I stare at myself in the mirror hangin’ on the wall in my foyer. “Bitch, after you put a bullet in this nigga’s head, this gotta be da last time you pull da trigga on another muhfucka.” Ho, you gotta get ya mind right, quick. There’s a baby you gotta start thinkin’ ’bout.
E’vry since his birth, he’s been on my brain, heavy. Sittin’ up at the hospital e’ery day, watchin’ ’im cling on to life, fightin’ to get stronger, has been wrackin’ my nerves. It hurts me. A bitch’s heart fills wit’ guilt e’erytime I look at ’im. I am so fuckin’ scared, but I gotta do right by ’im. I gotta try to give ’im what Juanita was neva able to give to me—love. Doin’ that nigga has to be it for me.
I take a deep breath, glancin’ at my watch. It’s eleven o’clock. I grab my keys and pink Gucci clutch bag, then race out the door to make my way to the Family Courthouse in Brooklyn. I am finally gonna handle the paperwork to get legal custody and guardianship of Juanita’s baby, and make this shit legit.
When I’m done filin’ all the necessary paperwork, I drive ova to the hospital to see the baby. The last few days I’ve been tryna come up wit’ a name for ’im. I wanna give ’im a name otha muhfuckas ain’t pushin’ heavy. For some reason, the names that I’m really diggin’ are Zion and Zaire.
I take the elevator up to the neo-natal unit. As I’m walkin’ down the hall, a bitch’s ’tude shoots from zero to a hunnid when I see Patrice’s ho-ass standin’ at the window lookin’ into the unit, wipin’ tears. I wanna snap and tell the bitch to bounce, but I decide to let shit play out. I swallow my ’tude, walkin’ up on ’er.
She snaps ’er neck in my direction. “Before you stop poppin’ shit, I ain’t here to beef wit’ you,” she warns, turnin’ ’er attention back to the baby. “I’m here to see my lil’ nephew, then I’m out.”
“Good,” I say, shiftin’ my handbag from one hand to the otha. “No need for you to linger any longer than you have’ta.”
She turns and stares at me. “Kat, answer me this. Why do you have so much hate in you? What happened to us?”
“You fucked my man; that’s what happened to us. I trusted you. And you shitted on me.”
“Ohmiimuthafuckin’god, let that shit go, Kat. That shit happened years ago. And da nigga’s dead. When you gonna get ova it? We done fought ova his ass twice and—”
“No, boo, we didn’t fight ova that nigga. We fought ova you tryna play a bitch. Big difference; don’t get it twisted.”
She shakes her head. “And you let some dick come between us. I can understand if you wanted to be pissed for a few weeks, even a few months, but to be draggin’ this shit out for years, Kat; that’s some real ’xtra shit. That nigga didn’t give’a fuck ’bout you, or me. All da nigga saw was some young, hot pussy.”
“Well, guess what. Maybe da nigga didn’t care ’bout me, but I cared ’bout ya trick-ass. I loved you like a fuckin’ sista, bitch. And you hurt me.”
“I watched my moms bury two of my sistas in da same month, Kat,” this bitch says, changin’ the subject. “And you didn’t even have da decency to show up to ya own moms’ funeral. Why?”
I tilt my head. “I had my funeral for that bitch a long time ago, so that shit ya’ll had for ’er was only a formality.”
She frowns at me. “I feel sorry for you.”
“Oh, no, Boo. Don’t feel sorry for me. Betta yet, don’t feel nuthin’ for me. I’m good; trust.”
“Okay, if you say so. I know I’m not.”
“Well, that sounds personal,” I say, surprised that I’m still standin’ here entertainin’ this ho. After all these
years, this is the first time we’ve talked wit’out the otha snappin’ off.
“Life is too fuckin’ short for da bullshit,” she says, turnin’ ’er attention back to the nursery. “In da grand scheme of things, this corny-ass beef you got wit’ me is a fuckin’ waste of energy. So, trust, sweetie. On e’erything I love, I’m done beefin’ wit’ you. Movin’ forward I’m not gonna get into it wit’ you ova dumb shit. I have a beautiful lil’ nephew my sista left behind. You and ’im are da only links I have left to ’er. You wanna stay hurt, stay hurt. You don’t wanna have shit to do wit’ ya family, then don’t. But…”
Okay, now a bitch is ready to bring it to this ho and tell ’er to suck the shit outta my ass ’cause she ain’t gonna eva get ’er hands on that baby. But I know a real bitch gotta know when to play it smart. She gotta know when to keep ’er mouth shut and let’a bitch keep flappin’ ’er cum trap. And, in listenin’ to this ho rattle on, the one thing a bitch is finally certain of is that that baby layin’ up in there wit’ all them tubes in ’im, ain’t goin’ no-muthafuckin-where but wit’ me. And if I gotta make sure e’ery last one’a them hoes gets bodied to make that happen, I will.
“…that baby in there is gonna be surrounded by his family. And we will raise ’im and love ’im, no matter what.”
Okay, bitch, it’s time to spin-off on this ho, I think, glancin’ at my watch. You’ve heard’a ’nough of this shit. “Well, listen. You do what-eva you feel you gotta do.”
“I plan to,” she says, glancin’ ova at me.
I smirk. “Bitch, you’re delusional. But good luck.”
A WEEK LATER, I’VE LANDED AT NORFOLK INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, and now I’m pickin’ up my rental to take the hour-and-a-half drive to Ahoskie, North Carolina. It’s where Cash booked my hotel room. It’s also a few miles away from the town Como. A bitch is amped to get at this nigga swiftly, then be on the next thing smokin’ back to Jersey. But shuttin’ his lights is gonna pose a problem since the nigga only leaves his spot at night. So a bitch gotta lay low and work the area for a few days ’til I can run up on ’im. Cash hipped me to these spots called Shot Houses—homes of muhfuckas who sell drinks ’n shit. Where they play music, cards and shoot pool and whatnot.
I get into my rental, pullin’ out my Tom-Tom GPS system, typin’ in my destination. Ahoskie? I can only imagine what kinda shit I’ma see when I get there. I pull outta the airport, and turn onto Azalea Garden, then Military Highway.
My cell rings. It’s Chanel.
“What’s good, hooker?”