Hood Love With A Harlem Thug

Prelude

“Ma!” Nyla screamed repeatedly. Chello, her older brother of two years, stood there, froze, traumatized and stuck in the moment.

Eighteen years old, Chello was too old to cry and too young to live without his mother.

Blood crept toward his shoes, his mother’s blood.

Sirens sounded, neighbors crowded, somebody was praying, but Chello heard none of it.

What he did hear was his sister screaming, so he pulled her off their mother’s body while she fought him away.

“No! Let me go! Somebody killed my fuckin’ momma!”

“She gone, Nyla,” Chello pulled his sister close and held her, his eyes locked onto his mother’s body.

“I got her, Momma.” Was the last promise he made to his mother; his innocence died right there with her. He stood there as a boy and walked away a man.

By the time the funeral and repast came, everybody came with cakes and condolences, while Chello sat on his aunt’s couch silent.

Their entire family still lived right there in the hood, and they were already trying to separate Nyla and Chello.

None of them cared for real, they were all chasing a check they would never get.

“Nyla is coming with me,” their Aunt Rochelle announced.

Chello looked up, “No she not.”

Rochelle’s neck snapped, “You a child yourself, you can’t raise no teenage girl.”

Uncle Danny chimed in to back his sister, “Rochelle is right. Chello, you can stay with me. I can get you a job at Walmart. Y’all will be around the corner from each other.”

That made something cold rise inside of Chello’s chest. Split them up? Bullshit, over his dead body. His mother raised them to stick together no matter what, so splitting them up wasn’t an option.

“My sister staying with me.”

Rochelle threw her hands on her hips, “Staying with you where? You can’t afford the rent your mother was paying to keep that apartment. That little insurance money is not going to last once those funeral expenses clear.”

“I got us.”

His aunt let out a bitter laugh, “I’m not about to argue with no kid that ain’t mine. Good luck, but don’t come running when reality hit your grown ass!”

“I won’t.”

And he didn’t. Their mother had a small policy through her job.

Twenty-five thousand and he was the beneficiary.

His aunt was right, he had about eleven thousand left after the funeral, but that was more money than he ever had.

He paid their rent for two months and filled the kitchen, the rest, he used to buy his first weight.

His best friend, Tyzir, was eighteen, homeless, loyal, and hungry, and together, they ate.

They bagged up in crackheads’ kitchens with roaches crawling up the walls.

They hugged the block together - rain, sleet, snow, or hail.

Chello watched Tyzir’s back and Tyzir watched his.

Weeks became months, months became territory, territory became an empire.

By the time they hit twenty-one, they had their own street corners.

By twenty-five, they had a team of loyal soldiers under their command.

By thirty…Chello and Tyzir ran the city of Chicago.