“Man, I got to give it to you. You got a baby too? That’s it. You’re good,” Ameer said, still joking around and interfering.
“Close the door,” I told him. Bangs laid the baby on her bed. She pulled her T-shirt over her shoulders and unsnapped her bra and took it off. She picked the baby up and turned around. She bent over and handed the infant to me. “Hold her for a minute, please.” Her breasts, the size of two ripe grapefruits, were dangling when she went to pass the child, and sweet milk started shooting out of her nipples onto my face.
When she sat down on the floor, she took her baby back. The child latched on to her bare breast and started sucking on her nipples. The baby’s fingers were pressing into her titty. The baby was breathing as if its mother’s body and milk were the closest thing to ecstasy.
“Now what were you saying?” she asked me.
I didn’t know if this was a test. I never seen or read a chapter in the Holy Quran that taught a man how to deal with a situation like this. And how strong is a man supposed to be when even the Quran says in one or two places that men are weak?
“Where is your baby’s father?” I asked her.
“Dead,” she answered. “He got hit by a drunk driver.”
“Sorry,” I offered.
“The newspaper article is on the back of my door. You can see it next time, when the power is back on.”
The flame from the candles cast an erotic silhouette of Bangs feeding her baby onto the wall. I felt like clamping myself onto her other breast.
“So this is why you’re always running, for your grandmother and to your baby?” I asked her.
“Yes. I run because my milk builds up while I’m at school. If I don’t get home quick enough to let her suck, my titties get too swollen and sometimes they hurt and sometimes they start leaking too.” My body was turned on by her. But I reminded myself not to spill my seed into her.
“How old is she?” I asked about her baby.
“Three months,” she said. “But her father died before she was ever born,” she explained.
“I wanted you to see her anyway. That’s why I always invited you in. I know some men run away from babies,” she said sweetly with regret.
“What kind of a man would run from a baby?” I asked her seriously. She just stared at me like she had just that second fell into a deep love.
But I had to pull myself out. I had to pull myself out carefully. I didn’t want to damage anyone or anything. I sat watching her until the baby finished the suck. Then I raised up to leave. She didn’t seem surprised.
“At least give me a kiss,” she said. She stood up. My body wanted to. Her lips were thick and smooth and moist and really pretty.
“Nah,” I told her. “If I get started, I won’t stop.”
“That’s cold,” she whispered. Actually it’s the opposite, I thought to myself.
I walked over to her bed and picked up her bra.
“Burp her,” I said, remembering Naja as a baby.
“Okay,” she said. Afterwards she laid her baby down and faced me with her full pretty titties. I helped her back into her bra and snapped it closed. Then I slid her T-shirt back over her head.
“If you’re gonna go now, at least change your shirt in case they got a description of your clothes from earlier when you was running. And leave your heat here. You don’t want to get caught with it. That’s an automatic five,” she said casually.
“Who lives in this house?” I asked again.
“My grandmother and me.”
“And your daughter,” I added. “Anyone else?”
“No one else.”
“I already stashed my piece,” I admitted to her.
“I knew you would,” she said. “And I knew you was holding. I felt it when we were dancing.”
“Yeah, thanks for that dance,” I told her. She tossed me two Champion hoodies. I opened the door and tossed one out to Ameer and told him to throw back his shirt.
“I’ll come back through for my joint. Leave it where I left it. Don’t fuck with it, you might hurt yourself or somebody else,” I said. “And thanks for looking out, I appreciate it, really.”
“When you coming back?” she asked, her eyes and her body calling me.
“When I come back,” I told her. “Like you said, you’ll wait for me.”
“We gonna have to go check for Chris,” I told Ameer.
“We can just call him,” Ameer said.
“No we can’t,” I said.
“Why not?” Ameer asked.
“Because let’s say he got away and made his way back home. If we call at two o’clock in the morning, then by ringing the phone, we are blowing up his spot with his father. Let’s say he didn’t make it home. Well, we don’t know where he is and even if he’s okay then we would still be blowing up his spot with his father. Or say he already called his father and told him one thing, then we call and . . .”
“Damn, I get it,” Ameer said.
“We’ll head up to his father’s church in the morning. If Chris is okay, that’s where he’ll be.”
“A Muslim and a Five-Percenter in church,” Ameer doubted.
“Man, if something happened to me, wouldn’t you come looking for me no matter where I was at?” I asked him.
“No doubt,” he answered.
As we walked swiftly yet calmly through the streets of Bed-Stuy, headed for the train station, we were both silent, trapped in the thoughts in our heads. I told myself I should make a prayer for Chris. If anything happened to him, I would feel personally responsible.
“Brother,” Ameer said, breaking the silence. “That’s a nice piece you got back there. I can see why you hid her.” He was referring to Bangs.
I didn’t say nothing in response. Commenting on other men’s women is purely an American thing.
44
FRIENDSHIP
The Christian church was a first-time and strange experience for me. In a lot of ways, it was the opposite of the mosque that Muslims attend.
