Outside: The Red-Headed Negro

by Sadiya Rabia

Overview

Facing life imprisonment, Jagger Redheaded Negro Zuma, who has an abnormal head of red hair, discovers that he can leave Sing Sing Correctional Facility and explore his surroundings. Now free from his cell, this dangerous criminal ventures into the world beyond the walls of one of Americas most notorious prisons. With Jagger free to roam among New Yorks general population, we fear that killing is not the only act that he is capable ofOutside.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781504928267
Publisher:	AuthorHouse
Publication date:	09/29/2015
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	236
File size:	266 KB

About the Author

I was born in 1987 in Ivory Coast, West Africa. At age two I fell ill and was taken to the hospital. There I was given an injection that paralyzed me. After many treatments by a witch doctor, I was able to regain my bodily functions but was affected by polio, and now I walk with a limp. My parents left me with my father’s mother in Sekondi-Takoradi before coming to London in 1991. My father came back for me when I was four. I lived with them in St. Raphael’s then moved to John Buck House on Fry Road. While there I attended New Field Primary School and studied English literature in Queens Park Community School and Harrow College. My parents divorced in 1996. In 1999, I developed depression due to my disability and went through numerous suicidal attempts. Ending my life was all I could think to do; it consumed me. My therapist advised me to put all my focus on something else. Though I possessed the gift of art, it didn’t help. It was not a passion but more a trait. Then I discovered writing. First I started to write a diary, and then I went on to poetry and songs, until gradually I developed the feel for fictional writing. Fiction helped me forget my depression. I got addicted to writing, which gave me peace of mind and whisked me into a world that was not my own, and I absolutely loved it—that literary world that was unlike my reality. So I wrote morning, noon, and evening until I created a world of characters. I have written a group of nineteen novels before Shepherd, which I haven’t published. I keep those for myself. After Shepherd, I moved with my mother and brother to Church Road, where my writing evolved. I’m currently composing a comedy-drama I call Outside, which has over 136 episodes, and there are more episodes that are in creation. Writing has made me antisocial. When I write, I get lost in my fiction and forget about the world around me. I forget about my suicide. My fiction is my rabbit hole where I escape from reality—it’s my Alice in Wonderland.

Read an Excerpt

Outside

The Red-Headed Negro

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By Sadiya Rabia

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2015 Sadiya Rabia
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5049-2827-4

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CHAPTER 1

THE REDHEADED NEGRO

She pulled up to her house.

The one — Oh, God — with its door open.

Lotte got out of the Kia Soul. Then reached into the back for the grocery bag.

She stood on the walkway staring at the front door, holding the grocery bag in the crook of one thin, frail arm and the house keys in her free hand. The interior of the house showed through the opening — the flowery walls and the carpeting. It froze Lotte on the walkway as she approached the doorstep and she had to think, Did I lock the door when I left?

She was old at seventy-eight, but she wasn't forgetful. She could remember fifty years of memories, good and bad. She had locked the door before leaving to go shopping. She always did, since the crimes in this neighborhood that were reported every month — robbery, even murder — got her living extra careful. She wouldn't leave her own front door carelessly open and inviting like that. Lotte said, "Oh my God," and ran into the house and shut the door.

There.

Good thing she came home in time. Otherwise someone would've broken in. Maybe someone had broken in. Then they might still be in the house. Let's see, Lotte thought, starting to search the house. There's nothing out of place, nothing taken.

She carried her shopping bag to the kitchen, walking through the hall and passing the living room doorway. Then she stopped. The living room was empty, but the TV was on. Lotte snapped the TV off.

An empty carton of prune juice sat on the kitchen counter next to three used glasses.

Lotte picked up the carton and shook it. She said, "They drank all my prune juice."

The plates and dishes were thoughtfully cleaned and placed on the blue plastic rack by the sink, almost dry now.

"And they washed the dishes," Lotte said, appalled. "I was going to do the dishes. That does it. I'm calling the police."

She raced into the living room, grabbed the phone and punched a number.

Someone on the line spoke up — a woman's voice.

"Yeah?"

Lotte said, "Get me the police."

"Ma'am, this is a phone sex hotline."

"Oh, goodness gracious —" Lotte stopped. "Say, you wouldn't happen to have the police there, would you?"

The woman said, "Not the kind you'd want." She paused and said, "Oh hey, while I got you — you sound old, you're experienced, so you'd know. How do you get rid of the gag reflex?"

Lotte said, "Stop sticking tools down your throat, dear."

