by Teri Woods
One day, Rahman was walking down the street and heard a soft voice.
“As-Salaamu Alaikum.”
He turned around to find Miss Grownie Pants dressed in a loose-fitting jogging suit and kemar.
“Miss Grownie Pants?” he asked with surprise.
“My name is not Miss Grownie Pants. It’s Sonia. But you can call me Jamillah,” she said, smiling from ear to ear. It almost brought tears to his eyes. Every dime he had spent was worth that one moment.
“Al-hum-dil-li-lah,” he said to her before parting ways.
Everything was going smoothly. The money was slow but steady, and the community was thriving. It had become safe for small children to play outside. The streets were calm. Even the elderly were out on their stoops. People seemed happier. The small-time hustlers who once occupied the neighborhood’s corners weren’t making any noise. They knew who they were dealing with. The community knew him as Rahman, but the streets remembered him as Dutch’s vicious lieutenant.
But the real test lay ahead.
For now, Rahman was satisfied. He felt humble but powerful, quiet but strong. He felt like Dutch.
In an ironic way, Rahman owed his plan to Dutch. He’d never forget the day they all met to discuss the murder of Kazami. Rahman remembered his reluctance and apprehension to take such a bold step. Dutch’s words made him realize his own power.
It ain’t what can we do, it’s what can’t we do.
That was the attitude of men who made things happen instead of waiting for things to happen to them. Those words had given birth to Rahman’s plans to rid the black community of the poison that plagued it.
Poverty.
It wasn’t drugs or crime that were to blame. It was poverty and desperation. Rahman figured if Dutch could infest the city with his strategy, then he could clean it up with his own.
“There go my baby!”
He heard a female’s voice shouting as he stood on the corner talking to a few young hustlers. He turned around to find Angel.
“What’s up, boooooo?” she sang as she climbed out of the drop-top Jag. She was dressed in cuffed D&G jeans and a crisp white vee-neck T-shirt. Her hair was pinned back by Dior sunglasses, and she walked with a confident strut.
“I know, I know Muslims can’t hug she devilz,” she joked, slurring the words. “But you know I wanna wrap myself around yo’ big ass!”
Rahman chuckled, uncertain what to say.
“Look at you! You got all fat,” she said, poking his stomach.
“How you, ma? What’s good?” he asked, hoping she couldn’t tell he had been caught off-guard by her presence.
Rahman had heard about Angel teaming up with Roll, and his old dark side wondered why she was dealing with a sucka like him, especially after he found out Roll had Young World killed. Roll’s blocks were definitely on his hit list.
“I’m good. But word up, papi. I am so mad wit’ you. I can’t believe you been out all this time and you ain’t even holla!” Angel said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I just can’t believe that!”
“I’m sayin’, I been kinda caught…”
“Caught nothin’. Don’t front, nigga. You been gone three years, and Ayesha had that ass on lock!”
They both laughed.
The truth was he had been avoiding her and avoiding what a meeting with her meant. He didn’t know, but Angel had been doing the same thing. She had heard about Roc’s community actions. She remembered all his letters from prison. But she thought it was just the bars talking. She didn’t think he would actually come home and put it down.
The time had come for two old friends to have a meeting of the minds.
“On the real, though. It’s good to see you. What you up to now? Let’s go get something to eat. And don’t worry, I don’t eat pork either,” she said with a smile.
Rahman glanced at his watch.
“Yeah, we can do that. Gimme about twenty minutes.”
“Aiight, cool. Meet me at Applebees.”
“Insha Allah.”
Rahman arrived at the restaurant first. The sun was setting and his eyes stayed glued to the window. The Applebees happened to be across the street from University Hospital, the hospital where he had been shot by the Feds.
Freeze!
The bullet didn’t freeze him. It jolted his inebriated mind into a painful sizzle. The bullet wound burned his flesh. He lay on the hard asphalt, blood gushing from his wound, looking up at the night stars wondering, Is this the end?
“Kinda ironic, huh?”
He heard Angel’s voice, and it brought him out of his thoughts.
