Lightbringer

by Qwantu Amaru

  inconveniences

  such as weather or gunshots or war

  war?

  good god what are we fighting for

  blacks don’t even fight for our own rights anymore

  we gave that up in the sixties like meat for lent

  what is the relevance of my last statement

  to the whole of this master work

  well

  we used to do our massas work

  and now i’ve got my masters and i still work for the massa

  ain’t shit changed

  but now there’s more of it down the drain

  clogging up the pipes

  and ain’t enough drano in the world to break through it

  bit by bit sanity’s slipping away

  like sand in the ocean’s hand getting dragged out to sea

  finally seeing that there’s nothing more to see

  nothing more to believe in anymore

  the poor are gonna die poor

  and the rich are gonna choke to death on bits of caviar

  because ain’t no heimleck for the homeless

  and economic desperation got us all hopeless

  pressed to make a dollar wherever and however we can

  that’s why i’m stuck in this damn dead end job

  that’s why niggas grab the gat and try to rob somebody

  all for the love of money

  and because i love makin money

  i shut up smile and take it

  until it’s time to hit the showers and wash off the grime and dirt

  from another miserable day at work

  can’t wait to take off this soiled white collar shirt and monkey suit

  in my pursuit of this american fantasy

  that’s giving me ulcers and hemorrhoids

  but still not filling the void

  that

  there’s got to be more than this

  just got to be something better than this

  work

  shit

  the first time

  body and mind are not aligned

  body ready, prepared, waiting, anticipating

  mind only hesitating

  from the soft cave of the couch

  into the open mouth kiss of the bedroom

  the players

  enter the sanctum of his quarters

  clothing strewn from wall-to-wall

  the green room of a teenager

  the clothes of a man

  the girl wants it

  the body of this man

  the mind of this boy fights a futile battle

  screams

  i'm not ready

  drowned out by the girl screaming her readiness

  apparent by the hardening of aereola

  the sugar in her kiss

  the bulge in his crotch becomes

  impossible to ignore

  the mind and body continue

  this dance of indecision

  the boy has envisioned this moment

  but not like this

  she is not even his

  anymore

  like a memory

  his heart looks on her sprawling body

  skeptically

  the body yells if not now

  then when (will i win)

  the boy hears her inner sanctum calling him

  he bathes in her waterfall for the first time

  climbing a mountain of ecstasy

  the mind now a horrified spectator

  then the girl tells him to stop

  but he hasn't reached the top yet

  she cuts the cord saying

  no

  it

  hurts

  mind translates

  she's not ready yet

  body doesn't understand

  boy climbs back down the mountain

  and out of her sauna

  he is ashamed

  girl unsympathetic but kind

  and now it's too late

  is he a man now?

  mind and body debate

  body thinks, he ate the apple

  the taste will haunt him

  boy asks if he can try again

  he's not a virgin anymore

  black love

  sometimes it seems

  black men and black women are looking for two different things

  two different dreams on two different teams

  but the game is the same

  and the name of this game is to get caught

  like hide and go seek but everyone's hiding

  black man you used to hunt and provide

  now you riding

  coattails of pimps and playa wannabes

  concentrating more on g's and accumulating the finer things

  rather then becoming the support beams of our cultural houses

  instead letting in little white mouses and termites taking our black

  omen away in the night

  when we see that black lady with the white man damn we wanna fight

  but you gotta do right to get done right

  sista’s ain't that right?

  brotha’s

  you need to look inside

  take the time to find that diamond in the nile

  instead of being in denial because one black female once did you wrong

  let r & b singers croon the sad songs, that black female did you wrong

  ecause she was once wronged

  because the first black man she loved wasn't strong enough or secure

  nough to tell her he loved her and then back that shit up

  when knocked down in loves court, black man brush that dirt off yo

  shoulder's get back up

  look inside

  and lift the next black female back up to the pedestal reserved for

  queens

  instead of buying yourself the finer things manifest as her radiant king

  do all the beautiful things that lovers do

  romance ain't just for her, black man it's for you too

  we've come a long way together but let me remind you

  we grew from tribes to slaves to activists to middle class to millionaires

  one constant was always there

  besides our flare, our strength, our courage, and our heart

  from the start we only had each other to get us through

  it takes two focused on the same things

  with one dream

  on one team

  to make black love beautiful

  we only need each other to get us through

  brasil

  when i think of she

  i think of what still dwells inside of me

  at the first sight of her my eyes become crystal pools

  and she runs down my face racing towards my heart

  a never dying part that sustains me

  like real soul food

  i consume every drop of her presence

  to become full of her essence

  and when the sun fades

  i know that we are gazing at the same moon and stars

  this whole universe is ours for the making

  i love taking the time out to make her smile

  the reason romeo drank the alchemists potion

  he loved her more than he loved himself

  more than all the wealth that this world offers

  her kiss is softer and sweeter than a newborn’s

  i become reborn whenever she lets me see her naked spiritual form

  and i vow to never let her go

  so that’s why i go back to her every night

  because when i dream of she

  it seems so real as if i’m actually lying next to her

  bodies so close that nothing can come between us

  passing planes moving to the rhythm of our passionate lovemaking

  drummers in salvador giving praise to the sun and sea

  in the afterglow i look into she

  knowing
that she was made for me

  and suddenly fear envelopes me

  because i’ve never seen forever before

  i’ve never wanted anything more than i want her

  i would hunt for her gather for her build for her kill for her

  she is a sweet never-ending torture

  nurturing while she destroys my inhibitions and barriers

  she is beyond my ability to describe

  because she abides inside my soul keeping me alive

  like god’s faithful servant she lives inside the tumultuous current of my bloodstream

