I made it, we made it
You can’t fade what can’t be faded
I never gave up on myself
I feel it in my soul I’m the greatest
Make the energy rise to get stronger
I survived to live longer
This is my testament the best is yet to come and I’ll never be done
CHORUS
Rita finishes the chorus and even adds her own adlibs to it. I plaster a cheesy smile on my face and give her a thumbs up letting her know that she did an amazing job. She puts the headphones down and walks over to me giving me a tight hug.
“Thank you,” she says tearfully as one of the producers starts playing the song back.
“Damn Aneesah. This is an inspiration to anyone who has gone through some shit,” Cassie says.
“We survived,” I whisper into my mother’s ear as a tear of relief and hope escapes out of my eye.
Between recording, kickboxing and meditating with Chink, the shackles on my heart are continuously being lifted and with Rita’s permission, I pen out and record a poem to add to the album titled “Dear Mr. Sperm Donor,” a letter to my father telling him exactly how I feel. A letter for the millions of abandoned children who may feel exactly the way I feel. When I’m done, to my surprise, it’s Serge who stands to hug me, giving off a tight squeeze.
“Do you like it?” I ask. “I know it’s kind of raw.” He nods his head with a smile, looking at me with glossy eyes.
“For you, big guy. I’ve been practicing my sign language,” I sign to him as he smiles at me, displaying the dimples in his cheeks.
“I’m healing, and I want to thank you for standing by my side all these years; seeing me at my worst.”
You’re welcome and I am very proud of you, he signs.
I’m glad that I finally learned how to sign after all these years of him working for me. He no longer has to resort to paper and pen to communicate to me. This has been way past due.
Chapter Five
“I think we’re done,” Mr. J announces as we are sitting at the table finalizing the album. Rita has sung backup on almost every track on the album and to my surprise, helped to co-write and produce some of the tracks. Working with my mother has been a magical experience for me. We bonded in a way that we never have before.
“So, I guess “Freak Like Me” didn’t make the cut?” I giggle when I tally up everyone’s yay and nay votes.
“Who the fuck you think you are? Trina or Khia? Those lyrics are way too explicit,” Chink chuckles.
“I think I am a grown woman who does grown woman things. All women have an inner freak,” I laugh, scratching the song off the list.
“It’s too much,” Mr. J says clearing his throat. “But “Orgasm” can stay provided that you change the title.
“To what? “O”?” I throw out.
“The “Big O”?” Chink suggests.
“He Makes Me”, Cassie states.
“He makes me orgasm?” I laugh.
“No. Just “He Makes Me”, she says.
“I can agree to that,” I tell her writing it down.
“Well, “Queen Strength” is brilliant. It’s gonna cause some controversy though,” Rita chimes in.
“Why?” I ask not caring.
“You’re calling Black Women Gods; Mother of civilization,” she replies.
“Because we are,” I shrug my shoulders, not caring about the critics.
“I’m not arguing with you. Between this one and “Black Diamonds” you better be ready for the controversy and the videos need to be on point. Make them remember where we come from,” Rita winks. I smile.
“Always. I want any and all proceed to “Black Diamonds” donated to the Black Lives Matter Movement. I am droppin’ some precious jewels of knowledge here. Gotta let “the man” know that we are a force to be reckoned wit’,” I smile, holding my fist up in the air.
“Alright so “Ode to the Side Bitch” and “Bitch Moves”,” Cassie laughs.
“I’m talkin’ about my raggedy ass ex. It’s staying.”
“I wasn’t telling you to remove it. I love it. Those two songs and “Contradiction”; every woman can relate to.”
“So, what shall we call this thing?” Mr. J chuckles.
“Well, it’s my therapy, why not simply call it Therapy,” I respond.
“This album is going down in the books. You need to self-title it,” Cassie says.
