DD: You keep saying your man. Thought you were… you know?
Angeclass="underline" What? I eat fish? (chuckles) I’ve had my share of snapper, but let’s just say Dutch is my sweetest taboo.
DD: Juicy, Juicy tell me…
(The one-minute warning cut me off just when we were getting to the good shit.)
DD: Well, one minute left, any last words?
Angeclass="underline" No doubt. To Roc, hold your head ’cause it’s me and you. To Goldilocks and Angela Hearn, one love. And to the streets, pick a side and ride or die ’cause the ride is ’bout to get rough. And let all them bitch-ass niggas know who’s runnin’ them streets for real. Angel’s baaaack, muthafuckas! Siempre.
Rahman laid the magazine aside and rubbed his face. Angel definitely hadn’t changed and apparently thought he hadn’t either. But he had, and it made him wonder where that left the two of them. He knew what she was going to do if released from prison. Take back what they had lost. But he had a different mission-to clean up the streets.
What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? Well, the streets would soon find out.
Rahman walked into FCI-Lewisburg’s chapel just as the Islamic call to prayer was being chanted.
Hayya alas-Salah. Hayya-alal-Falah. Come to prayer, come to success. In Arabic, heard throughout speakers in the chapel, it represented the masjid for the Muslim inmates.
Rahman was the prayer leader, better known as imam in Arabic. He led all the Muslim inmates in prayer and advised them on their personal issues from time to time. He prayed his two ra’kahs and then made his way to the podium.
“As-Salaamu Alaikum,” he said in greeting to the forty-something Muslims sitting on the floor in lines of straight rows behind one another.
“Alaikum As-Salaam,” the brothers replied in unison.
Rahman surveyed the gathering of men before him. He knew many of the brothers had been stone-cold murderers, kingpins, pimps, and boss players. Now they all bowed to one God in perfect unity and harmony. Allah was truly the greatest.
“All praises are due to Allah. We praise him, seek his help, and ask his forgiveness. I bear witness that there is no God but Allah, and that Muhammad is his servant and messenger,” Rahman began, then flipped open his Qur’an.
“I want to read from Surah four, Ayat seventy-five. It says…” he began to recite the Qur’an in Arabic, his deep baritone caressing each syllable and his articulation punctuating the guttural sentences.
“Wa Maa la-kum la tuqaatiluna sabili-llahi. Wal-Mustadina min ar-rijali Wan Nisaai Wal Wildan. Al-Latheena yaqulu-na Rabba-na Akhrij-na Min Hadihil. Paryati Zalimu Ahlu-ha Wa Hab la-na Min Ladun-ka Nasiraa.”
Then he repeated the prayer in English.
“And what is wrong with you that you fight not in the cause of Allah and for those who are weak, ill-treated, and oppressed amongst themselves, both men, women, and children, whose cry is: Lord rescue us from this town whose people are oppressors and raise for us, from you, one who will protect and raise for us, one who will help.”
He closed the Qur’an and paused to let the words sink in.
“This was a cry for liberation. Is this cry still not heard today? All around us, in every ghetto in America, brothers and sisters are crying, and yet the call continues to go unanswered. We in this room come from every part of the U.S. The North, West, South, and East, the inner cities, boondocks, and backcountry roads. We know that the ghetto is everywhere. People in society use this prayer every day, with or without understanding. But instead of calling on God, they call on the numbers man, the dope man, the liquor store, the strip club, or the corner bar. They call on anyone, anywhere, and anyway they can to escape the oppression being inflicted upon them.”
Many of the brothers nodded in agreement.
“But what is oppression? Is it just racist cops, politicians, and judges? Isn’t debt oppression? The type of debt that keeps us tied to two and three jobs tryin’ to come out of it? Isn’t the game oppression? It leaves a brother with only two options-jail or death. It’s a vicious cycle and where does it get us? Where are we now?” Rahman’s voice boomed.
“Where are we now? Here. It gets us here. It gets our women in strip clubs. It gets our kids in group homes. Why do you think there are fences around the projects tall as the fences around maximum-security prisons? In prison, fences mean they don’t want you to get out. So, can it mean anything different around the projects? Oppression. The white man knew exactly what he was doing when he built the prisons and the projects. But Islam is the liberator. Not the nation of Islam, not the 5 percent of Islam, not Moorish science or nationalistic ideologies, but Islam. Sunni Islam, pure and simple.”
Rahman paced in front of the brothers with his hands clasped behind his back.
“Now some will tell you that Islam doesn’t liberate. Islam enslaves. Look at the Arabs on the east coast of Africa. They were doing the same thing the Europeans were doing on the west coast of Africa! To them I say, know the difference between liberator and conqueror. Many start out as liberators but become conquerors, and the Arabs were no different. This is when we lost our glory as Muslims. But I challenge you to find any religion that has liberated any country in the history of the world. Christianity? That is only a facade for Roman imperialism. Buddhism? No. Judaism? Stop playin’.” Rahman smiled and a few laughed quietly.
“But Islam? Yes, yes, and yes again. This is history. So this is what we must take home to our families. Islam. Not as conquerors but as liberators. Teach them what they can do and they won’t need for what they don’t have. Lead by example, not by rhetoric, and they too shall follow. As-Salaamu Alaikum.”
After Jum’ah, Akbar and Rahman walked the yard.
“That was a beautiful khutbah, nephew. I taught you well,” Akbar joked. Rahman smiled.
“All praises are due to Allah.”
“Indeed. But, ah… you didn’t plan on speakin’ on that particular topic today, did you, Ock?” Akbar inquired knowingly.
Rahman answered him with his eyes.
“I noticed you weren’t using your index cards. So, I figured you were free-styling,” Akbar surmised, then added, “Got anything to do with that Don Diva magazine?”
Rahman looked around the yard, formulating a response. The other inmates were indulging in recreational pursuits under the Pennsylvania sun, balling and lifting weights like they didn’t have a care in the world.
“Something like that,” Rahman replied.
Akbar nodded. “That’s why I showed it to you. So you’d know what’s waitin’ for you when you touch down.”
“If I touch.”
Akbar shrugged.
“Allah is the best of planners, but He’s already set the stage for your return. How you gonna handle this Angel thing?”
They lapped the yard several times before Rahman wanted to rest. They stopped and sat down.
“What you mean, how? You know what we planned. Nothing will get in the way of that, Insha Allah.”
“Insha Allah,” Akbar repeated. “Look, Rah. I’ve been watchin’ you for three years. Watchin’ you grow in Islam and watchin’ how your character has changed. You’re a beautiful brother, but nephew, that gangsta is still in you.”
Rahman wanted to defend himself, but Akbar continued.
“I’m not saying you frontin’ or you ain’t sincere. But we were born and trained to be what them streets made us. You, a gangsta. Me, I’m a grand master, but that’s a personal jihad within myself. Like you said today, the liberator or the conqueror. The liberator is Rahman, but the conqueror is One-eyed Roc, the cold-blooded killer and big money getter.”
Rahman let Akbar’s words sink in before responding. “I hear you, Ock, but believe me, I’m ready.”