Loving Through Bars (Part One): Missing In Action
by K. Omodele & SKL
Real Talk, many who knew us ain’t think we was gon make it through no five-year bid especially since Shelley was only twenty-four when them people snatched me up off them streets. Matter of fact, soon as them crackers put me in the back of that SUV and it began sinking in that wasn’t no jumping through no windows, hauling-ass through the woods like Harriet Tubman, soon as I realized that I was wound up tight, I figured I was gon have to let Shelley ass go.
By the time they got me all processed and that cell door clanked behind me, my first priority was to make some calls and let somebody know where the fuck I was. My heart was turning into wood because I knew: one, wasn’t gon be no bond (they ain’t never gave me none before, though I always clung to a lil wriggle of hope); two, I ain’t remember no numbers (I’d been commanding my damn cell phone to dial people numbers for years); and, three, I had to find a way to call Shelley and eventually make her ass go on bout her business.
Being locked up, your first priority is self-preservation, you understand?!
That Thursday, I’m waiting on my Man to call me because that weekend we was supposed to be headed to a holiday party at one of his friend’s house in Charlotte and he was driving all the way down to Chattanooga from D.C. to pick me, then I was gon drive us on up to North Carolina. That’s a lot of driving but back then I ain’t mind us hitting the road together. We made every trip a damn adventure, stopping and eating at little restaurants and we used to love us some Sheetz. We’d been together about a year; first we dated about a month, then we had hauled all my belongings up to an apartment he had just got in D.C.
Anyway, he ain’t call Thursday, so I blew his messages up. “Where is MY Man??? I need to talk to MY Man.” That always had his ass calling me back within minutes.
But when I ain’t heard nothing from him that night, then on Friday either, my heart began feeling like a damn semi was driving over it. Then, late Friday night, my cell phone rang, but his name didn’t pop up on my screen. It was his cousin’s wife.
“Hey, Girrrl. Jomo got locked up down in NC in another bitch house… blah, blah, blah, blah… He fucked now… blah, blah, blah. You young, you might as well go on with your life. He ain’t shit. You need to find some other … blah, blah-di blah-blah…”
And my emotions just flooded, over-flowed, and gushed into each other in one big-ass river of hurt. People sure know how to kick you when you down and pour salt in a wound, don’t they? Salty-ass bitch.
To Be Continued