Midnight

  New York Times bestselling author

  SISTER SOULJAH

  “THE #1 AUTHOR OF THE HIP-HOP GENERATION.”

  —Sean P. “Diddy” Combs

  “THE ULTIMATE GHETTO GRIOT, ONLY TWO CLASSICS INTO THE GAME.”

  —Vibe Magazine

  Praise for Sister Souljah’s unforgettable novels

  MIDNIGHT, A Gangster Love Story

  “The story is sparkly and seductive from the jump. . . . Souljah is the Biggie of the block-hugging book world.”

  —Vibe Magazine

  “[Sister Souljah’s] fans will enjoy this edgy tale of love and survival led by the provocative lead character.”

  —Ebony

  “Shows the true grit of the New York boroughs, the strength and determination of an immigrant family and how, even in a concrete jungle, a rose can bloom. The book ends as if there will be a sequel. I hope there will be.”

  —Star Tribune (Minneapolis)

  “Souljah’s sensitive treatment of her protagonist is honest and affecting, with some realistic moments of crisis. . . . Souljah has obvious talent and sincere motives, making her a street-lit sophomore worth watching.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Hip-hop artist and master storyteller Souljah offers biting social critique on contemporary urban culture tucked inside a love story.”

  —Vanessa Bush

  THE COLDEST WINTER EVER

  “A tour de force. . . . As finely tuned to its heroine’s voice as Alice Walker’s The Color Purple. . . . Riveting stuff, with language so frank it curls your hair.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Winter is nasty, spoiled, and almost unbelievably libidinous, and it’s ample evidence of the author’s talent that she is also deeply sympathetic.”

  —The New Yorker

  “Intriguing. . . . Sister Souljah exhibits a raw and true voice in this cautionary tale. . . . A realistic coming-of-age story.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Real and raw. . . . If a rap song could be a novel, it might resemble Sister Souljah’s book. . . . The message is solid and one that we can never stop preaching to our youth—anything that comes too easy or too fast is also too risky.”

  —Booklist

  “Sometimes the stuggle has to be repackaged to get a point across. Sister Souljah, one of hip-hop’s perennial forces and a self-described ‘raptivist,’ does this with her first novel. . . . The Coldest Winter Ever is a platform for this resourceful young activist to spread messages that are clear, concise, and true to the game.”

  —The Source

  “Souljah has an engaging style that makes the novel a fast, fun read.”

  —The Plain Dealer (Cleveland)

  “Hip-hop sage and activist Sister Souljah has taken her talents from the stage to the page.”

  —Essence

  “This is a ghetto fairy tale with a surprise ending. . . . There’s a lesson to be learned from The Coldest Winter Ever.”

  —Tennessean (Nashville)

  “Compelling. . . . Tugs at the emotions.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “Winter is . . . as tough as a hollow-point bullet. . . . Her voice is the book’s greatest strength.”

  —Salon.com

  “This is a wild tale. . . . Sister Souljah has painted a vivid portrait of a girl you’d rather have as a friend than an enemy.”

  —Seventeen

  “The power of Sister Souljah’s writing enthralled me from the first page. I hope she will continue making young men and women think, letting them know they have choices and that they can change their world.”

  —Fictionforest.com

  “Souljah, an Émile Zola of the hip-hop generation, has written a naturalist novel of a world without redemption. Her story, like the cultures it exposes, is an unflinching eye at the truth.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Walter Mosley

  Also by Sister Souljah

  No Disrespect

  The Coldest Winter Ever

  Pocket Star Books

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead,

  is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2008 by Souljah Story, Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book

  or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information

  address Washington Square Press Subsidiary Rights Department,

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  First Pocket Star Books paperback edition September 2010

  POCKET STAR and colophon are registered trademarks of

  Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected].

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your

  live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the

  Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit

  our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

  Cover design by John Vairo Jr.

  Photograph by Keith Major.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN 978-1-4516-1256-1

  ISBN 978-1-4165-5626-8 (ebook)

  DEDICATION

  To powerful minds, deep voices, and long legs.

  To committed hearts, fierce fighters, and passionate lovers.

  To men who bow their heads, read their books, raise their fists,

  handle their business, and never abandon their families.

  To beautiful men who still have the glow of God in their eyes.

  By Sister Souljah

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A special thanks to every brother worldwide, who ever had a meaningful conversation with me.

  A heartfelt thanks to every brother who ever taught me a lesson or shared a perspective that I did not already know or consider.

  A warm thanks to all the brothers who show me both love and respect at the same time.

  A resounding thanks to every brother who ever considered my words, thoughts, and feelings and used them to make a positive and powerful change in their own lives.

  A revolutionary thanks to every brother who ever stood by my side, back and front in difficult times. The ones who did not run and hide when my voice hit the target, or my words seared the soul, or my truth made things too damn clear.

  Warm appreciation to the more than one million females who have read, digested, understood, and reflected on my words. Thank you for buying all my books, passing them around, and using them to become better than what we are expected to be!

