enraged. Enraged by what the ghetto had done to the sisters sitting there with their falsely arched eyebrows, falsely tinted eyes, and dangling hair weaves. They looked like mannequins, mere shells of their beautiful black selves. Salahudeen gave them all a thousand dollars, and Rahman handed a robe to the two girls with exposed breasts.
“Cover yourself, ma. Ain’t no tricks back here,” he said, turning to another female in a weblike dress that barely covered her ass. “And you, put some clothes on.”
“I got some clothes on,” she retorted with an attitude. To her, there was nothing wrong with the way she was dressed.
“Sal, show her the door, please,” he said extending another hundred dollars, which she took from his hand. She looked at the eleven hundred dollars she was holding and realized her mouth had gotten her into trouble.
“Ay, yo. I’m sor-”
“Sal, the door,” Rahman repeated, and turned his back to her.
She sucked her teeth and stormed out. The other girls without robes or coats quickly covered themselves. They certainly weren’t tryin’ to piss the nigga off, especially since he was so free with his money. They definitely wouldn’t make the same mistake. Besides, if they could take their clothes off for tens and twenties, they could damn sure put them on for gees and cees.
“Is this what you want?” Rahman’s voice boomed, waving more money in the air. “Is this what your dignity is worth? They pay you to take it off so you can sell your soul to the highest bidder? You call that independence?” he asked, looking around the room, shaking his head in disgust. He looked at one of the girls, who couldn’t have been more that eighteen or twenty.
“Why you a stripper?”
“ ’Cause I’m grown,” she snapped with attitude.
Turning to a Puerto Rican girl sitting in the corner, he asked, “What’s your name?”
“Mona.”
“Why you strip?”
“Bills. A checkout girl at Pathmark don’t pay ’em,” she replied.
“I can dig it,” Rahman agreed. He turned his attention to a tall red bone.
“How much you make a week?”
“Two gees,” she said, lying through her teeth.
“Tops, fifteen hundred,” he surmised, recognizing game. “Now back to Miss Grownie Pants,” he said to the young girl. “You like bein’ a stripper? You like niggas treatin’ you like a piece of meat? A slut?”
“I ain’t no slut,” she spat. “I’m an exotic dancer, and no, I don’t like it. But I got two babies that tell me I ain’t got no choice.”
“What if I offered you a job?”
“What kind of job?” Miss Grownie Pants asked skeptically.
“One that doesn’t involve sex, drugs, or disrespect. Jobs for beautiful black queens and bonita latinas,” he said, smiling at Mona. “Making double what you make at the club.”
“Hol’ up,” the tall red bone spoke up. “What’s wrong with being a dancer? My body is my asset, just like an athlete’s. I like to dance. I like-”
“Then go dance, mami,” he said, throwing a hundred dollars in her lap.
Red bone rolled her eyes and tucked the money in her ample bosom on the way out the door.
“Anybody want to go with her?”
Nobody made a sound.
“You work for me, you work by my rules. Rule number one, don’t question me and play your position. I promise you, I’ll never ask you to do anything illegal or immoral. I’m a Muslim concerned with my nation. It’s my duty to provide. I’m not here to judge you. You wanna be a boy toy, there’s the door. But if you want to hold your head high because of who you are, then trust me.”
He looked from face to face. He could tell the women were used to being abused and tricked by so-called players and bitch-ass niggas. They had never met a sincere man who truly wanted to help them. His honesty, even more than the thousand dollars he had given them, made the women listen to him further.
In the next month and a half, Rahman expanded his circle of control to three more blocks, buying them to be drug free. His oil enterprise flourished and cash began to flow. The strippers had all been employed. Some had been hired to cook and care for the elderly in the neighborhood while others were hired as childcare for working mothers. The word spread about the jobs the Muslim brothers were offering, and Rahman ended up hiring fifteen more girls all out of his own pocket.
Even Miss Grownie Pants was won over by his strength and commitment to the community. He didn’t deal with the women directly, but Miss Grownie Pants always watched him, admiring the big man she had nicknamed Sugar Bear. She liked the way the Muslims carried themselves with high regard and respect for one another and their wives. She was curious about the lifestyle she had heard so much about, so she started asking questions.
One day, Rahman was walking down the street and heard a soft voice.
“
He turned around to find Miss Grownie Pants dressed in a loose-fitting jogging suit and kemar.
“Miss Grownie Pants?” he asked with surprise.
“My name is not Miss Grownie Pants. It’s Sonia. But you can call me Jamillah,” she said, smiling from ear to ear. It almost brought tears to his eyes. Every dime he had spent was worth that one moment.
“
Everything was going smoothly. The money was slow but steady, and the community was thriving. It had become safe for small children to play outside. The streets were calm. Even the elderly were out on their stoops. People seemed happier. The small-time hustlers who once occupied the neighborhood’s corners weren’t making any noise. They knew who they were dealing with. The community knew him as Rahman, but the streets remembered him as Dutch’s vicious lieutenant.
But the real test lay ahead.
For now, Rahman was satisfied. He felt humble but powerful, quiet but strong. He felt like Dutch.
In an ironic way, Rahman owed his plan to Dutch. He’d never forget the day they all met to discuss the murder of Kazami. Rahman remembered his reluctance and apprehension to take such a bold step. Dutch’s words made him realize his own power.
That was the attitude of men who made things happen instead of waiting for things to happen to them. Those words had given birth to Rahman’s plans to rid the black community of the poison that plagued it.
Poverty.
It wasn’t drugs or crime that were to blame. It was poverty and desperation. Rahman figured if Dutch could infest the city with his strategy, then he could clean it up with his own.
“There go my baby!”
He heard a female’s voice shouting as he stood on the corner talking to a few young hustlers. He turned around to find Angel.
“What’s up, boooooo?” she sang as she climbed out of the drop-top Jag. She was dressed in cuffed D &G jeans and a crisp white vee-neck T-shirt. Her hair was pinned back by Dior sunglasses, and she walked with a confident strut.
“I know, I know Muslims can’t hug she devilz,” she joked, slurring the words. “But you know I wanna wrap myself around yo’ big ass!”
Rahman chuckled, uncertain what to say.
“Look at you! You got all fat,” she said, poking his stomach.
“How you, ma? What’s good?” he asked, hoping she couldn’t tell he had been caught off-guard by her presence.
Rahman had heard about Angel teaming up with Roll, and his old dark side wondered why she was dealing with a sucka like him, especially after he found out Roll had Young World killed. Roll’s blocks were definitely on his hit list.
“I’m good. But word up, papi. I am so mad wit’ you. I can’t believe you been out all this time and you ain’t even holla!” Angel said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I just can’t believe that!”
