Antebellum (48 page)

“So why are we turning it on again?” Mama asked.

“'Cause she wanna see if Moses ready to go home or not. She figure if he can take all the foolishness on TV, then he ready to get outta here.”

Mama thought about it for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders and sat back down. She kept her headphones off, however, and watched me very closely.

I still failed to understand the importance of turning on the television. I turned around slowly and grabbed the remote before SaTia had a chance to grab it.

“Moses, no,” she protested. “Let me.”

I motioned for her to calm down, and with a steady hand, raised the remote to the television and hit the Power button.

...rapper Moses Jenkins, otherwise known as Da Nigga, remains a mystery as he continues his seclusion in the hospital. The only fact that this network can confirm is that he is, in fact, out of his coma as of yesterday. The rumor mill has been in overdrive since news of his emergence from the dead became public, the most rampant rumor being that he has had some sort of psychotic break and is no longer mentally stable...

The station was showing footage from my last Grammy awards performance, and I barely recognized myself. I had on a huge pair
of shades, with three or four thick chains around my neck. As I watched the footage, the memory of buying each of the chains specifically for the performance came back to me. The most expensive one would've bought Mr. Talbert's plantation and all the slaves that came with it. I had to pull my pants up every few seconds or so while I was performing because they kept falling. I had a grill in my mouth, and everytime I knew the camera was close enough, I opened up and pressed my teeth together, showing off the gold and platinum.

“Hoes in da attic, yeah! Hoes in da attic, yeah! Come on to my crib; I keeps some hoes in da attic, yeah!”

I was high. I had to have been, because I kept randomly laughing in the middle of my lyrics. Nobody cared, though. I remembered seeing other artists who were just as wasted as I was, either coming offstage or going on.

“HOES IN DA ATTIC, YEAH! HOES IN DA ATTIC, YEAH! COME ON TO MY CRIB; I KEEPS SOME HOES IN DA ATTIC, YEAH!”

The crowd was screaming and chanting along with me. I jumped around onstage with Brian, Henry, Ray and Orlando acting like fools behind me. Suddenly I remembered what happened after that performance. I remembered all the industry heads telling me I had done a great job. I remembered getting even higher back in the limo before we all came back out and took our seats in the audience. I remembered all these things clearly, but something was different now. Those ones and zeroes from
The Matrix,
the same ones that had changed my vision on the Talbert plantation, had now altered my vision here. I'd found a pair of 3-D glasses while in my coma. I'd dug them up from the earth underneath the Talbert plantation. And now, with my new lenses, I could see all the things that I wasn't able to see before. I could
see the older white men in the audience laughing at us—pointing and mimicking us as if we were a minstrel act. I could see the older black women in the audience, with skin and hair that reminded me of Sarah's, looking uncomfortably at the very scantily clad dancers we had onstage with us. I could see the older black men, stone-faced, looking at our performance, shaking their heads so slightly that only a keen eye could catch it. I could see embarrassment now where I once only saw a smile of enjoyment. I could see the eye roll that came after the thumbs up; the look of disappointment that came after the applause. A movie that was once a light-hearted comedy had turned to a deep, deep, drama—and it hurt to watch.

Figuring that this was the worst it could get, my thumb searched frantically for the channel button and I changed the station.

Moses Jenkins, otherwise known as Da Nigga, remains in the hospital this evening after emerging from a coma. Witnesses say Da Nigga immediately began biting himself and screaming hysterically before trying to attack a group of doctors who were on their way in to make sure he was in good health. It is said that only his manager, Ms. SaTia Brooks, and his mother and grandmother can keep him calm. Anyone else whom Da Nigga sees is at risk of being attacked...

I turned and looked at SaTia. The disgust must have been evident, because she immediately shot out her hands toward me, symbolizing deflection of any blame. “I don't control the media, Moses! This is why I've been saying we need to get out of here.”

Mama and Big Mama were standing on either side of me now. Big Mama kept her hand on her Bible.

“Lawd, I knew you was all over the TV, but I ain't know they was saying stuff like this.”

“SaTia, they can't just lie on the news like this, can they?” Frustration was beginning to build in Mama's voice.

“Until we come out of here and prove otherwise, they can take information from whatever source they choose. So...yeah, yeah they can lie on the news like that.”

“Why didn't you tell us it had gotten this bad?”

“Because it wouldn't have done any good before now.”

Big Mama sat down on the bed and grabbed my hand, putting it in between hers.

“Lawd Jesus...”

I felt my mind trying to slip away again, but I wouldn't let it. I was too angry. I grabbed the horns of my sanity and yanked it back every time it tried to leave. Eventually, it just stopped trying.

I flipped the channel. This time, the report ran with one of my music videos playing in the background. I stood shirtless with an array of chains around my neck. A Lamborghini that never belonged to me was parked behind me with the driver's side door up. Three young ladies in bikinis and hair that clearly was not their own groped and grabbed at me as I rapped. At one point, I took the prettiest of the three, bent her over the hood of the Lamborghini and stuffed a hundred dollar bill in her g-string.

I turned away as the news report continued.

...amidst allegations that SaTia Brooks, Mr. Jenkins's manager, has been providing false information, including getting a doctor whose credentials are now in question to perform a dummy medical exam that declared her client to be in perfect health. In the end, no matter what rumors you subscribe to, whether you believe he's mentally unstable, still in the coma, or being held hostage by his manager, mother, and grandmother, everyone in America right now is asking themselves—what's wrong with Da Nigga?

