Life (17 page)

Plus there was something else about him that I just could not put

my finger on. “You did agree to move in with me after you grad-

uated from college, and if I’m good enough to shack with I’m

good enough to marry,” he spit defensively. Sometimes when

Marcus was ill tempered he acted peevish and now he was star ting

to piss me off as he stood with his bird chest stuck out, eyebrows

knotted together in contempt.

“
First of all, I never agreed to move in with you. I said that I

would think about it and that was only because I felt that it would

be good for us financially.”

“
Now I have a job, a good one. We can get married, have some

babies –”

“
Marcus!” I screamed his name so loud I thought the vein in

my neck was going to burst. “There will be no babies! I can assure

you of that!” I slid that in to let him know that I was on to his lit-

tle move that he made by not using a condom. “And no marriage.”

Now it seemed like my tongue had a mind of its own, and the

more I talked, the smaller Marcus got. “I am not going to be

dependent on no man. What part of this don’t you understand? I

fully intend to be a self-sufficient, independent Black woman

doing her own thang. And until I am ready to have some babies,

there will be none!” I rolled my eyes at him. Marcus looked at me

as if I had just doused him with cold water.

“
Fine! If that’s the way you want it, Miss Independent Black

Woman.” And then he did something that struck a serious nerve.

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He stood and pointed his finger in my face. “You’re 21 years old.

You need to first understand, this is a man’s world.” He said it like

he was taunting me, and the reality of it sent chills down my spine.

I knew that it held some truth, but I was not going to back down.

“
Girl, I’m tr ying to take care of you.”

“
Shit.” I hissed standing akimbo wearing the wrath of my

anger, “That’s just what I don’t want you to do, take care of me.”

I shot back at him. “Yeah, you would wanna keep me barefoot and

pregnant, and after I have all your babies, trade me for a younger

version, I think not!” I pointed my finger in his face shaking my

neck. We were standing too close for comfort now.

“
Do what the fuck you want to do!” he yelled, grabbing me by

my shoulders. “I am not putting my life on hold for your women’s

liberation bullshit dream.”

I pulled away from him. This was our first real fight.

“
Don’t you ever put your hands on me!” I lamented with my

little fists balled up ready to tag his ass. He opened his mouth

about to speak and thought better of it and stormed out of the

room. I continued to get dressed. I noticed a few of my things

around his apartment and wondered if I should take them. I knew

in doing so what the implications would mean. I don’t care what

anyone says, life is the hardest for a Black woman. Not only was I

discriminated against for being a woman, but for also being a

Black woman. And for some strange reason, brothas found me

intimidating when they learned my aspirations.

I headed for the door. My anger was starting to quell. Maybe

I did go too far. I was trying to be a woman dealing with a man in

a relationship.

“
Call me. I’ll be on the air tonight,” I said swallowing my

pride. “We need to talk.”

Marcus appeared from the shadows of the door way down the

hall. I could not read his continuance, didn’t want to either. I

closed the door to our lives and meandered to my car. I glanced

up at Marcus’ window to see him standing there watching me.

Good for his ass,

I thought. Make a brotha sweat, let him see me in

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my new ride. Let him know I wasn’t doing all that bad. For the

first time in my life I had no regrets about accepting the car from

thug, Life.

I put on my dark shades, turned up the volume to my boom-

ing car system. My girl Mary J. Blige was crooning, “Not Gon’

Cry.” I drove out of the parking lot bouncing to the rhythm. That

was my song, haay! Now it held special meaning. There’s some-

thing about a break up that can either zap your strength, or be

very empowering, if you’re determined to be an independent

Black woman like myself. I drove all the way to the campus with

a new-found resolve for myself.

It was like being back home after being gone for so long.

FAMU campus is like one big happy family. I was suddenly filled

with a feeling of euphoria as I watched students perambulate the

campus grounds. I was scheduled to graduate that year.

I pulled into the student parking lot, waved at a few of my

friends and chatted with some. As I was unpacking my things

from the car, I thought about Life’s words,

you’ll be back

. I

searched the car for something he might have left. I could find

nothing. I sighed in relief, and then something told me to look

under the front seat. I stuck my hand under the seat and felt that

big-ass gun that he called Jesus. I slumped in my seat. That’s when

I noticed the trashcan. I thought about dumping the money and

gun into it, but ain’t no sister I know gonna throw away money.

