Never Gonna Be Wifey Read online

  Six weeks later, I was walking out of the psych unit. As I exited the floor and entered the lobby, I noticed Jeanette sitting down. Going in, I was mad at her, but I was happy to see her face now. She ran over to me and hugged me. I hugged her back.

  “How you feeling, baby girl? You look good.”

  “Better,” I smiled.

  “You look better. You even gained a few pounds. Your face looks refreshed. Skin looks clear. Come on; I drove your car. It’s parked across the street. Parking up here is crazy.”

  I was going to ask why she was driving my shit, but I decided not to. I was still a little bit salty at her for signing those fucking papers. I got into the passenger side and rolled my window down. I welcomed the fresh air because I was used to the smell of Pine-Sol that they used daily to mop the floors.

  “You hungry?”

  “I’m starved. I need some real food. Stop by that Jamaican restaurant; I believe the name is Travellers, by Glenwood. I’m feigning for some curry chicken, peas, and rice.”

  “Sounds good, ’cause I’m too damn tired to cook.”

  After getting my food, I pushed back my seat and disappeared into my thoughts. I was trying to figure out where I was heading from this point on. The pain was buried deep down, but after weeks of getting counseled, I think I had it figured out, and I’d learned how to deal with my emotional pain a little better. As for my physical pain, the doctor took me off the Percocet and prescribed Ibuprofen 800 mg instead. It didn’t work as well as the Percocet, but I took it anyway.

  “We’re home,” Jeanette said, interrupting my thoughts.

  I was happy to be home finally. I got out of the car and tried to haul ass upstairs, but Jeanette grabbed my arm.

  “Sierra, I know you might still be upset with me because I signed those papers. Please understand that it was out of love. I’ve been there, and I didn’t want to see you head down the same path. Addiction is a sickness that is not easy. Look at me. I struggle e’eryday just to stay clean.”

  “I’m tired. I need to shower and crawl into my bed,” I said and walked off.

  The first thing I did was jump into the shower. I stood still and allowed the water to pound my body. I then used my Olay Body Wash to erase weeks of grime off my body. In the midst of bathing, I busted out crying. I let it all out in the shower. The water and my tears ran down into the drain alongside the soap suds.

  I got out and dried myself off, lotioned my skin, and put on my favorite pajamas. They were my favorites because Alijah bought them for me. Every time I used to put them on, he would say, “Damn, ma, yo’ ass phat as fuck!” I would smile back at him and say, “Boy, quit playing! My ass phat all the time.” I cracked a smile as I remembered the good times we had. There were also bad times, but deep down, he was a good man who got caught up in the streets. I recalled times when I would beg him to leave the streets alone, but who was I kidding? Alijah lived and breathed the same streets that got him killed. And because of that, I’d lost my lover and my best friend.

  I wish I could change the hands of time, but I knew it wasn’t possible. I planned to get my son back and make sure he didn’t end up like his father. God knows I couldn’t bear the pain . . .

  * * *

  I was ready to get things rolling again, and this time, I was feeling better mentally and physically. I think getting out of the house and working will keep my mind occupied. I hit up the realtor again, apologized for my missed appointment, and set up a new appointment. I let him know what I was looking for, and I needed something as soon as possible.

  Within two months, I officially opened a new salon on South Hairston Road. This shop was a full-scale salon; I had a section for hair, nails, and I hired a certified massage therapist. It was a one-stop shop. Starting over wasn’t easy, but I gave out flyers at the grocery stores, Walmart parking lots, and wherever else I went. The day of the grand opening, I was very nervous. This was a new environment for me, and the area was already swamped with beauty salons. I was confident in my skills, so I knew it was only a matter of getting the word around town.

  I’ve always wanted to do it big! The people of Stone Mountain came out and showed out. I offered a discount, and the other stylist and I worked our asses off that day. It was well past midnight when the last client walked out. By the time I got to the house, my feet were swollen, and my body felt like I’d taken a serious ass whooping.

  Jeanette was sitting in the living room when I walked in, and as usual, she wanted to talk.

  “Long day? You look worn out.”

  “You can’t tell?”

  “Well, I cooked dinner. I didn’t know what time you was coming home, so I didn’t warm it up.”

  “I’m too damn tired to eat. Can you put a cup of soup in the microwave while I shower?”

