City of Brotherly Love

The clock ran down: three, two, one. The player got the ball off just before the buzzer sounded. The ball grazed Damani’s finger, but that didn’t matter—the ball buried itself in the bottom of the net. Damani fell to his knees and sunk his head in his palms.

He played a hell of a game: twenty-six points, a dozen dimes, and a pair of boards. His teammates never stepped up to the pressure as he did. The South Philly team almost upset the top-ranked team in Pennsylvania in the first round of the state playoffs. Neither mattered—they lost—their season over.

“Keep your head up, man,” the shooter said. “Played a hell of a game.” Caleb, the star, and captain of the other team was the shooter. He reached down to help Damani off the floor. “Especially out of a young nigga, like you.”

“Appreciate it,” Damani said. He stood up alone.

Caleb dapped him up and trotted to the locker room. It was a tremendous compliment; Caleb was declaring eligible for the draft following the season—most likely another championship ring. Damani’s pride wouldn’t allow him to be friendly with the kid who drained the game-winner in his face though.

“Hell of a game D!” Coach Johnson said, slapping his ass as Damani made his way to the bench.

Damani sipped his Gatorade and plopped down in his seat. He didn’t bother surfing the crowd over with his eyes, his sister wasn’t going to be there. She was tied in with the wrong crowd and killed a month before. Damani knew the causes were unnatural but nothing else.

That damned Jamaican nigga, he thought.

“Yo Benny,” Damani said. “You got me a ride home? Destini was supposed to be here and take me out—but I ain’t seein her.”

Damani thought it was better if his friends didn’t know the truth. What would they think if they knew the truth? His sister was murdered and nobody—including the police—put effort toward her justice.

“Anything for you D! Great game today! We almost had ‘em!” Benny replied.

He was the team manager and always held an overly optimistic tone. It never bothered him that the team hadn’t won a playoff game in decades.

“Sorry to hear your sister didn’t make it.” Benny helped gather Damani’s equipment from around the bench. “I know you’ve been looking forward to seeing her.”

Thunder clouds stood in tall columns above the city as the boys ventured away from the gym doors.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Benny braved out; the two boys climbed into Benny’s 1999 Honda Civic.

“I do—not right now man. Just lost a big game, you know?”

Although true, the reason Damani didn’t talk was he never considered someone might help him.

“You mind dropping me at the old boxing gym? The one on the other side of the tracks,” Damani said. “I gotta see somebody: it’s urgent.”

“Of course!” Benny said, he couldn’t recall Damani boxing but didn’t think twice on the subject. “Great game D— this’s why you’re the man! Even after the game—straight to the gym. See you, man.”

“Thanks Benny, for the ride,” Damani said through the open window. He tapped the top of the car twice with his right hand as he turned toward his left to leave.

When the Honda rounded the corner, Damani rerouted up the block, toward Manny’s house. The cold wind stung his nose, cheeks, and ears; tears welted in the corners of his eyes. As he walked, he thought—don’t be a bitch!

***

Manny struggled out of his slouched position in the old sofa. “Dee suns bright as ’ellfire dis moornin,” he growled. He wondered if Destini was listening to him. He would’ve preferred her moist, sweaty skin against his, but knew that wasn’t an option. The bedroom door was bolted.

The night before, Manny said, “Best be glad yu ain’t like dose oter girlies,” as he tapped the back of his right hand into the palm of his left. He wouldn’t hit her, but he felt the need to remind her sometimes.

“It’s hardly morning anymore, you know?” Destini said as she looked up from her coffee. “And you missed church again,” she mumbled after the fact.

She knew it would take a miracle for Manny to accompany her to church. As a child—Manny grew up in a Christian orphanage. Destini knew it as de olde slaeve chuch. She was oblivious to what happened while he was there. All she knew was he ran away when he was thirteen and never looked back. He refused to mention the place, unless in a joke or a slander. He wouldn’t be caught dead with as much as his foot in a church building.

The lack of knowledge on Manny’s past never bothered her. She felt comfortable she knew enough. He intrigued her— plus, she was his queen.

“Yu dancin de pole alnight?” Manny said, joining her at the table. It was barely large enough for the two of them.

She rolled her eyes. “You know I have to work tonight,” she said. “It’s Sunday—shot day. I should make good money.”

“I haf to put’a baybay in yu?” Manny said, only half joking.

