“Those are known as flamboyant trees,” Young Drummer said. I knew that was the feeling those trees gave off. The flamboyant trees gave way to eucalyptus trees that smelled so refreshing it made me want to stand still and just inhale, exhale. But he needed to keep moving. So we did. Eucalyptus trees gave way to rainbow eucalyptus trees and then to amazing cherry trees. Now I felt I had seen trees of every shade of every color. He stopped. So I stopped.
“Ma, do you see that door up ahead in between the angel oaks?”
“Yes,” was all I said. Only a blind fool could not see the incredibly crafted and sculpted door made from ivory. Whose idea was it to use elephant tusks in such a manner?
“That is the entrance. I cannot go through those doors with you.”
“Why not?” I asked, and actually felt a little afraid to be without him.
“Each soul must enter through those doors alone and of its own will,” he said solemnly.
“Yeah, but what’s in there?” I asked, feeling suddenly suspicious.
“I cannot tell you, first because I have never been inside. It is not my place. It is a place for you and those souls in your category.” It sounded like some polite way to insult me and associate me with some group I probably would never associate myself with.
“What, is Allah supposed to be in there?” I asked. It looked like he became quietly angry. I had never seen him angry. He always kept a cool composure. But I could see his jaw flexing. I learned way back that it is a telltale sign that a man is angry but holding back his anger.
“The ivory building is called Aldhdhat Aineikas, meaning ‘self-reflection.’ It is a place where the souls who enter will face themselves. Ma, this is not a movie. Don’t expect Allah to be a man hidden behind a curtain yelling out commands to you. Don’t expect Allah to be a con artist. Don’t expect Allah to sit side by side with you in conversation, like a beggar begging you to want to be good. Don’t expect Allah to be a pimp or a wimp. Allah cannot be seduced, nor would you ever have the opportunity to seduce Allah. That’s silly. All of these are thoughts left over from your ignorance. Allah is beyond your or my comprehension. Even a man or woman who has studied and accumulated degrees and awards and finance and fame cannot imagine or know the mind or image of Allah.” He folded his arms in front of himself.
“Ma, what I can say is this. The same way that Heaven is not promised to any soul, a soul must earn Heaven, or somehow be granted Allah’s mercy. Allah does as Allah pleases. The City of Mercy is not promised to you or available for you to become a resident. It is a temporary realm where you must give your greatest effort to acknowledge and then strip off all of your evil and replace it with a genuine humility. Do you know what humility is?”
“Not exactly.” I didn’t want to say any more answers and have him correct me.
“To be humble. To humble yourself. Each of us must seek to humble ourselves then actually do it. A person or soul who is humble acknowledges and accepts the order of the living. Meaning, a person who doesn’t confuse himself with God, or think of himself as high and important, royal or in control. A person who does not worship himself or think that he created himself or anyone else. A person who does not pretend and take credit for things that he or she deserves no credit for, Ma, say like your beautiful face and appearance…” He switched gears and I liked it.
“A person who is humble would be grateful to Allah for designing and causing and allowing him or her to have a beautiful outer appearance. A person who is not humble and does not want to be humble will use the beauty that Allah created, designed, and allowed as though it is a beauty they gave to themselves. Or that it is a beauty that originates with their parents. But no, your outer and inner self originates with Allah. Be humble. Don’t use your beauty as a weapon, a license, or a tool. Thank Allah for it and for all else that Allah has provided you. That’s being humble, having humility.” I was thinking, This young nigga is trying to take the hustle out of a hustler. My whole generation, culture, and music is the opposite of what he is talking about. Niggas love to show off. That’s the motherfucking point. Getting the things that you can flash and create envy and cause other niggas to bow down to is the drive, the action of life. Niggas live and breathe that! And the mothers and fathers of niggas live and breathe that too. Hell! Everybody does. No matter the race or whatever, everybody is making moves to get them from a certain level to the next level, to the top. The top is where you are envied, admired, served, and known. Icon status!