  Peace.

  Cornell, Ozman, Saadi, Esau, Kerry, Mahmoud, Glenn, Guiffrey, Tim, Devashis, Shameen, Bilal, Eric, Steve, David, Haqq, Dru, Jeffrey, Malechi, Maurice, Tony, Jeff, Sam, Byrd, Mr. Miles, John DeSane, and Charlie Mack.

  Special thanks to Bill Stephney, Linsay Williams, Vernon Rudd, Kenny Gamble, Ras Baraka, Mandla Kayise, Doug E. Fresh, Chuck D, Will Smith, Craig Hodges, Chris Webber, Bill Perkins, Esq., C. Vernon Mason, Esq., Alton Maddox, Esq., Michael Warren, Esq., Lennox Hinds, Esq., Dr. Leonard Jeffries, Reverend Dr. Calvin Butts, Reverend Dr. Ben Chavis, Reverend Dr. William Howard, Minister Louis Farrakhan, Bob Law, Gil Noble, Reverend Jesse Louis Jackson, Governor David Patterson, Tupac Shakur, KRS 1, LL Cool J, Ice Cube, Wise Intelligent, Tragedy, Kane.

  To t
he one of a kind: Sean Puffy Puff Daddy Diddy P. Diddy Combs.

  A professional thanks to Emily Bestler who welcomed me in, treated me properly and worked through the awesome process. Also to the publishing boss, Judith Curr.

  A very special thanks to: Yuki Morita, Sensei Mariko, and Moo.

  Thanks to Steve Wasserman and Bob Scheer.

  Big up to Brooklyn.

  Thank you to Mitsuwa, Edgewater, New Jersey, and Pimaan Thai, Emerson, New Jersey.

  Sisterly thanks to: Dr. Monica Martin, Gervonne Rice, Lisa Sweet, Waafa Abdalla, and Kenya Woods.

  A loving thank-you to my husband and son as always and forever.

  All praise is due to God.

  I thank God for my life

  and breath, my purpose and

  for inspiration, imagination,

  protection, and prosperity.

  Peace.

  MIDNIGHT

  1

  WORD TO LIFE

  I am not who you think I am. If you love me, you love me for the wrong reasons.

  Females tell me they love me because I’m tall. They love when I stand over them and look down. They love when I lay them down and my height and body weight dominates them.

  Females tell me they love me because I’m pure black. They say they never seen a black man so masculine, so pretty, so beautiful before.

  Females say they love my eyes. They’re jet black too. Women claim they find a passion in them so forceful that they’ll do anything I say.

  Females tell me they love my body. They beg me for a hug even when there’s nothing between me and them. They want to be captured in my embrace, and press their breasts against my chest.

  Some females ask if they can just touch me. Some tremble when my hands touch them. They say they love the muscles in my arms. They surrender when I lift them up. They whine and moan in rapture. Some cry their pleasure. Some shake. Some pee.

  Some of ’em even say they love the way my teeth look in my mouth and how my feet look in my kicks.

  Females tell me they love the way I walk, like I’m soon to own the world.

  Most females say they love that I’m quiet. Then shiver when I finally talk.

  All of the women show me that they love my guns, the fact that I walk with two of them at times. Even the ones who get scared fall in love with their fear of me. Then they come at me even harder.

  Some females say I’m too serious, then shield their eyes to hide their feelings from the shine when I finally smile.

  I can’t lie, I enjoy the good times that some of these women offer me. But I don’t take them to heart. I know that they don’t really even know me. All the shit that they are in love with is just my style and my looks, all window dressing.

  I know that a man is his own beliefs, his own ideas and actions. If you knew me, you would know what I believe. If you knew what I believe, then you would understand how I think. You would understand my ideas and actions. Only then should you decide. Either you believe what I believe, or you admire what I believe and want to get with those beliefs. If not, in the long run, we got nothing in common. I can’t take you seriously. I gotta go. You got nothing that makes me want to stay.

  I don’t come from where you come from. I don’t think like you do. My whole situation is different. I come from a country of real men who take real life, real serious.

  I wouldn’t trade places with an American-born man for any amount of cash.

  Where I’m from, a son has a first name and three last names. The three last names are the names of his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. Any male who cannot identify his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather is already lost.

  These three names are what makes a boy who he is. There is no talk of role models and celebrities. A son is raised under his father’s wing, with a grandfather to guide and a great-grandfather as a blueprint, plus an army of uncles nearby.

  Where I’m from, a man does not bow to any other man. A man bows down only to Allah. Only Allah created the heavens, the galaxies, the universe, and all of the millions of creatures within.

  My father had three wives. Not one wife, one wifey, and a bunch of random bitches on the side.

  Where I am from, a man wants to marry a woman and establish a strong family. A man can have more than one wife as long as he can treat them all fairly and provide them with love, separate homes, food, guidance, and presence.

