What do I want from you? The best that you have to offer instead of the least and the easy. Do I think I’m better than you? No. I know in many ways you’re brilliant. That was my first real attraction, the power of your mind. But you lack the understanding of life that every man should have. I can assume this because you have not denied being involved with drugs. Therefore … In life we make choices, conscious decisions to move left or right. We reap the rewards and/or disasters of the choices we make. I do feel you. I feel you all the time. However, I won’t see you. Don’t bother to check me.
SS
September 1993
Yeah,
You want it raw dog, here it is. I tried to hold back because of my respect for you. You won’t see me so at this point I have nothing to lose. Men and women will never think the same. They live different lives, separate realities. Women want love, peace, unity, and shit like that. Men are tribal.
I ain’t tryna save the world. I’m just tryna get my piece for my crew, that’s all.
That’s all it’s about and that’s the most you can ask for. What you know about that?
You want to know who I am and what I’m about and how I’m living? You want the truth? My name is Bilal Odé. My mother and father and I were born in the Sudan. They raised me to understand love, honor, respect, loyalty, and family. Then my father was killed by tribalism in a war for what men want, power, control, land. Just so you be clear, my father was killed by black men, African men. Me and my pregnant mother came to this country when I was 7. From the minute I arrived I had to fight. Niggas disrespecting my name, disrespecting my accent, disrespecting my clothes. While holding my ground I got rid of my accent, my clothes, and even my name. I found out quick what brought respect and I schemed to get it. In the hood I been fucked up by black cops and white cops. Why? For no reason. Except the cops is a tribe and they fighting for a piece of the action as well. I got into my body, working out, judo, tai kwon do, all of that. I learned everything I needed to know about burners, all kinds.
One afternoon I’m walking down the staircase to get my little sister from the baby-sitter’s house. I was late. The elevator was broke as usual. Now this big nigga around my way named Lance, a dude three times my size who had banged me up more than a couple of times, had my eight-year-old sister pinned against the wall with her panties down and his dick in his hands. I’m wondering what this motherfucker is doing ’cause she ain’t got titties, curves, nothing yet. When I called out his name he turned around and charged at me. He had the same face on that he did the last time he almost broke my jaw. So I shot him, right between the eyes.
At fourteen years old, I was convicted of manslaughter and incarcerated. I didn’t read about it. I didn’t go to jail to give a speech. I was a prisoner.
The whole time that this was going on, my mother was praying, crying, being emotional, and going back and forth to work, ten hours a day. You know what she wanted? The same thing you wanted, peace, unity, happiness. But that’s not what was happening on the streets.
Inside I was stomping with the big dogs, imprisoned with grown men due to “prison overcrowding.” What was going down? Tribalism, war over anything, the toilet, the phone, cigarettes, space to breathe. Niggas vs. niggas. Niggas vs. Ricans. Decepticons vs. Bloods. Niggas vs. Aryans, The Latin Kings, whatever. Everybody had a crew. My moms came more than once a week, kept my commissary stacked. Anything I asked for she brought it, sneakers, gear, whatever. All she did was work and save. Point-blank she would have done anything for me.
It was 7 P.M. when they came for me. Six big grown ass men (some of those dark, beautiful motherfuckers you wrote about). I fought like a warrior, but they still left my ass ripped open, twenty stitches to repair. For six months, in addition to the pain of shitting, I’m wondering does this mean I’m a homosexual? My cellmate said “Don’t worry about it, it’s just an initiation, that’s what they crew do. You fought back, you held it down. Now they’ll look at you like a man.” Easy for him to say, he was getting out in one more year. I did five and a half years.
