Thugs Cry

by Ca$H

  I guess I was naïve.

  I haven’t seen or talked to Kayundra since the incident. I shipped all of her belongings to her Mom Dukes in New Jersey, where I assume Kayundra is staying now that the tour has ended. The house here in ATL is in my name, and since me and Kayundra had maintained separate bank accounts, neither of our finances was complicated by our break up.

  CJ and Tamika came in town a month ago; CJ came to check on the clubs, but really to make sure that my head was right, though he denied that that was part of the reason for his visit.

  “I’m good,” I’d assured him the first night that he was in town. We were on our way to Club Sparkle, ironically. I was behind the wheel of the Jeep I recently purchased; CJ was riding shotgun and Tamika was in the back.

  The conversation carried over into the office of the club. We had left Tamika at a private table in the VIP area.

  “I knew that crackhead ho was gon’ let the limelight go to her head!” CJ continued on about Kayundra as he poured himself a drink from the bar in the office.

  I sat behind the office desk and studied the video monitor, which showed what was going on throughout the club.

  “It wasn’t really about the limelight,” I’d begun, but realized that it was. “Well, I guess the limelight has a lot to do with her using drugs again, but it didn’t have anything to do with her creepin’. Because, when you’re true to your convictions, you live by ’em,” I said, as I thought about all the pussy that was constantly thrown in my face at the clubs I owned.

  I’d been tempted to hit something else a few times; I can’t lie. I hadn’t done it though. I’d expected the same faithfulness from Kayundra.

  “You can clean up a fiend, fam, but you can’t change ’em. Let that punk ho come back to Newark, I’ma get one of my goons to body that ungrateful bitch!” CJ said.

  “Nah, fam, it’s not that serious,” I said.

  Then my attention went to the video monitor. I was staring at a face that I could never forget; it belonged to a nigga that had caused me to get cased up.

  Paco!

  “Yo, you see that fat muhfucka right there?” I said, pointing Paco out to CJ who was leaning over my sholder looking at the screen.

  “Yeah. What about him?”

  “That’s the nigga who set me up!”

  “With the feds?”

  “Yep.”

  “I know we’re bodying that ass tonight, right?” asked CJ.

  I thought about it long and hard. If I wet this nigga, that’ll mean that I’m still on that street shit.

  Well guess what? Apparently I’m still on it because I didn’t stutter when I said to CJ, “Fam, you already know I’ma flat-line that snitch ass nigga tonight. Go post up where you can keep an eye on that fuck nigga; I’m ’bout to hit my nigga DaQuan, he wouldn’t wanna miss out on this. You might wanna have Tamika call a cab to take her to my place.”

  CJ nodded as he accepted the door key to my crib that I offered to him to give to Tamika.

  Two hours later, me and CJ eased out of the club behind Paco. We slid into DaQuan’s whip, which was idling at the door.

  “Sup, my dude?” I spoke to DaQuan who was behind the wheel.

  “Time to put a snitch nigga in the ground,” he replied.

  We pulled up on the side of Paco’s silver ’76 Monte Carlo about three miles away from the club. When he looked over and saw my face, his eyes bulged and his mouth dropped open. I stuck my arm out the passenger window and pointed my Glock .9 at his bitch ass.

  “Snitch ass bitch!”

  Boc! Boc! Boc! Boc! Boc! I let loose. Then CJ’s banger joined the deadly melody my nine sang. DaQuan threw the whip in park, hopped out and got up close and personal on Paco, who had crashed into a nearby utility pole trying to accelerate away from death.

  I jumped out of the whip, a step behind DaQuan. We could see Paco slumped over the steering wheel, head leaking.

  “Fuck boy!” snarled DaQuan before pumping six from his fo-fo into Paco’s twisted corpse.

  THIRTY-ONE

  SPARKLE

  I’ve made a complete mess out of my life!

  Right after Raheem broke up with me, Scare Me dumped me too. Preston, who was the one pressing me and Scare to hook up all along, now wants Scare to get with this new rap chick who’s on our label. That is so damn ugly!