“It’s more than just Aneesah. You expressed every emotion that a woman can possibly go through as well as taking on political stances for our people. You are tapping in on all emotions; the good, the bad, and the ugly but because it is basically a woman’s anthem album, you should title it Emotions of a Woman. But put your name over the header since you are no longer going by Ani,” Rita states.
“Agreed,” my team decides together.
“You’re still scratching “Forever”? Mr. J asks.
“Yup,” I reply not looking up from my phone, responding to Alyssa, my PR rep.
“Yeah but that song…” Mr. J starts to say.
“Is gone. End of discussion,” I interrupt standing from the table. “We have 21 songs…21 great songs. That’s all I need,” I tell them walking up the stairs with Biggie, Serge, and Kyle following behind me. I send a text message to Trey letting him know that he needs to fax me over the paperwork I asked for.
The following day, I watch Rita, Aunt Ruthie, Kyle, Biggie, and Mr. J enter the limo that’s taking them to the airport, to return to Philly.
“I’m right behind you. I have some business to take care of,” I whisper into my mother’s ear as she holds me tight.
“Thank you for this,” she tells me for the hundredth time. I wave them goodbye and walk back inside the house to finish packing.
“Hey Dani,” I answer my phone.
“Hi. You mad at me?” She asks. I haven’t really spoken to her since the day she left.
“No. Just worried about you.”
“Well don’t be,” she giggles.
“Are you clean?” I ask.
“No, Aneesah,” she says annoyed. “I only called to check in so that you know that I am alive and well.”
“You’re not well,” I remind her.
“Look, I didn’t call you for you to get on my nerves. I only called to tell you that I miss you and I’ll see you soon.”
“I’m heading to San Antonio in the morning.”
“Why?”
“Because I have to right my wrongs.”
“Do you need me to meet you there?”
“No. I have to do this on my own,” I tell her.
“I love you. Please be careful.”
“I love you too. I’ll text you the codes to my house if you need a place to crash. You are always welcome to go there to rest,” I offer before hanging up. I zip up my luggage, put the papers Trey faxed over in my purse and get ready for bed. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.
***
Serge and I pull up to my deceased husband’s estate and pause at the security gate. I haven’t been here since Saheed died and I’ve let his brother Gary occupy the residence even though I am there sole owner. I suck in my breath and call George, the chef.
“Hey pretty lady. Are you out front?” He answers.
“Yes George, I’m here. Thanks for helping me out. Is Deborah in the house?” I ask, inquiring about Saheed’s mother.
“Yeah, she’s here.”
“I’m not quite ready to go in yet. George, I need a favor please.”
“Sure. Anything for you.”
“May I borrow your car?”
“Huh? All of Champs cars are still here,” he says referring to Saheed.
“Yeah, I know. I need something low key though. His cars bring too much attention.”
“Okay. I’ll be right down,” he says hanging up. Approximately three minutes later, George drives down to the gate in his gray Honda Civic.
“You look well,” he says giving me a t
ight hug.
“Thanks, George. I just need to borrow it for an hour or so. I’ll be right back. Cool?”
“Of course. Take as much time as you need,” he smiles. Serge and I hop in George’s Civic. I take out the papers that Fernàn’s private investigator sent me, type the address in the navigation system and drive to our destination.
I pull up to the apartment complex and sit in the car. I open the P.I’s file again and sift through the photos and papers. What I learned about Camille Howard, Saheed’s mistress? She’s a Pastor’s kid with three sisters and one brother. Her father is highly praised and an admirable man in his community. So admirable that to save himself from the embarrassment that one of his daughters had a child out of wedlock, he condemned and disowned her, banishing her away from his house and family.
After I kicked Camille out of Saheed’s townhouse that I inherited, with no savings or a penny to her name, she dropped out of law school and was living in a homeless shelter for approximately three months before she was able to save enough money to move into a place of her own. She never went back to school but found steady employment working for a local law firm making $42,000.00 a year but between child care expenses, a car note, and her $1000.00 rent, she’s living paycheck to paycheck trying to maintain.