“There are seven magnificent structures lined up in a row, starting with the Self-Reflection Center. Connected are Fahum, Haya, Hidara, Hikma, Mutawadie, and Masjid. In your English language, the names of each of the structures after the Center of Self-Reflection are the House of Understanding, the House of Truth, the House of Culture, the House of Wisdom, the House of Humility, and the Grand Mosque, of course,” he said.
“I thought you said you never been in there. So how would you know all of that?” I asked suspiciously. He smiled. “Is there any trust in you about anything or anyone good? Or about Allah, the Greatest? I did not lie to you. I have never been past those ivory doors. Once you go in, you will never come out. You will never be able to tell anyone what is in there. I happen to know an old wise soul. He worked in there. He told me nothing of the details but assured me of the layout. That’s why I know a limited amount about the facility.” But I was thinking, What if it is like the nightclub? A place that appears to be so awesome, but is actually deadly?
He saw me thinking. He may have even felt my worry.
“Ma, do not play or pretend that you do not understand anymore. From now on and while you are here, do not lie when asked any question. Do not lie period for any reason, not even because you feel embarrassed or ashamed or because you think that a lie will protect your survival or advantage over something or someone. Do not assume that those inside appointed to assist you are naïve and stupid and can be tricked or manipulated. They are not. They are the sharpest and best equipped for the job of helping you to cleanse your own soul. Otherwise they would have never been appointed to do so. Ma, do not start a gang or a movement or throw parties or anything close to that. Do not listen to any other rebellious or evil soul who tries to influence you from doing any other thing other than cleansing your soul in accordance with what the program offers to you. If you do, you will not be asked why you did it. You will not be able to offer even one excuse for even one of your lies. Your first lie in there will be your last. There will be no lawyer to represent you, and no witness who can defend you. There will be no alibi you can invent. There will be no one who can do anything on your behalf. The ground beneath you will simply open up. Your sour soul will fall down into it and will burn. It will be a thousand times or more worse than anything that happened or that you felt or saw in the Last Stop Before the Drop. Your soul will remain on fire and it cannot be accessed, interrupted or stopped by anyone other than Allah. Your mind will remain. So you will be aware in a conscious state and continuous burning,” he warned.
“Young Drummer, listen up. The one who you and your sister Bomber Girl call Shayton was accused of burning people in his bogus nightclub that was really a massive oven. So now that you threaten me with being burnt up, you are proving that Allah and Shayton both want the same things and take the same action. So what makes one better than the other?” I challenged him. I think he needed to be challenged. I don’t think anyone should be so sure about any one person or thing. There gotta be like at least 3 percent of doubt. Otherwise if you go so hard and the person you loved or made a deal with, or the friend you found, or thing you believed in or was loyal to turns out to be incorrect, won’t that cause you to lose your mind?
At least that’s how I felt when Succubus and her father, who apparently was Shayton, were arguing. She revealed so many things about him and the sideways filthy shit that he do and the fucked up way that he went about it, I felt completely deceived. I was completely down for him only to discover that what he and I h
ad was not special. Every night he brought a new bitch into the Light House, pumped her in the ass, turned her into some type of creature, and threw her in a wall or cage or tank. Every night he threw a crowd of hundreds, maybe thousands, into his nightclub fire pit. He was handsome, charming, and deceptive. He made each of us make the choice to destroy ourselves as though he was not controlling the action and the actual reason it was all happening. That’s why if I had not had that 3 percent doubt and suspicion that all hustlers, gamblers, and go-getters gotta keep for everybody and every situation, I might have crumbled. When I found out he was lying and fucking everybody, even men… I mean I don’t give a fuck what two men decide to do with each other. But if you are supposed to be my man or any woman’s man, and you are also out there fucking men without saying that’s what you’re doing, that’s wrong. That’s bringing me into some bullshit I never signed up for and never agreed with. That will cause a good bitch or an evil bitch to go crazy and hunt for your head.