Especially me, as bad as I was doing, trying to make it through

college. If they would have had a student welfare line, I would

have been the first to sign up. I decided right then and there, I was

going to give him back his money and big-ass gun, as well as a

piece of my mind. In doing so, I realized I was falling right into

his trap, and I kind of wanted to. Life Thugstin was an intriguing

character. That much I had to admit.

I needed to get some rest for the show that night. Me and my

girl, Nandi, hosted a show together called, “ The Panther Power

Hours.” She was from California and graduated from FAMU a

few years before. Now she was going to Florida State University to

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earn her Doctorate Degree. For years the show had been a big

underground hit. We played nothing but conscious Rap and old

R&B back when the music was good. Nandi would mix in sound

bytes of Malcolm X and Farrakhan. She was also real heavy into

poetr y. Often, she and other poets would per form–that’s what

gave the show its flavor. On a few occasions, a famous rapper

would come by.

As I carried all of my meager luggage to my room, I spoke to

all my friends. I checked out all the new hairdos and designer

clothes that I could not afford. FAMU could be like a Black fash-

ion show teaming with Black folks of all social status.

Once inside the room I shared with my homegirl, Shanana, I

took a long hot shower. Afterward, I slept faithfully until my

alarm clock went off at 9:00 p.m. I called Nandi from the pay-

phone down the hall. As usual, she was excited and upbeat to hear

from me. Talking was her natural forte. Her tongue was a double-

edged sword. Nandi Shakur was the first conscious person that

enlightened me to the plight of Black life in a way that opened up

something deep within me. Black people were dying from genoci-

dal acts at a rate so high that, if it had been any other race of peo-

ple, there would be a blood bath. Between the AIDS epidemic

affecting the world, especially in Africa, and the rate that the gov-

ernment was illegally imprisoning our Black men under the dis-

guise of a war against drugs, we were on our way to becoming

nonexistent. We had more Black men in prison than colleges and

universities. She asked me to think, if America had more white

men in prison than colleges, what would they do? I knew the

answer to that.

When I first met Nandi she was in my Political Science class.

She always stood out, not just that she was beautiful, but the way

she dressed and her long locks of hair. On this particular day, she

was arguing vehemently with a white professor, a man that I held

very high respect for. The subject was, “Should Black people be

given reparations for slavery?” Most of the students in the class felt

that Black people should not receive it. I felt that they were just

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agreeing with the professor’s logic in that color did not matter, and

that white America suffered due to slavery, too. Nandi was livid!

She argued to the point of tears. Said she owed it to her ancestors

to hold white people accountable for the atrocities of over one

hundred million people killed or enslaved. I just sat behind my

desk and watched the heated exchange of words. The class tried to

ridicule her. I was sort of against her too because as far back as I

could remember, I had always been taught that it does not matter

what color you are, and like the professor was saying, reparations

would establish a new color code. Nandi was on her feet, “Why

ain’t there any Black men in this class?” I looked around, and to

my surprise, there weren’t. Normally there were three brothers in

the class, but I had not seen them in a while. “You teaching it

shouldn’t matter what color you are, but it does, and racism still

exists as an institution exploited by whites!” Nandi’s words were

filled with hurtful overtones that compelled me to look at it from

her perspective.

The professor was offended by her statement. His right hand

trembled as he pointed at the door and asked Nandi to remove

herself from class. To my surprise some of the students applauded.

Nandi was an outcast because of her liberal views and her African

style of dress. I’ll admit, at first I was taken aback by her unique

style, but as I watched her hold her head dignified with tears

streaking down her beautiful ebony cheeks, something gnawed at

my heart. Nandi picked up her books and walked to the door. I

stood too and followed her. She looked over her shoulder at me as

I placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder and we both walked

out the door. She had been my girl ever since.

*****

I arrived at the station and Nandi was already there, which

wasn’t unusual for her. She was a perfectionist. As soon as she saw

me, she stood and embraced me. Nandi Shakur was what men

called a stunner. Her beauty reached out and grabbed you. People

openly stared at her. Her cinnamon complexion, combined with

her long golden locks of hair, seemed to make an entire room radi-

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ate in her splendor. On each of her fingers she wore rings, Ankhs

and trinkets of Africa’s antiquity. At 23 years of age Nandi was still

a virgin, and made no secret about it.

“…
three … two … one … WRXB The Panther Power Hours

is on your urban conscious radio station 89.3. This is your girl

Nandi Shakur and Hope Evans coming to you live from the cam-