Quick A/N: Please pay close attention to this chapter and the things being said, guys. BTW, this is totally embarrassing, because it's my job as a writer to convey 'Easter eggs' without having to warn you beforehand, but we workin' on that. Thanks and enjoy✨
February 15, '01
Raconteur
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to LaGuardia Airport. Local time is 7:30 am and the temperature outside is 42 degrees Fahrenheit."
The flight concisely presented her inflight landing announcements, inducing the passengers aboard the plane to get out their seats and reach for their luggage. Amongst them, a tall, brown man rose a bit higher than a few of them. With graying hair, salt and pepper really, and a fully gray beard that framed a charming face of sorts, the man was dressed in a simple, dark blue buttondown shirt and large brown slacks, accesorized with a simple cross chain around his neck.
"On behalf of Laguardia Airlines and the entire crew, I'd like to thank you for joining us on this trip and we are looking forward to seeing you on board again in the near future. Have a nice stay!"
"Yes ma'am," he muttered with a wicked smile, to no one in particular.
Collecting his personal belongings and holding in his hand a Bible, he stepped out the jet bridge and into the airport, into a world of words. It's been a while since he'd heard so many people with all sorts of nothings to say.
Plastering a pious mask on his face, he stepped into the long line of persons going through passport control. How long had it been since his departure? 5-6 years?
"Sir, you're next," the lady behind him said, urging him ahead to the agent behind the booth. He moved forward and easily handed the man his passport.
"James Green," the agent said. "Welcome to the US, what's the purpose of your trip?"
"God."
"I'm sorry?"
"I'm doing God's work."
The agent eyed him with annoyance, "So, business?"
"God is no business."
The agent nodded, humming through his firm, tight lips. "How long do you intend to stay, Mr. Green?"
" 'Til my dying breath, sir."
"I'm sorry?"
"Unless I find some cheaper flights to the Bahamas."
The agent responded, "Ok. The visa matches, anyhow. Where will you be saying, sir?"
"I'll be staying at a small apartment, somewhere in good ole' Harlem."
"I'll need an address,"the agent said.
"Of course. That's 2111 3rd Ave, New York, New York 10029. East Harlem."
The agent nodded and the man cracked a joke, "You'll send me a letter, huh?"
Huffing, the agent smiled forcefully, yet again, asking, "What's your occupation, Mr. Green?"
"I'm uh, a practicing deacon, I suppose. Just need a wife before I can really get there. A good woman of the Lord."
"Really?," the agent commented, writing a few things down. "Anything to declare?"
The man smiled once more, saying, "A few boxes of Cuban cigars."
The agent raised an eyebrow. "A few? That right, deacon?"
"God knows they're a weakness of mine. No shame in smoking," the man shrugged, feigning a sheepish look.
"Well, I guess not. That'll be all. You'll have to declare the cigars at custom, but I doubt they'll be a problem. Enjoy your stay," the deacon said, handing James his passport.
Through customs he went, one line into the next and before long, he was on his way out the gray and out of date airport.
And there he stood, outside of LaGuardia, baggages in tow and the Holy word in his hand. His cross rested unfaithfully on his chest, unable to betray James Green's true identity.
But his lips could. And from them, he drew, "Elijah's back, baby."
***
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February 24, '01
An unusually chipper Yana walked around carts and tables, placing books in their respective places as she hummed the chorus to Jay-Z's "I Just Wanna Love You".
"And I just wanna love you," she sang aloud to herself, imitating Pharrell's shrill shriek before a commotion on the other side of her aisle brought her singing to a halt.
"You brung me to a fucking library like I'm supposed to feel something about 'one of your favorite places in the world'," some woman spit out harshly, her tone well above a whisper.
"Giselle, lower your fucking tone," a man responded.
Aiyana frowned. She could've sworn she'd heard the man's voice before. Just seconds later, she remembered and formed an 'oh' with her lips.
Sean.
Now why would he come here? On her day? "Nope," she said to herself, shaking her head. Not happening.
She shuffled to the end of the aisle, peeking over the end of it as discreetly as she could. She could see one of his golden locks from the back of his head. Taking in a deep breath, she tiptoed out the aisle, walking away from him and the Giselle girl.
Not even 10 steps away, she heard, "Aiyana?"
She kept walking. People stop calling your name if you keep walking.
"Aiyana?," he asked, louder this time.
Damn it. She stopped abruptly and sighed, turning on the balls of her feet. "You can't yell in here, sir," she said, smiling tightly at him.
Frowning, Sean approached her saying, "Yeah? You can't tell people you'll meet them at some place and then not show up, ma'am."