That’s one thing I could give Young Drummer. He needed to reserve at least 3 percent doubt in case the whole Allah thing was not real, or true, or in effect. That’s the only way he would be able to bounce back onto his feet if he found out he got betrayed or defrauded by his faith.
“Are you hearing me, Ma? Follow instructions of the ones put in place here to help you. This city as you can see has sunlight, nature with healing capabilities; clean, clear water; pure foods; and peace. It is one tiny glimpse of the Grace of Allah. Lastly, remember that I have told you that Allah is All-Knowing, All-Seeing, All-Hearing, and Forever Present. There is no secret that you can have or hide or withhold, that Allah is unaware of.” Then he hugged me.
I felt hot tears spilling from my eyes. I was like WTF? Winter Santiaga, what’s going on? What’s going wrong with you? He stepped aside and flagged me forward. I walked slowly in a line of every kind of person of every color, race, and culture, men and women both. They may have each felt the same way that I did. They were shedding quiet tears and also moving slowly in single file.
29.
A dot, a tiny dot with a tiny pin that must be placed behind the ear of each person walking through the even-more-amazing-when-seen-up-close ivory doors. The dot was like one stud earring that once inserted could not be seen by anyone unless they pulled your ear back, or you pulled it back to reveal it. Once I put mine in my right ear as instructed, I was guided to the entry line for women. Of course the men had an entry line exclusively for them as well, although we were all entering the same building.
I was glad that there were men here, unlike at the convent. A bitch has got to have something to look at and someone to admire, talk to, and potentially hook up with. I know Young Drummer said not to, but isn’t it natural for it to happen? That’s not a lie. I remember that he warned me not to lie. I was concentrating extra hard on that one. I don’t like the consequences that he described. I don’ ever want to be a burnt bitch.
Women wearing fine fabrics, immaculately pressed so much so that everything they wore seemed brand-new, guided the women’s lineup. Each of them had fine footwear and each pair of shoes and heels were different. I liked that because it was not all uniformed cheapness like the horrible convent sandals. I also liked it because even though they were clothed similarly, they were obviously able to express their fashion personality on their feet. The line was silent. There really was no need for guides. The sensual scents lured each of us in. The first stop was set up like a spa. It was crystal clean. We were each instructed to remove our clothes, shower in the marbled-out shower stalls, and take from the pile of bright white fluffy towels. One for the body, one for the hair, and one washcloth. Our clothes were all sorted in bins, I assumed for laundering. Once we arrived on the other side of the showering area, we were each given a tapered, long-sleeved, mint-green, shoulder-to-ankle dress and a hooded black robe to wear over the dress. The shoes being issued were black leather slides. I could do that. They are seven steps up from dollar-store flip-flops and the manmade plastic convent sandals.
We exited the spa area into some kind of main hall. It smelled incredible and looked even more incredible. This afterlife, City of Mercy, reminded me of the exquisiteness of Midnight’s properties and palaces, although not exactly. The Self-Reflection Center did not have diamond, platinum, pearl, or pure gold doors. I was recalling the unique and unmatched architecture of Midnight’s place. It outshined every place anywhere in the universe, to me. If Midnight’s property had those purple wisteria trees, or was located inside of that forest that the City of Mercy has, it would be unfair. No, a crime against every person dead or alive for him to have it all. I smiled at the thought.
Someone kicked my chair. I turned around. It was Pretty. She was wearing the same thing I was wearing and the same that the seven hundred or so women gathered in the main hall were wearing. She was smiling brightly.
“Hey!” was all I said. I was so excited to see her. It allowed me to feel more comfortable and familiar. Not on some type of lesbian vibe. I am still strictly dickly. What she and I did, we both did for his pleasure. And even though we both felt pleasure, I am sure she knows it was a mistake for us to go that far just to entertain that man who I had lost my lust, love, and respect for.
