An anger so strong built up in me, from my toes to my head. It was like a wave from the ocean, gaining a deadly and unstoppable momentum. A wave with a powerful undercurrent and dangerous riptides. It kept me from thinking straight, like I normally would do.
I was trained to control my anger. Yet my training seemed to be failing me now. I stood, boiling yet frozen in that same spot, remembering a line from a book my Sensei once gave me called The Art of War. The line was “War is deception.”
I kept saying the line over and over again in my head to calm myself down.
“I-man wanna make Umma, I-man’s wife. Dis ting is a serious ting, mon. What I-man hafta do to make ya see I-man serious? Whatcha need star? Is it money, eh? I-man has good ’n plenty money.” He pushed a stack of bills forward on the wooden table. I was still calming myself down. I didn’t say nothing.
“Cha! Ya want mora?” he asked and pushed the second stack of bills forward.
“It’s not possible,” I said politely.
“Noting is impossible. Everyting have a price seen,” he said, pushing the third stack forward. “Look around. Me trade fa any ting ya see ina ere.” Then he threw his bag of weed over at me like it wasn’t nothing. It fell to the floor by my feet.
“Mr. Tafari, I have the fifteen hundred here in the envelope. That’s the balance. That makes three thousand. Now we’re straight. Umma is not for sale. Do you need a receipt?” I asked him without exposing any emotions.
He banged the table with his fist, finally losing his cool.
“Me naw want no blood-clot receipt. Give I and I back feme pictures dem and go.”
“How much do you want for the pictures?” I asked him calmly, throwing his style back the same way he threw it out there.
He gave me a deadly look. For the first time he had no smile and no chuckle and his temper was brewing. He wouldn’t answer me.
Evil looks didn’t mean shit to me, so I left with the fifteen hundred and the photos. There was nothing chasing me but a chorus of his curses. I left him throwing a tantrum that could have been recorded on top of some rough-ass Jamaican sound system beats.
He left some recordings of his own on my voice mail. Again he sounded as though he was speaking directly to Umma. He left twelve messages to be exact, over a one-week period of time.
He showed up at Umma’s job one Friday at four P.M., one hour earlier than she usually got off work. But I anticipated his plan and had been waiting for Umma each day of that week beginning at three P.M. and sitting until five, just in case.
I realized that I was the one who had influenced Umma to attend her coworker’s baby shower. I was the one who had encouraged her to dress up in her most elegant way. I was the one who made her feel like it was all right for her to shine, to let down her hair, to relax and enjoy herself and show the potential female clients the true secret of Sudanese beauty. I was the one who slipped the expensive heels on her feet. I was the one who pushed her to reveal her incredible talents. I now realized that this was the only way that Gold Star Tafari got his hands on the photographs of Umma’s exquisiteness.
Putting the pieces together, I remembered Shirley was at the baby shower that day. She must have snapped those photos. Gold was wearing one of the hats I sold to Shirley. That’s probably how he got his hands on those photos. He probably glanced at the photos casually and never revealed the depth of his lust to Shirley, his fiancée. That’s when he began to put together his plan to bypass and deceive Shirley and capture my Umma.
Setting up in the woods of Prospect Park seven nights later was easy. In the bushes, wearing all black on a black night, no one could see my black face, my black gloves over my black hands, or my black gun. I screwed on my black silencer, paid for with a portion of the cash from Gold’s envelope.
I waited three hours in the cold. Only my thoughts kept me heated. When Gold Star Tafari walked around the corner at 1:06 A.M. after parking his yellow station wagon, I clapped him up nice. The Lion of Judah got took down by the Leopard of Sudan.
War is deception, I thought to myself. No sense in being sloppy. Think through shit, control your anger, make a tight plan, and execute it.