  That night, I ate the cup of soup and jumped into bed. Sierra is back, I thought before I dozed off.

  Chapter Three

  Azir Jackson

  Eighteen Years Later . . .

  To understand my rage, you must first understand my pain. Shit, I felt like my destiny was carved out from birth.

  I’ve heard plenty of stories about my pops, but I never got the chance to meet him. My grandma often told me stories about how great he was and how much I resembled him. She would smile when she looked at me, saying I reminded her of him. She also kept a picture of him on the dresser, and I could say I do see the resemblance. Fuck that; we looked like twins. The only difference was, he had long hair, and I had dreads.

  I spent many days in my backyard wondering if he were here, how much different my life would have been. Now, don’t get me wrong, my life wasn’t bad at all. Shit, I lived in one of the most exotic countries, Jamaica, that is. I got money at my disposal. My grandma said we weren’t rich, but fuck what she was saying. Life was great. We lived in a big-ass mansion up in Beverly Hills. Soon as I got my driver’s license, she bought me a Benz. My pocket stayed on swole with U.S. dollars. Mom-dukes also sent me money e’ery month. I haven’t seen her in years, but I talked to her on the phone every day.

  In my area, people knew me as “Top Shotta.” Yeah, they nicknamed me after the movie Shottas, only I was the real big man ’round here.

  Niggas gave me respect, and the ones that didn’t respect were often dealt with. Bitches were all over my dick. Had a few of them tried to put their babies on me, which was definitely a warning; that’s why I made sure I wasn’t fucking them raw.

  I wasn’t ready to play daddy; besides, I was getting ready to fly out. I was leaving Jamaica to go live with Mom-dukes. Was ready for the change; plus, I had some serious questions to ask her about Pops, and who killed him. I tried asking Grandma, but her response has always been the same. “Azir baby, God will deal with them.”

  I understood about her faith, but that wasn’t telling me what the fuck happened. There’s not one night that I lay in my bed and don’t think about the man in the picture. Rage consumes my heart, and my judgment’s clouded with anger and hate.

  I knew I wouldn’t get the answer sitting around in the islands. For the next few months, I worked on my illegal mentality. I prepared myself for the task that was ahead of me. I wasn’t sure what he was or who it was against. All I knew was the minute that I touched down in the U.S., I was going to holla at my father’s partnas, get a better insight of what the fuck happened to him.

  “Yo, Z, I heard yuh ’bout fi leave di place, mi general,” Kimari said.

  “Yo, Don, dis is mi home, but mi ’ave some things fi handle ova foreign. You see mi?”

  “Seen, mi G. Mi only wish me could come wit’ yuh.”

  “Listen, brethren, yuh a mi bredda fi life, and mi know you got me, so just kno’ sey yuh bwoy good. Shit real personal wit’ me.”

  “Mi hear you, mi G. Just nuh trust none a dem Yankee bwoy deh. ’Cause fi real, a foreign yuh born, but a yaad you grow up. So yuh a one a we.”

  “Trust mi, mi dupes, mi nuh trust nuh man. A Jah alone I and I put I trust in. And nuh
bloodclaat bwoy can’t touch mi. A me name Top Shotta.”

  Shit, Kimari had been my nigga from day one. We’ve fucked some of the same bitches, ate out of the same pot, and when it came down to beef, we busted our guns together. Trust me; I loved him like a brother, and I knew he felt the same way. I also knew he was feeling salty that I was leaving.

  “Yo, mi G, mi ’bout fi go inna di house. We wi link up early inna di mawning, so we can go up a Papine.”

  “A’ight, yo.”

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  “A wey the bomboclaat,” I said, as I pulled my gun and fired back at whoever was in a red Toyota Corolla.

  Pop! Pop! Pop! More shots were fired as the car circled around and came back toward us.

  Even though Kimari and I were shooting back at them niggas, we were no match for the bullets that were coming our way.

  “Yo, mek, we mek a run fi it.”

  We both started busting back while we made our exit. We jumped in my ride, and I sped off down the road. This was my area, so I knew all the back roads; it was nothing to lose those niggas. After I made sure that no one was following us, I pulled into Kimari’s driveway. There’s no way I was going by my grandma’s house ’cause whoever them niggas was, I couldn’t risk getting my grandma involved in it.

