Life After Death

by Sister Souljah

  “You gave her the security codes. This is all of your fault,” I heard Mr. Light House say.

  “No! It’s your fault! You broke your own rules,” I heard Olga’s voice say. I was like, What the fuck? Wasn’t she a pile of ashes on the convent bench? She was. But who am I to talk? Now I’m just a pile of shit inside a snake’s intestine. Do snakes even have intestines?

  “You broke the main goddamn rule,” he yelled, losing his cool, which I had never seen him do when I was his top bitch. “You let a dead human have confidential information about our family. You put your own father at risk. I built this damned underground world. I let all of my children have more than enough. But my own daughter falls in love with this crazy dead human bitch. Then you give her all access to my tower. She already ruined my nightclub mojo. She’s out there in her painted old bus screaming into the crowd. Exposing the secret that makes every single night special. That’s what you did! That’s what my own daughter did to me!”

  “No, it was that bitch who you let in here. You allowed her to change the security codes. You allowed her to put her own people on as staff. You gave higher status to a dead human than to your own sons. And you knew that that bitch was Dat Nigga’s Bitch. You stole your own son’s woman!” she said with hatred.

  I felt like shit, for real. Was Olga his daughter? She looked white. Was Dat Nigga his son? Could a man as light-skinned as he is give birth to a man as beautifully deep black as Dat Nigga? Doesn’t that mean that Iblis is also his son? Wait a minute. I fucked the father and I fucked the son. And I was raped by his other son, who is Dat Niggas’s brother.

  “You should have overlooked it. I am your father. I gave you a new body. Beautiful white skin like you always wanted. Green eyes and the face of one of those living humans in the magazines that you loved that I gave to you from my private collection. You were unattractive, tall and obese before. I had your hairy tail clipped and tucked. You had size-fifteen feet before. You were obviously a beast. I fixed that for you so that you would be comfortable with yourself. Didn’t I do all of that for you?” he asked her, but not like he was looking for an answer.

  “You did, Father. Thank you. But I couldn’t stand you giving that same girl who Dat Nigga kept in his house and treasured like she was one of us the top position in your business, in your heart and in your eyes. How could she be more precious than me, your own daughter?” she demanded to know. Her voice sounded like she was aching, holding back from crying.

  I was still stuck on realizing. Olga, who looked like a European supermodel, was Succubus, the ugly creature that tried to stuff her huge feet into my sky-high red leather boots. The beast that torched half of my hair. She was his daughter and she was Dat Nigga’s sister. But still she had sex with Dat Nigga and basically begged him to fuck her in the ass! What type of unheard of shit is that?

  “You complain about everything,” he said to Succubus aka Olga. “You were jealous of my relationship with my head Yoo-nick. You demanded that I fire him! You said that you could do his job better than he could! Why do you interfere in the personal business of your father?”

  “Because you always fall in love when you are personally involved with any man or woman. I thought it was a conflict of interest for you to be fucking him when he was the head of your tower security,” she said, as though she had nailed him.

  “Because I was fucking him, and because he is a eunuch and is unable to fuck anyone himself, he fought the hardest to please me and secure me,” he said to Succubus.

  “Humans—even if they are castrated—Father, are always more ambitious than they are anything else,” Succubus said.

  “So we are back to the beginning. If you know that, why did you, my dear daughter, fall in love with a dead human and give her the keys to my universe? I never made that kind of mistake. The sex was all my personal choices. I own everything. I never allowed one ambitious human, alien, or animal, dead or alive, to steal one item from me. It is only my daughter who allowed the crazy-ass, dead human Bridgette bitch, right here, to do that.”

  27.

  I found myself in complete blackness once again. But I didn’t know if it is the darkness of the insides of Pretty’s serpent belly, or the outside atmosphere of the Last Stop Before the Drop. Pretty was not moving. She had not moved since the close of the argument between Succubus and her father. I don’t know if there is a way that a snake can kill itself, other than hurling itself at a speeding vehicle and being run over. I knew if Pretty knew a way to commit suicide as a serpent, she would certainly do it. I considered that perhaps she had pooped me out and was somewhere moving along on her own. As a rat, I had felt the pain of being chewed and devoured. But, I never felt the pain of being squeezed through an anus. I assume that if I had been, I would have felt it, but I don’t know.