I found it odd that the Christian women of the church could not cover up themselves for at least one day, their day of worship. Instead they arrived decked out in tight, short clothing. Mothers and daughter alike had their necks, cleavage, breasts, thighs, and legs exposed to some degree slight or completely bold and obvious. There was no difference between the thirty-year-old women and the fourteen-year-old girls back on my block. I doubted that any man could concentrate on God in this setting.
At the same time, the men were all well-suited, dressed, and completely covered up, escorting their mothers, wives, sisters, and daughters who were half naked. I couldn’t figure it out.
Everyone in their church entered through the same doors and prayed together sitting down or standing up and in the same space.
In the mosque, the men either prayed in front of the women, with the women praying behind them, or the prayer areas were side by side or in separate spaces. We believe that prayer is supposed to be devoted completely to Allah, with no diversions or lusts or preoccupations working their way into the eyesight, mind, or thoughts of the Muslim. Besides, we start off standing when we pray, but we conclude completely bent over with our heads touching the ground in complete respect and praise of God.
Chris’ father, the Reverend, who Ameer and I have seen over the years, looked different in his church robes. I mean he was always a conservative and quiet-moving man who I never seen rock a pair of jeans, not even once. Outside of his church when we would see him, he usually wore some style of a hat, hard-bottom shoes, dress shirts, dress socks, and slacks, even at sporting events and on weekends.
Now he looked much more removed, like an American Supreme Court judge or a Black pope. He was raised up on a higher platform than his congregation, speaking in a loud tired voice that was projected from the microphone though it really wasn’t needed.
The sermon, which we Muslims call a khutba, was a story from their Holy Bible, Luke Chapter 15, about a son who makes wrong choices in
his life despite his father’s advice and teachings. The son runs away to another town to live the way he wants to live outside of the eyesight and reach of his father. The son ends up spending his monies foolishly and is forced to take a job working with pigs. The son finally realizes that he needs his father and should have respected his father’s wisdom in the first place. The son returns to the father begging for forgiveness. The father forgives and accepts his son, even though the son really didn’t do anything good or right or respectful to show and prove that he deserved his father’s forgiveness.
After listening to the sermon, I knew that Chris’ father knew all about what happened at the party last night. The disappointment was felt in his words and stamped on his tired face. I also knew that Chris would be forgiven. However, the point seemed to be that he would have to do something to win back his father’s trust.
All me and Ameer could see was the back of Chris’ head. He was seated in the first row of the church and we were seated in the last row of the church.
Ameer said, “Let’s just walk up there and go get him.”
“We can’t start walking around while the brother’s father is speaking,” I said. “Let’s just chill till the end, then we can get at him.”
Some people who were seated behind the reverend up there, and facing the congregation, stood up. A funny-looking dude started giving them hand signals and they all began to sing. Ameer leaned over to me and said, “That’s a faggot right there, one hundred percent.”
Faggot, that’s an American thing, I thought to myself. Or I should say, a European thing. I hear this word used all the time and am still confused by it. I was only sure that we didn’t have no “faggots” back home where I come from.
Usually when cats pointed out a “faggot,” it was some guy who dressed, walked, or talked and acted like a female. Or, some boy who could not do the same things that other boys did eagerly and naturally, like playing sports, fighting, and fixing things.
My confusion came in when Black American boys called a boy who loves his mother a faggot. Or when the Jamaicans called a “faggot” a “mama man.” Or when somebody said a boy who sticks by his mother, helps her out often, and protects her is some kind of “faggot.”
To me, there had to be a difference between a boy who acted like or wanted to be a woman, and one who loves his mother a whole lot. For me, loving, standing by, serving, and protecting Umma was like breathing, a strength and not a weakness.
So I just didn’t respond to Ameer’s comment.
A paper plane came flying from the right side of the room and landed in the lap of the woman seated beside Ameer. “Excuse me, that’s for me,” Ameer told the woman. He unfolded the plane and we both read the note at the same time.
“We see you’re new to our church. We think you and your friend are cute. We are sitting on your right side, the third and fourth girl in, red dress and long hair and yellow blouse and short hair. Meet us downstairs afterwards.” Ameer looked at me and smiled.
“See, I told you, these Christian dudes are faggots. Christian girls want Muslim dick.”
Now I knew, based on Ameer’s words, that “faggot” also meant a male who wasn’t fucking all the girls who wanted to get fucked. I thought to myself, this one word had a whole lot of different meanings. It still meant nothing to me as a Sudanese.
A well-dressed woman, wearing everything brand new, sang a sad song. She looked like she had been to hell, seen the devil, and come back. The tears eased out of her eyes as she sang.
The people stood for what seemed to be the final prayer. I stood too. They bowed their heads. I faced front until the prayer was over.
“C’mon,” I told Ameer. “Let’s go talk to Chris.”
Chris was shocked to see us. He touched the material on both of our dress shirts as if he was impressed. “Get the fuck out of here. You two in church?” he said, then looked around to see if anyone overheard him. He glanced at his father, who was standing at the front receiving people one by one, who seemed to just want to greet him and touch and shake his hand.
“Let’s step to the back,” Chris told us.
“Is that your mother seated there?” I asked him.
