South Beach Cartel

by Nisa Santiago

  Citi sighed. This was it—her new life.

  They entered the building, climbed the stairs one flight up, and entered their residence. Irving clicked on the lights and escorted the love of his life inside. But as soon as the light came on, the roaches started to scatter.

  “Shit!” he cursed, stomping around repeatedly, trying to kill as many possible.

  Citi was disgusted, but she didn’t fuss.

  “I’ll get some roach spray and some roach baits first thing in the morning,” he said.

  She nodded.

  He then walked her around the worn looking apartment with the shabby and smelly furniture.

  “A little paint, some new sheets, and a new sofa cover, and we’ll have this place looking really nice—maybe get some throw pillows, too.” He smiled.

  Citi stood there deadpan.

  “Look, baby, as soon as I get my first paycheck, I promise I’ll do whatever it takes to make you love it . . . and love me,” he promised her.

  But she began to weep. She was a long way from South Beach.

  “Please, just give me a chance” he pleaded.

  She sighed and replied, “I will, and I do.” She took his hand and placed it on her stomach. “I will give you a chance because I do love you. And our baby will need both its parents.”

  Irving was overjoyed hearing the news that he was going to be a father. He immediately embraced Citi and hugged her and kissed her. To him, it was still a wonder how he got with a phenomenal and beautiful woman like her. If it was a dream, despite their appalling living quarters, he didn’t want to wake up.

  “If we’re going to make this work, Irving, I need to know that we’re on the same page. I need some reassurances from you.”

  “Anything.”

  “With me by your side, you will own your own body shop in three years. In five years, you will own your own fleet,” she said.

  “I will?” he replied with skepticism.

  “Yes, you will. Now say it.”

  “With you by my side, I can do anything,” he said.

  It wasn’t verbatim, but it was enough. Irving knew behind every great man was an exceptional woman.

  He wrapped his arms around her and whispered in her ear, “What day is it?”

  She squealed, “It’s Black Love Monday.”

  Excerpt from

  Brooklyn Bombshells

  Part 1: Black Beauty

  By Erica Hilton

  Bacardi was coming unhinged. The weeks following the killing of the cop, she sunk into a deep depression and started to drink more with her husband. Now the girls would come home and find both of their parents drunk. But the drinking wasn’t the only thing the girls had to worry about with Bacardi. Sometimes after downing a half bottle of Hennessy, Bacardi 151, E&J, or Jack Daniels, Bacardi found herself worked up and angry. She would sloppily get dressed and march toward the front door with a knife in hand. When either Charlie or Claire would confront her, she would curse them out and shout, “Get the fuck out my way, bitch! I’m gonna fuck that bitch up! She cost me my fuckin’ job and that bitch still owes me five hundred dollars!”

  “No, you can’t go over there, Ma! You need to fuckin’ chill out!” Charlie would shout at her.

  Charlie would sometimes have to wrestle her mother away from the front door. They couldn’t afford to make things worse for themselves, especially with a criminal case still pending in the courts. With Bacardi unable to take out her anger and frustration on Keisha, she went to the next best thing, Chanel. The more depressed Bacardi got, the more she took it out on Chanel. She would burst into her youngest daughter’s room at random and throw venomous threats and insults at Chanel. But it didn’t stop with words. Sometimes she came at Chanel with a belt, a stick, or whatever she could get her hands on and tried to beat the black off her. She would call her daughter black and ugly even though they were the same complexion.

  Today was a day that Chanel decided to take Landy’s advice and defend herself against Bacardi’s unrelenting foul mouth. It all started over a Twinkie.

  “Who drank the last of my Pepsi?” Bacardi asked as she stared into the almost empty refrigerator.

  From the living room Chanel rolled her eyes. “I did.”

  Bacardi snorted and slammed the refrigerator shut before sauntering over to the cupboard looking for something sweet. She reached for the Twinkies only to grab an empty box. She looked inside, shook it, and then turned the box over as if it was a magic trick and a Twinkie would magically drop to the floor. The rage began as a slow, simmering emotion slowing coursing through her body. Just as Chanel placed the last Twinkie bite into her mouth, Bacardi appeared. Chanel could see her mother looming over her from her peripheral vision.

  “You ate my muthafuckin’ Twinkie?” Her voice was an unwavering, accusatory growl.

  Wide-eyed and frightened, Chanel stopped licking the cream from her fingers. She swallowed hard and simply said, “Yes.”

  Bacardi’s rage was still on pause. She knew that if she pressed play she might kill her daughter in there. She continued with, “What . . . the . . . fuck…I tell your greedy ass ’bout touching my personal shit?”

  “You didn’t even buy the Twinkies; Charlie did. So, technically, the food belongs to my sister.”

  “Oh, so you Claire now? You think you’re a smart bitch?”

  “I’m only playing the game you started.”

  Bacardi placed the palm of her hand to her forehead and simply breathed in and out to calm her nerves. There was always one child that gave each parent hell, and Chanel was it.

  “Chanel, tread muthafuckin’ lightly. I’m tryin’ to be nice here, bitch, ’cause I’m on my menstrual. But if you ever eat my fuckin’ Twinkies I will break ya fuckin’ neck. Do your ugly li’l black ass—”

  “You black and ugly too!” Chanel hollered. “Look in the mirror, bitch! We’re twins!”

  That remark stopped Bacardi dead in her tracks. Her? Ugly? In her day she had her choice of the biggest ballers in Brooklyn. Everyone lusted after Bernice. And she was hardly black. In Bacardi’s eyes she was ‘brown-skinned’—imaginary shades lighter than her daughter.

  Bacardi let out an egotistical snicker. “Chanel, I’m gonna keep it one-hundred wit’ you ’cause you too stupid to see the truth wit’ your own eyes. I don’t know where you came from. I think you got switched at birth like that other li’l black child on the news. You don’t look like me, and you damn sure don’t look like your father. There’s some other family out there missing a troll ’cause my pussy only pushes out dime pieces and that, you’re not!”

  “My black is beautiful, Bacardi, and if you don’t think so then your mind is still stuck on a plantation! You Uncle Tom turd!” Chanel had been doing her homework. She was ready.

  When Bacardi heard ‘Uncle Tom’, she finally lost it. Her strong fists beat mercilessly across Chanel’s arms, head, and back. The punches were solid, quick, and unforgiving. She pulled globs of hair from her daughter’s head—just ripped out bundles of hair from the roots. Chanel refused to cry out and got some slaps and punches in too.

  “Eat my Twinkie again, bitch!” Bacardi continued to yell as she wailed on her third-born. She needed to make this about the Twinkie then skin color.

  Chanel broke free and ran into the kitchen with Bacardi right on her heels. The butter knife was the only weapon she could grab. She missed the serrated steak knife by an inch.

  Wildly Chanel swung the knife at her mother as Bacardi blocked each blow with her forearms. The dull butter knife only left scratches and long welts, but the message was sent. Chanel was no longer easy prey.

  A drunken Butch was able to pull the two apart. But things were growing so ugly in the Brown household, Chanel thought there were only two ways for her to escape it—run away or commit suicide.

 

  Nisa Santiago, South Beach Cartel