Feds get down. They some dirty muthafuckers. No matter how fucked up the case is, they make that shit stick. Even if you innocent, you goin’ to jail fo’ fuckin’ with them, man.
DD: Well, I guess it’s true. You can’t hold a good bitch down!
Angel: What, ju don’t know?
DD: So, how does this affect Rahman’s case, or should we not discuss that? (Rahman Muhammad was Angel’s codefendant, now also serving multiple life sentences.)
Angel: Naw, yo. Me and my nigga ain’t got nothin’ to hide. We held it down like family supposed to and now just like cream-we ’bout to rise to the top. Me and you, Roc. We all we got!
Rahman lowered the magazine and couldn’t help but smile. Angel was still Angel. They wrote each other from time to time, which was why Rahman already knew about her case. After finding out about her appeal, he had jumped on his. He was just waiting on a decision. He turned his attention back to the article.
DD: So when do you touch down officially?
Angel: You know the courts. It’s a whole bunch of legal bullshit, but it’s comin’. And like Dutch used to tell me, they can’t stop what they can’t see, so it’s best nobody know, feel me?
DD: Felt. But speakin’ of Dutch, what was son really like?
Angel (pauses, then laughs quietly): How many real gangstas you know?
DD: Including myself? One.
Angel (laughs at my quip): Well, dig yo, gangsta ain’t enough to make you Dutch ’cause papi is so much more. He had strings attached to the game like a puppet, and he controlled every move. Even now, three years later, niggas still makin’ records about this nigga, namin’ clothes after him…
DD: Not to mention books.
Angel: Oh, yeah, that Teri Woods chick? I respect her pen game. She’s real gangsta for puttin’ my man’s story out there. I read it. It was official.
DD: But yo, one last question. If anybody knows, it’s you. We asked Rahman two years ago (see
Angel (shouting): Fuck that bullshit! Fuck what you heard! My man ain’t dead! Them fake-ass, wannabe gangstas might want him to be, but he AIN’T! And until he come through, just know Angel gonna hold it down and rep my man and the streets!
DD: You keep saying your man. Thought you were… you know?
Angel: What? I eat fish? (chuckles) I’ve had my share of snapper, but let’s just say Dutch is my sweetest taboo.
DD: Juicy, Juicy tell me…
(The one-minute warning cut me off just when we were getting to the good shit.)
DD: Well, one minute left, any last words?
Angel: No doubt. To Roc, hold your head ’cause it’s me and you. To Goldilocks and Angela Hearn, one love. And to the streets, pick a side and ride or die ’cause the ride is ’bout to get rough. And let all them bitch-ass niggas know who’s runnin’ them streets for real. Angel’s baaaack, muthafuckas! Siempre.
Rahman laid the magazine aside and rubbed his face. Angel definitely hadn’t changed and apparently thought he hadn’t either. But he had, and it made him wonder where that left the two of them. He knew what she was going to do if released from prison. Take back what they had lost. But he had a different mission-to clean up the streets.
What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? Well, the streets would soon find out.
Rahman walked into FCI-Lewisburg’s chapel just as the Islamic call to prayer was being chanted.
Rahman was the prayer leader, better known as imam in Arabic. He led all the Muslim inmates in prayer and advised them on their personal issues from time to time. He prayed his two ra’kahs and then made his way to the podium.
“
“
Rahman surveyed the gathering of men before him. He knew many of the brothers had been stone-cold murderers, kingpins, pimps, and boss players. Now they all bowed to one God in perfect unity and harmony. Allah was truly the greatest.
“All praises are due to Allah. We praise him, seek his help, and ask his forgiveness. I bear witness that there is no God but Allah, and that Muhammad is his servant and messenger,” Rahman began, then flipped open his Qur’an.
“I want to read from Surah four, Ayat seventy-five. It says…” he began to recite the Qur’an in Arabic, his deep baritone caressing each syllable and his articulation punctuating the guttural sentences.
“
Then he repeated the prayer in English.
“And what is wrong with you that you fight not in the cause of Allah and for those who are weak, ill-treated, and oppressed amongst themselves, both men, women, and children, whose cry is: Lord rescue us from this town whose people are oppressors and raise for us, from you, one who will protect and raise for us, one who will help.”
He closed the Qur’an and paused to let the words sink in.
“This was a cry for liberation. Is this cry still not heard today? All around us, in every ghetto in America, brothers and sisters are crying, and yet the call continues to go unanswered. We in this room come from every part of the U.S. The North, West, South, and East, the inner cities, boondocks, and backcountry roads. We know that the ghetto is everywhere. People in society use this prayer every day, with or without understanding. But instead of calling on God, they call on the numbers man, the dope man, the liquor store, the strip club, or the corner bar. They call on anyone, anywhere, and anyway they can to escape the oppression being inflicted upon them.”
Many of the brothers nodded in agreement.
“But what is oppression? Is it just racist cops, politicians, and judges? Isn’t debt oppression? The type of debt that keeps us tied to two and three jobs tryin’ to come out of it? Isn’t the game oppression? It leaves a brother with only two options-jail or death. It’s a vicious cycle and where does it get us? Where are we now?” Rahman’s voice boomed.
“Where are we now? Here. It gets us here. It gets our women in strip clubs. It gets our kids in group homes. Why do you think there are fences around the projects tall as the fences around maximum-security prisons? In prison, fences mean they don’t want you to get out. So, can it mean anything different around the projects? Oppression. The white man knew exactly what he was doing when he built the prisons and the projects. But Islam is the liberator. Not the nation of Islam, not the 5 percent of Islam, not Moorish science or nationalistic ideologies, but Islam. Sunni Islam, pure and simple.”
Rahman paced in front of the brothers with his hands clasped behind his back.
“Now some will tell you that Islam doesn’t liberate. Islam enslaves. Look at the Arabs on the east coast of Africa. They were doing the same thing the Europeans were doing on the west coast of Africa! To them I say, know the difference between liberator and conqueror. Many start out as liberators but become conquerors, and the Arabs were no different. This is when we lost our glory as Muslims. But I challenge you to find any religion that has liberated any country in the history of the world. Christianity? That is only a facade for Roman imperialism. Buddhism? No. Judaism? Stop playin’.” Rahman smiled and a few laughed quietly.
“But Islam? Yes, yes, and yes again. This is history. So this is what we must take home to our families. Islam. Not as conquerors but as liberators. Teach them what they can do and they won’t need for what they don’t have. Lead by example, not by rhetoric, and they too shall follow.
After Jum’ah, Akbar and Rahman walked the yard.
“That was a beautiful khutbah, nephew. I taught you well,” Akbar joked. Rahman smiled.
“All praises are due to Allah.”