  There is no such thing as domestic drama. A woman feels fortunate to be selected by a quality husband, a family man, who will be by her side for her entire lifetime. Families are permanent.

  When a man is ready to build his family, he selects a woman who he likes, who is from a family who raised her right, a woman who knows how to love and live. She has to be good for him, his beliefs and plans for life. Someone who brings him peace, progress, and pleasure. Then he is down for her for real.

  She is down for him too because she feels his strength, craves his love and attention, feels safe tucked at his side, and is confident that every day he is making the right moves for her, his family, and himself.

  Our women don’t argue with their man. A man knows what he is supposed to do and not do. It is the same thing he watched his own father do and not do. So he does it. Even if a man selects the wrong path, his punishment is between himself and Allah. His woman cannot punish him, judge him, or nag him to death.

  In my country, a wife is not a whore or ex-whore. Every move a woman makes matters. She can bring dishonor to her man and family even with a simple glance at another man, if it is held for too long.

  Even where I am from, there are whores. They know their place too. They stay within the walls of the illegal whorehouse, never to be glorified, honored, claimed, or married. A whore, where I am from, is the opposite of arrogant. She is used but never celebrated by decent men or women. She knows that she can never enjoy the lifestyle and contentment of a respected sister, daughter, mother, or wife.

  The punishment for a good woman who comes from a good family and suddenly behaves whorish is severe. She will be isolated by her parents, family, and friends. Her father and mother may lock her away and confine her to one room in the house. In some cases, she is even murdered by her own husband, father, or brother for bringing shame and dishonor to her family and the people who raised, guided, loved, and provided for her.

  The family member who commits the murder is not arrested. The whole country acknowledges that a woman is sacred. Every move she makes is either building her family up or breaking it down. Every thought she has is felt and considered by her children. Every word she speaks either teaches or misleads. She must remain honorable, pure, and righteous, otherwise there will be no happiness, no family, and no reason to exist.

  Mouthing off; fucking her man’s friends, brothers, and cousins; running away with the children; aborting the babies; lying about who is the father of her children; not knowing who the father is; yelling and disrespecting; doing drugs; drinking; parading around mostly naked; acting crazy; our men don’t stand for that. We have not experienced that. We never will.

  Our women know their place. They stay in it and live and thrive there. They remain there happily. Our women give love and are loved even more. She is respected, protected, and provided for. She lives proud and at peace.

  Where I am from, liquor is illegal and forbidden. We believe that it makes a man behave with ignorance. After drinking liquor, the next step, we believe, is to betray God, and destroy yourself and your family.

  In my country, homosexuality is nonexistent. For the absolute majority it is unknown and undone. There have been one or two of those who have traveled out to other places in Europe or America and come back with this bizarre behavior. However, they could never remain with us. Their homosexuality resulted in suicides, or they just turned up missing.

  There are no tears for the man who enters into the exit, and builds a life where there can be no balance, reproduction, or family.

  Where I am from, adultery is a crime fo
r a man or a woman. Even to fuck someone else’s sister or daughter just because you feel like it or like the way she looks, without approaching her family for marriage, means that you have brought about a battle between dishonored families, yours and hers. The man who commits adultery will be punished by his family. The woman who commits adultery will be considered ruined.

  Where I am from, men work. Whether he works his own land and is paid in the foods the Earth produces; whether he works someone else’s land; whether he is paid in cash, cattle, or otherwise; he works. Hard work is a man’s way of providing for and demonstrating that he loves his family.

  Each man must have a business of products or services. His product might be fish, meats, vegetables, fruits, jewelry, clothing, crafts, furniture, vehicles, parts and supplies, or other items. Or he may provide services as a doctor, carpenter, construction worker, engineer, lawyer, driver, educator, or performer. But no man can sit doing nothing. His family, backed up by the entire community, would never allow it.

  When I talk about where I am from, which is almost never, both males and females feel uneasy. Some look at me in disbelief, like I’m a fucking liar. Others stare off in complete boredom, like it is not a life they would ever want to live. But I feel fine. People where I am from are happy, while almost everybody I know in America feels fucked up, empty, and dissatisfied, especially the Black people.

  At fourteen years young, I became a citizen of the United States. It was supposed to be a great day, to be remembered for a lifetime. There we were, becoming a part of what is known as the best country in the world, America, after having been born and living inside of what Americans consider the worst place in the world, the continent of Africa.

  We got dressed up and took the A train to City Hall in New York City. We recited some things that we had already memorized. Then it became official.

  I should say it became legal. I was an American on paper. I never became one in my heart or mind.

  The year I became an American was the same year I got locked up. I went from the projects, to juvenile detention, to prison. Each year I became more and more familiar with the American Blacks. The ones who look just like me. They range from very light skin to my rich dark color, as it is back home. When I first arrived, they were Afro-Americans, then Blacks, then African Americans, and eventually niggas.