She broke the connection, held on to the phone, and punched 911.

The two uniformed police officers arrived twenty minutes after the call. Lotte believed that for the department, it was record-breaking time. They thoroughly inspected the house for signs of a break-in. They seemed to know what they were doing.

Officer Bill said, "Locks are intact." His partner, Officer Footer, came in after exploring the outside.

"Windows are locked from the inside. Back door too."

Officer Bill came around from the front door and looked at Lotte. "There doesn't seem to be a break-in, Mrs. Kell."

"Somebody was in my house," Lotte said. "They drank my prune juice, for God's sake."

Officer Bill said, "Do you own a cat?"

"Do you see a cat?" Lotte said, and watched him look around, as though a cat might be lurking in the house. It made her mad. "There is no cat."

"Do you live alone?"

"Yes," Lotte said. "My husband Albert died when I hit menopause."

Officer Bill took the framed picture of a gray-haired man from the low handcrafted china cabinet by the staircase, the man in a camo jacket holding an Uzi submachine gun, and asked her if this was him. Lotte said, "Yes, that's my dear Albert. He loved the outdoors. On his free time he'd go pheasant hunting."

"You can't shoot birds with an Uzi submachine gun."

"Uzi what-gun?" Lotte said. He showed her the picture of her husband she'd forgotten about until now. "Oh. Yes, well, Albert was a crackpot."

Officer Bill placed the picture back on the china cabinet. "Mrs. Kell, does anybody else have the key to the house?"

"Just my youngest granddaughter, Joyce. But she calls if she's coming. And my eldest granddaughter, Joanna. She lives all the way out in Brooklyn. She moved there to get away from New Jersey."

Officer Footer turned his head to Officer Bill and said under his breath, "Or to get as far away from her screwy grandma as the gas in her Miata can take her."

Officer Bill asked with honest curiosity, "Your eldest granddaughter lived in Jersey, did she?"

"No, Manhattan."

Officer Bill had to smile at that — the old woman with her heart in her mouth and still making jokes. He said to her, "Ma'am, the only thing we can do right now is advise you to lock all your windows and doors."

It wasn't good enough. Lotte said, "Excuse me, but your advice is about as useful as my bra. Which I don't have on."

Officer Bill turned to Officer Footer. "I did not need to know that."

"Good day, Mrs. Kell," Officer Footer said, and they started out the door.

Lotte pulled them up short. "So that's it, huh? You're just going to leave? Tell me, Officers Dumb and Dumber, what will you do when you hear that I've been raped and killed in my own home?"

By that time they were at the doorway, a few strides toward the yard, as Officer Footer said to his partner, "I have an answer for her, but not one she'd want to hear."

"Keep it to yourself. At least till we get to the station."

Craig had to think, What idiot introduced my grandma to Spandex? While slumped on the Champ's corner group couch, arms extended along the backrest. With him was his Jamaican American best friend Ray Anderson, a cool guy, but man, he was culinarily challenged. Right now they were watching Cops on the 90-inch plasma TV that was mounted on the wall fifteen feet across from them. Watching anything on a big-screen TV was good. Watching it in the man cave of the undisputed heavyweight champion boxer's mansion was paradise. The house was stylishly furnished to suit your comfort, with warm, earthy tones, the best that money could buy, a man-child's playroom with its own pool table, and several Ms. Pac-Man machines. The cave even had its very own minibar. What else could a man want?

It was Ray's choice to watch Cops tonight, the loud irritating sirens from the show blared through the sound system and the large speakers into their ears, filling their minds with it. After all, the show was Ray's favorite.

Not Craig's, though. It explained why he was bored out of his fucking mind. "I'm as bored as a blind man in a strip club." He said then, "I'm starting to become very aware of my thoughts." Boredom could do that to you.

With a beckoning motion of a hand Ray said, "Let the thoughts flow out." His bald head gleamed from the overhead light.

"Some idiot introduced my grandmother to Spandex."

Ray made a disgusted face.

"Keep that in there!"

"Oh, I will."

The butler, a tall and lean gentleman who weighed one hundred and sixty, hundred and sixty-two in the tuxedo, had sad eyes, like a servant tired of serving and about to fold away his uniform. The old man's hair was still black by some miracle. Or by Just for Men hair dye. He walked into the man cave holding a scoop bucket of water out in front of him lightly, almost gracefully, toward Ray.

"Your bucket of tap water, Mr. Anderson."

Ray got up from the corner group couch to receive his bucket, and taking it from him he said, "Good looking out, Butler," almost dropping it.