On my second year locked down, my mother disappeared. No more letters, no more visits, no more commissary. I called home but never got an answer. Soon the number was disconnected. After hassling one of the c.o.’s who knew I was a good kid who got caught out there and killed a nigga the neighbors and even the cops wanted dead, he revealed the truth to me. My mother was arrested. In a state of panic I cried like a bitch and laughed like a madman ’cause I knew my mother, a devout Moslem, the type who kept her head wrapped, walked with a prayer cloth and even stopped to pray at work, would never have violated any law. Upon further investigation I found out her conviction was for transporting drugs. No matter what kind of rumors I heard about the incident I refused to believe them.
Four years later when I was released, the lady next door to our old apartment told me my mother was out of prison and in the hospital. I went straight to her.
“Son,” she told me, “I’m sorry. An inmate from your prison told me if I didn’t bring him some drugs to the prison on my next visit to see you they were gonna hurt you again. They said when you come home I would no longer have a son, I’d have a daughter. I didn’t know what else to do. They told me if I told anyone I’d be attending your funeral. I just needed to see your face before I die. Don’t cry for me son. Allah has a place for me. I cannot live here, these are not my people.” My mother died trying to tell me about my sister. As she lost her life, the words just wouldn’t come out. It took me four weeks to find my sister. She had been adopted by a white family. The agency told me I could not see her. I could not think about getting her back until she’s eighteen. Then only if she wants to come to me.
My mother left a will. In her six years of work in the U.S., combined with the inheritance left by my father, she had managed to save a good piece of money. Even from prison she was able to keep up her life insurance payments somehow. I couldn’t collect any money according to her will until my sister turned eighteen. It was placed in a trust under my sister Efe’s name.
After my release I searched for work for six months. The one line they gave me on every job application to explain—“Have you ever been convicted of a felony? If so, please explain”—didn’t work out. How do you explain murder? It just runs people and employers away.
The man who took me in when I was jobless and homeless has been like a father to me. For that he has my eternal loyalty. In my youth I was taught that if someone saves your life, you owe them your life.
With steady work, good money in my pocket, a roof over my head, and all the things a man needs to be more than invisible in this world, I stand firm on my two feet. You cannot teach me to be a man. You may know a lot, but you know nothing about that.
I’m drawn to you Souljah. I hope you know how to take this. You remind me of my mother. There is something so pure about you, so beautiful. I respect your mind, your body, the whole package. If I could possess you I know my mother would smile down on me. But could you think about me and you instead of the whole world? Could you think about me?
Bilal Odé
October 1993
Midnight,
I’m sorry about your momma. During the months that we spent together I noticed how sometimes you would be so alive and talkative. Then suddenly you’d fall into a strange silence. I figured there was a very personal story behind that silence. In time I told myself you might confide in me.
It just so happens that time is not on your side. It seems you want me to care about your feelings and your family. Yet and still, in your line of work you don’t care about anyone’s feelings or family. What makes your momma so important when you would sell crack to someone else’s momma?
If I dared to love you, my momma, my family, my life would be in jeopardy. It is only a matter of time before you will pay for your wrongdoings. To every action there is a reaction. When it comes back to you, the depth of your tragedy will be even greater than the wrongs you perpetrated. How do I know? I
t is the law of nature. It applies to every human being. Because I love myself, my family, and have worked very hard to do the right thing in my life, I don’t want to be standing next to you when the walls come tumbling down. And they will tumble.
It’s ironic that a young male who had so much more than some young blacks in America, a father, a country, a culture, would end up in the same low-life business that killed his mother, with the same attitude that murdered his father. So you say it’s about your survival huh? If that were true, you would of quit after you accumulated some loot. Maybe started a little legit business, rescued your sister. But no. The money is in your blood. The money is your God. It’s all about the Benjamins. So call it what it is. In life people make choices. We pay for every little choice we make. You traded everyone else’s life for yours. I traded my life for everyone else’s. We don’t belong together.
Drugs is a government game, Bilal. A way to rob us of our best black men, our army. Everyone who plays the game loses. Then they get you right back where we started, in slavery! Then they get to say “This time you did it to yourself.” I won’t play that game.