I hold the picture of Saheed’s son in my hands. I didn’t have to open the envelope of the DNA test results to know that Camille’s son belongs to him. The baby has the same soft brown eyes and the same cleft in his chin just like his dad. I remember shedding a tear the night I forced myself to look at the photos and open the test results. It still hurt that Saheed cheated on me during our marriage which resulted in him having a son outside of our home. Fuckin’ asshole. I know he’s dead, but I still feel some type of way about it.
I look at the clock on the dashboard. It’s after 6:30pm. Camille gets off work at 5 and picks up little Saheed by 5:45 from daycare. I take a deep breath, chalk my ego and pride to the side and step out of the car. Serge hops out with me. We walk up the three flights of stairs and pause in front of door 23C. I hear the TV and music coming through the door and take another deep breath before quickly knocking. I see the shadow of her feet under the door before she unlatches the locks and opens it. We engage in a staring match before she opens the door wider allowing me and Serge to pass through.
Her one-bedroom apartment is small but big enough to accommodate an adult and a three-year-old. I step over the slew of children’s books, blocks, and toys before taking a seat on her couch. Besides the child’s play mess on the floor, her apartment is clean. I stare at her peach colored walls prior to focusing my attention on a photo of her and Saheed sitting on one of her end tables.
“Would you like something to drink?” She offers in her country twang, breaking the awkward silence.
“No thank you,” I reply.
“I am in the middle of cooking dinner so if you’ll excuse me,” she says. She rises from the couch as a mini replica of Saheed runs out of the bedroom, wrapping his arms around his mother’s legs. He gently lays his head against her before she scoops him up. As she walks towards the kitchen, little Saheed peers over her shoulder and waves at me before disappearing.
“Do you mind waiting in the car for me please?” I ask Serge handing him the keys. He nods his head before disappearing out the door. Camille and little Saheed emerge walking back into the living room. Putting her child down, she hands me a bottle of water before taking a seat across from me.
“How did you know where I lived?” She asks.
“I hired a Private Investigator,” I respond.
“So, what do you want? Did you come to see if my child is really his?” She questions. I clear my throat.
“I know he’s his. I had him tested,” I respond.
“You did what?” She snaps standing up. I stand too. I’m sure I crossed a line somewhere by having her child tested without her consent.
“He wasn’t harmed. We took a cotton swab from his mouth,” I explain.
“How?” She asks with much attitude.
“We paid one of his teachers.”
There is an awkward silence as we stand staring at each other.
“Well, what do you want?” She asks taking a seat. I sit back down and look at the little boy who is sitting in the middle of the floor drinking out of a sippy-cup.
“He looks just like him,” I choke out. She looks at her son and smiles before focusing her attention back on me.
“I am sorry for your loss,” she offers.
“Do you have time to take a ride? I am sure the baby would love to meet his Grandmother and Uncle. They don’t know about him, so this decision is totally up to you.”
Camille looks at her son.
“Do you think they will accept him?” She whispers, tears building in her eyes.
“There is no doubt in my mind that they will embrace him with loving arms,” I assure her. She licks her lips and quietly stares at her baby thinking.
“Okay,” she whispers. Camille gathers Saheed and we head out the door. Serge is standing in the hallway waiting for me.
“I told you I would be alright,” I giggle as we proceed down the stairs. I jump into George’s car and Camille jumps into her Camry to follow.
You’re doing the right thing, Serge signs.
“I know,” I tell him with a smile. We drive over to Saheed’s estate while Camille follows closely behind. Making my way up the drive, I hop out the car and plant myself in front of her.
“It’s going to be okay,” I tell Camille as we stand in the courtyard. She holds on to her son and follows me inside the house. The house has been redecorated, no traces that I ever lived here.
“Wait here,” I say to Camille and proceed into the kitchen.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Deborah snaps.
“Well, hello to you too,” I smile. She jumps out of her seat as Gary, Saheed’s brother stops her in her tracks.
