Chapter 5 Brandi
brANDI
I hadn’t slept in six days.
Six days since they put my baby in the ground.
Six days since I watched them lower that little casket into the earth and throw dirt on top of it like he was nothing.
Like he wasn’t my whole world. Like I hadn’t spent twelve years sacrificing everything—my body, my time, my whole damn life—to give him a better shot than I had.
Six days, and I still couldn’t close my eyes without seeing his face.
The apartment was too quiet now. That was the part that fucked me up the most. Nigel was always making noise—playing that damn game too loud, banging around in the kitchen eating up everything that wasn’t nailed down, blasting that drill music that gave me a headache but I let him play anyway because at least he was home and not in the streets.
Used to cuss him out daily. “Boy, turn that shit DOWN. You trying to make me deaf? The neighbors gonna be knocking on my door and I ain’t got time for that!”
Now I’d give anything to hear it again. Would let him play that ignorant-ass music as loud as he wanted. Would let him eat every damn thing in the fridge. Would let him do whatever he wanted if I could just have him back.
But I couldn’t. Because somebody took him from me. And nobody was doing a goddamn thing about it.
I sat on the couch in the dark, still wearing the same bonnet and house dress I’d had on for three days. Hadn’t showered. The dishes were piled up in the sink. Trash was overflowing. I couldn’t bring myself to care about none of it.
What was the point? My baby was gone. Nothing else mattered.
The cops had come by a few times. Asked their little questions.
Wrote in their little notebooks. Gave me that look—the one that said they was sorry but also had better shit to do than worry about another dead Black boy in Southeast. To them, Nigel was just a statistic.
Another case file to shove in a drawer and forget about.
I’d been blowing up Detective Morrison’s phone every single day since the funeral. Left messages. Sent texts. Showed up at the precinct twice. Got nothing but the runaround.
“We’re following up on some leads, Ms. Thompson.”
“We’re doing everything we can, Ms. Thompson.”
“These things take time, Ms. Thompson.”
Bitch, what TIME? My son ain’t got time! He DEAD!
But I didn’t say that. Just smiled in their faces and died a little more inside every time they fed me that bullshit.
I picked up my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I landed on a name I’d been avoiding.
Shawn.
Zoo, everybody called him. Nigel’s daddy. The man I’d spent the last decade trying to keep out of my bed and out of my business because I knew—I KNEW—that nigga wasn’t nothing but trouble wrapped in a fine-ass package.
We’d been young and dumb when I got pregnant.
I was nineteen, shaking my ass at this club in Northeast, thinking I was the baddest bitch in DC.
Zoo was twenty-two, already in the streets, already running with the Brick City Crew.
He wasn’t no kingpin or nothing—low level, really, just a worker bee doing whatever them niggas told him to do—but he had money and swag and a dick that made me forget he was a walking red flag.
By the time I realized I’d fucked up, Nigel was already cooking in my belly.
I tried to keep my son away from all that bullshit. Tried to raise him right, keep him in school, keep him off them corners. And for the most part, it worked. Nigel was a good kid. Smart. Got decent grades. Stayed out of trouble—or at least I thought he did.
Zoo wasn’t shit when Nigel was coming up.
Let me be clear about that. That nigga was in and out, more out than in, chasing money and bitches and whatever else was more important than his son.
I raised Nigel by myself. Worked doubles at the hospital, picked up shifts at the club on weekends, did whatever I had to do to keep food on the table and clothes on his back.
Zoo would pop up every few months with some Jordans or a few hundred dollars and think that made him father of the year.
Then he’d disappear again, off doing whatever street niggas do.
Then he got locked up five years ago on some drug shit, and I ain’t hear from him at all. No letters. No calls. No asking for commissary money. Nothing. Just me and Nigel, same as always.
But when he got out a few months back? Something was different.
He actually started trying. Showing up. Taking Nigel to get fresh cuts and new sneakers.
Spending time with him. Being present in a way he never was before.
I don’t know if prison changed him or if he just finally grew up, but for the first time in Nigel’s life, he had a father who acted like one.
But being out had changed him. That stint upstate did something to him.
The Zoo who came home wasn’t the same nigga who went in.
He was darker now. Angrier. Sloppy in a way that made me nervous.
Word on the street was he’d been drinking heavy, popping percs like they was candy, getting into shit that was gonna land him right back behind bars—or in a box next to our son.
Still, he was Nigel’s father. And right now, he was the only one who seemed to give a fuck about finding out who killed my baby.
The police wasn’t doing shit. Maybe it was time to let the streets handle it.
I pressed the call button before I could talk myself out of it.
He answered on the third ring.
“Brandi.” His voice was rough. Slurred a little. Nigga was probably high right now. “What you want?”
“What I WANT?” Oh, this motherfucker had me fucked up. “Nigga, our son is DEAD. Been dead for days. And you asking me what I want like I’m bothering you?”
“Yo, chill—”
“Chill? CHILL?” I was on my feet now, pacing the living room, my blood pressure probably through the roof. “You said you was gonna handle this! Said you had your little homies out there asking questions! Said you was gonna find who did this! And what? WHAT, Shawn? You ain’t found a goddamn thing!”
“Brandi—”
“My baby is six feet under and you out here doing God knows what—probably laid up with one of your lil hoes—instead of finding his killer!”