  Because of the stench, I thought that I was back at that sewer location alone. But then I knew that the stench might be the total result of what I was in this form. I wished that I had been better off. At this point, being beside the open gutter in complete darkness with limp arms and paralyzed legs would be a step up. But I didn’t hear the familiar things that go along with that location. There was no screaming, grinding, moaning, groaning, hissing, or the sound of breaking bones or crumbling teeth noises. There was nothing but dead silence and only the sound of my thoughts. I remained like this for what felt like twelve months or maybe more. By then I felt a deep sadness that threatened to drown me. No one will ever know the pain of not being able to turn left or right, not having moving legs or arms, not hearing talk or being heard, or able to see anything, while still having the mind turned on and at full volume, until they go through it personally. I don’t think any book could cause a reader to feel the torture that occurs after death. Nor could any rhyme, film, or song. Pretty was writing all of the time. Maybe she wanted to alert all of the ones considering suicide, or about to actually carry it out, that suicide was not the means to ending your life. It just removed you from the familiar world and dropped you into the unfamiliar realm. Both settings and circumstances as well as the people you knew and would come to know could be equal to the world that caused anyone to feel that suicide was better than living. Or, one could be even much worse.

  The only thing I was happy about was that when I heard my own voice in my mind, it no longer was the sound of squeaks. Now it was the normal sound of my own voice. But since there was only my voice, and it was the only sound I heard, I couldn’t tell if I was thinking or speaking aloud. At one point, I wondered if Pretty was right beside me, unable to talk while having or after having a seizure. Could a snake have a seizure? And if a snake did have a seizure, would that mean that it was a snake with no hiss? If so, a poisonous serpent with no hiss would be even more deadly. Still I had considered talking to or calling out for Pretty if she was somewhere nearby. Now I understood what Bridgette was saying about Eve being so bored she was out in the garden talking to a snake.

  Six or so months after the twelve, my sadness had mutated to certifiable deep depression, the kind that I always believed only the losers had. But now that I am a no-action bitch, I am definitely a loser. On top of that, now I am suicidal. Worse than that, I am incapable of committing suicide, which is lower than committing suicide itself. I wish someone would walk by. Even if they don’t speak one word to me, I wish they would step on me and put me out of this misery. Or a car would drive over me and keep going because there was no real reason to stop. Or that a heavy rain would fall and disperse and drown me—anything.

  Bomber Girl came to mind. But that young bitch had abandoned me. She said there was one remaining mercy. She spoke as though I would see her sometime soon. She disappeared on the night of the Rally of the Sons after helping me to lift the heavy body of Dat Nigga into his car. I know that he was her enemy. I know that she didn’t like helping me to help her enemy. Still, it’s not a real reason for her to cut me off. She could have just said no and left me to try and pick him up on my own. He was my man. That would’ve
have been fine. Besides, she had already bombed him, knocked him out, killed him… I think.

  Speaking of the Rally of the Sons, Young Drummer, the dapper teenager who claimed to be my unborn son, where the fuck was he? My mind was pushing images of both of their faces together, which I had never done. They claimed to be my twins. The doctor in the abortion clinic sixteen years ago didn’t say I had twins. Well, actually, she didn’t say anything. She tried to make a suggestion. Soon as she started her talk I shut her ass right up and demanded the abortion that they advertised in the jingle I heard on the radio. I remember… everything, of course.

  Now that all I can do is think, I wonder what they do with all of the dead babies that more than a trillion of us aborted? Do they get dumped along with regular food trash? Are they burnt or frozen, stored or recycled? Do they add something to them, mix it up, and turn them into something else? Hope they don’t sell the babies like desperate crackheads do.

