under. It was his manservant, who gave only a hand signal after catching his attention. He got out and walked around to my door. When I stepped out, my stunner heels landed on a royal red carpet. I had not gotten to walk the red carpet on my reality-show debut. However, tonight I was having it all.

  Red snow, no, red confetti, spilled out from overhead as soon as we walked through the doors of the Light House. It didn’t affect my flawless look or new haircut. I was beneath his wide red umbrella that he snapped open seconds beforehand. I liked that he had a team of men that surrounded and served him. That was very familiar to me. We were inside a huge and high ballroom facing a crowd of people cheering for him. There was even a live band. Only the drummer tapping the cymbals creating a stripped-down simple soundtrack for each step we took.

  “The Ruler, the Ruler, the Ruler…” they all chanted, the male voices overpowering the women’s cheers. As I looked around into the crowd, other than the passionate expressions on the faces of the cheering, I was blown away by what I saw. There were two live all-white giraffes. One was posted in the left-hand corner and the other in the right. The stage on the back center wall was made of black opal and was designed as a shining black serpent, its glistening head raised up over the stage top. But more than that, there were short black pillars lining the perimeter. On top of each pillar was a live monkey. Stranger was the crowd. There were plenty of humans—or should I assume dead humans—all dressed for an exquisite party. Although none as exquisite as me and him. But there were also some suited beasts. Bodies standing upright but with three legs, their faces covered with hair except for their eyes and nose holes. Several guests had short- to medium-length tails. Some tails were thin and taut. Others were thick and hairy. Some short afro puff style. Faces of foxes on bodies of human design, all upright, not crouched or crawling on the floor. All had drinks in their hands or smoke in their mouths. There was a patch of human-looking people, except they each had only one eye. It was located on their chins. The spaces where eyes normally go left vacant, yet there were deep black eyebrows. There were dudes with six fingers. Some with eight fingers. There were women with elongated tongues that they couldn’t keep hidden in their mouths. There were enough humans, though, plenty of white ones and every complexion after white to the deep blackness.

  Maybe this is the reason he asked me in the whip if I was afraid. But I wasn’t. I already figured it out. It was a costume party! Wish someone would have told me and Pretty and Bridgette. We didn’t have masks or horror accessories and gadgets. I was on some supermodel shit. Bridgette and Pretty were also dolled, but not as expensively adorned and refined as me. Besides, I was the only one wearing the chunky diamond necklace that he placed only on me. That was a confirmation that I was queen. And the moment I had that thought, the entire crowd bowed down. It was a half bow, and only he and I remained standing for some seconds. The band began playing and all heads lifted. It was an old joint, one of Brooklyn Momma’s picks. It was originally recorded by the Ohio Players, a cut titled “Fire.” The live performance made the hot record sound more incredible than vinyl or wax or digital CD could ever sound. I could hear the strum of the guitar, the stroke of the bass, the strike of the drums, the lure of the trumpets, the masculinity of the trombones. My whole body was stimulated by sound.

  The lights dropped out. Suddenly a powerful strobe caused colored globes of light to spin around the room. My eyes were adjusting to the radical change. Then I heard his voice singing the words to the song that I knew well. Poppa had sung this song to Momma once at one of our big events. He was showing every one of our friends and family that Momma was his hot-to-death, badass wife and that no one else could fuck with her look or style. And that no other man could say he had a similar or equal beautiful thing. While Poppa mouthed these song lyrics to Momma, she strutted in the spotlight that was aimed directly over her. She didn’t say shit. Just showed everybody gathered her flawless dark-chocolate skin, her mean-ass walk, long-ass legs, thick thighs, tiny waistline, and all-natural cantaloupe-sized breasts. That’s why, when the spotlight hit me, like it just did, I began to strut my strut, swing my hips and dip it low. All hell broke out. They all cheered for me. Even he cheered and applauded all at the same time, his approval magnified by the mic. When I was done showing my supremacy, I strutted to him and clung on to him from behind. I didn’t love him… yet, like how I had loved Midnight for years, or Dat Nigga for the whole of my death life. It was more like I wanted to possess him and all that he possessed. I believe if a nigga has power and style, plus the look and the empire, the love will come slowly. He was older than me. I could tell. He had a son who seemed around the same age as Pretty. And although I was a few years older than Pretty at my “T.O.D.,” as she would say, I am definitely not old enough to be Pretty’s or any grown-ass adult’s momma.

  He began addressing the crowd. Each time he spoke, he used a different language. It seemed whoever was gathered there who spoke the languages he began speaking in would cheer from wherever they were standing. He had spoken so many languages, but not yet English. So I didn’t know what the fuck he was saying. But I was still clung on to him as he spoke. In my head I’m telling myself, Do whatever is necessary to hold on to this handsome, manly, older-man jackpot.

