Plus there was something else about him that I just could not put
my finger on. “You did agree to move in with me after you grad-
uated from college, and if I’m good enough to shack with I’m
good enough to marry,” he spit defensively. Sometimes when
Marcus was ill tempered he acted peevish and now he was star ting
to piss me off as he stood with his bird chest stuck out, eyebrows
knotted together in contempt.
“
First of all, I never agreed to move in with you. I said that I
would think about it and that was only because I felt that it would
be good for us financially.”
“
Now I have a job, a good one. We can get married, have some
babies –”
“
Marcus!” I screamed his name so loud I thought the vein in
my neck was going to burst. “There will be no babies! I can assure
you of that!” I slid that in to let him know that I was on to his lit-
tle move that he made by not using a condom. “And no marriage.”
Now it seemed like my tongue had a mind of its own, and the
more I talked, the smaller Marcus got. “I am not going to be
dependent on no man. What part of this don’t you understand? I
fully intend to be a self-sufficient, independent Black woman
doing her own thang. And until I am ready to have some babies,
there will be none!” I rolled my eyes at him. Marcus looked at me
as if I had just doused him with cold water.
“
Fine! If that’s the way you want it, Miss Independent Black
Woman.” And then he did something that struck a serious nerve.
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He stood and pointed his finger in my face. “You’re 21 years old.
You need to first understand, this is a man’s world.” He said it like
he was taunting me, and the reality of it sent chills down my spine.
I knew that it held some truth, but I was not going to back down.
“
Girl, I’m tr ying to take care of you.”
“
Shit.” I hissed standing akimbo wearing the wrath of my
anger, “That’s just what I don’t want you to do, take care of me.”
I shot back at him. “Yeah, you would wanna keep me barefoot and
pregnant, and after I have all your babies, trade me for a younger
version, I think not!” I pointed my finger in his face shaking my
neck. We were standing too close for comfort now.
“
Do what the fuck you want to do!” he yelled, grabbing me by
my shoulders. “I am not putting my life on hold for your women’s
liberation bullshit dream.”
I pulled away from him. This was our first real fight.
“
Don’t you ever put your hands on me!” I lamented with my
little fists balled up ready to tag his ass. He opened his mouth
about to speak and thought better of it and stormed out of the
room. I continued to get dressed. I noticed a few of my things
around his apartment and wondered if I should take them. I knew
in doing so what the implications would mean. I don’t care what
anyone says, life is the hardest for a Black woman. Not only was I
discriminated against for being a woman, but for also being a
Black woman. And for some strange reason, brothas found me
intimidating when they learned my aspirations.
I headed for the door. My anger was starting to quell. Maybe
I did go too far. I was trying to be a woman dealing with a man in
a relationship.
“
Call me. I’ll be on the air tonight,” I said swallowing my
pride. “We need to talk.”
Marcus appeared from the shadows of the door way down the
hall. I could not read his continuance, didn’t want to either. I
closed the door to our lives and meandered to my car. I glanced
up at Marcus’ window to see him standing there watching me.
Good for his ass,
I thought. Make a brotha sweat, let him see me in
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my new ride. Let him know I wasn’t doing all that bad. For the
first time in my life I had no regrets about accepting the car from
thug, Life.
I put on my dark shades, turned up the volume to my boom-
ing car system. My girl Mary J. Blige was crooning, “Not Gon’
Cry.” I drove out of the parking lot bouncing to the rhythm. That
was my song, haay! Now it held special meaning. There’s some-
thing about a break up that can either zap your strength, or be
very empowering, if you’re determined to be an independent
Black woman like myself. I drove all the way to the campus with
a new-found resolve for myself.
It was like being back home after being gone for so long.
FAMU campus is like one big happy family. I was suddenly filled
with a feeling of euphoria as I watched students perambulate the
campus grounds. I was scheduled to graduate that year.
I pulled into the student parking lot, waved at a few of my
friends and chatted with some. As I was unpacking my things
from the car, I thought about Life’s words,
you’ll be back
. I
searched the car for something he might have left. I could find
nothing. I sighed in relief, and then something told me to look
under the front seat. I stuck my hand under the seat and felt that
big-ass gun that he called Jesus. I slumped in my seat. That’s when
I noticed the trashcan. I thought about dumping the money and
gun into it, but ain’t no sister I know gonna throw away money.
