Page 2 of Turned Out by His Hood Mentality 3

“Our young, black boys, they feel like moving dope is the only option they got when they from the projects. That, being a rapper or playing ball. Do these lil’ niggas not know that they have fuckin’ brains too and that they can be doing something else with their lives? I preach and preach that shit to them daily, and although I’ll probably be singing that shit until I’m blue in the face, I know that a lot of them will still do what the fuck they want to do anyway. In the end, though, I know that I did my part, and it’ll be strictly up to them whether they want to take heed,” my uncle Malcom told me.

There was a blunt in my hand, and I took a long pull from it as I thought about the things he had just spoken on.

“When you begin to have kids, I swear you see shit so differently. When I was young, I used to swear that I was going to be the biggest hustler that ever came out of Miami. I talked about how I would pass the drug business down to my sons because, eventually, I would want out of this shit, but at the same time, I never wanted my legacy to die. I look at Lil’ Bill, and I ain’t never in my life put hands on that little boy, but on everything I love, I’ll break his fuckin’ neck if I even think he got some shit on his mind about pushing some weight.

“I bust my ass every day, so my kids ain’t gotta do the same shit that I was doing. In anything that they do, I want them to be better than me, whether it be school, life, shit, whatever, just be better. Billion wants to play professional football when he gets older, but I be on top of him, telling him to have a plan B because anything can happen, and it can shatter his dreams in a second,” I let my uncle know.

I think it was the weed in my system that had me getting into this deep talk with my uncle. When I got out there, I was clowning his ass because I saw him get smoked in a race by a thirteen-year-old boy. Now, there we were, sitting on the benches, in a deep ass conversation.

My phone was in my lap, and I had looked down about three times, reading the text messages that had popped up from Normani, giving a nigga some shit to bring back to the house from Walmart. I swear, I didn’t see how shorty wasn’t bigger than what she was because all her pregnancy cravings came out at night. She’d be up at midnight, and all I would hear was fuckin’ chewing. Last night, she came to bed with a bowl filled with strawberries and had many toppings on it from syrup, whipped cream, and cherry nut ice cream. I can’t even lie, I tasted it, and that shit was good. I guess she had no more strawberries left or any whipped cream, so she was sending me on an errand to get that for her along with whatever else was on that fuckin’ list.

Normani would be three months pregnant next month, and she had just gotten to a point where I could finally say she had a little pudge in her stomach. Her birthday was next week, and I was still trying to figure out what the fuck I was going to do for her. She told me straight up that she didn’t want a party and not to spend a bunch of money on her (but I was still going to), and she told me she didn’t want to go on a vacation. I was sure what happened in Mexico had her saying that.

Normani wasn’t as scared as she was before, but she was still going through it. If she came home at night, it was mandatory that I met her outside, and she brings it up at least once a week. She had every right to still be shaken up over that shit happening to her, but I ain’t want my wife living in fear for the rest of her life. So, yeah, that was something we were still trying to work on.

Then, she was dealing with the backlash from her father. Normani had expressed on a few occasions that she just wanted things to go back to normal between her and her father. Truth be told, I didn’t think that shit between her and her father would ever get back to normal because as long as I was in the picture, he would feel threatened by my very existence. I swear, if he wasn’t my wife’s daddy, I would have been beat the fuck out of his old ass.

“I hear you, man. You’re an amazing father to those kids. I’ve always told you that,” Uncle Malcom said as he reached out and gave me a pound.

“Let me get the fuck out of here, though. It’s fuckin’ hours, and one of my dimes keep texting, trying to see where the fuck I’m at,” he said.

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sp; I laughed, shaking my head because our roles were should have been different. He was older, and I was the younger. Malcom should be the one with a pregnant wife at home and a few kids of his own, and I was supposed to be the single bachelor without a care in the world.

“Betta leave them hoes alone, man,” I said.

“Yeah, right! Leave the hoes alone and have my wife texting me with her fuckin’ grocery list of shit to pick up, like what yours is doing to you right now? I’ll pass, lil’ nigga,” he joked.