The bull tried to get loose again. I threw the remote control onto the bed and began pacing around the room. If I let my anger go, it would consume me, and I couldn't allow that. But the bomb
in my chest that had introduced itself to me after Ella's rape now found its way back, and I struggled to control it. SaTia, Mama, and Big Mama all followed me closely, watching to see what I would do. They knew, and I knew, that if I lost it again, I might not come back. The bull kicked and butted, charged and jerked me around, but I wouldn't let it go. I couldn't let it go. SaTia was right. She'd been right all along. We had to get out of here.

I grabbed the notebook that had been left on the counter by the sink, and the pen that had been left beside my bed, and I wrote three words on the paper. I handed it to SaTia, who tried to hide her smile. She handed it to my mother, who nodded in approval, and then to my grandmother, who took a look at it and then dropped it on the floor, where it landed face up.

Tomorrow we're gone,
it read.

Big Mama walked back to her seat, grabbing things as she moved, already starting to pack up. “You Moses, ain't you?” she looked at me as she began stuffing her crochet equipment into her bag. “Hell...I go where you go.”

16

“They're on their way up.”

SaTia had just gotten off the phone, and she looked at me as if she was worried about my health. “I'm warning you...they're really excited. They sounded like they were sprinting through the halls. I wasn't sure about letting them up at first, but we're leaving today. Having a few extra people around you for protection can't hurt.”

Everything in the room that didn't belong to the hospital had been packed up neatly and set off to the side. I hadn't realized how much decorating the ladies had done until we had to take it all down. The room looked dank now. The white paint that had looked vibrant as the backdrop for well-wishing posters and balloons now looked dreary. Even the windows, which had been my gateway to sanity for a time, looked depressed without the colorful reflections and get-well cards taped to it. The ladies in my family had managed to disguise the type of room that this really was. Now that I saw its true nature for myself, I couldn't wait to leave.

I stood up from the bed and walked over to the window, trying not to count the seconds. All the reporters, SaTia had told me, were on alert because this was the day she had announced we'd
be leaving. She believed the best time to leave would be either early in the morning or late at night. Unfortunately, she'd forgotten about all the precautions that would have to be taken, and so it was 10 a.m. and we were waiting for the team of bodyguards who would escort me to the limo.

I managed to hold both my nervousness and my excitement at bay without exploding. I wasn't sure how much of me was the same and how much was different, but I agreed with Dr. Bailey—I wasn't the same person from all of the music videos and performances they showed on the television. I had met Master Talbert and Bradley, and Roka, and Sarah, and Ella—how could I be the same after that?

I heard the large doors to my room slide open and close while I continued to ponder my new life. I turned around to ask SaTia a question, and came face to face with my past. Brian, Ray, and Henry stood side by side, staring at me.

They each looked at me as if I was a man who'd had his chest blown open right in front of them. They looked at me as if I was a miracle. And I knew then that whoever I turned out to be, I had to keep them with me. For their sake and mine.

Henry was the first one to break rank. He slowly walked up to me, with every step as if he was contemplating taking off down the hallway. Finally, when he got close enough, he held out his hand to give me some dap. “Yo, what's up, homie?”

The greeting was familiar, but didn't seem appropriate for conveying my emotions. I pushed his hand away and threw my arms around him, giving him a hug. I could feel his hesitation in embracing me, but I decided I wouldn't let him go.

“Awww hell naw,” Brian said his voice shaky and cracking, “we ain't gonna be doin' all this, man. Y'all niggas ain't 'bout to have me cryin' up here, dogg. Real talk, man, I'll go wait outside or something.”

He never moved. When I looked up from embracing Henry and over at Brian and Ray, they both made their way forward as well. I hugged each one of my friends as if I'd just come back from war. Twenty minutes later the guys sat in front of me with a million and one questions written on their faces.

“So...you cain't talk or you don't wanna talk?”

“Yo, why you look so different, son?”

“You ain't really try and kill nobody, right?”

“Why they got all dis craziness on the news 'bout you?”

“So...if I, like, punched you in yo' jaw, you'd just sit there quiet, right?”

“Yo, you know how many records you done sold, homie?”

“Man, niggas walkin' 'round head to toe in Da Nigga gear!”

I nodded and moved my head from side to side like a bobble-head doll, but hearing that last statement, made me look over to SaTia for some clarity.

“Oh...I forgot to tell you...Mr. Rose and the execs preapproved a line of clothing and apparel to memorialize you once you died. Except...you didn't die. So they've taken all the designs and released them in the wake of your coming out of the coma.”

Mama looked up from her packing in the corner. “It's only been a day, SaTia. How so fast?”

“They already had one shirt ready to go, Ms. Jenkins. They were set to hit stores next week, but Mr. Rose and the other guys at Cosmos pulled some major strings and got them delivered and released yesterday.”

“Da streets is feelin' you right now, dogg,” Ray said. “Everybody in the hood right now walkin' 'round with da same shirt ‘I Am Da Nigga.' Da block is on fire, waitin' for you, man!”

“And don't worry,” SaTia cut back in. “We get a percentage of all the sales. You've managed to make quite a bit of money since you've been in this place.”

My face must have spoken for me. All the laughing stopped and smiles faded as I looked at everyone in the room as though they had gone insane.

“Yo, what's wrong, homie? What's good?”

Brian tried to comfort me, but it was too late. I jumped up from my chair and ran over to the window, resisting the urge to punch through it. The thought of people wearing shirts labeling themselves as Da Nigga, because of me, made me want to throw up the little bit of food I had eaten.