  “You caused me to lose the man I love, now you’re discarding me?” I challenged Scare the other day.

  “Fall back, bitch!” he’d replied, mushing me in the face with one hand while holding hands with his new chick with the other. I’d wanted to act a donkey right there in the foyer of Platinum’s office where I confronted the two.

  But what the fuck!

  With Raheem out of my life nothing matters anymore. Not even my music career. Snorting cocaine couldn’t keep me high enough to run from the guilt and pain so I’ve started back smoking crack. Whatever city the tour was in, I would sneak off and go looking for the projects, where I was sure to find as much crack as my broken heart desired. I’d dress plain; no make-up or jewelry; trying to be incognito.

  “Yo, shorty, you look just like that singer Sparkle,” a slanger or two had observed.

  “I wish I had the ho’s money,” I replied, throwing them off.

  Alicia, whom I was now touring with, could tell that I was getting high again; she straight up said so.

  “Just sing, bang on your piano, and stay out of mine!” I checked her.

  It’s only been a little more than a month since I picked back up the pipe and already I’m smoking like a choo choo train gone wild. Sometimes I stay locked inside my hotel suite all day getting geeked; not even answering the door when Mama knocks to tell me that it’s time to go do a concert. Since I’m opening for Alicia, the shows get delayed until I arrive hours late.

  I don’t even know what city we’re in.

  I take the stage so geeked up that I can’t even remember the lyrics to my own songs.

  The audience shows patience at first, but when I continue to mess up, a rumbling of boos fill the auditorium. This happens three consecutive nights. Alicia has no choice but to complain to the tour’s organizers; my unprofessional behavior is hurting her reputation, by association.

  “I’m resigning as your manager unless you check yourself into a drug program,” Mama threatens.

  My record label covers up my suspected drug use by issuing a press release that blames my erratic behavior on “…medication the singer has been prescribed for migraine headaches and low sugar levels.”

  All Peston cares about is continuing to milk the cash cow that is my music career at all cost.

  No one can cover up my drug use anymore after police raid a crackhouse in Jackson, Mississippi, where the tour has taken me, and I’m caught with the glass dick in my mouth. I’m arrested, and my mug shot is splashed all across the television for the whole world to see.

  R&B Songstress Caught Smoking Crack.

  Mama and Preston are trying to persuade me to seek help, but what’s the point? The one thing that matters most to me is lost forever: Raheem’s love and respect.

  Without my boo, what’s left to live for? I might as well smoke myself to death. To hell with this thing called life. It is just too damn painful.

  I’m going through pure hell inside, missing my man like crazy, and this muthafuckin’ Preston, all he cares about is me going to rehab so I can clean up, then release a new CD.

  “You blood suckin’ bastard!” I scream at him, crying.

  Mama restrains me; I swear, I wanted that ass!

  Even if my life depended on it, I can’t write a song in my present state of being. I write from the heart, and right now my heart is gone. I know that in reality I have no one to blame but my own dumb, weak self. Raheem was everything a girl could hope for in a man, and I messed up.

  The past two weeks I’ve been fucking a different nigga every night: stage hands, security, groupie dudes, you name it, I fucked ’em.

  I would w
ake up with a nigga laying next to me in bed that I didn’t even recognize. All I do lately is get high and fuck. It’s not about the sex either. Because when I’m smoking crack it kills my desire. I slept with those men to forget about Raheem.

  But I cannot push Raheem out of my mind, I realize as it also hits me that I’ve been kicked off of tour, replaced by Keisha Coles.

  Now I’m back up in Jersey; far away from the pressure of the spotlight, Preston, fans, and all of the shit that caused me to kill my baby and to lose the love of my life.

  The cold winter wind whistles outside of the bungalow I’ve rented in The Hamptons to get away from everyone and everything except what’s on the table in front of me: four ounces of crack, a half dozen crack pipes, and a box of lighters.