  and that’s how i know that she’s no dream

  she is destiny and fate and inevitability in the physical form

  tattooed on my spirit from the day i was born

  she is

  Excerpt from One Blood – The Award Winning Thriller from Qwantu Amaru

  ONE BLOOD

  PROLOGUE

  1963

  New Orleans, LA

  During the day, New Orleans’ most famous neighborhood was a tribute to architectural and cultural homogeneity. At night, the French Quarter’s multicultural legacy blurred into an unrecognizable labyrinth; especially in the eyes of the drunk and desperate.

  At the moment, Joseph Lafitte was both.

  Joseph careened down the dark alley and absentmindedly brushed at the dried blood beneath his nose with his free hand. His tailor-made shirt and pants were drenched with sweat and felt sizes smaller. He was overcome with the sensation that he was running in place, even though he was moving forward at a brisk pace. Until he tripped over a carton some careless individual had placed in his path.

  Upon impact with the concrete his cheek flayed open, but he barely felt the sting as his priceless nickel and gold plated antique Colt Navy Revolver clattered away into the darkness, out of reach. Even now, breathing as harshly as he was, he could hear someone behind him. Somehow they managed to stay just out of the range of his sight, but within earshot.

  It was the ideal moment for them to pounce, but Joseph would not give in so easily. He pushed himself to his feet, eyes sweeping the ground for his weapon. He located it near a dilapidated doorway. Clutching it once again, he felt some semblance of self-control return.

  Then his dead wife called his name.

  “Joseph? Joseph, where are you?”

  That was all the motivation he needed. He broke into a full gallop but couldn’t outrun what he’d seen back at the hotel, or what he’d just heard.

  They are toying with me. Trying to make me doubt my own mind.

  This was New Orleans after all. A place with a well-documented history of trickery and alchemic manipulation. He must have drank or eaten something laced with some devilish hallucinogen. For all he knew, his own son—Randy—had given it to him.

  Randy still blamed Joseph for the car wreck that took his mother’s life. Joseph had noted the murderous hue in Randy’s eyes after Rita’s funeral, and even though Joseph explained that it was an accident, he knew Randy would never forgive him.

  Was this Randy trying to get some sort of revenge?

  It didn’t matter. Randy was weak—always had been and always would be. As an only child, he grew up to be softer than cotton—Rita’s doing by babying and spoiling the boy.

  Have I underestimated my son?

  This thought, along with his first glimpse of light in quite some time, simultaneously assaulted him.

  Where am I? And why haven’t they caught up to me yet? Maybe they want me to go this way.

  Joseph glanced down at the revolver that had once been carried by the great Robert E. Lee. He’d show them who had the upper hand; if Randy was behind this, he would soon be joining his mother.

  Rather than heading toward the light, Joseph turned left down another dark alleyway. The façade of the building was damp to the touch. Other than his troubled footfalls, there was no sound. Who knew a city nearly bursting at the seams with music could be this eerily silent?

  Joseph used the quiet to collect his thoughts.

  * * * * *

  He’d spent that afternoon as he spent most Saturdays, sipping bourbon and talking shop with other New Orleans power brokers inside the private room in Commander’s Palace. He knew something was wrong as soon as Randy appeared at the doorway, motioning to him.

  “We have to leave New Orleans right now, Father,” Randy said in a hushed tone as Joseph entered the hallway.

  “What are you talking about, Boy, and why are you whispering?” Joseph replied, a little louder than he needed to.

  Randy jerked Joseph’s arm in the direction of the exit, his eyes pleading. “Something bad is going to happen if we don’t leave here right away.”

  “No, Son,” Joseph said. “Something bad is going to happen if you don’t remove yourself from my sight this instant!”

  And that had been the end of it. Randy left, looking back only once, as if to say, Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you.

  Joseph returned to his drinks and colleagues. Afterward, he went downtown for a little afternoon rendezvous with a beautiful Creole whore. She came as a recommendation from his regular mistress, Claudette, who was on her cycle, and the girl certainly fit the bill.

  He made it back to the hotel just as the sun set and settled down for a drink or three after taking a steaming hot shower. In the comfort of his armchair, in the privacy of his suite, his thoughts returned to Randy. It was Randy’s eighteenth birthday and the boy had been acting oddly ever since he’d arrived in New Orleans two days earlier. In truth, he’d been acting strangely much longer than that.

