Desperate Hoodwives: An Urban Tale

Prologue

Miz Cleo

When Godfrey and I first moved into Bentley Manor in June of ’69, it was supposed to be a temporary stop until the financing for our first home came through. Thirty-seven years later, I’m still waiting. My husband’s wait ended in ’71 when he suffered a massive heart attack while working at the Atlanta Steel plant.

That day changed my life forever.

Hopes and dreams withered away like rose petals in a snowstorm. I worked three jobs to support and raise four children. When my oldest got strung out, I hustled just like everyone else during the infamous ’80s to take care of my grandbaby. Now I don’t know where the hell she is.

Living paycheck to paycheck has a way of making the years roll by. Afros turned to Jeri curls, then to box fades, then twisted cornrows, and then finally back to Afros.

Between you, me, and the lamppost, I’ve seen just about everything under the sun in this slowly dilapidating apartment complex. Me and my best friend, Osceola Washington.

Osceola brags that she was Bentley Manor’s first tenant. She says she still remembers the original color of the carpets. I have a hard time believing they were ever any other color than puke green, but she swears otherwise.

Over the years, or rather over the decades, Atlanta as well as Bentley Manor has gone through some changes and is currently suffering through head-shaking fads. Did you know they call this city A-T-L now? Bentley Manor started off as a regular apartment complex, but in the late ’70s it was the ghetto, in the late ’80s, the projects. Now, it’s the hood.

Atlanta was once called as the black Mecca and played host to thousands of college students for Freaknic in the ’90s. Now rappers decree it the capital of the Dirty South. Don’t try to wrap your mind around that; it will all change before you know it.

You can’t tell them young folks nothin’, mainly because they’re hardheaded and they know everything. In my lifetime, I’ve gone from being a nigger, to black, to African American (though I don’t know nothin’ about Africa). Now nigga is back and there are more than a few of those running around Bentley Manor.

I pretty much spend my days sitting out on the stoop withOsceola—watching and, yes, sometimes snickering. Misery loves company, after all.

This place is hard on folks—the ones coming in and the ones clawing to get out. But it’s hardest on the women. The little girls, the disillusioned teenagers, and The Desperate Hoodwives…

1

Aisha

Look, I don’t want to keep up with the fucking Joneses. I am the Joneses. Especially when it comes to these fools living in Bentley Manor.

See me. Envy me. Want to be me.

That’s all these broke, welfare heifers and food stamps–loving bitches can do for me as far as I’m concerned. Fuck ’em.

Now I’ll admit when I first met my husband, at sixteen, I was living in Hollywood Court projects with my mother and two brothers, and just straight struggling. No designer clothes. No nice rides. No money. No nothing.

I used to be ashamed of my tore-up shoes and high-water pants with the faded knees. I was shy and quiet as hell, just trying to make people forget I was around so they wouldn’t notice how fucked-up my gear was.

The only thing I felt I had going for me back then was my looks. Light complexion, green eyes, long hair, and a bangin’ body. I had curves for days. And that’s what drew Maleek Cummings to me that hot summer day in 1998.

He was a big-time drug dealer sitting behind the wheel of his green Lexus SC400. He caught my eye and motioned for me to come to him. Humph. My silly ass was so surprised that he was talking to me that I actually looked behind me first to make sure. Once I saw it was all me, I slid on a shy smile and made my way to him. A little conversation, lots of flirting, and ten minutes later he invited my grown ass to go for a ride. Damn right I got in.

We just rode around cruising the different neighborhoods. I had my window down profiling like crazy. I didn’t think about the police pulling us over and maybe getting locked up because Maleek had work—drugs—in his car. I didn’t think about someone wanting to hurt him and shoot up his ride while I was in it. I didn’t think about him being twenty-one and I was just sixteen.