“You ain’t never been in love, so you wouldn’t understand. When you go fuck them hoes tonight, if you ain’t already got some condoms, you’ll have to stop and pick you up some, which is going to set you back another five minutes or so. When I go home tonight, I fuck my wife. I ain’t got to worry about strapping up because, for one, she already knocked, up and two, I know that her and that pussy is disease free. When the last time you sent them hoes to get a pap smear? Keep judging us married niggas all you want to. At least I ain’t gotta worry about having bumps on my dick. My dick goes in and out of one pussy, and one pussy only,” I said, talking my shit.

All he could do was laugh because he knew I was right. No single nigga could say shit that would make me feel like I was missing out on something by not living a bachelor's life. My married life topped that in many ways. I been fuckin’ since I was a little nigga, so I had already lived that life of being in and out of different pussy. I already knew how it felt to fuck on somebody today and then somebody else tomorrow.

What nobody liked to talk about when it came to fuckin’ around is that these bitches are suspect as fuck, and they be coming up with all types of plans to get your ass robbed and killed. I remember the night of my welcome home party when I took two bitches back to the hotel with me. I stripped them bitches of everything, down to their fuckin’ contacts, because I couldn’t trust a soul. If I had to do all that, just to get some pussy, then nah, I’d rather find a wife. My wife couldn’t rob me because what was mine was hers time two! I spoke that shit to my uncle all the time about him needing to be careful with these bitches, but he was older, and he would do what he wanted regardless.

“I’m heading out. You staying?” he asked as he pulled his keys out of his joggers.

“Go ahead. I’m about to finish this joint, and then I’ll leave,” I said.

We dapped it up, and then he left. I watched as he went to the parking lot, jumped in his car, and sped off. Now, it was just me in the park. I wanted to be left alone for plenty of reasons. Truth is, I had a lot of shit on my mind, but the main thing that had been eating at me these days was the fact that I didn’t think Denim would fight this shit. It had been damn near three months, and shorty wasn’t showing any improvement.

At first, she would squeeze a nigga’s hand. She would do the same thing with Khari and Rylo, her other daughter. They would get so happy when their mama did that. I swear that shit would light up their fuckin’ worlds. She hardly did any of that anymore. Her stomach was growing because of the baby, but as far as Denim, she just wasn’t showing any signs of improvement. My daughter asked me just about every day if I still thought her mama would wake up from her coma. Although I told her yes, I just didn’t know anymore. I wasn’t prepared to tell my daughter no fucked up news like that.

The crazy thing about all this shit is that when Denim told me the truth about who Khari belonged to, I was so fuckin’ mad at her that I didn’t give a fuck what happened to her ass. Now look, I actually gave a fuck whether shorty lived or died.

My thoughts were cut short when my phone buzzed in my lap. I looked down, and of course, it was Normani calling on Facetime. I slid the bar over on the phone, so I could answer, and once I did, I blew a cloud of smoke into the phone.

“Why didn’t you text me back?” she asked, getting right to the point.

Normani was back in our room, and from her surroundings, I could see that she was sitting on my side of the bed. Her long hair was in a ponytail, and she was in one of my wife beaters. Since she was sitting down, I couldn’t see her bottoms. Normani’s gray eyes sternly watched me as she waited for me to answer her question.

“Because I was going to lie and say that I didn’t get it,” I truthfully told her as I blew more smoke into the phone. A nigga was dog tired, and going to the store, picking out crazy pregnancy craving foods for my wife was the last thing I wanted to do at that moment.

“I can always go and get it myself. Your uncle isn’t even out there with you anymore, so why are you still there? It’s late. Come home,” she said.

This woman didn’t want me out of her sight. I couldn’t talk, though, because I got annoyed when she got out of bed to take a piss. I wanted her on my hip at all times.

“It’s after ten, shorty. You better not walk yo’ ass out that motha fuckin’ door. Ima go and get your shit,” I said.

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