The woman Sean had been arguing with, Giselle, approached them suspiciously. She was pretty, a heavily tanned Hispanic with thin brows and long, jet black hair. Her eye makeup was dark, a makeshift smokey, while her pouty lips were a pretty pink. Yes, she was cute... until she opened her mouth.
Smacking her gum, she asked, "Who is this bitch?"
Yana's eyes went wide in shock as she let out a dry 'ha!'
"Bitch?," she asked in a high pitched voice with a hand to her chest. She shook her head and waved Giselle away. "Mm, nope. Nuh uh. Yeah, we not doin' this today."
She walked away as she counted down from 10, controlling her breathing. "You have a job, girl. This is your j-o-b. Do not smack this hoe. Do not smack this hoe," she said to herself, heading behind the counter and calling security.
Sean followed her to the counter, insisting he had nothing to do with Giselle's reaction to her.
"Yes you do," Aiyana countered. "You're over here talkin' to me wit a whole girl on your arm, bro."
"She's not my girlfriend!"
Yana frowned. "Boy, I don't care!"
At that, Sean stood still and quiet. A mix of emotions passed through his face; confusion and hurt. He turned his head about dramatically away, looking to the floor behind him.
This nigga think he in a movie, Yana thought to herself.
As she peered over his shoulder to see the library's security officers escorting Giselle, who was throwing a full blown fit, he turned back around with a smile. His eyes were clear, charming. Sweet again.
In an upbeat voice, he asked, "Was it the 'dollface' ?"
Yana distorted her face in confusion, "What?"
"Why you stood me up. Was it cuz I called you 'dollface' ?"
Sighing heavily, Yana shook her head no. Some woman asked her for a book on supermodel Gia Carangi, causing her to step out from her counter to lead them. She made a motion to Sean for him to follow her, which he swiftly obliged.
After assisting the lady, she turned to Sean and said, "I have a boyfriend. His name is Michael. You know him. We weren't dating when you and I met, but we are now. So, yeah."
Relieved to finally tell one of them, she found it'd been easier to tell Sean because he couldn't really tell her anything.
With a foggy expression on his face, Sean closed his eyes and shook his head. "You know Michael?"
"I'm dating Michael."
"That's not possible. I told him about you and he didn't even react," Sean interjected, crossing his arms.
"Did you say my name at any point?," Yana questioned.
"Yes," Sean said. But thinking back, he sighed in frustration. "Fuck. No, I didn't say your name."
As if a memory brick fell on his head, he muttered, "You're the chick he's taking to Chicago. I'm supposed to take you to the airport, too."
Yana nodded. She felt bad enough to offer him a small smile, but didn't want to spend another second around him.
The world seemed so small these days and everyone always seemed to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. She couldn't risk Michael walking in and seeing something that wasn't anything.
"So, did you tell him?," Sean asked Yana suddenly.
Her eyes shot up to his. "No, but I'm going to."
Sean scoffed. "You weren't gonna tell him, huh?"
"Yes, yes I was," Yana blurted hurriedly.
"Well, you should. Soon. I'm not bitter or anything, but he's like my brother and I'll have to tell him if you don't. Besides, it's not a big deal or anything," Sean sighed, defeat written over his face.
"Yeah, I'll tell him soon," Yana whispered. "Thank you."
His baby blue eyes studied her carefully, before something clicked in his mind. With an impassive expression, he nodded firmly. "Nice seeing you, Aiyana."
At that, he turned around, on his way to fetch Giselle from the security guards' custody with his shoulders squared and his head high. If she was Michael's, then she was Michael's.
Yana made her way back to a cart of books to be put away. That was weird, but it was nice to know she had more time to tell Michael.
Time. It's all she really needed.
Too bad it doesn't wait for anyone.
***
"So you go back to school tomorrow?," Cam asked Maji as they each scrawled out words in their notepads.
Maji chewed on her pencil's eraser, debating on whether or not to leave or add in a word before adding one as she nodded in response to Cam's question.
"That's wack," he said, finishing up on his last bar. Hearing a knock at the door, he got up to open it, knowing it'd be Twiggy.
"Whazz brackin', Twiggy?," Cam announced out loud, no doubt to warn Maji of his presence.
"Yo. Why you yellin', though? You touchin' crack, beloved?," Michael asked seriously.
"Nah bro, you know I wouldn't. My ear, my left ear just a lil' weird, n'a'mean?"
Nodding, Michael stepped into Cam's apartment, if you could call it that.
"Ooh I got something," Maji gushed out loud. " 'I out write to disrespect you, just to outright disrespect you'."
