Read Online What's Really Hood! by Wahida Clark - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Wahida Clark
Tags: FIC003000
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if it ain’t good enough
to get high on, it damn sure ain’t right to get by on,” his mother said, looking him dead in the eyes. “You wanna be grown,
fine, so am I. You sell it; I smoke it, so fair exchange ain’t no robbery.” She scraped the leftover shrimp fried rice from
the bowl onto her plate. “Now, you gonna look out for me, or do I have to pay for it too?”
Wiz looked at his mother. She was young, only thirty-five, and her pecan complexion still glowed with agirlish quality. But he could see how the drugs were beginning to take a toll on her beauty. “Yeah, man,” he reluctantly
agreed, heading to his room to get it. He dug in his wall stash, retrieved a ten-bottle clip, and returned to the kitchen.
He sat the clip on the table without looking at his mother, then turned and walked out.
She wanted to call him back, tell him she loved him and that she was sorry things were the way they were, but what could she
say that could make him understand her addiction, and her dependency on him for a steady supply of drugs that kept her from
becoming another crack feen in the street? There was nothing to say, so she simply closed the kitchen door and got her pipe
out of her purse.
Every hood has a club… not just any club, but
the
club. Sensations was it in Newark. Only the liveliest nigguhs hung at Sensations, and the hood legends rarely missed an attendance.
So when LL Cool J came to Newark that spring of ’86, nigguhs really showed out. Ask LL, he remembers.
Branford Place was lined with slick whips. No-top Wranglers with Louis Vuitton seat covers, Benz AMGs, with Ferrari kits,
and, of course, various flavors of Suzuki bikes and Sidekicks.
Wiz pulled up and parked his Jetta on Halsey Street, then rounded the corner. He came alone because he didn’t do the crew,
and he didn’t bring a girl, because that was like taking sand to the beach. But his presencewas felt because his name was on the rise and he had legends in his bloodline.
Wiz slid through in a pair of white Calvin Kleins, baby blue silk shirt and matching baby blue Ballys. His forty-inch rope
swung to the rhythm of his suave nonchalant stride and shimmered under the streetlights.
People were scattered everywhere. Girls in Chinese bobs, bamboo earrings and painted-on graffiti jeans congregated in cliques,
flirting with the money nigguhs while the wild nigguhs stalked the shadows.
“Yo, Wiz! It’s vic season!”
The tone was ominous, but anyone familiar with the voice would know the words were barked in jest. Wiz knew the voice well.
It belonged to his older cousin Ali Smalls, notorious across the Brick. Wiz turned his attention to Ali, who was leaning against
a green Eldorado with Al-Ameen and Ali Hubcap from Prince Street. He walked up, giving everyone a pound, and gave Ali Smalls
a brotherly hug.
“Look at lil’ cuz, yo. Muthafucka gettin’ his weight up, love love,” Smalls remarked, proudly checking Wiz out from head to
toe. “What up wit’ you?”
“Chillin’, man, what up wit’ you?”
Ali shrugged. “I told you, Cuz,” he began, pulling a chrome bulldog .38 from his waist with a smile, “it’s vic season. You
see anything you want?” Ali questioned, gesturing to the large crowd, gold and diamonds everywhere.
Wiz knew Smalls meant it, because the nigguh wastreacherous. The type of nigguh to do drive-bys with a silencer, but to look at him, you never would’ve guessed this light-skinned
pretty-type nigguh was so dangerous.
“Naw, yo, I’m straight,” Wiz declined.
“You sure? Let me know love, I’m in the house.”
Wiz nodded and walked off, heading inside Sensations. The air inside the club was suffocating. The place was packed, especially
with females waitin’ on Ladies Love, so Wiz was like a kid in a candy store. He knew from the eye contact he was getting from
every angle that he would have his pick, so he told his dick don’t worry, we fuckin’ tonight. Once LL
to get high on, it damn sure ain’t right to get by on,” his mother said, looking him dead in the eyes. “You wanna be grown,
fine, so am I. You sell it; I smoke it, so fair exchange ain’t no robbery.” She scraped the leftover shrimp fried rice from
the bowl onto her plate. “Now, you gonna look out for me, or do I have to pay for it too?”
Wiz looked at his mother. She was young, only thirty-five, and her pecan complexion still glowed with agirlish quality. But he could see how the drugs were beginning to take a toll on her beauty. “Yeah, man,” he reluctantly
agreed, heading to his room to get it. He dug in his wall stash, retrieved a ten-bottle clip, and returned to the kitchen.
He sat the clip on the table without looking at his mother, then turned and walked out.
She wanted to call him back, tell him she loved him and that she was sorry things were the way they were, but what could she
say that could make him understand her addiction, and her dependency on him for a steady supply of drugs that kept her from
becoming another crack feen in the street? There was nothing to say, so she simply closed the kitchen door and got her pipe
out of her purse.
Every hood has a club… not just any club, but
the
club. Sensations was it in Newark. Only the liveliest nigguhs hung at Sensations, and the hood legends rarely missed an attendance.
So when LL Cool J came to Newark that spring of ’86, nigguhs really showed out. Ask LL, he remembers.
Branford Place was lined with slick whips. No-top Wranglers with Louis Vuitton seat covers, Benz AMGs, with Ferrari kits,
and, of course, various flavors of Suzuki bikes and Sidekicks.
Wiz pulled up and parked his Jetta on Halsey Street, then rounded the corner. He came alone because he didn’t do the crew,
and he didn’t bring a girl, because that was like taking sand to the beach. But his presencewas felt because his name was on the rise and he had legends in his bloodline.
Wiz slid through in a pair of white Calvin Kleins, baby blue silk shirt and matching baby blue Ballys. His forty-inch rope
swung to the rhythm of his suave nonchalant stride and shimmered under the streetlights.
People were scattered everywhere. Girls in Chinese bobs, bamboo earrings and painted-on graffiti jeans congregated in cliques,
flirting with the money nigguhs while the wild nigguhs stalked the shadows.
“Yo, Wiz! It’s vic season!”
The tone was ominous, but anyone familiar with the voice would know the words were barked in jest. Wiz knew the voice well.
It belonged to his older cousin Ali Smalls, notorious across the Brick. Wiz turned his attention to Ali, who was leaning against
a green Eldorado with Al-Ameen and Ali Hubcap from Prince Street. He walked up, giving everyone a pound, and gave Ali Smalls
a brotherly hug.
“Look at lil’ cuz, yo. Muthafucka gettin’ his weight up, love love,” Smalls remarked, proudly checking Wiz out from head to
toe. “What up wit’ you?”
“Chillin’, man, what up wit’ you?”
Ali shrugged. “I told you, Cuz,” he began, pulling a chrome bulldog .38 from his waist with a smile, “it’s vic season. You
see anything you want?” Ali questioned, gesturing to the large crowd, gold and diamonds everywhere.
Wiz knew Smalls meant it, because the nigguh wastreacherous. The type of nigguh to do drive-bys with a silencer, but to look at him, you never would’ve guessed this light-skinned
pretty-type nigguh was so dangerous.
“Naw, yo, I’m straight,” Wiz declined.
“You sure? Let me know love, I’m in the house.”
Wiz nodded and walked off, heading inside Sensations. The air inside the club was suffocating. The place was packed, especially
with females waitin’ on Ladies Love, so Wiz was like a kid in a candy store. He knew from the eye contact he was getting from
every angle that he would have his pick, so he told his dick don’t worry, we fuckin’ tonight. Once LL
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