  I was tight as fuck that I didn’t get to see their faces. It also bothered me that I didn’t know which of them hating-ass niggas was behind the shit.

  “Yo, pour mi a shot a rum,” I said as I started to roll up a big-head spliff.

  “Yo, a who yuh tink dem bwoy is?”

  “Bwoy, mi nuh kno’. The first ting cum a mi mind is di bwoy dem from round Matches Lane. Memba di other day mi and di bwoy Markie kick off?”

  “Yeah, dem must ’ave a death wish, coming ’round here like that. Di next time mi si dah bwoy, deh is a bullet mi ago put inna him pussyclaat dome. Yuh si mi.”

  * * *

  It was kind of a tense ride from the house to the airport. My grandma had tears in her eyes, and earlier before we left, I heard her crying and calling out to God for help. I ain’t gonna lie; I was gonna miss her. Shit, she’d been the only person that was constant in my life; no matter what happened or what we went through, she always had my back.

  “A’ight, Mama, it’s time for me to check in.”

  “Azir, mi a warn yuh. Nuh badda go gi yuh madda no hard time and stay outta trouble. Foreign nuh nice atall.”

  “Mama, cho mon. Nuh worry yuhself. Mi good, trust mi; a Jackson mi name, you seet.”

  She held me for a few more seconds, then let me go. I walked off with my head down. I didn’t turn around ’cause I couldn’t bear to see the pain she was experiencing. I was also eager to get on the plane and get to Atlanta.

  I boarded Delta flight 1877 from Kingston to Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. As soon as I was seated, I opened my book bag and pulled out the manila envelope that I grabbed from under my grandma’s mattress. I wasn’t sure what was inside, but I did know that for several years, my grandma would pull it out and sit down reading while she cried. I was never allowed in her room by myself. This morning was different; she asked me to grab her sweater, so I took the opportunity and grabbed the envelope that I knew had something to do with my pops.

  I busted the envelope open, and there were newspaper clippings and pictures. I wasted no time; I dug right into the contents of the papers. In front of me were details about what happened to my pops. Water gathered in my eyes as my heart raced. Rage filled my heart. Those fucking pigs shot my pops down as if he were an animal. I fumed as I continued to read every little detail on those pages.

  Chapter Four

  Sierra Rogers

  Today was definitely a day to celebrate. I was on my way to Hartsfield-Jackson to pick up my baby boy. Damn, time flew by so fast; it seemed like it was yesterday he was born, but he was a grown man now, and I haven’t seen him in years. I’ve seen pictures of him, talked to him every day, but by the time I got myself together and was ready to bring him back to the U.S., he was in a good school in Jamaica. His grandmother and I decided it was best he completes high school out there and once he graduates, he would move back to the States.

  I still believe in my heart that it was the best move I’d made when I allowed him to stay in Jamaica with his grandma. At first, everything seemed fine . . . right up to the point a few years ago when his grandma called. She informed me that Azir was into the streets, and she had a feeling he was dealing drugs and involved in gang activities.

  I froze up on the phone when I heard her utter those words. It brought me back directly to his father. I had hoped that my child wouldn’t follow down the same path as his father. It’s crazy because he was only weeks old when his father was gunned down. After I got off the phone, I decided to bring him back to the States. The same lifestyle that I was trying to shield him from was the very one he was involved in.

  I remembered when I asked him about it, and he flat-out denied that he was in the streets. My mother’s intuition kicked in, and I knew then he was lying to me. Azir had no idea how wicked these streets were. I needed him here with me so I could try to keep an eye on him. I refused to lose my baby to these streets.

  * * *

  As I stood waiting for him to come out, I felt butterflies in my stomach. I couldn’t wait to snatch him up in my arms. I knew Alijah was staring down at me, smiling. If only he could be here with us.

  I recognized him as soon as he hit the corner. He was the dead stamp of his daddy.

  “Hey, baby,” I screamed and ran over to him.

  I grabbed him and hugged him real tight.

  “Yo, wha gwaan mi madda,” he said in his raw Jamaican accent.

  “Boy, if you don’t stop sounding like your daddy,” I scolded and laughed.

  “It’s mi swag, Ma, don’t be mad at me.”

  We walked over to the luggage area. I couldn’t stop staring at him. Seeing him on Skype and pictures over the years was not the same as seeing him in person. He was taller than me, and it seemed like he’d been working out. He grabbed his luggage off the carousel, and we walked out to my car.

