Midnight by Sister Souljah Page A

taking the time to come up to her job looking around and waiting for her. I waited to return his call. I had to let my anger pass.
    When I called Gold Star Tafari back, he said he needed to have Umma come over personally to do some measurements for some custom-designed curtains for his apartment.
    He was pushing it. I knew he wanted to get my mother inside his apartment, within his reach and control. By now I could tell that he would try anything. He was always calm, though, which fucked with me even more.
    So I played his game. I made an appointment for Umma to take the measurements and took his home address. I was glad to know where he lived. Even though he did not know where we lived, he already knew too much about my family, I thought. He lived in Brooklyn, in the corner building at the end of the block directly across the street from Prospect Park on Ocean Avenue and Parkside, over there down by the playgrounds.
    When I knocked he pulled his door open slowly. I could hear the metal pole dragging against a metal slide as the door opened. It was an old-school police lock where a metal pole leans against the closed door making it impossible for anyone to enter without the pole being removed. Even if someone was successful in breaking into an apartment with one of these locks, the noise that the metal made would expose the intruder instantly.
    When I stepped inside the dim living room, I could see his huge candles burning. I heard his soft music playing reggae sounds, Bob Marley’s voice. “I don’t want to wait in vain for your love . . .”
    I could tell that this was a typical approach for him. His thick cylinder candles were burnt down more than halfway. There was already three inches’ worth of hardened wax stuck around their bottoms.
    His big fucking welcome smile evaporated when he realized it was me, not Umma, and that she wasn’t even with me. I acted like he did, calm and casual. I walked in with the tape measure draped around my neck. I had disregarded his instructions the way he disregarded mine.
    “Turn on the lights so I can get your measurements right,” I told him.
    After taking the measurements and ignoring his screw face I quoted a price for the curtains that I thought would permanently end his relationship with Umma Designs.
    “Three thousand dollars,” I quoted him for the white burlap drapes he wanted with the brocade borders and the Lion of Judah embroidered on each section.
    “I-rie,” he said. But I didn’t know what that meant. So I started explaining and breaking down to him why my price was so high.
    “Five hundred covers only the material and supplies. It’s handmade. The material you want is heavy and expensive. The embroidery process will take much longer than usual.”
    “No problem, my youth,” he said. “I-rie.” Which I now knew meant something like “Okay,” or “That’s cool.”
    He left his living room space and walked into some back room. I was standing there in disbelief that he was gonna pay out the ridiculous price I only came up with to get rid of him for good.
    I looked around his little bachelor pad. Behind where I was standing, on the wall, was a five-foot-long horizontal fluorescent poster of the silhouette of a naked black woman lying down on her side. She had wide hips, a small waist, and titties the size of honeydew melons. It was just the outlineof a female body. She had no skin, no eyes or nose or mouth even. But she did have two afros, one big and one small. He had ashtrays everywhere, filled with cigarette butts and reefer seeds and roaches. Gold beads hung in each doorway dividing one room from the other. His lamps sat on top of old Guinness stout crates instead of tables. His extensive hat collection lined one of the walls, each hanging on its own nail. There were no family photos or even a sign of a woman’s scent or touch. There were no heels or dresses or bangles or perfumes or fresh-cut flowers. I thought to myself that he probably erases every