Desperate Hoodwives: An Urban Tale

Desperate Hoodwives

Touchstone

1

Aisha

Look, I don't want to keep up with the fucking Joneses. I am the Joneses. Especially when it comes to these fools living in Bentley Manor.

See me. Envy me. Want to be me.

That's all these broke, welfare heifers and food stamps-loving bitches can do for me as far as I'm concerned. Fuck 'em.

Now I'll admit when I first met my husband, at sixteen, I was living in Hollywood Court projects with my mother and two brothers, and just straight struggling. No designer clothes. No nice rides. No money. No nothing.

I used to be ashamed of my tore-up shoes and high-water pants with the faded knees. I was shy and quiet as hell, just trying to make people forget I was around so they wouldn't notice how fucked-up my gear was.

The only thing I felt I had going for me back then was my looks. Light complexion, green eyes, long hair, and a bangin' body. I had curves for days. And that's what drew Maleek Cummings to me that hot summer day in 1998.

He was a big-time drug dealer sitting behind the wheel of his green Lexus SC400. He caught my eye and motioned for me to come to him. Humph. My silly ass was so surprised that he was talking to me that I actually looked behind me first to make sure. Once Isaw it was all me, I slid on a shy smile and made my way to him. A little conversation, lots of flirting, and ten minutes later he invited my grown ass to go for a ride. Damn right I got in.

We just rode around cruising the different neighborhoods. I had my window down profiling like crazy. I didn't think about the police pulling us over and maybe getting locked up because Maleek had work -- drugs -- in his car. I didn't think about someone wanting to hurt him and shoot up his ride while I was in it. I didn't think about him being twenty-one and I was just sixteen.

All I had on my mind was how lucky I was to be riding with Maleek. But I was smart about shit. I already knew that no matter how fine he said I was, no matter how many times he licked his lips like LL Cool J and gave me that I-wanna-fuck-you look, I was not giving up the goodies that easy. My momma been taught me that it was up to a woman to always make sure a man had more to give a woman than just a wet ass.

And it worked. Just two weeks later the shy girl with the raggedy clothes became Maleek's girl.

My life ain't been the same since.

From no name to name brand. Riding the bus to getting dropped off at high school in Maleek's Lexus. Being broke as a joke to laughing my fine ass all the way to the goddamned bank. From watching my momma struggle to being able to help her take care of my little brothers. I felt like the world was mine.

Six years later I went from wifey to wife.

Maleek was the kingpin and I reigned as his queen.

My only complaint was that he moved us from one bullshit apartment in Hollywood Court to another in Bentley Manor.

When he first told me to go and fill out an application, I was like, "What the fuck?"

Don't let the name fool you. Bentley Manor is a low-rise project that has seen better days. The red brick has graffiti all over it. The parking lot has more potholes than a freeway. Tiny shards of broken glass litter the street like sparkling confetti. Crackheads and dope fiends battle with the rats and roaches for prominence.

It damn sure ain't my dream of a nice home in a gated community.

Far the fuck from it.

I wanted to be in a home. My home. With my husband and my kids -- the ones I won't have until I'm thirty.

Once a week I'd drive by Whitewater Creek -- a gated community near Peachtree City -- and long for the day I'll lay around in one of those half a million-dollar homes. But Maleek didn't want to draw too much attention to himself with such a big house and neither of us working. "Let me get something legit off and poppin' first," he said as we lay in bed together smoking a blunt. "And then Whitewater Creek's yours."

So fuck it. My man's in the game moving major weight and I feel if his big, black, sexy ass was in Bentley Manor, then I'd be right up in there with him.

Shit, better me than the next bitch.

And tricks are always trying to get at my spot, but I have that shit on lock for sure. I made sure to give my man the three p's to a happy relationship: pussy, pussy, and more pussy. If the wind blew and made his dick hard I made it my business to drain that motherfucker of every last drop.

Our sex is that type of freaky-deaky, stop-before-you-give-me-a-heart-attack type of shit. There's nothing we don't do to or for each other. When it's on it's on.

Maleek taught my ass very well about what he likes and don't like. Hell, when a nigga's taking care of his wife as good as Maleek takes care of me, what's a little request for a rim shot or a hot lick of his ass?

Fuck it. That's how we get down.

I park our silver chromed-out Benz in the first spot I come up on in the crowded parking lot. Before I get out I reach into my Gucci crocodile purse for my compact and double-checked my makeup. I wink at the almost identical image of Lisa Raye looking back at me. Matter of fact, that chick from Player's Club ain't got shit on me.