"My name is Nood, sir."

Ray looked at the butler, nonplussed.

"I can't say that while I'm sober."

The butler said, "It's spelled N-double-oh-D."

Ray said, "Yes, but it's pronounced N-U-D-E."

The butler turned up his nose and walked out without saying another word. Man, very touchy.

Craig said to Ray, "You've just made Nood's list." He stood up from the couch and walked toward Ray and the scoop bucket.

For a second there, Ray looked surprised.

"Butler's got a list?"

Craig nodded. "The other day I brought him a basket of chocolate minimuffins for his birthday, and he took my name off the list." He told Ray, "You're right up there with his hairdresser and his tailor."

Ray raised his eyebrows. "You're kidding." Then, in the next moment, he acted hurt, saying, "You got the butler a basket of chocolate minimuffins, and all I got for my birthday was a lousy pack of condoms?"

"Hey, those condoms saved your reputation, man."

Ray let it go. He brought his mind back to the heavy bucket he was holding, dipped his finger, and felt the water's temperature. A shiver ran up his finger, and his arm broke out in goose bumps.

Ray said, "Oh, man, Butler forgot to boil the water. It's ice cold."

Craig said, "Cold works," then took the bucket from him and turned to the three-seater couch where Bobby Piars was passed out. Bobby was the youngest of the three at age twenty two, dimwitted and a screwup. Although kindhearted on occasion, he was often strung out on drugs. He even had a bag of cocaine close to him, a couple of lines already railed on the coffee table. The boy was a miserable sight, beyond repair. The poor bum was trapped in the nineties with the unkempt wavy curls - a white man's excuse for an Afro.

Craig threw the cold water on him. It was a shame junkies didn't wash away like sand.

The ice-cold water jolted Bobby into consciousness. "Jesus Christ!" He looked hard at Ray, then at Craig holding the bucket. Said to him, "Craig? Jesus Christ, what you doing? You wanna drown me in my sleep? Jesus Christ. Couldn't you have thought up a subtle way to wake me up, man? Jee-zus Christ."

Craig turned away, not answering, and said to Ray, "That's three times he used the Lord's name in vain."

Bobby came forward onto the edge of the three-seater couch he occupied to himself, to check his coke. His lines were undisturbed.

He said, "You damn lucky you didn't soak up my foo-foo dust."

Foo-foo dust. Craig mused on that.

He said, "Is foo-foo dust like pixie dust?"

Ray took up his place on the corner group couch, turned the TV volume all the way down and said, "Bobby, when you pass out after snorting coke, something's definitely going wrong. I say you figure out what it is. Or else it's going to keep happening ... God willing."

"I know what it is. You old goats are harshing my buzz."

Craig sat down and placed the bucket between his feet. He said, "Kid, it isn't normal to pass out while snorting cocaine."

"It ain't normal," Bobby said with a big, goofy grin. "It is awesome." A glazed look in his eyes, from all that cocaine, the drug working in him.

Craig said to Ray, "You reckon Matt's going to be pissed off we wet his couch?"

"Nah, we'll blame it on Bobby's tiny bladder like we always do."

Bobby frowned. "Hold up — always? How often you blame the couch on me?"

"Not often," Ray said.

And Craig said, "A few ... hundred times is all."

"What?" Bobby sprung upright. "Now my brother's gonna think I got a bladder control problem."

Ray was smiling, nodding. "Yes, he does."

"Now that we've revived you," Craig said, "let's see if you can answer the question without crapping out on us again." He locked eyes with the junkie the way he'd look at a slow child, a defective one. "Where is Matt, you hophead?"

Bobby moved his shoulders in the hoodie, a lazy shrug.

"Ever since he clapped eyes on that cocktail waitress, Millicent Dallis-Price? He's been camping out at Beatrice Inn. You know, the nightclub that's like a strip club, except the girls there wear clothes?"

Ray said, "He's still stalking her? Why doesn't he just move in for the kill?"

"So why's Matt stalling?" Craig said to Bobby. "Does she have two heads? An extra belly button? No belly button?"

"Well, let's put it this way. She's of legal drinking age." Bobby paused for the punchline. "In Cyprus."

Ray was in total disbelief. "No way."

So was Craig. "Come on."

Bobby bent forward over the low table in front of him and snorted off a line of coke. Sitting back he said in ecstasy, "Yeaaah."

Craig smiled broadly, impressed.

"Matt's rocking the cradle."

"I dated a younger girl," Bobby said. "It's no big deal."

