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-
pus of FAM-U,” Nandi said. Her voice was so vivacious and full
of energy she could pull people through the speakers. Public
Enemy played in the background and the small radio station was
alive. The topic was supposed to be on Affirmative Action, but to
my surprise, Nandi flipped the script on me when she announced
that the topic was going to be, “Where have all the good men
gone?” I furrowed my brow with a quizzical expression and just
listened while she unveiled another facet of herself. As always, like
the audience, I enjoyed listening to her talk.
“The reason that I have abstained from sex is because when I
do decide to give a man my body, it has to be a brotha that I want
to spend the rest of my life with. He has to be very special; my
King. So until then, I choose to remain celibate. Unfortunately,
there’s a shortage of good men.”
I watched as Nandi talked, and noticed how her brown eyes
sparkled as she held a mug of herbal tea in her hand. And for the
first time I saw hurt in her eyes, as I gazed at this beautiful ebony
Queen. Then she said, “So far all of the Black men that I have
dated ain’t shit …” Nandi lambasted that over the air. I almost fell
out of my chair. The Dean of the school already threatened us
once to cut down the language. I played a record by Gil Scott
Heron, titled “The Revolution Won’t Be Televised” and watched
as the phone lines lit up like a Christmas tree.
One sister by the name of Regina called in, and we went live
on the air with her conversation.
“Yeah, you’re right girl! Black men act like they’re scared of
commitment, and sista, you ain’t wrong for keeping your stuff on
lock down. Once you give them some, they start act’in disrespect-
ful. Give a brotha some cat, and he will turn into a dog,” the caller
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said, causing us all to erupt in jubilant laughter.
Another sister called in. Her boyfriend of four years wanted to
be a rapper. She said that he never had a job, but hustled to sup-
port her. She loved him immensely, but was ready to settle down,
get married and have some babies. He wasn’t. Our advice to her
was to let him know, and if he did not approve, let his ass go!
Another woman called in. She refused to give her name. Her
voice was sad and full of pain.
“My boyfriend is sick … he has AIDS.” We could hear her
breathing on the phone like she was struggling with her voice. I
leaned for ward in my seat tr ying to catch each and every word.
“He is a very heavy … drug user. We have been together for
over five years –”
I interrupted.
“My sista, have you been tested for AIDS?”
“Yes … No …Well, sor t of,” t
he caller stuttered.
“Sorta? What kind of damn answer is that?” Nandi chirped in.
“A few years ago I was tested, but my boyfriend seemed to get
upset with me.” She began to cry. Nandi and I just looked at each
other.
“It’s as if he wants me to catch it too. We have been having
unprotected sex.” Nandi bolted straight up in her seat spilling her
tea.
“I have a 7-year-old daughter from another relationship.”
“Listen! Listen to me, my sista. You gotta protect yourself as
well as your child. Ain’t no man wor th your life, not to mention
your child’s life too. AIDS is serious! It’s a biological warfare
designed for population control to kill off Black folks –”
“But I love him,” she interrupted.
“Do you love him enough to die for him?” Nandi yelled into
the phone, I cringed in my seat.
No answer. The line went dead. Nandi just looked at the
receiver shaking her head.
The next caller was a man. I recognized his voice instantly. It
was my boyfriend Marcus. I perked up and mouthed to Nandi
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that it was Marcus. Adamantly, she waved her hand to let her han-
dle him. There was no secret about it, she thought he was too fem-
inine. Too pretty. A real momma’s boy, which he was.
“Ya’ll sistas talk all that yippity yap about men being dogs and
whatnot, but when a real man steps to you, ya’ll don’t want to
acknowledge ya’ll’s place.”
“And what place is that?” Nandi asked dryly.
“Ya’ll’s place is letting the man be the boss, and ya’ll follow.
Talking ‘bout that independent Black woman crap. Ya’ll need to
read the Bible! Women were created to be man’s helper, to clean
house and have babies –”
“The Bible also says, if thee eye offend, thee pluck it out.
Which means you need to pluck your stupid-ass tongue out!”
Nandi shot back.
“Face it, men feel threatened by a woman’s aspirations to be
independent and self-sufficient. Strong minded Black women are
tired of being used and abused by Black men that only have one
thing on their minds–how to exploit a sista for what they can get.”
Nandi then turned and looked me dead in the face with an expres-
sion that read like she was about to deliver a cliché.
“If you don’t believe in a Black woman, you can’t possibly
believe in yourself, because it was the Black woman that made
your ass. Marcus, don’t call here no damn mo’, hating on the sis-
tas,” Nandi sassed, hanging up the phone.
Click!
We laughed, and gave each other high-five hand smacks. It
truly turned out to be one of the best shows we had. We had about
a half a million listeners, young and old, Black and white, which
used to come as a surprise to me, but then Nandi taught me that
white people have always been intrigued by cer tain facets of urban
life. I thought about the white boys that I was star ting to see with
gold in their mouths.