Ever since she moved in with him, he no longer felt quite the same about her profession.

She climbed the table, slow and seductive—Manny’s eyes fixated on the way her dress hugged her hips, as she now straddled his chair.

“You won’t do it,” she whispered, taunting him with a firm left hand down the front of his sweatpants.

Manny’s heart rate doubled. She kissed him softly down his neck. Merely twenty, she felt grown enough to tease him in such a fashion. She took care of her little brother, Damani, as well as herself, and had for half a decade. She cringed, hopeful he was bluffing. She vowed long ago, she would never end up like her mother.

“Get outa here wit dat!” he said, “Yu mus haf ya eyes n’ sumting.”

Manny knew exactly what she was after; she knew his one weakness. She gently guided his hand up her Sunday dress, stroking the inside of her strong thighs. He felt the heat radiating from inside her. He gathered back his hand, grabbed her around the waist, and hoisted her thick ass onto the table. The edge of her dress rested on his locks as he caressed up her thighs with his lips. With her juices still fresh on his chin, she bent limp over his shoulder as he carried her to the bed.

He removed her dress to admire her darkness. She had never been out of Philly, yet she resembled a Nigerian princess. She mounted him to evoke his memory on why he loved her profession.

The air hung heavy in the room; Manny reached under the bed, retrieving one of his lock boxes. The small key from his necklace fit perfectly. Inside the box, an assortment of items, necessary for his job; on top was a bag labeled Destini. Prepackaged the day before.

“De bam bam, now de Bam Bam,” Manny said—selfamused as he handed over the drugs.

He didn’t trade Destini sex for product; he gave it to her because he loved her. If she wanted some, Manny could spare it. The relationship was beyond dysfunctional—the closest to love either had ever known.

“Want a sniff?” Destini said as she neatened the powder into lines on the bedside table. Manny never did, but she felt rude not asking.

“No,” Manny said, taking a long pull from the twisted paper and herb. He admired flame dancing along the paper as his lungs filled with smoke.

Manny was forced into maturity as an adolescent. While most people his age were learning multiplication tables, Manny was pushing grass in the hallway. He earned enough money to move to the United States and did—never quite knowing why. He owned a single memory from before he lived in the orphanage. A woman held him. She mentioned sending him there one day. Manny pondered as he tried recollecting the exact moment.

Either way, when his level of narcotics upgraded, he swore to himself he would stay off his own stash. It was necessary in his line of business. Manny never considered the consequences of providing it so easily to Destini.

Why would he?

The doorbell rang. “Better get to work, Sweetheart,” Destini said. She dipped her head back, wiping the excess from the corner of her nose—sniffing violently again, to taste the drugs roll down the back of her throat.

Manny closed the door as he left the room. “Who’s it be?” he said. Placing the clip in an ash tray by the door, before opening it. He should’ve been patient enough to hear the response. As his eyes adjusted to the new lighting, he stared down the barrel of a handgun—its serial numbers scraped off. The thunderous sound of the explosion was the last thing Manny remembered.

Manny heard the thunderous boom again.

It was three in the morning; the storm of the year was outside Manny’s apartment. The thunder crackled again; he wiped the sweat from his forehead. It was only a dream. He thought—was it so, so long ago?

The following dawn, he rose with the sun and went straight for the box under his bed. Manny frantically ripped his bag off the top; it was nearly a month since his law against using the product was overturned. Ever since the dreams started, he felt it was a necessity in keeping his sanity. He railed a voluptuous line and leaned back in his bed, the tune of Three Little Birds humming between his ears. He reached to the bedside table for a spark.

The apartment was lonely as of late. There were consistently new faces, in and out, out and in. Of course, the strippers loved him. It may have been his charm, he was always considered a handsome man; plus, his dreads had filled out exceptionally. However, it was most likely the depth of Manny’s pockets, when it came to the girls, boosting his popularity.

None of them had the look though—only two girls ever, had the look. A penetrating stare through his soul; their eyes unveiled his darkest nights. The Milky Way complexion eased his mind—brought him home. No matter the stars above.

The first girl to steal his heart was gorgeous: Chinese-Jamaican. She led him along for the amusement of her father. The moments were real, but she never planned on staying. Then there was Destini—Manny coughed as he approached the front door. The knock would’ve gone unnoticed, had Manny not been walking by.