SS
February 1994
Souljah,
It’s been a long time. Every man moves at his own pace. I’m free to call you now, on your terms. Now there is no reason you shouldn’t accept my calls.
Midnight
The Holiday Inn maid woke me up. It was not her knocking at the door. It was her knocking and me not hearing her. Then she used her key to let herself in. My body was stretched across the bed, with envelopes and papers everywhere. When my eyes opened they attempted to adjust. Before I could get a clear reading on everything she asked in a Chinese accent, “You checky out now or stay one more night?”
“Damn, what time is it?”
“Twelve. Check-out time,” she used as few words as possible. I got up, walked to the dresser, and picked up the DO NOT DISTURB sign. Placing it on the outside knob, I glanced over at her. Without speaking she got my point: Get the fuck out.
Right now the daylight was my friend. I needed to use every minute constructively. Not wanting to sleep in the same place twice, I showered, packed my stuff up and bounced.
The bus system was easy. It stopped right in front of the Holiday Inn. It was weird riding a bus that had stops on the freeway but it was also convenient. The mall was only a four-mile ride.
Seated in the food court I put my plan together piece by piece like a puzzle. After arranging all the letters by dates, I realized the most recent one Midnight mailed to Souljah was postmarked from Silver Spring, Maryland. All the other letters he sent her were mailed from either Brooklyn or Manhattan.
After purchasing a phone card, I asked the operator how I could call information in Silver Spring. “Can I have the number for Bilal Odé,” I asked.
“How are you spelling that? We have no such listing, ma’am. Are you sure about the spelling?” I slammed the phone down.
Passing the American Airlines ticket counter located right inside the mall, I asked the woman behind the table the price for a ticket to Silver Spring, Maryland.
“The closest airport to Silver Spring is Baltimore. When would you like to fly, ma’am?” The question was so simple, yet so crazy. I had never flown anywhere in my life.
“Now,” I blurted out. The airline lady laughed.
“You would be leaving out of Newark Airport I presume?”
“How far is that from here?”
“You can take public transportation from this mall to the airport. It should take about an hour, calculating the stops and all. The earliest flight I could get you on would be leaving today at 5:15 P.M., arriving in Baltimore, Maryland, at 7 P.M. this evening. Is this round trip?” she asked.
“No, one way.”
“With one day’s notice, one way will be three hundred twenty dollars and ninety-seven cents, tax included.”
“I’ll be back,” I mumbled.
I figured the bus had to be cheaper. All I had was a hundred thirty dollars and change. I would also need money once I arrived. The bottom line is I would need much more money, regardless. I would need money to stay and money to go. If I traveled to Maryland it would probably take me a few days to track Midnight down. From the sound of Silver Spring, it was a small town. I’d check the obvious places that no one could avoid; the supermarket, the barber, the mall. I’d even go to the post office, the party spots, and ask around. I was sure Midnight had an apartment by now. Some place that was laced with all the finer things in life.
He would allow me to stay there with him. I had no doubt in my mind about that. Circumstances were different now. When he left I had places to stay or so he believed. Now I had no one to turn to but him. Santiaga needed him. Like Midnight said in his letters, “A man has his loyalty.”
After a short shuttle bus ride, I arrived at the Greyhound ticket counter. I was given a schedule for travel to Maryland. The woman quoted a price of sixty-five dollars one way, which was only eight dollars cheaper than the round-trip bus ticket. Don’t ask me to figure it out. Next to the Greyhound counter was a bus line called Peter Pan. A little Mexican guy handing out coupons called my attention to the place. “Twenty-five dollars round trip,” the old lady with the I-smoked-too-many-cigarettes deep voice stated.
“I’ll take it,” I responded with no hesitation.
“Let me tell you now, sweetie, this ticket is a special rate. It’s nonrefundable.”
“I said I’ll take it.”