After ward we just sat around the studio chatting, drinking
herbal tea, and enjoying each other’s vibes. Nandi Shakur was by
far my best friend in all the world. As much as I hated bringing
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back the memories of my one night fling with Life Thugstin, I had
to tell her everything, well, except for the part about seeing myself
on the news.
Nandi listened astutely while occasionally nodding her head,
hands clasped together in her lap, eyes lidded with something I
could not read, and her mouth slightly agape. Nandi’s parents
were both Civil Rights lawyers back in the day, and even after
retiring they were still active. Her father was part of the Rodney
King defense. By Nandi being the only child, in some way they
breathed the fire of revolutionary consciousness in her spirits and
every year they still traveled to the Motherland. She was rooted
like a tree stump in her history; she wore it like some kind of
badge of honor. Once when she told me that her parents were
both Black Panthers in the 60s, that told me so much about her as
a person, as in her upbringing. I figured that was how the show
got its name, the Panther Power Hours. After I finished talking,
Nandi leaned back in her seat. “Girl, that sounds like a best seller.
Who is this dude? John Dillinger? And you gave him the poonany,
too? Did ya’ll rob a bank or something?” she teased and her brown
eyes sparkled.
I made a face that said, “Hello! I am dead serious!” Her eyes
narrowed, taking me in, looking for any sign that I could be jok-
ing. She found none.
“Hope!” Nandi said screeching my name the way my mother
would have, I imagined, if I had one. “Please tell me that you’re
lying and just making all this up.” I shook my head no, and
looked down at the stool, wondering if I should have told her so
much.
In walked the handsome brotha that came on late night. He
called himself Soul Man. He hosted the show playing all the old
tunes. He was also in one of my classes. I think he had a serious
crush on Nandi. Whenever she walked into the room, I noticed
that his face would beam and he would display that fifty-watt
him room to set up for his show. We walked to the parking lot and
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I showed her the evidence of my betrayal to Marcus, as well as
myself. I showed her the car. She whistled as she looked inside as
I held the door open for her.
“Well, at least you didn’t give him the poonany for free.”
“I didn’t sell it to him either.”
“Oh heffah don’t be so touchy.”
Looking deeper into the car, Nandi spotted more truth.
“Well,” Nandi droned raising one suspicious eyebrow at me.
“Tell you what,” Nandi said in a conspiratorial tone. “Let’s just
split the money and throw the gun in the river, and we’ll say that
you were out trickin.” I swung my purse at her. Nandi danced out
of the way laughing at me. I guess she must have sensed the seri-
ous side of me, because the smile eased from the soft corners of her
cheeks and concern moved to her eyes.
“Hope, you’re my best friend in the whole world. There can be
a thing as an intelligent fool. You read all those books, Nat Turner,
Ida B. Wells, Black people that have died and sacrificed their lives,
and at times I feel that you take them more seriously than the peo-
ple that wrote them –”
“You’re the one that gave them to me,” I interrupted just as a
few brothas walked by and got into a black Jeep. Nandi gazed up
at the moon as people do when they’re contemplating thoughts. I
did too. The sky was dotted with stars. The celestial heavens in all
its majesty was decorated with a crescent moon, that for some
strange reason, looked out of place. It hung sideways with a shit-
eating grin at my young naiveness.
&nb
sp; “Hope, you are the most passionate person that I know, but
you can’t literally look at all life the same way, as to what happened
to us back in slavery, or the years that we were lynched and hung.”
“Why not? You said it yourself. If white folks ain’t changed by
now, they ain’t never going to change.”
“See, that’s what I’m talking about.” Nandi responded. “Hope,
what you did was foolish. I know that you were tryin to save the
brotha, but damn.” Nandi made a face at me that I could not
deny. Logic.
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“I know,” I said finally. My voice trembled. The air suddenly
felt crisp and cool on my skin giving me goose bumps.
“The only lawyer you’re going to be is a jailhouse lawyer if you
keep making bad judgments like that.” She threw her arms around
me. Lord knows I needed her hug, her support. Her friendship
meant the world to me. Somehow I think she knew it. In my eyes
Nandi Shakur, morally, was the perfect Black woman. We sat right
there under that shit grinning moon and talked until two thirty in
the morning. It wasn’t until I was older, years later, that I would
learn just how precious my college experience, along with Nandi’s
helpful advice, would be.
At eleven the next day my other roommate, Rober ta, woke
me. She was my homegirl from Miami. On campus they call her
the Mouth of the South. She could talk non-stop for hours with
that big-ass gold tooth in her mouth. She often dressed slatternly,
to put it mildly, with as little clothes as possible. She was over-
weight and short. I don’t know what she saw when she looked in
the mirror, but it made her feel good about herself. So I guess that
is what’s important about life.
“I woke you up cause I’m finna go to the flea market and get
me some shoes. You wanna go?” she asked knowing damn well
how evil I get when I’m awakened from my sleep. I had trouble
going back to sleep.
I tossed the covers over my head, and grumbled something
about being tired and rolled over on my stomach. I heard the door
shut. I lay there in the dark and could not go back to sleep. I
thought about my picture being on the news, and heard Nandi’s