Especially me, as bad as I was doing, trying to make it through
college. If they would have had a student welfare line, I would
have been the first to sign up. I decided right then and there, I was
going to give him back his money and big-ass gun, as well as a
piece of my mind. In doing so, I realized I was falling right into
his trap, and I kind of wanted to. Life Thugstin was an intriguing
character. That much I had to admit.
I needed to get some rest for the show that night. Me and my
girl, Nandi, hosted a show together called, “ The Panther Power
Hours.” She was from California and graduated from FAMU a
few years before. Now she was going to Florida State University to
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earn her Doctorate Degree. For years the show had been a big
underground hit. We played nothing but conscious Rap and old
R&B back when the music was good. Nandi would mix in sound
bytes of Malcolm X and Farrakhan. She was also real heavy into
poetr y. Often, she and other poets would per form–that’s what
gave the show its flavor. On a few occasions, a famous rapper
would come by.
As I carried all of my meager luggage to my room, I spoke to
all my friends. I checked out all the new hairdos and designer
clothes that I could not afford. FAMU could be like a Black fash-
ion show teaming with Black folks of all social status.
Once inside the room I shared with my homegirl, Shanana, I
took a long hot shower. Afterward, I slept faithfully until my
alarm clock went off at 9:00 p.m. I called Nandi from the pay-
phone down the hall. As usual, she was excited and upbeat to hear
from me. Talking was her natural forte. Her tongue was a double-
edged sword. Nandi Shakur was the first conscious person that
enlightened me to the plight of Black life in a way that opened up
something deep within me. Black people were dying from genoci-
dal acts at a rate so high that, if it had been any other race of peo-
ple, there would be a blood bath. Between the AIDS epidemic
affecting the world, especially in Africa, and the rate that the gov-
ernment was illegally imprisoning our Black men under the dis-
guise of a war against drugs, we were on our way to becoming
nonexistent. We had more Black men in prison than colleges and
universities. She asked me to think, if America had more white
men in prison than colleges, what would they do? I knew the
answer to that.
When I first met Nandi she was in my Political Science class.
She always stood out, not just that she was beautiful, but the way
she dressed and her long locks of hair. On this particular day, she
was arguing vehemently with a white professor, a man that I held
very high respect for. The subject was, “Should Black people be
given reparations for slavery?” Most of the students in the class felt
that Black people should not receive it. I felt that they were just
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agreeing with the professor’s logic in that color did not matter, and
that white America suffered due to slavery, too. Nandi was livid!
She argued to the point of tears. Said she owed it to her ancestors
to hold white people accountable for the atrocities of over one
hundred million people killed or enslaved. I just sat behind my
desk and watched the heated exchange of words. The class tried to
ridicule her. I was sort of against her too because as far back as I
could remember, I had always been taught that it does not matter
what color you are, and like the professor was saying, reparations
would establish a new color code. Nandi was on her feet, “Why
ain’t there any Black men in this class?” I looked around, and to
my surprise, there weren’t. Normally there were three brothers in
the class, but I had not seen them in a while. “You teaching it
shouldn’t matter what color you are, but it does, and racism still
exists as an institution exploited by whites!” Nandi’s words were
filled with hurtful overtones that compelled me to look at it from
her perspective.
The professor was offended by her statement. His right hand
trembled as he pointed at the door and asked Nandi to remove
herself from class. To my surprise some of the students applauded.
Nandi was an outcast because of her liberal views and her African
style of dress. I’ll admit, at first I was taken aback by her unique
style, but as I watched her hold her head dignified with tears
streaking down her beautiful ebony cheeks, something gnawed at
my heart. Nandi picked up her books and walked to the door. I
stood too and followed her. She looked over her shoulder at me as
I placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder and we both walked
out the door. She had been my girl ever since.
*****
I arrived at the station and Nandi was already there, which
wasn’t unusual for her. She was a perfectionist. As soon as she saw
me, she stood and embraced me. Nandi Shakur was what men
called a stunner. Her beauty reached out and grabbed you. People
openly stared at her. Her cinnamon complexion, combined with
her long golden locks of hair, seemed to make an entire room radi-
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ate in her splendor. On each of her fingers she wore rings, Ankhs
and trinkets of Africa’s antiquity. At 23 years of age Nandi was still
a virgin, and made no secret about it.
“…
three … two … one … WRXB The Panther Power Hours
is on your urban conscious radio station 89.3. This is your girl
Nandi Shakur and Hope Evans coming to you live from the cam-