“Hey Manny.” Manny stared into the face of Damani, Destini’s younger brother—tears of salt dry on the young boy’s face. Damani was only sixteen, but like Manny, the hardships of life sharpened his edges. He was six feet four, almost two hundred pounds, and walked as if he didn’t care who you were: he would steal your lunch money and slap your girl’s ass as the two of you walked by.

“She was all I had.”

“Man,” Manny said, “too much time since I see yu.”

He gestured in the obviously distraught child. The boy crept through the door. Damani had only been there twice before; his sister tried to keep him away from it all—his mind focused on school and basketball. Colleges were already watching him play as a sophomore in high school.

“You didn’t even go to the service, you ass-hole!” Damani said. “She loved you!” He stood above Manny, who scrolled paper around another pinch of ground-down green leaves.

“Calm down boi,” Manny said. “I money paid fa’ de damn ting.” He gave the final delicate lick to the paper. “Looks like today, de dancers even say yu no.”

Manny handed the joint to the boy.

“I guess…” Damani said; he hesitated to accept the toke but considered what he was doing there and pulled a lighter from his pocket. He gathered himself after a quick cough, “You have to tell me what happened.”

“I heart, ripped out I chest—Destini…”

Manny scurried to the bedroom.

Some things were better off unspoken, and Manny practiced the art of burying his past. It destroyed his consciousness to think about the incident.

Manny’s zip was empty. With the box left wide-open on his bed, Manny rushed to the washroom: he kept a secret stash in the compartment behind the mirror—hidden in plain sight.

“You can’t keep this up, you know!”

Damani stood in the doorway of the room. The basketball game seemed worlds behind him, by now.

“Is de past, yes?” Manny said. “Mon, let I be I.”

Pain and fear were a choice more than a reaction to Manny at this point. He flexed his thumb and index finger providing a sizable divot in the top of his hand; he emptied the vial into what appeared to be a mound to Damani. Second nature to Manny, he felt the familiar taste flow through his throat—he let out a small laugh.

“I nose still tickle.”

“It must’ve been horrible,” Damani said, staring out the window. It was obvious to Manny, Damani was an inexperienced smoker; although, Damani would’ve rather convinced him otherwise. The boy’s eyes watered. Manny couldn’t tell if the smoke had gotten into his eyes—causing him to cry.

“There are really no short cuts in forgetting someone,” Damani said. The sky cried as he did—raindrops raced to the windowsill, “the struggle will go away, only once it’s been endured.”

“Every mon and every womon haf dey own destiny,” Manny said. He sat beside the box (open on the bed) and allowed his eyelids to rest as he reminisced through the dreadful night.

It was a normal day for the couple: she got home from work and bragged about the money she walked out with; he rolled his eyes and wished she understood him.

“Why aren’t you happy for me, Sweetheart?” She said, joining him on the couch.

“Yu no haf to dance no more,” he said. He couldn’t find the right words to explain his actions. “Yu know, I, I take care of all.”

Manny recently came into a wad of money. Was it dirty? Yes. But it was the only way he knew, and in his business people got bonuses for their dirty work.

“Tonight—tonight was my last night,” Destini said. Almost whispering now, “Manny, I’m pregnant.”

Manny froze—discombobulated.

The doorbell rang.

“I’ve got it,” she continued. “I’ll send them in.” She said and skipped down the hall.

“Who is it?” She joked as Manny often did when he answered the door.

By the time the door opened, it was too late. Manny jumped up, but the barrel of the gun aimed in his direction.

“You sneak me—I kill your bitch,” the voice behind the gun seemed pissed. “I dare you to step to me again nigga.”

The door slammed shut. Manny never caught the man’s name. He rushed to the limp, luscious women lying in his floor.

The thunder crackled again.

Damani stood over Manny’s skeletal frame; the handle of Manny’s pistol was hot against his palm. For Destini—the boy thought. He wiped his prints from the gun with the tail of his shirt and arranged it into Manny’s hand, accenting the bloody mess. He ruffled further through the box—the one Manny conveniently left unlocked with a loaded gun and no more cocaine—Damani pocketed the cash, and rushed to the door.

He paused. “In a different life—we may have been brothers.”

Damani ran back to the scene in the bedroom, pulled a note from his coat pocket, and placed it on the night stand. It simply read, Is I destiny.