“Ironic?” he repeated.
“We’re both back where it all ended,” Angel said, sliding into the booth across from him. “And where it all begins,” she added, getting comfortable.
“For who?”
“For us. Me and you, Roc. We grand champions in this game, and it’s time to put it down like true thoroughbreds.”
“And Roll? He a true thoroughbred, too?” Rahman smirked.
Angel sucked her teeth then sipped her water. “He’s a pawn. A fuckin’ fat, black, fake-ass Biggie-lookin’ pawn. He thinks I’m givin’ when I’m really takin’. I got him so twisted, he don’t know if he comin’ or goin’,” she boasted nonchalantly, then added sincerely, “but this thing ain’t right without you, bro.”
“Would you like to order?” the waitress asked politely.
“Just coffee,” Rahman replied.
“And you?”
“Same thing,” Angel told the waitress, watching as she walked away.
“Come on, Angel. You know where I’m at. You been hearin’ about me just like I been hearin’ about you. You know what I’m doin’ and it ain’t a game, it ain’t a joke, and it ain’t a front for somethin’ else,” he explained.
Angel lit up a cigarette, trying to conceal it from view.
“It may not be a joke, Roc, but you can’t be serious. Muthafuckas been gettin’ high since the beginning of time and ain’t shit gonna change that, no matter how many blocks you buy, or strip clubs you… strip,” she said, hitting her cigarette and blowing the smoke under the table. “You tellin’ me that ain’t gangsta? You fuckin’ gorilla’d him!” Angel laughed.
The waitress returned with their coffee.
“Thank you, sister,” Rahman said.
“You’re very welcome.” The waitress smiled, then walked away. Angel watched her again. Rahman stirred his coffee.
“I can’t stand a pimp, Angel. They ain’t nothin’ but leeches preying on our women. He had it comin’, and it wasn’t about bein’ gangsta.”
“Okay. You want certain blocks drug-free, cool. I feel you. I respect what you’re doin’, for real. But somebody, somewhere is gonna see it and somebody gonna buy it. Why not use that money and put it to good use?” she suggested.
“Blood money.”
“This is America, Roc. It’s all blood money. But look at what you can do with that blood money. I’m talkin’ controllin’ it all—boy, girl, E, and smoke, brick to bottle,” Angel said.
But Rahman shot right back. “I’m talkin’ ’bout the same thing except it’s legal. We control every dollar, not just drug money, but a piece of every dollar in the community. Off all alone, we bring in over three hundred grand every six months.”
“Three hundred?” she said, her voice rising, but she caught herself. “Three hundred grand! Roc, we used to piss that. I still piss that,” Angel said as she realized he was definitely thinking on a smaller level than he once used to. She smashed her cigarette under her boot.
“My little three to you is a start for me.”
“Then we right back where we were when we came in, a start. Me and you. I help you lock down the legal shit and you ride wit’ me on this thing of mine and together we got every angle covered.”
He sighed deeply. They were at a stalemate. They both had the same plan for different reasons and neither could convince the other to abandon theirs.
<
br /> “Angel, it’s time to take the game to another level.”
“Exactly.”
“Not that game, the real game. That game you playin’ only keeps us trapped at the bottom of the barrel,” he said, trying to reason with her.
“Listen, it was good seeing you, but…”
He stood up and Angel smiled at him.
“I love you, nigga. And I don’t care what you say. One-eyed Roc is somewhere in that belly of yours. I’ma make him come out if it’s the last thing I do.”
“As-Salaamu Alaikum.”
“Siempre.”
Rahman backed out in his Cadillac Deville, watching Angel through the plate-glass window of the restaurant. Their eyes spoke a language of their own and the words of Nas echoed in his mind. Love changes, a thug changes, and best friends become strangers.
• • •
Angel meant what she said and was determined to bring out the One-eyed Roc she once knew. She just hoped he came out for her and not against her, because if that happened, things could get very ugly.
He took the longer way back home, driving slowly in deep contemplation. The visit with Angel had been planned. She wanted to feel him out, see what he was doing, hear what he had to say, and see if he was serious. Now that she knew, what would be her next move?