  “Thank you for accepting my invitation to the Light House. It is always my intention to maximize your enjoyment, whether dead or alive, man, woman, or beast. I make it my business to treat each and every person and thing equally. In my realm, no monkey will ever be asked to be less than a human. No spirit will ever be asked to bow down before Adam, a human, or a beast. I like to provide a precious option and alternative to the ONE. He may have created every living thing, from the tick to the whale, the ant to the elephant, the serpent to the giraffe, the lions and tigers and bears, all of the ghosts, jinn spirits, and the goddamn human beings, but I say we are all equal. You never need to say one prayer to me. If you bow down to me, it is because you wanted to, not because I demanded it. And it is because I have provided you with the freedom of the so-called Last Stop Before the Drop. Yes, it is true that there is only one exit out of this realm. It is to say those detestable words that there is no God but Allah. And you must wash your body first, and raise your hands to the air and praise the ONE. And if that is not already too much, you must crouch, then kneel then bow down, with your forehead pressed to the ground, and pray and beg for mercy. But I say tonight and every night and all of the time to every living thing down here, ‘Welcome, just stay here in my realm with me.’ You don’t have to beg for Heaven. We are comfortable here. We are co-workers, co-earners, and we are friends. We trade favors. And most of all, you will never be judged by me. You are never required to bow down to me.”

  The crowd went wild. The black opal s
tage split in half and opened slowly. As it did, the band played “Atomic Dog” by George Clinton. Behind the band was an elevator shaft lit up like a glow stick. He grabbed my hand gently and I followed him onto the elevator. As the doors closed and all remained cheering, I thought how dope it was to have elevators in your house! He lived in a tower. It was like taking an elevator to the sky. He seemed to have everything. I loved it.

  22.

  The penthouse. I had been in apartments, condos, houses, mansions, and even palaces. But I had never been in a penthouse or a lighthouse. Now I was in the Light House Penthouse and it was incredible. The walls were painted in warm colors. The artist had an awesome idea to do every variation of red, beginning with the lightest pinks and blending in every other shade gradually until it reached blood red. The ceilings were high but the walls did not reach the ceilings. Instead they were freestanding and laid out in an intricate maze. I thought it was different and obviously designed by the mind of a puzzler. I could not distinguish the exit from the entrance. There were so many paths in and out. You would have to have lived here for a long time to know all of the routes. He knew. All I could do was follow him.

  Left, right, left, right, left, left, left, and we ended up in a living area layout, facing an aquarium with a shark swimming in tons of water, alone. The floors were all white marble. The white leather rectangular sofa pieces had no backs but looked extremely expensive and comfortable.

  “Are you afraid of sharks?” he asked me.

  “I’m not afraid of nothing. That shark is in a tank. I’m out here with you,” I said.

  “I like a woman who is fearless. Not afraid of the same things that every other woman and most men fear the most.”

  “Did you put the shark in there to scare people away from your place?” I asked him, since it was our first stop on the path he chose through his maze.

  “No, I’m a collector of the living and dead things that are feared the most, and that most run from or cast down or aside, or away,” he said.

  I didn’t reply.

  “What do you feed him?” I asked.

  “She’s female. Her favorite food is dead or living human beings. Right now she’s digesting Bridgette. Only her fingers, arms, and breast remain. I had my tank attendant freeze the rest for next feeding,” he said calmly. I was froze facing front. Had to get my game face on tighter before I faced him. When I finally turned to him looking calm and collected but burning on the inside, he busted out in man laughter. I smiled.

  “Ooh isn’t that impressive. You’ve mastered cool,” he said. “I’ll keep poking you gently until I find your soft spot.”

  “Do you mean my weakness?” I shot back too quick.

  “No. I say what I mean. I mean your soft spot,” he said and reached his hand beneath my dress. My pussy was bare. So he began stroking it with his fingers.

  “Is this okay?” he asked. Just a breath escaped from between my lips.

  “Your eyes say this is good,” he said. And it was. He pushed in with a thick finger.

  “Lay on the floor. I want to sit on your face,” I told him. He pumped his finger six times in me, then pulled it out abruptly, and stuck it in his mouth, and licked the finger clean.

  “Not all pussy is for eating,” he told me calmly. “But your pussy taste like my favorite fruit.” His expression was as though he was even more impressed by my bossiness. I opened his suit jacket and pushed it off of his shoulders. He leaned forward and helped me to free his arms from his sleeves. I undid his “yeah I’m fucking you tonight” Gucci belt. Then unfastened his suit pants. My eyes darted down. He was not as long and thick as Dat Nigga. But he was young, hard, erect, and well equipped to satisfy me. And I had a feeling this man craved a crazy bitch and a wild performance. So I would be dat. He was fully naked. I stepped in close and bit him roughly. He looked surprised. Then he looked excited. He put his finger to the spot I bit and drew back his hand and saw a tiny bit of blood. He smiled.

  “Only because I know a gentleman like you doesn’t beat women,” I teased and taunted, then slapped the shit out of him and mushed his face down to my waist. “Lay down,” I bossed him in a sexy command. He did. I positioned his head between my thighs, then squatted onto his face. All he could do was enjoy his fruit. His tongue felt nice down there. Nice enough for me to explode. When I did, I surprised myself and screamed out. I forward rolled over his head and collapsed on the floor. Now we were both in the lying position, head to head. We both jumped up swiftly. We both were on all fours facing one another. He smiled deviously like he was having more fun than he expected to have. He growled. I growled back. He smiled again.