10
HEAVENLY PARADISE
“You seem so serious. How come?” It was a female from around my way breaking my concentration when I paused for five seconds on the block to organize my thoughts. It wasn’t just any female. Her name was Heavenly Paradise, aka Heaven On Earth. She was famous for her light-brown eyes and mean-ass walk. Boys battled one another for her with their fists and their finances. She always ended up with either the strongest or richest. You could always tell who was getting it by the gold pendant she wore around her neck. They all gave her either their gold nameplate or their pendant to rock. I heard that even when she broke up with them, she never gave it back. Dudes knew they had to pay to play, try to cut their losses, and charge the rest to the game.
In the streets everybody knew she was Conflict’s woman these days. He sported her like her pussy was brand new and kept her real close. She was wearing his pendant, a fourteen-karat gold dagger. Everybody knew Conflict was Superior’s younger brother. Superior was the most infamous hustler in my area by now. Conflict was his blood brother and right-hand man.
I didn’t call this girl over. So I didn’t know what she was tryna do by approaching me on the block in front of everybody. I did know that all the males out here sweated her hard. But Conflict had her on lock.
I didn’t sweat her at all. She was somebody else’s piece and I respected that. Besides I never messed with another man’s women, money, or property.
Ever since I won the pull-up contest that DeQuan sponsored on the block, Heavenly Paradise set her eyes on me and she wasn’t used to getting turned down.
Now that I’m fourteen, my voice is deep, accent long gone. I chill every day in the most wanted styles. My kicks are fresh. I keep money in my pocket. I’m closing in on six feet one. My body is cut like what. Girls think I did it for them. I did it for war.
Now I can’t keep these females off of me. The more I show them nothing—no interest at all, the harder they come for me. Shit got crazy.
What could I tell them seriously? Could I tell them, “I was born Muslim and we don’t believe in dating or sex before marriage”? I was not the kind of Muslim they were used to seeing or being or hearing about. Like the ones who were born Christian in America who suddenly change their name to something Islamic sounding, and other than playing Islamic dress-up, they don’t do anything that a Muslim is supposed to do. Or the ones just make believing that they’re Muslims, who fuck all the women, never marry them, abandon all the babies, and talk a lot of shit that don’t add up to nothing.
Could I tell them, “Yeah, you look good to me,” which was the truth, but “You’re a ran-through whore and my moms will never accept you,” which was the truth also. Nah, I couldn’t tell them nothing. So I didn’t. I was known for being quiet and serious and silent.
“I see you always got a book in your pocket. Do you read them or just carry them around?” she asked, smiling, and very confident in herself. Now she had one hand on her hip gripping her little waistline, twisting her little body to make sure I could see the curve of her famous ass, which poked out even when she rocked long skirts.
The fact of the matter was, if I was back home in my grandfather’s African village, at age fourteen I could rightfully be planning to marry, own a piece of land, and start a family. To some people this might sound crazy. I understood it one hundred percent.
I could feel the difference in myself from when I was twelve or even thirteen. At fourteen, I feel stronger. My observations are sharper. I looked at things a bit differently than I did before. In my body I felt a force, a yearning, a hunger.
In my grandfather’s village, they must have understood the human body and mind. They built a village that could stay in step with reality. If at fourteen the natural thing was to feel and become sexual, then at fourteen you could marry
and start a family and become responsible and respectable.
In the USA the society was out of pace with the natural development of its young. They made it a shame for a youth to feel and be sexual at fourteen, and looked away while they knew it was happening randomly anyway.
Adults acted surprised and disgusted when teens got pregnant. Then they pressed them to kill their seeds. The laws made it premature and illegal for teens to marry or to even get working papers and become responsible and earn.
I knew because around my way a young teenage girl named Raven got pregnant by a mild-mannered cat named Thomas. Her mother dragged her in tears to the abortion clinic. Three days later Thomas shot and killed his girlfriend’s mother for killing his unborn.