I didn’t know what Maryland had in store for me. I did know that in exactly one hour, I’d be out of town. I cut across to the deli and grabbed a seltzer and ordered a sandwich for the road trip. The woman said it was almost a five-hour ride with the stops included. At the magazine stand I picked up one fashion magazine, Cosmopolitan, and a pack of butterscotch Life Savers. I don’t know whether my stomach was rumbling from hunger or from the excitement of knowing I was gonna see Midnight.
I was falling in love all over again after reading Midnight’s letters. He was right to make it clear that a man has to make his own choices, handle his business and whatnot. She was trying to take a good man and turn him into a broke punk, some type of poetic philosopher who’s of no use to anyone. I’m sure that by the time he got his finger on the pulse of what was going down in Maryland, he had set up his operation and was watching it grow. I approximated about almost a year had been gone. I bet his connections were ripe.
The bus rolled in fifteen minutes early. I grabbed all my stuff to board. The driver swung open the doors. As I lifted my foot to get on the driver said, “We’re not leaving until the scheduled departure time.” Aggravated, I stood outside in the cold wind rather than drag all my stuff back into the heated station.
The noise was little. Then it got a little bit bigger. I looked left, then right. No one else was close by so it had to be me. Unzipping my Nike bag I pushed clothes every which way. Hidden on the inside of a pair of my lingerie was a beeper. Oh shit. Oh shit! It’s Bullet. Damn, what does he want? With five minutes left to boarding time I debated. Call him now? Call him later? I gathered my bags and rushed into the station only to find that all three pay phones were occupied. Peeping a businessman with a cheap suit holding a cell phone I rushed over to him. “Excuse me, mister. Can I use your phone? It’s an emergency.” He was reluctant but I gave him the little girl help-me look, nervously licking my lips. Still no answer from him so I repeated myself. “Please, sir. That’s my bus right there. It leaves in five minutes. I just need to make one call.” He handed the cell phone to me. My eyes bounded from the beeper to the phone buttons punching out the phone number. I pressed SEND and took a long deep breath. When Bullet got on he line I had to be cool, not pressed.
“What’s up, baby?” I asked softly, immediately noting the aggravation in the businessman’s face.
“Winter. Happy Birthday, girl. You official now?” Bullet was hyper and happy.
Oh shit, I forgot it was my birthday. That’s a f
irst. “Thanks,” I said, still playing it cool.
“I’m coming to get you. Where you at?”
“I’m in Jersey.”
“What you doing all the way over there?” he asked.
“I just came out here to do a little shopping. You know how I do it.”
“Well, get something sexy. Last year this time it was all about you driving me. This year your man got everything under control. We done elevated. What you know about a birthday in Key West.”
The owner of the cell phone said, “Miss, I need my phone back.”
“Who that? Who the fuck is that? I know you ain’t with no nigga. Oh, a nigga taking you shopping. That ain’t nothing. Whatever he got I could double it. Shit, I could triple it. I’m caked up, Winter. Stop fucking with those small-timers. Who is that?”
“He ain’t nobody,” I said coolly.
“You damn right he ain’t nobody. Tell that nigga to bounce. Tell him.” Bullet was all the way gone with anger so I decided to play him. The phone owner’s face grew red with anger as well.
“Bounce, nigga,” I said to the white man.
“What?” He questioned me with his veins popping out of his neck. “Give me my phone.” The owner grabbed for his cell phone.
Jumping back from his reach I told Bullet, “I told him to bounce. Did you hear me?”
“Good,” Bullet said. But the man was demanding his phone back. “Oh, what? Is he beefing? Is the nigga beefing? Tell that nigga he better be gone by the time I get there or he’s a dead man.”
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll bounce before my man gets here,” I told the white guy.
The confused phone owner warned me, “I’m gonna get security. I’m gonna call the police.”
“Pick me up at Nordstrom on Route 4 in Jersey, right over the GW Bridge. I’ll be on the northside entrance.”