Midnight by Sister Souljah

were all these women walking through with either really tight or revealing clothing. Why would he be checking out the one woman wearing loose-fitting Islamic dress whose face and body he could not see at all?
    On Friday, the fifth day of his strange appearances, he sat in his station wagon and waited for Umma to come downstairs to meet me. He exited his car dressed in a rust Wrangler corduroy suit; brown Clark weavers; a red, yellow, and green belt; and a hat that looked like a beaver tilted sideways. He walked over toward us, his steps sideways like his hat. Purposely I waited eager to find out his intent. I stepped in front of Umma so that she was directly behind me. “Wait one minute, Umma.” I opened my coat so he could see I was holding.
    “I-man respect dat,” he said. “Overstand?” he added, smiling ear to ear.
    “What you need?” I asked him, unfamiliar with whatever he was saying.
    “I-man need fa chat wit she fa a minute,” he said, leaning to the side to try to catch Umma’s eyes and attract her attention. But I was taller than her and she didn’t step out from behind me.
    “Talk to me,” I told him. He reached his hand behind him into his back pocket.
    I pulled out my joint and held it at my side where no one but him could see it.
    “Hold on, wait, mon. I-man a paying customer,” he said, calmly opening the paper he just pulled out from his back pocket. “Why com it always haf a com down to fire power between bretherns?” he asked, but I didn’t flinch.
    “I want fer she ta put the Lion of Judah on I-man shirt. I-man know only she can do what I-man want. I-man checks Umma styles mon, wicked!” he said, his smile revealing his slow, sly manner and smoker’s teeth.
    “Whatever I-man wants from Umma Designs, I-man needs to talk only to me,” I told him, believing by now his name was I-man. He corrected me, telling me that his name was Gold Star Tafari. He pushed each of his names out likehe was pronouncing something sacred or announcing the arrival of a king. I later figured out that I-man was his way of saying “me,” referring to himself.
    Umma embroidered a gold Lion of Judah on the back of his deep-blue denim shirt, with all of the detail and power presented on the picture that he had handed to me that night outside the factory.
    When I called him to let him know his shirt was ready, he offered to meet Umma at her job. I told him forcefully that he should not return there since his business was only with me. He chuckled.
    We met. I gave him the shirt wrapped in our packaging. He paid. I gave him a receipt. After I thanked him for his business I turned to leave.
    “Hold on,” he said. He tore open the package right in front of me. He held the denim shirt up, then laid it down on the wrapping paper and ran his thick, rough, ashy hands over the hand-embroidered designs and shouted, “Wicked! Selassie-I.” I could tell that was some kind of vote of approval. I nodded and asked him, “You good?”
    He answered, “Umma is good!” I started feeling tight. So I left.
    Less than twenty-four hours later his deep voice and strange talk cut through on our voice mail. “I-man wants . . .”
    Umma embroidered a Lion of Judah on the pant leg of his jeans. I charged him double what he paid for the embroidery on his shirt. We met at a vegetarian spot called The Green Onion on Nostrand Avenue in Brooklyn. He paid for the package. I gave him the receipt, thanked him, and left.
    His next voice mail was directed at Umma. It was crazy hearing his voice saying her name, “Umma.” Umma was the name that only our family called her. Even though her business was named Umma Designs, her first name is actuallySana. “I-man wanna thank you personally, Umma. I-man has a special project jus fa you, Umma,” he said.
    I played his message three times. I never allowed Umma to hear it, of course. But now I was thinking of this cat as some real threat, a nutcase who knew where my mother worked and didn’t mind