He had purposely avoided the hottest drug blocks run by the bigger dealers. Sooner or later, however, he’d have to deal with them, whoever they were, even Angel. He knew what she was capable of, because he had taught her. In Dutch’s organization, he had been the problem-solver. Now that he had become a problem for her, he wondered if she would try to use his own tactics against him.
One-eyed Roc is somewhere in that belly…
Her words struck a chord within him, because she was right. He had felt it that night at the strip club, the way his temper took control, the assault on Freddie. He was on a mission and was prepared to use any means necessary to accomplish it. He prayed he wouldn’t have to be Roc to do so.
Rahman checked his rearview mirror several times and made the unnecessary wrong turns until he was certain he wasn’t being followed. He took the same precautions every night and he wasn’t being followed.
Or so he thought.
He pulled up to his spacious but modest home. It wasn’t far from Newark and offered a peacefulness that Newark couldn’t provide. The house was a two-story, five-bedroom brick structure with a large basement that he used for study and prayer.
Rahman entered his home and smiled at the sounds of Ayesha being Mommy.
“Ali! Where is your other shoe and why is this one on the wrong foot?”
“Aminah got it!” Ali squealed.
“Aminah!”
Rahman went into the living room and greeted his family, but Ayesha detected a problem.
“Ali, go get your shoes, boy, and put them on,” Ayesha ordered.
“Okay, Mommy,” he replied, hobbling off in search of his sister with his other shoe.
Ayesha laced her fingers around Rahman’s neck.
“You wanna talk about it?”
“Talk about what?” Rahman responded, not realizing his face had betrayed his mental state.
Ayesha smirked knowingly. “That knot in your brow.”
“What knot? I’m smilin’,” he said, putting on a happy face.
“Every smilin’ face ain’t a happy face.”
“Being home makes me happy.”
She saw that he was being evasive, so she changed the subject.
“Are you hungry? I made hamburgers for the kids, but I could whip you up something.”
“A burger would be fine. In fact, let me serve you tonight, my queen,” he said, and scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the kitchen.
“And to what do I owe this honor?” she asked, although she wasn’t surprised. Rahman was a wonderful husband who never forgot the little things.
He sat her at the kitchen table.
“It’s the way of the Prophet, peace be upon him. He helped his wives with household chores, right?”
“True… which reminds me, the dishes need washing, too.” She giggled.
Rahman took four burgers out of the skillet and put them on buns. He sat down with Ayesha, breaking off a piece of burger and placing it gently in her mouth.
“Oh, I know what this is.” Ayesha chewed.
“What is it?”
“You must know I saw your little girlfriend today.”
Rahman chuckled because he knew who she was referring to, Miss Grownie Pants. He also knew Miss Grownie Pants had a crush on him. He guessed his wife knew it, too.
“My little girlfriend? I have no girlfriends, only a wife. But I’m sure you think you know something, so please tell me,” he answered as Ayesha placed a piece of burger in his mouth.
“ ‘Oh, tell Rahman thank you so much. The kids loved the toys and they thank him so much. He’s a beautiful brother,’ ” Ayesha mocked in a high-pitched voice. “Then she had the nerve to ask, ‘Can’t a Muslim man have more than one wife?’ ” Ayesha snapped.
“Can’t they though? You let her know, right?” he asked jokingly, laughing at his wife’s stunned expression.
“Don’t play with me, Rah. Please! I don’t want to have to hurt you,” Ayesha warned, narrowing her almond-shaped eyes into evil slits.
“Yo, the presents weren’t given to that girl by me. They were donated. You know that. Brother Shamzadeen passed out presents to all the single Muslim mothers. Besides, I ain’t even seen that girl. But guess who I did see?” he asked, changing the subject to something relevant.
“Who?” Ayesha asked curiously.
“Angel.”
Ayesha glared at him. She knew what Angel was about, and she knew exactly what his seeing her meant.
“And?”