All I had on my mind was how lucky I was to be riding with Maleek. But I was smart about shit. I already knew that no matter how fine he said I was, no matter how many times he licked his lips like LL Cool J and gave me that I-wanna-fuck-you look, I was not giving up the goodies that easy. My momma been taught me that it was up to a woman to always make sure a man had more to give a woman than just a wet ass.

And it worked. Just two weeks later the shy girl with the raggedy clothes became Maleek’s girl.

My life ain’t been the same since.

From no name to name brand. Riding the bus to getting dropped off at high school in Maleek’s Lexus. Being broke as a joke to laughing my fine ass all the way to the goddamned bank. From watching my momma struggle to being able to help her take care of my little brothers. I felt like the world was mine.

Six years later I went from wifey to wife.

Maleek was the kingpin and I reigned as his queen.

My only complaint was that he moved us from one bullshit apartment in Hollywood Court to another in Bentley Manor.

When he first told me to go and fill out an application, I was like, What the fuck?

Don’t let the name fool you. Bentley Manor is a low-rise project that has seen better days. The red brick has graffiti all over it. The parking lot has more potholes than a freeway. Tiny shards of broken glass litter the street like sparkling confetti. Crackheads and dope fiends battle with the rats and roaches for prominence.

It damn sure ain’t my dream of a nice home in a gated community.

Far the fuck from it.

I wanted to be in a home. My home. With my husband and my kids—the ones I won’t have until I’m thirty.

Once a week I’d drive by Whitewater Creek—a gated community near Peachtree City—and long for the day I’ll lay around in one of those half a million-dollar homes. But Maleek didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself with such a big house and neither of us working. Let me get something legit off and poppin’ first, he said as we lay in bed together smoking a blunt. And then Whitewater Creek’s yours.

So fuck it. My man’s in the game moving major weight and I feel if his big, black, sexy ass was in Bentley Manor, then I’d be right up in there with him.

Shit, better me than the next bitch.

And tricks are always trying to get at my spot, but I have that shit on lock for sure. I made sure to give my man the three p’s to a happy relationship: pussy, pussy, and more pussy. If the wind blew and made his dick hard I made it my business to drain that motherfucker of every last drop.

Our sex is that type of freaky-deaky, stop-before-you-give-me-a-heart-attack type of shit. There’s nothing we don’t do to or for each other. When it’s on it’s on.

Maleek taught my ass very well about what he likes and don’t like. Hell, when a nigga’s taking care of his wife as good as Maleek takes care of me, what’s a little request for a rim shot or a hot lick of his ass?

Fuck it. That’s how we get down.

I park our silver chromed-out Benz in the first spot I come up on in the crowded parking lot. Before I get out I reach into my Gucci crocodile purse for my compact and double-checked my makeup. I wink at the almost identical image of Lisa Raye looking back at me. Matter of fact, that chick from Player’s Club ain’t got shit on me.

When I stepped out my apartment that morning I knew all eyes around the Manor were always on me. Bitches straight-checking for one sign of me slipping. One clue that I was wobbling and ready to fall, but that was nothing. Them hos needed to fall back because my game would forever and always be tight.

My Mary J. Be Without You ring tone echoes from my purse. Damn, Mary can sing. I’m feeling her because I didn’t wanna be without my baby.

Like always, I let the whole ring tone play before I flip my phone open.

Hello.

I need a favor, Aisha.

Usually I hate a begging ass…but this is my mother. Still, a little greeting would’ve been nice. No hi, hello, how you doing? Just straight asking for something. But I couldn’t refuse her. I wouldn’t.

How much, Ma? I ask, climbing out the car and locking the door.

You know I hate to ask, but I want to get some groceries in this house for the kids.

My mother works every day of her life but she always has one of those living on a shoestring budget kinda jobs: cashier, clerk, school aide, janitor-type shit. But when me and my baby brothers we’re growing up she always kept food on the table and the best clothes she could on our backs. I have to give her credit because she didn’t chase men, drugs, or parties. She stayed home with us. She just didn’t have the skills or the know-how to step up her cash game. Where she falls short, Maleek and me step in.