“As-Salaam-Alaikum,” a voice from the front of the hall said over a microphone. I turned back from Pretty to face front. “In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful…” the voice said. I was like, Oh here we go, using words that regular people don’t ever use. What is ‘beneficent’? Then it was as though she heard my thoughts. She said, “Welcome to the Center of Self-Reflection. We mean to make everything simple and clear every step of the way, as you journey towards reflecting, cleansing, learning, understanding and putting into practice what you have learned, understood, and felt. There will be many words that I will say that you may not have heard before. I greeted you in the words of peace and welcomed you in the name of Allah as everything begins with Allah.
“That is how we set the right tone. In your previous life, you were not knowing, or not acknowledging the ONE who created your soul and every living thing and the sun and the moon and all stars and of course the wondrous sky. There is no woman or man or Prophet who would or who could rightfully say they created any of that. Nor could they say that they lent a hand in the creation of any of it. Nor can they duplicate the creation of any of it. So praise be to Allah, Lord of the Worlds. Allah the beneficent, meaning kind in action, giving good, and causing everything good that happens. Merciful, meaning knowing your heart, your intentions, and your circumstances and, despite the fact that you have not earned it or may not even deserve it, giving you a new opportunity to do better, live better, be better than you chose to do on your own. Allah is… the Most Beneficent, the Most Merciful, and the Most Compassionate. It is Allah who each soul must seek and ask and pray for help. Allah is ONE.”
After her welcome talk, we were directed to a hall of computers in groups of one hundred at a time. There were a hundred computers atop of individual stands with touch screens. One woman standing at each screen. I was dazzled. On lockup, I couldn’t wait to get free to have my hands on all of the new technology. While behind bars, the world had moved from hard lines and pagers to cell phones with no texting, to cell phones with texting, to cell phones with Wi-Fi, music, movies, and television, and to a social media explosion. Of course I was aware of it. Technology is a part of fashion. Bitches were styling and profiling by having their tech be the highest available on the market. Even some were making designer cell phone cases and diamond jewels and accessories for their phones and pads and tablets. Now here I was, a dead bitch in a high-tech hall filled with light and marble floors and walls and high ceilings. I didn’t have to pay for my stay. I didn’t have to sell anything, gang up or knock no one out, steal, strip, suck, or fuck for my access. In everyday people’s language, that is the real definition of merciful.
I was offered a menu of languages. I of course chose my language, English. The Engli
sh page popped up. “Type in your name.” I began typing in Brooklyn, I pressed the b, then the r, then the o, and remembered. Do not tell a lie. I paused for a minute and asked myself, Does that also mean not to type a lie? I wasn’t sure. But whatever, I deleted. Then I typed in my real name, Winter Santiaga. The next prompt was for me to press print. I did. A ticket printed out and I took it. It had my name printed on it. Below my name was an appointment notification for me with a self-reflection counselor named Dr. Amal Janebi for tomorrow at 7 a.m. It listed my dormitory assignment, the Princess Residence, room 7. On the backside there was a small map of the route from the hall to the dorm. I pressed “continue” on the touch screen. The following screen gave me an assignment. “Write specifically and clearly what you believe are the reasons that your soul was sent to the Last Stop Before the Drop.” I read the question over and over again. Then there was a second assignment. “Write an essay describing any and all of the things that you were and are grateful for, prior to, and after, life.” The third task was listed as a group assignment to be completed along with residence roommates. I was instructed to bring the essays and a copy of the completed group assignment to the self-reflection counselor, Dr. Amal. I pressed “continue.” Behind a green backdrop was printed in huge letters the words THANK YOU. The screen switched to a flashing exit sign. I stepped back. I looked around the hall trying to see where Pretty was. I did not see her. I looked down at the map. A guide stationed by my computer was watching me. I decided to follow the map rather than to ask her for help. It seemed that was her plan too. She did not step up to point the route out to me. But in her eyes was the words, Keep it moving. I guess so, they had to do this same routine six more times to accommodate the six hundred or so women remaining in the previous hall.
Life After Death Page 29
