Prologue
•••
"You outta hea' nigga!" Gino shouted from his open cell, sitting on the rusted toilet seat with his pants and boxers dropped to his knees.
It would've bothered me, but I was use to it. Damn near everybody in this joint have seen each other naked, regardless of it was purposeful or not.
"Oh, today yo' day ain't it?" Another shouted, a cigarette stuck between the gaps of his teeth.
Very few commented, eyeing me as I dragged my feet across the cell floors, holding onto the little possession I had for the seven years i've been here.
Charged with assault with a deadly weapon.
The only reason I got out so early was because of good behavior. Even then, I almost didn't meet the criteria due to the fights I involved myself in.
Everyone wanted to be gang-gang until all of us were cooped in a box together. The police enjoyed it though, making bets on who they thought would win and even showing favoritism to the ones they supported.
I was never supported.
"One call, and then you're out," The blue collared woman reminded, handing me the phone so I could dial someone up.
The only person I could think of was my baby mama, Rasheeda and her end of the phone muffled with static.
"R-Rasheeda?" I spoke hesitantly, yet quickly, knowing that this call was on a five minute timer. I didn't have enough on my books to cover more.
"Yo?" An unfamiliar voice boomed on the other end. "Yo, who is this?"
"This Arondae. Who this is? Whea' Rasheeda?" I ran my tongue over my bottom lip, feeling the flakes of the dryness.
"I think you got the wrong number.. Arondae." He tested my name on the tip of his tongue, repeating it to make sure he was pronouncing it correctly. "You mean the bitch who use to own this phone?"
"Yeah, yeah." I nodded, though he couldn't see me and I wasn't aware of his identity. I was wrong to give him my name.
"Oh she dead, patna," He chuckled, evident that he had some doing in this. "Mm, this my phone now, don't call it no mo'."
After that, all I could hear was the beeps, notifying that he hung up.
"Ain't no way," I muttered, ready to dial another number, but the phone was snatched from me by the officer.
"I said one call" She held it tight, with a stern face.
"Mane, what?" I got in her face, sizing her up. "Bitch, you ain't seen my call was bout' thirty seconds long? I can't get anotha' one?"
She slid her free hand down her thigh, where her gun hung with its safety off. "If you knew what was best for you—"
"Nah, I don't," I pressed, getting closer to her face, "Tell me what's best fa' me."
Nobody understood that Rasheeda was the only one I had. Her number was the only one I could remember, her face was the only one planted in the back of my mind.
I ain't have family. Yea, a few cousins here and there, but that was it.
I ain't have a car, didn't have a license. Neva worked a nine to five, Neva even finished school.
I was a twenty-three year old nigga who was raised in the streets, by the streets, and below the streets.
The only thing I had was a son, but that was it.
Ain't had a house in my name, ain't no cards in my name. Hell, I had to join Write a prisoner and lie to a couple hoes just to get some money on my books.
