forehead, and said, “Ummi’s fine, Minah. She’s just happy daddy’s home.”
Rahman went to the masjid first, as most Muslims do, or should do, when returning home from a journey. He prayed his return prayer and when he finished, he got up to a rousing chorus of Takbir and Allah Akbar. The other Muslims who attended his masjid knew he was on his way home, but to actually see him made them excited. He had been in touch with many of them while locked away. He had helped a lot of families and the masjid by building a children’s school and paying for roofing and plumbing repairs.
“All praise is due to Allah! My man’s home!” Salahudeen shouted as he hugged Rahman. Salahudeen was an ex-kickboxer. He used to travel in the same circles with Akbar’s people and would serve as Rahman’s right hand.
Salahudeen was followed by Hanif and Mustafa, both reformed gangsters now in the independent oil fragrance business. They all greeted Rahman.
“See how Ock do us? Don’t even tell nobody he out so a brother could be prepared,” Hanif commented.
“A Muslim is always prepared,” noted Rahman.
“No doubt, no doubt! This is true,” Hanif agreed. “But are you prepared to put this thing of ours in motion?”
“Insha Allah,” Rahman said to Mustafa.
“Aiight, dig. Let’s go up to my spot. I already talked to…” Salahudeen began to explain, because he was always about business.
Rahman laughed.
“Whoa, Ock. Slow your roll. I ain’t been home yet! My family’s in the car waiting for me.”
“My bad, my bad. Your wife does have rights over you,” Salahudeen said.
“Three years’ worth of rights,” Hanif joked.
“Exactly! You might not see me for another three years, either, messin’ with Ayesha.”
The brothers laughed together knowing what it was like to finally be home from a prison stay.
“Just gimme a week,” Rahman told them. They all agreed and dispersed.
On his way out the door, Rahman spotted Hakim coming in. Hakim was an older brother with salt-and-pepper hair. He was also Young World’s father. Rahman felt apprehensive as the man approached him, but he had no intention of avoiding him.
“It’s good to see you home,” Hakim said politely as he firmly shook Rahman’s hand.
“It’s good to be home,” Rahman replied. “You look good.” The brief silence between them was awkward.
Hakim smiled knowingly. “Ahkee, believe me. I don’t blame you for Shahid. By Allah, I don’t. It was the life he chose to lead,” Hakim explained softly. He knew Rahman’s part.
“I know, but…”
Hakim placed a warm hand on Rahman’s shoulder, and although he was five inches shorter, the respect Rahman had for him made them look at each other as if they were eye to eye.
“Allah knows best. All I ask is that you stand firm, okay? These streets are man-eaters, black man-eaters. Stand firm and that’ll convince me that you are sincere.”
Rahman took the lesson with him out the door.
For the next seven days, Rahman’s family was in heaven. The children had their daddy back and Ayesha had her husband home. He spent his days playing with the children and his nights with Ayesha. He was finally able to lead his family in prayer, something he had neglected to do during his life in the game and something he had longed to do when he was in prison.
The return was bittersweet. Sweet because he was where he had prayed to be night after night. Bitter because he had missed so much.
Anisa, his baby girl, was born the night he was arrested by the Feds. He had missed the first three years of her life, footsteps to words. Ali and Aminah were only two and three years old when he left, and although they were still young, he had missed seeing them develop.
Rahman knew he couldn’t make up for lost time, but he planned on making the most of every moment.
“Is it over?” Ayesha asked him one morning after prayer.
They stood together watching the sunrise from their bedroom balcony. Rahman stood behind her with his arms wrapped around her and hers wrapped around him.
“You ain’t gonna pass out again, are you?” Rahman joked. She elbowed him in the stomach. “Ow!”
“Then stop playin’ and answer my question.”
Rahman understood what she was asking. She wanted to know if he was through with the game. She knew of his plans, but she also knew the man her husband was and the man he was struggling to become.
“Yeah, boo. It’s over.”
She turned to look him in the eye. “No… I mean over. Over. All of it. Is this plan of yours gonna become another game? Another thing to take you away from me?” Ayesha questioned, searching his eyes for the answers.
Rahman caressed his wife’s cheek.
“Nothing can take me from you.”
“You once told me you couldn’t be a gangsta and a Muslim at the same time.”
“I remember.”
“Well, which do you choose now?”
Rahman looked away toward the rising sun.
“Muslim.”
“But this thing you got going on, these big plans. They will take you right back to the same streets and the same world,” Ayesha warned, hoping he had carefully considered what he was doing before making a final decision. She turned his face to hers.
“Rahman, I know you want to do right and I know you want to help as many as you can. But, baby, please don’t do anything that’s going to jeopardize our family. I don’t know what I would do if they took you away from me again.”
Tears trekked down her cheek and onto Rahman’s chest as he held her tight.
“I can’t survive another bid. Please. I can’t do this thing called life by myself because you want those streets. You can’t keep asking me to,” she said, angry at the past three years without him.
“I won’t,” his mouth said, but it was a statement he knew his heart couldn’t follow.
“To get rich or die tryin’ is the motto of fools and clowns,” Rahman bellowed to the crowd around him.
He was in Salahudeen’s martial arts studio on South Orange Avenue. He was surrounded by more than fifty street vendors. Hanif and Mustafa were there. Rahman paced the floor slowly, looking from face to face like a general addressing his army.
“Why? It’s simple… you can’t take it with you.”
A few heads laughed.
“No! You get power or die tryin’ because either way, you make a change. Power brings riches but riches don’t always bring power.”
He let his jewel sink in before continuing.
“The oil fragrance business has always been a good hustle. On every corner in every major city there’s a Muslim pushin’ ’em. But up until now, it’s only been nickels and dimes. You know why? No organization. If we organized it efficiently, we would be talking millions of dollars nationwide. Who ain’t tryin’ to touch that?”
“Holla back!”
“The man’s a genius!”
Rahman grinned.
“Okay then. This is why you’re here. We about to lock down the oil fragrance trade across the East Coast, starting today in Newark. And whoever rolls wit’ us, I can guarantee to double your profit margin, Insha Allah.”
“Then let’s double up!”
“I’m prepared to give each of you five thousand dollars to purchase oils for your businesses. The conditions, however, are that you will order from one supplier, once a month, and at the same time, regardless of inventory. You will also order a minimum amount and spend a minimum amount of money every month regardless of inventory. Once we increase volume, our prices will be reduced and our profit margins will increase.”
“Takbir!”
“Allah Akbar!”