“And what? You know the rest ’cause you know Angel and you know me,” he said, shaking his head. “She down wit’ some kid named Roll. Roll’s the same dude who murdered Shahid, or so the streets say. I don’t know.” He sighed.
“So, what are you going to do about it?” Ayesha inquired with concern because she, too, could see the storm brewing.
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”
“You already there, honey. You already there.”
Rahman checked his watch.
“It’s time for prayer. Go on and get the babies ready.”
Ayesha let it go, trusting her husband to do the right thing and trusting in Allah to show him the way.
“Look at this muthafucka here! They can’t fuck wit’ Marbury. That’s right, give it to ’em!” Roll exclaimed as Marbury dunked the basketball and scored two points for the Knicks.
He, along with his wife, Renée, and Goldilocks sat in the luxurious skybox overlooking the arena at Madison Square Garden. It was outfitted with the amenities of wealth, courtesy of Gutter Records, a label his man owned, thanks to Roll. Roll had invested a lot of money in Gutter Records so his man gave him the skybox as a gift of appreciation.
Roll picked up a Cuban and lit it.
“I should buy a basketball team,” he said to no one.
Angel walked in and slammed the door. She went straight to the bar and poured herself a glass of Hennessey.
Roll glanced over his shoulder. “How’d it go?”
Angel eyed him over the rim of her tinted glasses. “That nigga really on that Muslim shit hard!”
Roll was amused. He thought prison had really broken Roc and mistook his change of allegiance for weakness.
“He’ll come around, though,” Angel assured him.
“I think it’s good what he’s doing. It’s about time somebody tried to do something to help the community and the poor,” Renée declared.
Roll looked at her as if she was crazy. “The fuckin’ community, the fuckin’ poor?” He snorted. “Bitch, since you so concerned, why don’t you donate some of those rocks you wearin’ on your fingers or that Benz you drivin’? Better yet, give the hood your shop
pin’ money. Why don’t you do something since you think this nigga is so great?” Roll suggested.
“Look, you don’t have to get smart. I was just sayin’ that it’s a good thing the man tryin’ to do something to help the black community.”
“Renée, shut up,” Roll said, getting up. He walked over to the bar and sat next to Angel.
“So what’s the deal? He really tryin’ to clean up Newark? ’Cause if he come to my spots wit’ that bullshit, he can forget it.”
“I said he’ll come around.”
“And what if he don’t? Then what? I’ll tell you what. He’s gonna be a problem. Shit, he already is.” Roll spat, dropping his ashes into an ashtray on the countertop.
“I’ll take care of it,” Angel answered halfheartedly.
“Yeah, you gonna have to, ’cause if you don’t, I will,” Roll declared, then walked back to his seat to watch the game.
Angel couldn’t stand taking orders from Roll. He was obnoxious, fat, lazy, and arrogant for no reason. He had too many weaknesses, but it wasn’t time to reveal her hand, so she swallowed her tongue.
The blaring air horn sounded the end of the quarter. It was halftime.
“Roll, you worry too much. Look at you. You on top of the world, papi! And all the little people is scrambling for your crumbs.”
“I don’t worry. I prepare. That’s why I am who I am.”
“Well, tonight, I want to enjoy who you are,” Angel replied in a seductive tone that annoyed Renée.
Angel flipped on the stereo and popped in a reggae mix CD. The banging percussion instruments filled the skybox.
“Goldi, let’s give Roll a real halftime show.”
Goldilocks didn’t hesitate. She smirked at Roll, stood up, and joined Angel on the floor. She began kissing her mouth deeply, gyrating her hips inside her lambskin skirt, ass facing Roll. Renée and Roll looked on in amazement as Angel pulled up Goldilocks’s skirt to reveal a pink thong and pretty ass. She palmed Goldilocks and spread her cheeks for Roll to see Goldi’s pink and wet lower lips.
“Oh, hell no, bitch!” Renée shouted. “What the fuck do you think you doin’?”
Roll grabbed her hand and sat her back down. “Damn, Renée. Chill! She only dancin’.” Roll smirked as Renée boiled.