When I stepped out my apartment that morning I knew all eyes around the Manor were always on me. Bitches straight-checking for one sign of me slipping. One clue that I was wobbling and ready to fall, but that was nothing. Them hos needed to fall back because my game would forever and always be tight.

My Mary J. "Be Without You" ring tone echoes from my purse. Damn, Mary can sing. I'm feeling her because I didn't wanna be without my baby.

Like always, I let the whole ring tone play before I flip my phone open.

"Hello."

"I need a favor, Aisha."

Usually I hate a begging ass...but this is my mother. Still, a little greeting would've been nice. No hi, hello, how you doing? Just straight asking for something. But I couldn't refuse her. I wouldn't.

"How much, Ma?" I ask, climbing out the car and locking the door.

"You know I hate to ask, but I want to get some groceries in this house for the kids."

My mother works every day of her life but she always has one of those living on a shoestring budget kinda jobs: cashier, clerk, school aide, janitor-type shit. But when me and my baby brothers we're growing up she always kept food on the table and the best clothes she could on our backs. I have to give her credit because she didn't chase men, drugs, or parties. She stayed home with us. She just didn't have the skills or the know-how to step up her cash game. Where she falls short, Maleek and me step in.

Ma is well aware Maleek make his money via his street game. She loves him to death and don't give a shit 'bout how he make his money. Especially when he's so free-giving with her.

"I'll stop by on my way home."

"Tell my son-in-law I asked about him and thank you, baby."

"You welcome, Momma."

I will never tell her no.

Right now I have it all compared to what she has. I'm used to having everything -- what I want when I want it.

Everything, that is, except my husband.

Sadness fills my eyes and my soul at the very sight of the Jesup Federal Correctional Institute.

Behind those walls -- those bars -- is my man. Locked the fuck up like an animal.

I walk into the building feeling sick to my stomach.

Three months already gone and God knows how many more to go before his trial. Some kind of joint police bullshit or another investigated him and some other dudes he dealt with all up in New York and Virginia for nearly three years before a federal grand jury handed down a forty-five-count indictment. They all were charged with everything from conspiracy to possession and distribution of crack cocaine, drug trafficking, money laundering, and gun charges.

Maleek is looking at a ten-year bid.

I hate that there's a stupid fucking point system. He can only get eight days of visits a month -- time I have to share with his mother and sister. I hate the shit I have to go through to get inside just to look in his face and hold his hand.

I take a deep breath trying to calm my damn nerves as I walk into the lobby with the other women and kids. Getting checked in makes me feel like I'm the damn criminal. The ID check, the photo they take every fucking time, the invisible hand stamp, and the metal detectors. Only a plastic purse. No more than a twenty-spot. No sexy clothes. Thank God we don't have a baby because them motherfuckers count how many diapers and shit you bring in. They even admit they peep out the bathroom to make sure no woman smuggled in drugs.

Shit, like I'm going to push a balloon filled with dope up my pussy. What the fuck ever. Maleek would never put me at risk like that.

So there's a lot of bullshit -- starting with a helluva five-hour drive from Atlanta -- but I will do it for the next ten years or more if I have to. Maleek is worth that to me.

As the officer leads me to the visitation room I block out where I am. I try to pretend I'm not inside a prison.

Even when I walk into the visitation room and take my seat I don't look around at the other inmates and their visitors. I find a blank spot on the wall and keep my eyes glued to it, trying not to think of what Maleek might have to deal with.

I mean, damn, what if some of dem niggas try to get at him while he in jail? Maleek ain't no punk but what if a gang of 'em go out American Me-style on him?

Every time I think about it I have to remind myself that Maleek is well known and well respected. Nobody is stupid enough to fuck with him. I couldn't let movies or rumors of men leaving jail livin' life on the down low get at me.

"Hey, baby."

My body nearly melts at the sound of his voice. Tears well up in my throat as I look up at his handsome square face and buff body in these whack-ass prison khakis and Rockport shoes from the commissary. I stand up and wrap my arms around his neck as we press our lips together. I moan and suckle his tongue as long as I can before the officers will step in.

This is my marriage. My life.

God help me.

Copyright © 2008 by Niobia Bryant and Adrianne Byrd

Continues...

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Excerpted from Desperate Hoodwives by Meesha Mink Copyright © 2008 by Meesha Mink. Excerpted by permission.
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