“I’M TRYING!” His voice boomed through the phone so loud I had to pull it away from my ear. “The fuck you think I been doing? You think I ain’t out here every day putting pressure on niggas? This shit ain’t easy, Brandi!”
“Ain’t easy? AIN’T EASY?” I laughed, but it came out like a scream. “You know what ain’t easy? Burying your twelve-year-old son. Picking out a casket for your child. Watching them throw dirt on his face. THAT’S what ain’t easy. All you gotta do is find one nigga. ONE. And you can’t even do that.”
“I’m handling it—”
“You ain’t handling SHIT! You a whole bitch, Zoo! A BITCH! Out here letting your son’s killer walk around free while you get high and drunk and do everything except what you supposed to be doing!”
The line went quiet. For a second I thought he’d hung up on me.
Then, in a voice so cold it made my skin prickle: “Say that shit to my face.”
“Gladly. Come over here then. Come over here and look me in my eyes while I tell you what a sorry excuse for a father you are.”
“Bet. Fifteen minutes.”
The line went dead.
He showed up in ten.
I heard his car before I saw it—that loud-ass Charger with the aftermarket exhaust that announced his presence to the whole damn block. That was Zoo. Never could do nothing without making sure everybody knew about it.
I snatched the door open before he could knock. He stood there looking like shit—eyes red, clothes wrinkled, smelling like Hennessy and weed. Probably been up for days just like me, but for different reasons.
“You look rough,” I said.
“Fuck you too.” He pushed past me into the apartment. “You wanted to talk? Talk.”
“I wanted you to DO something.” I slammed the door behind him. “Not talk. Action, Shawn. Results. Something other than the nothing you been giving me.”
He spun around, getting in my space. “You think this shit is easy? Huh? You think I can just snap my fingers and find whoever did this?”
“I think if it was one of your homeboys that got killed, you’d have a name by now.” I didn’t back down. Never did with him. “I think if Brick City wanted somebody found, they’d be found. But since it’s just YOUR SON, I guess it ain’t that important.”
His jaw twitched. “Watch your mouth, Brandi.”
“Or what? What you gonna do?” I stepped closer, getting right in his face. “Hit me? That gonna bring Nigel back? That gonna make you less of a failure as a father?”
“I ain’t playing with you—”
“And I ain’t playing with YOU!” I shoved his chest. “You a bitch, Zoo! A whole BITCH! Walking around here like you so hard, like you so gangsta, but you can’t even find out who killed your own son! What kind of man—”
The slap came fast.
One second I was in his face, and the next my head was snapping to the side, my cheek on fire, my body stumbling into the wall. I tasted blood where I bit my tongue.
For a second, neither of us moved. Just stood there breathing hard, the echo of skin on skin hanging between us like smoke.
Then his face crumbled.
“Fuck.” He reached for me, pulling me into his chest before I could claw his eyes out like I wanted to. “Fuck, Brandi, I’m sorry. I ain’t mean to—shit. I’m sorry.”
I should’ve kneed him in his dick. Should’ve scratched his face up. Should’ve grabbed the kitchen knife and showed him what happens when you put your hands on me.
But I was tired. Bone tired. The kind of tired that settles into your soul and makes you stop caring about shit you should definitely care about.
So I let him hold me. Let myself break down against his chest. Let his arms wrap around me even though those same hands had just put bruises on my face.
We was toxic as hell. Always had been. But he was the only other person on this earth who loved Nigel as much as I did. The only one who understood this pain.
“I’m trying, B.” His voice was rough in my ear. “Every day. I’m out there. I’m asking. I’m putting pressure. But ain’t nobody talking. Whoever did this… they a ghost.”
“Then look harder.” I pulled back, wiping my face with the back of my hand. “Ask different people. I don’t care what you gotta do or who you gotta hurt. Just find them.”
“Where you want me to start? I done talked to everybody on the block. Ain’t nobody see nothing.”
“What about his friends?” It seemed obvious to me. “The kids he ran with. They might know something. Might have seen something.”
Zoo nodded slowly. “Aight. Who he be with?”
“His best friend Yusef. Lives down the hall with his mama Zahara.” I paused, remembering earlier. “Actually, you just missed them. They was leaving when I stopped by. They looked like they were taking a trip out of town or some shit.”
Zoo’s eyes narrowed. “A trip? Right now?”
“That’s what she said. Her and the boy and some nigga. Had bags packed and everything. Moving real quick.”
“Hm.” He was quiet for a second, processing. I could almost see the wheels turning. “What about school? Teachers might know something. Other kids he hung with.”
“We can start there.” I was already grabbing my purse, my keys, my jacket. “Principal knows me. She’ll let us ask around.”
“Then let’s go.” Zoo was at the door, that restless energy back in his body. The hunter sniffing for blood.
I took one last look at the apartment before I left. At Nigel’s Jordans by the couch—the ones he’d just gotten, barely worn. At his jacket still hanging by the door. At the Xbox controller sitting on the coffee table like he’d be back any minute to pick it up.
“I’ma find them, baby,” I whispered. “Mama’s gonna find out who did this. And when I do…”
I didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t have to.
Whoever killed my son was living on borrowed time. They just didn’t know it yet.
I slammed the door and followed Zoo into the night.