Ma is well aware Maleek make his money via his street game. She loves him to death and don’t give a shit ’bout how he make his money. Especially when he’s so free-giving with her.

I’ll stop by on my way home.

Tell my son-in-law I asked about him and thank you, baby.

You welcome, Momma.

I will never tell her no.

Right now I have it all compared to what she has. I’m used to having everything—what I want when I want it.

Everything, that is, except my husband.

Sadness fills my eyes and my soul at the very sight of the Jesup Federal Correctional Institute.

Behind those walls—those bars—is my man. Locked the fuck up like an animal.

I walk into the building feeling sick to my stomach.

Three months already gone and God knows how many more to go before his trial. Some kind of joint police bullshit or another investigated him and some other dudes he dealt with all up in New York and Virginia for nearly three years before a federal grand jury handed down a forty-five-count indictment. They all were charged with everything from conspiracy to possession and distribution of crack cocaine, drug trafficking, money laundering, and gun charges.

Maleek is looking at a ten-year bid.

I hate that there’s a stupid fucking point system. He can only get eight days of visits a month—time I have to share with his mother and sister. I hate the shit I have to go through to get inside just to look in his face and hold his hand.

I take a deep breath trying to calm my damn nerves as I walk into the lobby with the other women and kids. Getting checked in makes me feel like I’m the damn criminal. The ID check, the photo they take every fucking time, the invisible hand stamp, and the metal detectors. Only a plastic purse. No more than a twenty-spot. No sexy clothes. Thank God we don’t have a baby because them motherfuckers count how many diapers and shit you bring in. They even admit they peep out the bathroom to make sure no woman smuggled in drugs.

Shit, like I’m going to push a balloon filled with dope up my pussy. What the fuck ever. Maleek would never put me at risk like that.

So there’s a lot of bullshit—starting with a helluva five-hour drive from Atlanta—but I will do it for the next ten years or more if I have to. Maleek is worth that to me.

As the officer leads me to the visitation room I block out where I am. I try to pretend I’m not inside a prison.

Even when I walk into the visitation room and take my seat I don’t look around at the other inmates and their visitors. I find a blank spot on the wall and keep my eyes glued to it, trying not to think of what Maleek might have to deal with.

I mean, damn, what if some of dem niggas try to get at him while he in jail? Maleek ain’t no punk but what if a gang of ’em go out American Me-style on him?

Every time I think about it I have to remind myself that Maleek is well known and well respected. Nobody is stupid enough to fuck with him. I couldn’t let movies or rumors of men leaving jail livin’ life on the down low get at me.

Hey, baby.

My body nearly melts at the sound of his voice. Tears well up in my throat as I look up at his handsome square face and buff body in these whack-ass prison khakis and Rockport shoes from the commissary. I stand up and wrap my arms around his neck as we press our lips together. I moan and suckle his tongue as long as I can before the officers will step in.

This is my marriage. My life.

God help me.

2

Devani

I’m so sick of Tyrik’s shit I don’t know what to do. Here it is nine o’clock and his ass is still not here. Hell, he hasn’t even bothered to call. Let me pull some sorry shit like not answer my cell and he would be all over me like white on rice.

Humph. Looks like somebody is all dressed up with nowhere to go.

My mother’s cackle, like always, bounces off my last nerve and I pull away from the grimy window to give her my best don’t-fuck-with-me glare, but she ignores me and takes another hit off one of Koolay’s famous fat blunts and lowers her eyelids to half-mast.

Don’t go gettin’ mad at me ’cos I tell it like it is. Another hit and Mom passes the blunt to Koolay. A nigga is a nigga is a nigga. Your fancy NFL nigga ain’t no different than the nappy-headed ones runnin’ around here.

Word. Koolay, with his lost-in-the-eighties ass, chuckles and untwines his skinny, vein-protruding arm to take the blunt.