"Yeah, but you were both seventeen, whereas Matt is far from seventeen." Craig looked at Ray. "What do you know — Matt's gone from patron of the prostitutes to cradle robbing."

"Tell me something, kid," Ray said to Bobby. "Do the white folks in South Africa usually prey on the early birds?"

"We're not animals, Ray. But if a swan approaches a peacock with her breasts leading, the peacock ain't gonna say, 'Up yours.'"

"No," Craig said, "he's going to pea-cock that swan."

Ray said he was baffled, and Craig said, "Correction — you're an arrogant jackass."

"Don't question what's out of this world, Irish Dude." Ray's eyes held on Craig as he casually took in the room.

Craig said, "This man cave could use some sprucing up." A stack of sports and mechanics magazines were on the coffee table. Craig went through them, found Busty Ladies, and put it on top of the stack. He said, "Better."

"The Champ has never paid this much attention to anyone." A thoughtful frown covered Ray's face, clean-cut, and moderately attractive. "What is it about this girl that's got the big guy going like a couple of Energizer batteries?" He said, "Wait a minute," and then paused and said, "Could it be love?"

Craig said, "Oh yeah," in a tone of skeptic sarcasm. "Every so often I find myself hiding in the bushes outside a girl's house and spying on her through a pair of binoculars because I love her."

Bobby passed out on the couch.

Craig looked in the bucket; it was empty. He said, "Damn. Used up all the water."

Ray said, "I've got this," and swiped the TV remote from the table.

Cops was still on. They showed dozens of police cars swarming down the streets of Omaha with sirens blazing. The TV was on mute.

Ray punched the volume to an earsplitting level. Sirens blared out of the speakers and filled up the man cave, snapping Bobby back to consciousness. Bobby assumed the police had come for him, and in his haste to clear up the cocaine, he crashed to the floor and didn't get up again. Stuck there.

They made no move to help him.

As Ray lowered the volume, Craig said to him, "You're the idiot who introduced my grandma to Spandex."

"She asked me to drop her off at her bingo game, and we wound up at your wife's aerobics class."

Lotte woke up from a nap — two in the afternoon, the house quiet — knocked her head on the nightstand and said, "Thank God for the metal plate." She raised her knees and swung her legs off the side of the bed, then slipped her feet into a pair of pink fluffy slippers. She ambled to the end of the hall and stopped. Reaching the top of the staircase she picked up sounds directly below her, the drone of unfamiliar voices.

Strangers in her home.

"Never sit on your child's pet ferret. It'll most likely bite your testicles before dying."

"Well, at least the ferret died with a little bit of dignity."

Talking to each other.

Lotte recoiled from the top of the staircase, startled. "Oh, my God."

She hurried back through the hallway to the bedroom and slammed the door.

The intruders raised their gaze to the ceiling as the sound of Lotte's bedroom door closing reached them. The one said, "The old bird's awake." Another told a third to go check on her.

The third started out of the room.

The other two took a swig of their Coors, then stopped as the overhead light began winking in and out. They heard the third intruder counting:

"One ... two ... three ... four ..."

"Uh, Conner" — the first intruder looking around at him — "some people find that annoying."

"I was checking to see if the light was working." Realizing he was still flicking the light switch, he stopped. "And yes, they're working."

"Okay. But why were you counting?"

"I wasn't counting."

It was in his voice, the agitation.

"Yes you were. I heard you."

The second intruder said, "I heard you too. And I have headphones on."

"I like to count things. Is that so wrong?"

The first intruder stared at him.

The first intruder said, "Do you have OCD, Conner?"

"I don't know. What's OCD?"

"Obsessive-compulsive disorder. It's when you have the desire to do something over and over and over."

"Sounds like you might have a case of OCD yourself, Owen."

"Having OCD is nothing to be ashamed of. It isn't a horrible thing. It's a sickness. Besides," the first intruder said, "you're not alone. A lot of nutty people have OCD."

"Really?"

The one wearing headphones said, "Yeah. As a matter of fact, my wife's cousin was an obsessive-compulsive boozehound. He used to count red cars, and nobody took it seriously."

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Outside by Sadiya Rabia. Copyright © 2015 Sadiya Rabia. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Episode 1. The Redheaded Negro, 1,
Episode 2. Kicked Out of Heaven, 46,
Episode 3. A Guiding Light, 82,
Episode 4. Somebody Walked Over My Grave, 124,
Episode 5. Guilt Ridden, 155,
Episode 6. Behind Bars, 194,