  “Damn, Ma, is that you?” He pointed to my Lexus truck.

  “Yes, Azir, this me. You may not know it, but your momma likes nice things as well.”

  “Shit, mi hate that mi affi leave fimi ride.”

  “Boy, you better watch your mouth.” I playfully tried to hit him. “Respect.”

  His accent was so thick; you couldn’t tell this boy was born in Richmond, Virginia, and not Kingston, Jamaica. I swear I understand him a little ’cause I was used to his father’s accent, but he needs to speak English ’round here, so I could fully understand.

  * * *

  I drove from the airport to Stone Mountain. It’s a suburb about thirty minutes out of Atlanta. I had a nice three-bedroom house in the upper-class neighborhood. The entire ride, we talked about his life in Jamaica and his plans for the future.

  “So how do you feel, and was your grandma crying?”

  “Mi feel good still. Trying to see what America have fi offer. Grandma cool enuh. Dun know, she goin’ miss mi still.”

  “Well, I’m happy you’re here now. We don’t miss out on so much. We got a lot of catching up to do.”

  There was a lot of traffic, but we eventually made it home. I know he’s probably hungry and tired by now.

  “Jeannette, we’re here,” I yelled as we entered the house.

  “It’s about time; I’ve been waiting for y’all. The food must be cold by now,” she complained.

  “Grandma Jeanette.”

  “Well, hello, there, young man. C’mon give your nana a big hug.”

  Azir rushed over and hugged his grandma. They behaved like they didn’t want to let go.

  “Boy, look at you! You done turned into a man. Last time I seen you, you was a little boy around twelve, I think. Now you all grown up and tall as hell.”

  “Go upstairs. Your room is still the same way you left it,
the last time you visited.”

  I then walked into the kitchen behind Jeanette. I was starved, and I knew she put her foot in the vegetable stir-fry that she made. I had to give it to her ass; she knew how to throw down in the kitchen.

  “Hmm . . . It smell good up in ’ere,” Azir said as he walked into the kitchen.

  “Yeah, it do. Your grandma is a beast in the kitchen. Go wash yo’ hands while I fix yo’ plate.”

  “Oh yes! You kno’ mi love fi eat. Anyting except for meat.”

  “Boy, you missing out on meat. I sure love some oxtail and chicken.”

  I made plates for the three of us, and we sat down at the dining table. As I sat across from Azir, I couldn’t stop admiring him. He was no longer my baby boy; he had turned into a jovial young man. He was tall and muscular. He resembled his father to the teeth. It broke my heart that Alijah wasn’t here to see his only seed.

  “Yuh good, Mama?”

  “Yes, baby. Just looking at how you’ve grown up.”

  “Yeah, mon, mi is not a baby anymore,” he said.

  Azir Jackson

  It didn’t take me long to fall into my new life in the A. I fit right in with the other Jamaicans, and in no time, I had a little team of yaad boys. I chilled on the low because I was trying to scope out my new surroundings. Late at night, I’d be in my room, writing music and working on my illegal mentality. I was trying to figure out how to flood the area with fresh coke from Jamaica. I had a connect back home but just had to draw up a plan on how to get it into Atlanta. One of the biggest issues I had was trusting these niggas; even though I rolled with them, it didn’t mean I trusted them. I was missing my homies back in Jamaica, especially my right-hand man.

  It took me awhile to get used to being around Mom, even though she seemed cool. I guess at first, I didn’t really give her a chance. Growing up as a child in Jamaica and seeing my homies with their moms and pops, I used to feel some type of way. Pops was dead, but I always wondered why she wasn’t there more. I used to come up for summer holidays a few times, but I wanted to live with her. I remember nights lying in bed just thinking about her. My grandma did the best she could, but it wasn’t the same; I always felt empty inside. No disrespect, but I turned to the streets because I was searching for the family that I never had. I had some granduncles, but one was a crackhead, and the other always had his hand out every time I went around. It was cool at first, but then I cut that shit off. Fuck them. Ain’t shit was wrong with them, so why couldn’t they work? I heard stories that my dad used to look out for them. Guess what? I wasn’t my dad, and in my book, if a nigga didn’t work, then the motherfucka didn’t eat.