  Joseph would never forget the revulsion he’d experienced when the maid in their Lake City mansion had shown him the pile of bloody rags at the bottom of Randy’s hamper. That disgust tripled once he found out the source of the blood. One night, Joseph waited until Randy exited the bath. The raw pink and black slashes across Randy’s forearms, thighs, chest, and abdomen were all the evidence he needed. Apparently Randy had taken to cutting himself in the wake of his mother’s death.

  Randy was barely a teenager and there was only one thing Joseph could think to do to keep from locking the boy up in a sanitarium. He sent him away to a French boarding school and commissioned some distant relatives to keep an eye on him until he graduated. If he survived that long.

  * * * * *

  This weekend was supposed to be a celebration of sorts. Randy had returned from France a distinguished young man, and Joseph was ready to bury the hatchet.

  But what if Randy doesn’t want it buried? What if he wants my entombment and has been patiently waiting all these years to get his revenge?

  Joseph grabbed hold of a lamppost to steady himself. A statue of a man on a horse loomed over him. His feet had brought him to Jackson Square.

  Surely, nothing bad can get me here, right?

  He’d believed the same to be true of his hotel room and that had definitely proven to be false.

  * * * * *

  Joseph had been cleaning his prized revolver before sleep overtook him. The sound of the door opening brought him back to consciousness. Even though all the lights were still on, his bleary eyes could barely make out the two figures—a young black male and white female—standing in his doorway.

  Joseph sat up in his seat. “Who are you? And what the hell are you doing in my room?” His hand quickly found the revolver on the table next to him.

  The man and woman looked at each other and Joseph heard a deep male voice in his head say, “Don’t worry, Joseph. It will be ova’ soon.”

  He felt the voice’s vibrations in his teeth and jumped to his feet. The young woman reached out to him and he heard her voice in his mind as well. “Don’t fight us, Joseph. It is so much better if you don’t resist.”

  Joseph felt wetness below his nose and when his hand came up blood red, he bolted around the woman, out of his room, and out of the hotel.

  * * * * *

  Now he stood in the shadow of Andrew Jacks
on’s immortal statue, exhausted and nearing the end of rationality. A sudden thought occurred to him.

  Maybe this is all a nightmare. Maybe I’m still sitting in my chair snoring.

  He latched onto the idea. Hadn’t he heard recently that the best way to wake from a nightmare was to kill yourself?

  Where did I hear that?

  Ah yes, now he remembered. The Creole whore had mentioned her grandmother’s secret to waking from a bad dream.

  What an odd coincidence...

  Joseph stared down at the revolver as if it were some magic talisman. If this were a dream, it was the most vivid of his life. He could feel the breeze from the Mississippi River, the cold bronze of the statue beneath his hand, his sweaty palm wrapped around the hilt of the gun. And he could hear footsteps nearing.

  Rita’s voice rang out across the square. “Joseph, I’m here to bring you home.”

  His mind showed him an image of what Rita must look like after six years underground. He hadn’t cried at her funeral, but petrified tears streaked down his face as he gritted his teeth.

  I have to wake from this dream!

  The footsteps were getting louder and closer. He didn’t have much time. To offset his fear and still his shaking hand, he thought of how good it would feel to wake up from this nightmare. He put the gun in his mouth, tasting the salty metallic flavor of the barrel as his mouth filled with saliva.

  God, this feels real.

  But he knew it wasn’t. He attempted to gaze at the statue of Andrew Jackson riding high on his horse. The statue was gone. As was the rest of Jackson Square. It had been supplanted by that damnable live oak tree in front of his Lake City mansion. He should have chopped that thing down long ago.

  Joseph let out an audible sigh of relief.

  It is a dream after all.

  “It’s time, Joseph,” Rita whispered in his ear.

  Knowing what had to be done, Joseph squeezed the trigger.

  Qwantu Amaru has been writing since the age of 11. An avid reader, he has always aspired to write suspenseful page turners and socially significant literature like those of his writing influences Richard Wright, Harper Lee, Walter Mosley, Tananarive Due and Stephen King. Qwantu draws his inspiration from his modest upbringing in small towns and cities across Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Louisiana, and Florida. In addition to his first novel, ONE BLOOD, Qwantu has published six volumes of poetry: Lightbringer, Lovelost, After the Storm, Midnight's Shadow, Awakening, and Actual-Eyez. Qwantu is an active member of the outstanding socially active poetry collective Black on Black Rhyme out of Tallahassee, FL. He has performed spoken word in poetry venues from New York to Los Angeles. He is also part owner and one third of The Pantheon Collective, an independent publishing venture dedicated to bringing high quality independent books to the masses while empowering and inspiring other authors to follow their dreams. For more information visit his website www.qwantuamaru.com or e-mail him at qwantuamaru@gmail.com. Qwantu currently resides in Jersey City, NJ.