Encouraged by her boyfriend’s agreement, Mom finally succeeds in finding my glare, but she hardly takes it as the kryptonite it’s intended to be. That nigga is never gonna swoop in here and take you away from all this. So stop dreaming. You ain’t special.

And neither is that tightly guarded coochee you got, Koolay grunts.

That snaps my Mom out her glossy-eyed high and she quickly smacks the back of Koolay’s head. What the fuck you doing thinking about her coochee for?

Koolay ducks and turns on his wide-eyed innocent act to full volume. What? I had your back.

Fuck you, motherfucker. Momma jumps to her feet and starts waving her long slender finger like a policeman’s baton. If I ever find out you been putting the moves on my daughter, your ass is out of here!

Momma is in her element. The only thing she likes better than good weed and good dick is a good argument. Shaking my head, I stroll out the front door of the small apartment and walk out to the front stoop.

It’s a hot, muggy night with enough humidity to wither my kitchen area, but I’m past caring whether I need to make an appointment with Keisha. I’m still wondering why the hell Tyrik stood me up two nights in a row. Not like I want him to meet my momma, but still.

Maybe my momma is right. Maybe Tyrik is no better than the other niggas running around like cockroaches in Bentley Manor.

Shit.

I suck in a deep breath and will my tears to disappear. This can’t be happening. I played my cards right. I don’t act like some loose booty around him. I was careful to be aloof about his money and fame. I cared about him, not what he had.

He ate that bullshit up because I served it on a silver tray with a smile. So where the fuck is he?

Standing outside like an idiot, I gaze around at my old, red-brick prison, complete with a wrought iron security gate. A joke really, since the worst of the worst lived in Bentley Manor. Who exactly is the gate supposed to keep out…or keep in?

I have to get out of this place.

I know clinging to a nigga like he’s the Messiah is sorry as hell. I’ve tried to save myself, working three jobs to put myself through some sorry tech school that promised job placement after graduation. But that shit turned out to be a joke. Everybody and their mommas ended up with a computer degree. The motherfucker barely qualifies you to turn on a computer, let alone rake in the six-figure income the dot-comer revolutionists promised from every glossy-paged business magazine.

Yo, Devani!

I make a quick swipe at my tears, disgusted with myself for acting like a weak bitch in front of the whole damn neighborhood. I turn to see Junior lumbering up the cracked sidewalk. Junior, Tyrik’s cousin and struggling rapper—though he can’t flow for shit—bounces up the stoop and stops before me. Whatcha know good, gurl?

Nothing. Just hanging out.

His unkempt bushy eyebrows—which look like one long fuckin’ hairy caterpillar—leaps at this. Since when does your bougie ass hang out wit us common Negroes?

I’m not in the mood for Junior’s needling and I flash him my DFWM glare and he quickly tosses up his arms. I’m just sayin’. I figured you’d be over at Tyrik’s party, shakin’ dat fine ass before some other hood rat jumps on dat rich, NFL dick.

No shit. My heart drops to my Gucci knockoff shoes. What party?

Junior looks at me as if I suddenly spouted an extra head, but then just as quickly his face cracks with an understanding smirk. Ah, dat nigga didn’t tell you?

Fuck! I explode, tossing my hands up in the air. My mind scrambles for a plan, a move, or tactical military maneuver to get my ass back into the game. Junior, I need a ride.

He scrunches up his face. What the fuck? This ain’t Drivin’ Miss Daisy Incorporated.

Nigga, you can’t spell incorporated. Snatching his arm, I storm down the steps. Junior apparently knows I mean business since he doesn’t offer any further resistance. What is Tyrik celebrating? I ask under my breath, but the question was voiced loud enough to reach Junior’s ear.

Farewell party. He’s been traded to Pittsburgh.

If my heart wasn’t already in my shoes, I swear it would have fallen again. Still, it takes everything I have to keep my burning tears in