"That's a nice play on words," Michael commented, quizzically studying Yana's sister comfortably lounging across Cam's leather couch. "But the first part don't make sense."
Maji, without turning her head to Michael, said, "So? Don't nobody care 'bout no grammar technicality."
"Maybe. I'm just sayin'. It's repetitive, too."
Finally, Maji turned to see Michael. "Repetition not so bad," she said. "Plus, it's like I repeated it differently."
Michael nodded, hands in his pockets before he hummed inquisitively. Crossing his arms on his chest, he said, "Been a while since we seen each other, Maji."
With a phony smile plastered on her face, she responded, "I still have to hear about 'chu all the time."
Ignoring Maji's snide remark, Michael turned to Cam, "What is she doin' here?"
"She chillin'," Cam shrugged.
Michael frowned. "At 'cho spot? Just layin' on the couch?"
"Excuse me?," Maji scoffed.
"Nah nigga, you know I'm not like that," Cam cut in. "Maji's the lil' homie. She not even like a sister... that girl a real nigga and a half."
He walked over to Maji and snatched her notepad out her hands. "Check her shit out. She raw, dawg. Word to my muva."
Michael eyed him carefully, then Maji's notepad. Glancing at Cam again, he didn't see him as the type to hang or even indulge in young girls, especially considering that he'd known him for a long time. She had to be here as one of the artists he'd asked Cam to scope out for him.
"Aight. Let's see some of this."
He sat beside Maji and went through some more pages of her writing. He asked her, "Can you freestyle?"
"Hell, yeah," Maji declared confidently. "You wanna hear somethin'?"
"Nah, I'm good. On a tight schedule."
He studied a few of her lines. It wasn't bad, just amateur sometimes. She also seemed to be stuck between being hard and raw or soft and real.
It showed that she was somewhat versatile, but he knew she'd have to pick a default image eventually.
Calculating how much training she needed, he asked her, "None of these have hooks?"
"I'm not good at those," Maji admitted.
"Then work on that. Yana know you tryna do this?"
Scoffing again, Maji answered, "She don't run me."
"She pay yo bills? Feed you? Buy your Irish Spring?," Michael questioned her.
"So? I could do all 'at myself."
"But that's not the case. Respecting her can't kill you. And if you don't let her know? I will."
Maji got up, riled and ready to argue before Michael raised a hand. "Don't do all 'at. She gon' support anything you try to do that keeps yo' ass off the streets. Just work on your choruses and I'll talk to her."
Maji considered him carefully. She was sure Yana would say no just to spite her.
She thought back to a few nights ago, when she'd heard Yana sounding stressed over the phone. She was saying something about being afraid Michael would find out about some Sean guy who asked her out to coffee.
"It's like, the one time I even acknowledge two guys in the span of a week, they know each other," she'd said, full of despair.
Yes, Maji had heard that conversation to its end, fleeing from behind Yana's door when she'd hung up. She was saving that bit of information for another day, but now wasn't too bad, if she played her cards right.
"Yana will surprise you," Maji said carefully. She sat back down, saying, "She be wit the secrets and flip floppin' shit."
"You sound like you don't know your own sister," Michael responded, somewhat oblivious to Maji's changed demeanor.
Going for the kill, Maji slipped in casually, "Yeah? You should ask her about someone named Sean."
At the mention of Sean's name, Michael's head snapped up. "Sean?"
Ignoring Michael's question, Maji said, "You think we should find a name for your record label? Can I pick it please? Pretty please?"
"If you want. How you know Sean? What Sean you talkin' bout?"
"I think we should call it BAD Records, all caps. It'd be ironic cuz like, the records wouldn't be bad, but people expect them to be cuz that's what they're called. Plus, we bad as hell."
"Nah, that's wack. What Sean? He white? Got blue eyes?"
Maji nodded. "Or Unbreakable Records. Cuz we boutta be the muhfuckin' standard."
Michael shook his head, dismissing Maji's comment. "What she got to do wit him?"
"Damn nigga," Maji mumbled, "Ion know. Ooh, nevermind, I know."
"What?"
"New Jack Records. That's so wavy. Your last name Jackson and you remember the New Jack Swing shit in the 90s? It's like another play on words, as we do so well."
"Yeah, yeah," Michael dismissed, thinking about how Maji would know Sean if there wasn't some truth to her statement. Whatever her statement was, since she didn't really say anything.
"So we can call it New Jack Records? I'm boutta call it out in my songs, like the ROC family 'n 'em."
Michael nodded. With a pensive expression, he got up and left, mumbling something about catching them later, leaving Cam's apartment.
Maji waved goodbye in a cheery way, going back to whatever she had been writing earlier. Michael, on the other hand, made his way down the steps rubbing his chin profusely.