“Oh, yeah, let me introduce you,” he said. His mother was polite, but more focused on her husband and his activity at the front of the church. Chris explained, “These are my two best friends from the dojo, who I tell you about all the time.”
We also met Chris’ younger sister and brother, who were perfectly dressed, well-behaved, faces shining with a thick coat of Vaseline.
As we three walked towards the back of the church, we were intercepted by a young female wearing pretty pumps on her feet, a tight skirt and silk blouse, nipples erect even through her bra. She stuck her foot out as if to trip Chris. He stopped walking. She stood directly in front of him, playfully pushing him and asking, “Aren’t you gonna introduce me to your friends?”
He introduced her as his girlfriend, a surprise to both of us. Afterwards she tried to follow us to the back, but Chris told her to go sit down and wait on him. In the back corner of the church, he filled us in about what happened.
“Last night, I almost got away. I was real close. But, the cop who was chasing me tripped and fell and busted his ass. I shouldn’tve laughed, but it was funny watching him down on the pavement, grabbing for his hand radio. I started running again, got about forty feet out of his way, then a police car shot across my path, slammed on the brakes, cut me off. The next thing I knew, ‘You Are Under Arrest.’
“They cuffed me and pushed me into the backseat. I was just glad they didn’t kill me, ’cause they did clap up some other kid, dead over nothing, some bullshit.
“Another cop car pulled up with three girls riding in the back. The window came down and all three girls were all staring at me. They started speaking among themselves. Then I saw them tell the cop who was driving the police car ‘no.’ ”
“No, what?” Ameer asked.
“No, I wasn’t one of the ones who snatched their gold chains. There was like six girls and three dudes whose jewels got swiped at the party. The dumb-ass cops caught all the wrong boys and the real ones got away,” Chris said.
“Were you scared?” Ameer asked.
“Hell yeah, I’m not gonna lie. I was hoping y’all would be down there at central booking when I arrived. You know, three is better than one.” They laughed.
“How did you get out in less than twenty-four hours?” I asked him on a serious note.
“You must’ve snitched on them other dudes,” Ameer said, only half joking.
“I couldn’t snitch on nobody. I never even saw what happened, that shit went down so fast,” Chris swore. But Ameer and I both knew it was the Red Hook niggas from the red team that led the whole caper.
“Then how did you get out?” I repeated my question. He answered reluctantly.
“My pops called Mayor Koch, got his ass right out of his bed. The mayor made a couple of calls. Next thing I know, I get released. My pops was waiting right there with the Caddy. I walked out pretending like I was all cool, but I was so happy I didn’t have to close my eyes and sleep with all them niggas on the lockup. I almost peed on myself!” We all laughed.
“Does he really have that kind of clout, your father?” I asked.
Yeah, he’s head of the Ministers’ Conference. The mayor always has to come through him to get anything done in the Black church or the community. So I guess he just owed my pops one,” Chris said easily.
“Anyway, the mayor had to do something. His cops clapped a kid; unjustifiable homicide, excessive force,” Chris said. I knew he must have heard those phrases getting thrown around last night.
“Unbelievable. What a break, for real,” I said. “Me and Ameer was all worried about you for nothing. You was out there getting the royal treatment.”
“Nah, that’s cool. I appreciate y’all coming up here. That’s alright. I’ll always remember how you two looked out,” Chris said in a ser
ious tone. “Don’t think I got over either. My pops is gonna announce my punishment tonight. I just hope he don’t go crazy and lock me in his jail for the summer.”
When the three of us came out of our huddle and turned around, there were about six girls waiting on us. Me and Ameer didn’t know none of them. Chris felt good about this being “his territory” and said, “C’mon let me intro y’all to the church chicks.”
As we walked over, I saw the Reverend approaching from the distance. I elbowed Chris to bring it to his attention.
“Young man,” the Reverend called to his son.
“Yes, father.” Chris tensed up to attention and responded respectfully.
“So you have been joined by your friends,” he said dryly. “Well, good for them. Where were you fellas last night when Chris needed you?”
He glanced over at the girls gathered and waiting for us.
“Let’s go, gentlemen, step into my chambers.” We followed silently. The Reverend pronounced to his secretary, “I need some time with my son, make sure no one disturbs us.”
My eyes bounced around the walls of his private office. The images were all foreign to me.
“When you three first met, you were boys. Now you are young men. There is a difference, you know. Boys play. Young men handle their business,” the Reverend lectured, no laughter or doubt in his style. He was seated upright in his big black leather chair.
I was listening, but at the same time, I was still looking at the wall over his head. Plastered there was his picture of Jesus. I thought to myself that there is not one Muslim, out of the three billion Muslims in the world, who believes he has a picture of God, or that God could ever be captured in a photograph or painting. In a mosque, we do not have images or pictures or snapshots or symbols or idols on our walls or anywhere else, for that matter.
Muslims acknowledge the great works and life of Jesus. However, we don’t believe that Jesus is God, or the son of God. We believe that Jesus was a Prophet, a chosen messenger of God, selected as other prophets were selected by God to carry out and perform incredible and extraordinary works and deeds, like Moses even.