I considered myself a disciplined cat. But under plan USA, even when a youth graduates from high school his parent is still hollering, “Finish your education first.” Next he does four or five years of undergraduate school at some college. Still the adults are hollering, “Secure a good job first then start a family.” No matter how disciplined a youth is, could he really hold off completely? Could he resist his sexual nature until he’s twenty-three years old? Or is it the American way for the young to abort all the babies they create up until the time they are eligible to marry, have completed their studies, and are qualified to work?
Reality says no. So the block was bursting with chaos. Everybody’s fucking everybody. Nobody’s married. Nobody claims responsibility. Nobody’s respected.
“I gotta go,” I told Heavenly Paradise and pushed off. I could hear her sucking her teeth at me. Even though I knew she would not give up, I just kept it moving. There was more than enough business for me to handle.
11
MIDNIGHT
Monday through Thursday I play basketball at night after my sister and my moms, along with the majority of people in the hood who don’t want no problems, were in a deep sleep. I like the court better when it’s empty.
Dribbling the ball always releases my tension. Sinking the ball in the hoop makes me feel good about my possibilities.
I dreamed of playing ball blindfolded, getting so familiar with the dimensions of the court and becoming so aware and comfortable that I could just sense the position of the basket and sink the ball, all net. I figured once I could start hitting those three-pointers blindfolded, I could do any fucking thing. But it was just a dream. I’m too smart to close or cover my eyes while I’m out on the Brooklyn streets, even in the neighborhood playground.
After a while, there was an old wino cat who started leaning on the fence watching me play. He used to call me Midnight since I only played late at night. Every now and then he’d bring a drinking partner. They’d stand on the side, drink, and talk shit. It wasn’t long before the name Midnight stuck to me.
One night out, the court was all dark and foggy. Either somebody had busted the street lamp, or it just blew out. Since I could barely see anything, I figured this was my chance to test my senses without having to close my eyes.
This was the same night I met a young cat who stepped right out of the darkness and started speaking to me.
“Peace, God,” he hollered out. Right off I knew he was a Five Percenter, like DeQuan, Superior, Conflict, Heavenly, and a bunch of people living and dying around my way. They believed that “the Black man is God.” So they addressed black boys and men as “God,” and the Black girls and women were called “Earth.” Some of them claimed to have something to do with Islam. Some of them didn’t. It didn’t matter to me what they said or called themselves. I kept my eyes on them. It doesn’t matter what anyone says, just give them a little bit of time and they’ll prove who they are and what they really believe by how they’re living day to day. Over time I learned to deal with them like they was just another group of people who were not all the way true or serious. I didn’t lock horns with them though. I didn’t waste my time tryna knock them. I moved around them and kept my own beliefs, pace, and flow.
“Yeah, you nice with it,” he added. “You should come play on the team.”
Now, I could see the outline of his body, but not the details of his face. Yet I could tell from his voice that he wasn’t from my block. I checked the distance between him and my guns that I had stashed on the side. I told myself I messed up. This guy caught me slipping. If he wanted to do me something, it would be my bad all the way. But it wasn’t his angle.
“I’m Tyriq. And you?” he asked. Instinctively, I told him, “Midnight.”
He wanted me to come up to the school and play on his team. I told him I couldn’t because I was busy and didn’t have time for everyday after-school practices and a coach running my life.
“Nah, God,” he said. “This is not the school team. We just rent their court and sometimes their gym. You know, like intramural.” I didn’t know what intramural meant so I just stayed quiet. He explained that this team was just “the best young ballers in Brooklyn, competing against one another in a tournament.” He said it didn’t matter if I wasn’t a “schoolboy.” He gave me the info on the meeting spot, time, and place and went on his way. I dribbled the ball while I watched him walking away.
My side hustles kept me moving in and out of all types of situations.
We ride together, Umma and I, still. After I get Umma to her workplace, I am free to handle business, homeschool work, or whatever is necessary.