  I place a chunk of crack on the pipe, wrap my lips around the opening at the end of the steam, flick the lighter…

  I smoke until my lungs threaten to collapse like punctured balloons. My head feels lighter than air; I’m about to float right up through the ceiling. Now my heartbeat increases at an alarming enough rate to make me panic. I get up from the table and lay across the bed until the beating inside my chest slows to a moderate rate.

  Suddenly, I begin to cry.

  I extract my cell phone from the pocket of the cashmere pants I’m wearing, and with trembling fingers I dial his number.

  “Hello,” he answers. Omigod! What can I say to justify what I’ve done? Click. I chicken out and hang up.

  Call back, gurl! I do as my inner voice urges me.

  “Hello.” Raheem’s voice is as familiar to me as my own.

  “Hi,” I utter nervously then lick my parched lips.

  “Who dis?” Dang! Has he forgotten the sound of my voice already? I take a deep breath to calm my nerves.

  “This is the person who used to be your ‘Sparkle,’ before she messed up; the woman who is so sorry for the heartache she caused you; the woman who still loves you and always will…until the day she dies,” I reply, pouring my heart out.

  “Hello, Kayundra. How you doing?”

  “Not so good, baby. I want to come back home,” I cry. No reply. “Please, Raheem,” I beg. “I need you so bad. More than needing you…I love and miss you so much…it’s killing me, baby. Please find it in your heart to take me back.”

  Still he doesn’t reply.

  “We don’t have to share the same bed; we don’t even have to talk to each other right away. I just need to be near you, baby. Please, Raheem, I’m nothing without you,” I sob.

  “Kayundra! You gotta pull yaself together, ma. You have a lot to live for; you have your mother, your career and your fans. But more importantly, you have yourself. Now stop crying and stand up and take responsibility for your choices. I accept your apology, but there’s no way we can get back together,” says Raheem.

  “Please don’t say that, baby. Allow me to try to earn back your trust,” I plead.

  “Na, it’s about more than trust. A nigga has principles that he lives by. If I compromise those principles, I lose sight of who I am. If you hadda just relapsed, I would stand by your side. But what you did…fuckin’ another nigga…lying ’bout it all the time…hell no, I’m not taking you back.”

  The tone of Raheem’s voice tells me it’s over. My high comes crashing down, and I feel desperate. I cry, “I thought that you promised to be with me through thick and thin? Now you’re turning your back on me just like everyone else. Nigga, you ain’t shit but a fair weather muthafucka!”

  Raheem remains calm despite my hysterics.

  “Don’t try to reverse the game to reflect away from what you did. Trust, I recognize.”

  “And crackheads got the best game, right?” I throw out there, trying to make him feel bad.

  “I never called you a crackhead, not once! I never judged you; I never lied to you or cheated on you. I kept it one hunnid, from the bottom to the top! You played yaself, ma. Now you need to accept that it’s over. Bottom line!”

  “Just answer one question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Do you still love me, Raheem?”

  “That don’t matter, yo.”

  “It does, baby. Love conquers all.”

  “Goodbye, Kayundra. I wish you all the best.”

  The dial tone screams out so loud, I cover my ears with both hands. Raheem’s goodbye feels, to me, as irreversible as death. I look down at my cell phone, which is now on the floor, and silently pray for my baby to come back on the line. But when I retrieve the cell, the dead silence mocks me. Tears run down my face; I look over at the crack and the crack pipes on the table.

  Come to meeee, Kayundra. Come to meeeee! The crack and the paraphenelia seem to call out.

  “Shut the fuck up! I scream, but the calling grows louder.

  I rise, as if I’m in a trance, and go over and submit to the drug’s call. “Till death do us part,” I pledge as I beam up.

  THIRTY-TWO

  STEPHANIE

  “Til death do us part.” That’s the vow me and Doctor Hakeem Jordan will be making to one another in two weeks.

  It has now been so long since the twins or I have heard from CJ, that I’ve lost count of the number of months. Not that I have been sitting around praying that he would call. Okay, I will admit that after CJ told me to pretend that he was dead, for awhile I held out hope that he could not simply abandon me and the twins so easily. After months of not hearing from CJ, I realized that he had meant what he said. So I told my babies that their father is dead!