How did Yana know Sean? More to the point, how did Yana know Sean, know that he knew Sean, and never mentioned knowing Sean? Was it supposed to be some secret?
Nah, he thought to himself. She probably assumed I knew another Sean. Shit, we probably do know a different Sean.
He shook his head in a physical attempt to clear his mind, pushing his assumptions, questions and whatnot to the back of his mind.
And although Maji had suggested he ask Yana about Sean, he decided he'd wait until she brought him up before asking. If Yana had something to say, she'd say it.
***
February 25, '01
Yana POV
"No Francisca, in English, the adjectives come before the nouns, so it's not 'the suit black'. You have to say, 'the black suit'," I called out to Francisca over my raucous Singer sewing machine, the biggest investment I'd ever made.
Saturday usually meant tutoring her, but I also had to get Michael's outfit together before Wednesday, which was when we'd be off to Chicago.
I'd considered taking his ask for something royal literally, until I'd actually sketched out something I knew would be too complex to get done before Wednesday. Instead, I opted for a simple, yet elaborately ornate jacket, made with black velvet and embellished with diamonds. Real ones.
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Michael had stopped by my place after his interview with Forbes to hand me an envelope of $50,000, of which I'd used 45 thousand and change.
Like, 500 dollars more typa change.
But, I figured he gave me a lot of money and had asked for the very best, so I just couldn't disappoint.
Having paid some people I knew from my night classes to apply the diamonds with a special glue onto the coat, following my intricate design, I should've been good to go by now, but I'd somehow convinced myself that something was missing.
So here I was, embroidering some white crowns on the jacket's collars, doing the most as I tutored my good sis Francisca when my mother walked into my room ... smiling?
She was humming a Negro spiritual, "Ev'ry Time I Feel the Spirit", with the sunniest disposition. She was happy. No, glowing.
"Yana, where's my pink cardigan? With the pretty, white buttons?," she asked.
She turned to Francisca and smiled, saying, "Good Morning, Franny."
"Good Morning, Mrs. Walker," Francisca responded, no doubt shocked that my mother, Shanice, hadn't called her some name in relation to the fact that she was "fat". She was actually just short and thick, so she looked bigger, but my mother was mean anyhow. Except today.
"I like your hair like that, Franny," she commented as she scrolled through my dresser for her pink cardigan.
Once at loss for words, but finding them again, I said, "I think you threw it out, Mama. Why do you need it though?"
She cocked her head to the side, with a dazed smile and answered, "A nice gentleman has asked me out to brunch."
Brunch? My mama? A nice gentleman? Um, what?
My eyes popped out my head and without thinking, I blurted, "Who in their right mind would do that?"
"A nice gentleman," she repeated, waving at me like I was silly to doubt her crazy ass would get asked out to brunch.
I say this because the way she was with us was how she was with any and everybody. How anyone thought about "getting to know her" was completely beyond me.
I mean, yeah, okay, Shanice was a looker, but looks weren't going to pay someone's therapy bill when she'd finally exhausted every gram of their patience and sanity.
She continued, "Did you know brunch is a new thing? It's like lunch and breakfast, but before lunch and after breakfast. Baby, that is a raise worthy idea."
"Who is the guy taking you out to brunch?"
"This guy is a man of God. A man of the cloth. His name is James Green and he's practicing to be a deacon at The Abyssinian Baptist Church."
She held up a tube top of mine, frowning. "You really need to start going to church. Hell is forever, baby."
Grabbing Michael's jacket and folding it into my suitcase, I nodded. Now was as good a time as any to tell her about my trip to Chicago.
"Okay mama. I hope you and James have a nice brunch or whatever." Crossing my hands over my chest, I announced bravely, "I'm going to Chicago for a few days. My um-, proficiency is requiring it. It's a requirement. So, I have to go. I'm going."
Without so much as a glance my way, my mother, Shanice Diamond Walker, the woman who has held me back millions of times before, mumbled a simple, "Sure, Aiyana."
I raised my eyebrows, ready to ask her again, but deciding against it. She could change her mind, right now, for no reason.
Instead, I focused my attention on my new savior, a certain James Green.
"So, James Green. He look good?"
Gasping with a dramatic smile, Shanice said, "I am not interested in Mr. Green because of his looks, Yana." Still, she paused, adding, "But he sure look as good as the Devil himself."
"Are you even allowed to say that on God's planet Earth?," I asked. And I was serious, too.
"Oh hush, girl. He has my golden ticket to Heaven. He said, and this is why I tell you to get you a church boy, he said he's gonna marry me one day."