On early Friday and Saturday mornings, I always head to Chinatown, located in lower Manhattan, where I have a part-time job in a fish market owned by a Chinaman named Cho. I caught the job one day while shopping for fresh fish for my mother to cook. She didn’t care how far I had to go to find fresh food that she would feel good about cooking. She often said that the local markets were selling Brooklyn Blacks old, expired, and sometimes even rotten food. While searching for a proper fish market, she taught me how to pull the fish gills back and check for the dark-red color to be sure that a fish is fresh. A fading pink meant it was not fresh. If the gills were cut out and the fish was cut into pieces or filleted and flaking, it meant it was old fish and the grocer was trying to get over. If the eyeballs of the fish were bloated or expanded in any way or cloudy, this meant the fish was old. “Flip it over,” my mother would say to me in Arabic. “You must check both sides and both fish eyes for freshness.”
The Chinaman had fish so fresh that some of them were still alive. He’d stick his hand in a huge tank and yank it out. On the scale the snapper would still be breathing.
When I discovered this particular fish shop, I noticed the Chinaman had a picture on a side wall of himself at the helm of a real pretty red, thirty-six-foot, Reinell fishing boat out on the deep waters of the ocean. I asked him if the boat was his. He pretended not to hear me or understand. They were good at ignoring. I followed up and asked him if he was hiring. He told me the price of my seafood order, accepted my money, and moved right on to his next customer.
I was still interested. I had a thing for boats, ever since I accompanied my father on a business trip in a bad-ass yacht named Al Salamah, cruising across the Red Sea on the invite of a Saudi Arabian prince.
In the Sudan, even traveling up the Nile on a felucca was an adventure. It was just the feeling and the freedom that moving across the waters created within me.
Besides, the Chinaman had a crazy knife collection. I liked the way he wielded them, slicing the fish so precisely and easily.
My father taught me that language should never be the thing that separates one group of people from another. It’s easy to pick up a language if you just learn how to listen. He also taught me that people will treat you better when you take time to learn their greetings and customs.
Soon enough, I picked up a Chinese language book for a few dollars from a used bookstore. Easily I learned how to introduce myself in Chinese, and of course the Chinese word for boat, chuan.
I headed back to the fish store the next week, took my time introducing myself in Chinese, and asked if he had work. I did get a smile, but n
othing else from the quiet, hardworking Chinaman, who seemed to only talk and only understand the language of numbers. I placed my order, paid, and bounced.
The following week I showed up in my flannel work shirt, jeans, and Tims, with my fish scaler in my hand. I told him in English that I would work the first day for free. Somehow he understood that! I caught the job.
Every Friday and Saturday from 7 A.M. until 3 P.M. I worked doing everything: unloading fish from the truck, dropping the live ones into tanks, placing fresh and frozen fish on ice, or scaling then chopping off fish heads and splitting fish bellies open and gutting them.
Chinatown for me was an amazing place that sometimes reminded me of my capital city of Khartoum back home in the Sudan, where my father had an executive business apartment separate from our estate. Chinatown was all about buying and selling any- and everything from Chinese herbs to dried-out chicken feet and snake tails, snake oil, clothing, jewels, or restaurant equipment. Every inch of space and property was fully used, nothing wasted, including fish eyeballs and fish heads. I observed short and slim Chinamen making a business out of only two feet of space. For ten hours they would stand on that small spot they had rented and sell whatever they had to offer.
A lot of Chinatown was about language and letters and codes. They spoke a different language, used a different system of letters, and sometimes hung up signs and prices that no one else but the Chinese people could read and understand. On the low they even had separate prices for the Chinese. I watched Cho switch up the numbers when his own kind came around. I wasn’t mad at it though. I thought it was cool and the same thing any group of people would do for theirselves and their people if they had any sense.
Cho warmed up to me, I believe, because I always showed up on time, made no excuses, and worked hard at anything he asked me to do. This was how it was supposed to be, I thought to myself. He asked no questions about who gave me permission to work, my age, or schooling. He didn’t request working papers or social security numbers or nothing. We just got down to getting what needed to be done, done.