  Might as well admit I killed them. But what would I look like walking around with a set of twins who I didn’t even know who their father was? And according to Young Drummer, their father was Boom, a nigga I definitely did fuck but who I only knew for less than eight hours. And if I would’ve kept Boom’s twins, Bullet would have been devastated. He had already been tricked by his ex all the way up until the birth of their child which turned out not to be his child. If I chose to give birth, when I pushed them two light-skinned babies out and there was no trace of his dark-brown face or red blood even, in either of them, what then? That would’ve fucked up everything. Or maybe it wouldn’t have. Maybe if I would have kept the twins, me and Bullet would’ve never became a couple in the first place. Hustlers who have choices could easily overlook a bitch who has some other low-life nigga’s kids, even if it’s a top bitch like me. If he didn’t choose me, I would not have been with him in that rental car preparing to do a run to Virginia. If I had not been in that car, I would not have been arrested and convicted on a fifteen-year mandatory minimum, which I didn’t even know what that was till I started serving it.

  It doesn’t matter. The fact is that Bomber Girl and Young Drummer were unborn. Therefore I did not ever feel like a mother. Since I chose not to have them, they should never have thought of me as their mother. Why would they be down here fighting and trying to meet up with me who never wanted them in the first place? They both turned out nice without me or Boom. Young Drummer was masculine, cool, and handsome. Bomber Girl was lovely. Both of them apparently had places to live in Heaven, wherever that is. I’m starting to think that Heaven has to be better than the Last Stop Before the Drop even if it’s not all that it’s cracked up to be. Young Drummer was confident like any hustler’s son who had actually been born. He was passionate on that drum but laid back when he talked to me. “Hey Ma, it’s simple. If you want to get out of the Last Stop Before the Drop just say ‘Lah-il-la-ha-illa-huwa.’ ” That’s what he said to me when we talked on the sidelines of the Rally of the Sons. Whatever that means. Wait a minute.

  “Lah-il-la-ha-illa-huwa,” I said, and repeated it three times. I thought I was saying it in my mind. I hoped my mind could produce a sound that can be heard by whoever needs to hear a dead person when they finally have had a fucking-nough. I kept repeating it like I was Bridgette on steroids when she got fixated on saying something over and over again. I even hoped that I was saying it right. Soon it was all I would say or think. I just kept it on a loop in my mind so that I couldn’t hear any of my other thoughts. I remembered what Bomber Girl said about not mixing curses with sacred words. Of course I remembered. I am not a dumb bitch, Oops! “Lah-il-la-ha-illa-huwa!”

  Eventually, the green gas appeared bleeding onto the black atmosphere. In what seemed like only a few minutes, the green dominated. It’s a mercy, I thought to myself. I was beyond excitement. And if I could see the green gas, it meant that I was no longer in Pretty’s belly. And if I could see the green gas it meant that I had eyes. And if I had eyes it meant that I was a living thing, not a pile of shit. I was hyperventilating, trying to catch my breath. And if I could breathe it meant… I tried to jump up. I couldn’t. But I could feel my arms all of the sudden. I start waving them around, like a person lost at sea trying to flag down a helicopter flying overhead. When my new arms got exhausted I dropped them and my fingers could feel the ground. I didn’t want my fingers on the filthy ground, so I lifted them back up. I could feel my hair. “Ah-hum-doo-lah-lah, I have hair!” I shouted rhythmically. But what does that word mean? Why did I automatically say it without thinking? It didn’t matter. I had a mouth to speak now and hair on my head and eyes on my face and ears. I began to cry uncontrollably. I got mad that I was crying. I tried to stop but like I said, I couldn’t control it. I cursed myself out. Then I try and take it back because Bomber Girl said not to mix the curse words with the sacred words. Where is she? I don’t see her lavender sky. Just as I thought that thought, a magnificent blue color appeared. I almost peed on myself. Is it a blue sky forming? Then I hear the sound of music. It’s the soothing tapping of a cymbal that became rhythmic drumming. Three strikes of a larger-sounding drum and the blue color opened up and exploded. It was a blast of stars. The stars poured down like heavy rainfall, diamond rain. Except it was only raining where I am. A powerful cologne saturated the air. Out of the stars walks laid-back Young Drummer. Again, not what I expected. But man was I happy to see him. But I reminded myself at this point I’d be happy to see anyone or anything, even an ant.