Choking on the air I breathed, I wheezed, "What?"
"Oh don't be like that. I would be a deacon's wife, Aiyana. A diakonissa. A deaconess."
She stared lovingly into space, clutching at the fake pearls on her neck that accompanied a small, silver, cross.
She made her way out my room as I followed her, wondering how she could consider marrying someone because of their status in church, when Maji passed by us with a new gold chain around her neck, a diamond piercing that was not there before, and a small, monogrammed and multicolored, white Louis Vuitton bag.
It wasn't the chain though or even the piercing that caught me off guard. Maji always managed to swipe some stuff somewhere, so I always assumed that's how she stayed with jewelry on her.
It was the Louis bag. It was real. As in, it cost a whole three grand kinda real. A "you can't just steal that typa shit" real.
I stopped her in her tracks, completely forgetting about Mama, and asked, "Where did you get this?"
She kissed her teeth, looking around the room. She was still giving me the cold shoulder, which had actually been a pleasant experience but if I wanted answers now, I was gonna get them.
"Where. Did. You. Get. This?"
Pushing past me to her small tuna can for a room, she said, "Um, GTFOMF."
I followed her inside. "That's a $3,000 bag, Maji. You gon' tell me how you got it."
"I stole it, the fuck you think I did?"
"Language, ladies," our mother called out in a kooky manner from her room.
Ignoring her, since I rarely swore, I said to Maji, "You're lying. No store in this world is letting that bag sit pretty somewhere, waiting for some 15 year old to pull a grab 'n go."
"Well, Macy's do."
"You a damn lie. Macy's doesn't let that bag out it's case until you pay first."
"Well, I guess I paid for it then."
"Ok. So where exactly did you get three thousand dollars? Cuz I might have to take your job," I quizzed her, hands on my hips.
She looked at me cautiously, approaching me slowly. "You know what Yana? I think you have bigger things to worry about. Like, Michael. And John? No, my fault, I mean Sean."
What?
"What are you talkin' about?," I asked her, twisting my face in confusion, hiding the panic growing inside me.
"Oh, nuffin'," she answered in a sing-songy voice.
I could feel my panic washing away as anger quickly took it's place when I thought back to some nights ago, when I was on the phone with Ristyn about Sean and Michael.
Getting up to turn my light off, I'd heard a quick shuffle on the other side of my door and I had opened it to find nothing on the other side.
Here I was, assuming it was my mother shuffling around the house blessing it, whole time it was Maji, gathering intel like some CIA broad.
I stepped to her face, looking down on her. "What did you tell Michael?"
"I didn't tell him any-fuckin'-thing, but I could. So, talk to me nice," she smirked, going back to her bed.
Talk to her nice, huh? I went to her dresser and snatched up her keys with a quickness. "You talk to me nice."
In complete shock, she cried out, "Ayo, whatchu' doin'?"
"I'm taking my keys back," I answered, walking away from her.
"You can't do that. How 'm I 'post to get back inside?"
"You can't. I guess you stayin' inside, boo."
She coughed up a dry laugh. "Wow, so iss like that? I tell you I find out you out here bein' a hoe, so now you take my keys away? That's dumb foul, 'tcho guilty ass."
I turned to face her one last time. "This," I said, "has nothing to do with Michael or Sean. This is cuz I'm tired of you bein' a damn thief and a liar and cuz you can't tell me where or how you got that bag."
I continued, "And since I can't kick your ass out like the bum that you are, I'm keeping you in. Go argue wit Mama."
I went back to my room, where Francisca was studying calmly. Outbursts in our home were bound to happen, with or without her around, so she'd gotten used to it overtime.
But this time was different. Maji has done a lot of things in her 15 years of existence, many of which were for her own personal gain, but none had ever really affected me. Yet, here I was in my room, staring at nothing in particular, but hating Maji, completely.
She wasn't going to blackmail me. I'd die before she did. I'd lose Michael before she blackmailed me.
I'd tell him after his interview with Oprah, so he'd be in the right state of mind as she pressed him for questions.
After that, whatever happens, happens.
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A/N PT 2: live footage of me writing this chapter and starting the next one☝🏽
So, I'm assuming ya dragged Maji for filth this chapter, as thou should. But what ya think about that record label name tho? 💀
Ion like that girl, but I'm rocking' wit that name purrr
Anywho, not Elijah coming back to the Statessss. What ya think he up to? Hint: that nigga ain't here to be no man of God 🥴
ALSO, go read @nanasays new book "Pride" (and 2 Sides, you might as well 🌚). We need to harass her for the next chapter, but I can't do it alone 🗣🗣