  For all practical purposed he is dead.

  Me and the twins will be moving to Denver, Colorado after the wedding, where Hakim has accepted residencey as an orthopedic surgeon at a prestigious hospital. Yes, the same pompous Hakeem from a few years back. Out of the blue, one day I received a call from him.

  “Hi, Steph. This is Hakeem Jordan. I was just calling to see what’s been going on in your life,” he’d said.

  Needless to say, Hakeem was not surprised to hear that CJ has abandoned me and the children. Hakeem had vociferously warned me not to get involved with CJ.

  “Aren’t you going to gloat?” I asked.

  “Would I do something like that?” he’d replied, and I could picture him smiling smugly.

  “The Hakeem that I know would.”

  He laughed. “Well, I’ve changed. I’d like to believe that I’m not as pompous as I was in the past.”

  “Hold up! Is this Hakeem Jordan or an imposter?” I kidded.

  Two weeks later Hakeem and I went out on a dinner date. True to his claim, I found Hakeem to be less snobbish than I’d recalled. It was as if his becoming a surgeon had given him the security he’d needed to not look down his nose at people. Once we began dating, Hakeem quickly ingratiated himself to the twins, although I had been a little reluctant to introduce another man into my children’s lives so soon, especially after I’d told them that their father was dead. Hakeem assured me that he would not abandon us.

  It’s unfortunate, but I’ve had a serious falling out with Raheem; who did not approve of me telling Loran and Leron that CJ is dead.

  “You’re wrong for dat, yo!” Raheem fumed.

  “I’m only doing what your boy asked me to do,” I’d reminded him.

  “So you wanna stoop down to that level, huh?” he’d countered.

  “I’m doing what I feel is best for my children,” I maintained, and the ensuing argument has led to me not even allowing “Uncle Raheem” to remain a part of the twins lives.

  I’ll be so happy when I become “Mrs. Hakeem Jordan” and move away with my husband, putting CJ and everyone associated with him behind me. The contrast between Hakeem and CJ is as great as the world divide. Where Hakeem is intelligent and confident, CJ was street-wise and arrogant. Hakeem values family and fidelity; CJ valued his “mans,” and he was your typical male whore.

  In retrospect, I can’t imagine what I ever saw in CJ. It most certainly could not have been a future, because CJ has no fu
ture. I guess that I was enticed by the proverbial “forbidden fruit.”

  There’s something else that I must be honest about: okay, here it is: I am not in love with Hakeem. I’m marrying him, however, because I know that he is a good catch. In time, I will grow to love him. Hakeem’s love and devotion to me will be something that I can bank on. With CJ, I could not bank on anything. Well, I could bank on his touch setting my whole soul on fire. But I could not count on receiving his touch when I craved it most.

  So, to hell with CJ.

  It’s been an adventure…that’s all I can say.

  THIRTY-THREE

  CJ

  I’m at the crib chillin’ with Catabria, a chick I met in the A, the last time I was there kickin’ it with Rah. Shorty like, about, five-nine, one-fiddy; chunked up in the back; real pretty, with a black skin tone, white teeth, and flat-ironed hair that flows down to her ass.

  Catabria is twenty-four years old, with pussy like kryptonite! That’s why I’ve temporarily moved ma up to New Jersey with me. Yeah, I’m kinda whipped, nah mean?

  It’s a Saturday night; winter’s about to break and step aside for spring. The unusually warm March temperature has melted the snow outside so, of course, shit is poppin’ off in the streets. I’ve got traps to check, and niggaz to body, but that’s on hold, at least for tonight, ’cause I’m about to freak Catabria so good, she’ll think dat ass done died and went to heaven.

  Yeah, I know I’m playing Tamika real close by playing house with Baby Girl, but trust, Catabria knows what time it is; this is just temporary fun. I’m not about to wife ma.