  “Hey Ma,” he said. I didn’t even argue. Normally I’d be like, I ain’t nobody’s fucking mother.

  “Where is she?” I asked.

  “Siddiqah would be so happy to know that your first question was about her. She is not here. She got herself listed.”

  “Listed?” I repeated.

  “An official request that any UBS can make when they want permission to be born to new parents,” he said.

  “Oh,” was all I could say in reply.

  “It took her a very long time to decide. She loved you so much and dedicated her existence to seek Allah’s mercy on your soul,” he said, but still so calm and unaffected.

  “So why did she if she didn’t want to?” I asked, having nothing else to say really.

  “Because we UBS know that it is perfectly okay to love our parents, to miss and to cherish, to pray for and yearn for them. However, it is never okay for anyone to worship their parents. Or to worship any person, living thing, place, or item. There is a razor-thin line between love and worship. The only ONE to be worshipped is Allah, the Maker of the sun, moon, stars, planets, universe, and all living things, of all souls, of all spirits, of all men, of all angels, of all women, of all Prophets, of all creatures. If any one of us gets it confused, and allow our love of someone or something other than Allah to turn into worship of him or her or it, we have gone astray, committed a grave mistake. Damaged ourselves, even.”

  “Damaged?” I repeated. His words led me to believe that Bomber Girl damaged herself by caring too much about me.

  “Yes,” is all he answered. After a long pause he asked, “Do you really want to know her story?” I widened my eyes instead of saying anything back. It took my total concentration for me not to say, Yeah nigga, I asked didn’t I? So of course I want to know!

  “After you threw the Holy Quran out of the car window, Siddiqah felt you would be dropped into the hell fire immediately. She was so troubled, she made the choice to make prayers for you all day every day for ninety Earth days. She was doing her regular five-times-a-day prayers and then doubling them and praying through the nights. She was so much consumed with saving you that she reached the borderline between loving you and worshipping you. Since she knew she was wrong for approaching the line of worship other than Allah, she began to fast and pray to correct herself. She begged for Allah’s mercy. After seeking forgiveness for her error, and being forgiven because of her sincerity, that’s when she decided to get listed.

  “Once she listed herself, she pre
pared a gift for you. It was the pearl-colored coat, the dress, and the kicks. She chose what she thought you treasured. The grenade she secretly placed in your coat pocket was what she wanted to give to you, that she believed you would not want or cherish, but that you would definitely need because of your ongoing love of evil.”

  “How would she know I threw the book out of the car window? Did she see me do it?” I said, hood style. Show me the evidence. Then I felt bad about it.

  “Just accept it, Ma. There are some things you cannot fight. In the realm of the unseen, Ma, you don’t know anything or everything, like you thought you knew it all when you were in the world of the living. Even though you didn’t know much there either.” He said it so calmly and respectfully that I could not hate him, “Everything you have ever done in your living life on Earth and your afterlife at the Last Stop Before the Drop has been seen and recorded,” he said, and I felt like I got hit by a sledgehammer. My game face switched on without me ever calling for it. Then I was feeling like, Nah, that can’t be true. Nobody knows what is done behind closed doors. But then I looked into his eyes and studied his facial expression. I remembered that Bomber Girl said that UBS cannot lie about any sacred thing. He saw me, seeing him clearly.

  “So I love you, Ma. But I don’t worship you. I worship and fear only Allah, who knows all, sees all, hears all, and is the creator of every living thing within and beyond the universe.” He held up his one finger. “And in the Holy Quran that you threw out, the last and most important Book of Guidance ever revealed and written to humanity, were the answers to every question that you or any of us have ever had. If you would have chosen to read it, even slowly, word for word, line by line, paragraph by paragraph, or page by page, day by day, you would have saved your soul a lot of losses, pain, and suffering. But now I am here to ask you are you done playing and pretending?”

  “Pretending!” I said indignantly.