  “You thought I was a doll? Fuck that. I’m a tiger,” I told him, and launched at him. We wrestled. He dragged me by my foot. I broke loose. Now we were both standing, glaring at one another. He used his foot to hook the back of my ankle. I fell. He flipped me over. I flipped back to the front like an acrobat.

  “No ass,” I yelled, my chest heaving.

  “No ass!” He laughed like, What the fuck?

  “A man is supposed to prefer pussy. You are a man aren’t you,” I taunted him. He leaped at me like a leopard. I cocked my legs open.

  “That’s right nigga, pussy hole.” We humped in the sitting position.

  “Well damn!” Bridgette gasped. She must’ve been quietly tiptoeing or running through his maze. Barefoot, she stopped short the moment she raced into the corner where he and I was going at it, humping seesaw style. He turned his head back to see who entered our space. I snatched his face back and held it. “We ain’t finished,” I told him, ignoring Bridgette.

  “You’re so exciting,” he said. “You even like when others watch.” Still pogo-ing and my adrenaline out of control, I was mounting to a next orgasm and didn’t want to be interrupted or cheated out of it. Six more pumps and I threw my head back. “Ahhhhhhh…” I exhaled, pushed him off of me, and rolled onto my belly. After catching my breath, but still huffing a bit, I asked, “Bridgette, where you headed to?” Before she could even explain herself, I rolled my body over his, laid my belly on his back, and covered his eyes with my hands. I was concealing him. I didn’t want her eyeing my new, nude jackpot fuck buddy. And even though she was fully dressed, I didn’t want him eyeing her either.

  “Nowhere…” she said as though she was at a loss for words. But it was out of character. She’s never at a loss of words. “Olga gave us the grand tour. But there was so much to it, I decided to look around once more. That’s how I ended up here.” She explained herself. After a pause, she was back to her typical-style outburst. “It’s a labyrinth!”

  “Labyrinth?” I repeated. What the fuck was she talking about now? But it must not be a bad word or a protest of his place. When he heard her say it, he just smiled coolly.

  “Yeah, like, there are so many different ways to arrive to each room. It’s like someone is purposely trying to confuse us. Or as though someone is hiding something from us or trying to hide himself from something or someone,” she accused.

  “Hiding.” He removed my hands from his eyes. He rolled over. Now my back was on the floor and his back was on top of me. His joint fully exposed. She turned away from staring at it. She better had.

  “Excuse me. Not hiding. It’s like the owner of this place has a security problem.”

  “The owner…” He sat up. I wiggled from beneath him and went for my clothes. “That’s me,” he interrupted in a cautionary tone to remind her who she was talking to.

  “Okay! That’s you!” Bridgette said in a too loud voice as she clapped her hands together once. She turned to face him boldly. The whole embarrassed shy routine gone from her performance. “I didn’t catch your name although you know mine,” she said, pointing at him. He did not answer. His silence did not cause her to pause. “Anyway, if someone were to come in here uninvited, they would never find you easily. And on top of getting lost looking, they would expose themselves by the shock at all of the animals and creatures embedded
in the walls. They would have to gasp or scream or run. But then when they start to run, they can’t find their way back to the front door.” Her explanation caused him to laugh.

  “Not exactly. Olga invited us up. So I took it as it was okay to come up here.”

  “Yes, it is just fine. You are invited. But maybe I have somehow terrified you with my taste and my animal friends?”

  “Not me,” she said, her eyes darting in the other direction. I knew immediately she was referring to Pretty. “Where is she?” I asked Bridgette as I handed him his shorts, pants, and shirt and gave a glare like, Get dressed!

  “Well, that’s my whole point. I knew where she was a minute ago. Now I don’t. We saw a glass wall. Inside of it there’s a serpent. She hates serpents. She’s scared to death of them. So Olga gave her a room far off from ours.”

  “Ours?” I repeated.

  “Yeah, well you don’t look like you’re headed back to the convent anytime soon.” She smirked. “You look totally comfortable.” She smiled. “And me and Olga are gonna be roomies. So that’s what I meant by ‘ours,’ ” Bridgette clarified. I glanced at him and it seemed from his expression he had had enough of her talk.

  “Follow me. I’ll show you the way back to Olga’s room since you say you are lost,” he said as he stepped into his pants and picked up his dress shirt. “C’mon,” he commanded me. I liked the roughness of that order. I followed. “The maid will collect the rest,” he said, and led the way.

  Olga’s room had one queen-sized bed. It was large, like a suite, and looked lived in like a permanent place. It was lovely. The walls were peach and the thick carpet that covered only part of the floor was bright white. Bright white marble floors and bright white carpet made her seem like the princess of cleanliness. She had a kitchenette and a glass eating table for two, a peach leather love seat and a glass desk with brass legs. She had a ledge on top of which sat twenty-four white candles in curved thin-glass jars. It looked like a master bedroom. I could see the entrance to her private bathroom.