“Can you please sit down?” I ask.
“NO,” she shouts.
“Please sit down or get out. The choice is yours,” I tell her pointing towards the table.
“Bitch,” she says trying to charge at me again.
“You have one more time to be disrespectful towards me or I will have you removed off the property. Remember, I own this house. Now sit down and shut the fuck up or get out,” I say pointing towards the door. Gary calms his mother down as she reluctantly takes a seat at the kitchen table.
“I never apologized to any of you. The accident was exactly that, an accident,” I begin, taking a seat.
“We don’t blame you, Aneesah,” Gary offers.
“Speak for yourself,” Debbie mumbles under her breath.
“I apologize to you Deborah for my actions with Saheed; for breaking his heart the first time. I know that’s why you truly hate me and for that, I’m sorry,” I tell her while sliding her, her mother’s ring, the same ring that Saheed gave me after we were married. She opens the box and a tear rolls down her cheek as she quickly wipes it off. I dig into my bag and pull out my papers.
“I loved Saheed and nearly destroyed myself after his death and the death of our daughter. I blamed myself for the accident and was completely miserable and filled with self-hate for over two years. It wasn’t until a couple of months ago that I was finally able to forgive myself and let go,” I explain.
“But your brother, your son was no saint,” I hold my hand up before Debbie gets a chance to open her big mouth.
“He cheated on me multiple times,” I confess as Gary snickers and looks away from me. Obviously, he knew about the cheating.
“Saheed has a son,” I choke out. Debbie covers her mouth with her hand as Gary’s eyes balloon. I slide them the DNA test results as well as the photos.
“I am signing over the house to his mother until he turns 25 and then this will be his. I set up a college fund for him, as well as a monthly allowance to take care of his needs. I…”
“Aneesah, y
ou don’t have to do that,” Camille says barging into the kitchen interrupting our conversation. She is holding little Saheed in her arms. Debbie immediately burst into tears as Gary stares at the little boy.
“He looks just like him,” Debbie exhales through her tears. I rise from my chair.
“I’ll let you guys get acquainted,” I tell them walking out the kitchen. I roam around the house reminiscing on the memories we created here. I walk inside the master bedroom. It has been untouched and is exactly the way I remember it. Walking inside the closet, Saheed’s clothes are still hanging on the hangers. I spray his favorite cologne above my head and let the tiny beads fall onto me inhaling the scent before grabbing one of his jerseys.
“I remember a time that you wouldn’t catch me dead wearing one of these. I’m a Sixers fan,” I laugh, staring at the bold white letters that spell out STONE 21.
“I miss you and I hope I am doing right by your son,” I state putting on his jersey. The jersey falls down to my knees, covering me like a huge sleeveless Mumu. I grab the diamond and platinum watch off the island, the last gift that I purchased for him and sink to the ground.
“You will always be my biggest regret. I didn’t love you right while you were here.” I lay back on the floor, stare up at the ceiling and catch a glimpse of our digital camera sitting on the top shelf. Popping up, I climb up onto the island to grab it. Pressing play, I watch one of the last recordings we took together.
“It’s cold,” my voice says filled with laughter as I watch Saheed paint my belly orange trying to turn my small bulging tummy into a basketball for Halloween. I am wearing a black sports bra and grey cotton bikini-style panties as Saheed creates his artwork wearing black basketball shorts; no shirt.
“Just a second. I’m almost done,” his voice says in his sexy country drawl as he creates the black lines on my tummy.
“Are we going trick-or-treating after?” I giggle.
“Do you want a trick or a treat?” He asks standing up and putting my hand inside his shorts.
Tears trickle down my face as I go through the tape, looking at our photos and home videos.
“Damn. I really miss you,” I let out before erupting in laughter as I watch us playing around on our basketball court with me trying to steal the ball from Saheed who is laughing hysterically at my failed attempts. I grab his nuts which makes him let go of the ball and run up the court without dribbling, taking a cheap shot.
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