Chapter 8 Prime
PRIME
Yusef’s backpack bounced against his shoulder as he walked through those double doors, and I sat there watching until he disappeared inside.
Just another kid heading to class. Nobody would look at him and know he’d caught a body.
That his whole world was built on secrets that could bury everybody he loved.
He turned back once, gave me a little nod, and then he was gone.
I checked my phone. Pulled up the address I’d saved last night after doing some digging while Zainab slept.
True Organics.
2847 Greenmount Avenue, Baltimore, Maryland.
Shamir Ali’s health food store. Same spot he’d been running for damn near twenty years according to public records. Same location. Same business. Same evil-ass nigga behind the counter, selling sea moss and alkaline water like he wasn’t a whole monster dressed up in religious garments.
Finding him was the easiest mark I’d ever had to find. A few phone calls. Some basic searches. Niggas like Shamir thought they was untouchable because they wrapped themselves in faith and tradition. Thought nobody would ever come for them because they had Allah on their side.
But Allah wasn’t pulling up today.
Just me.
I threw the car in drive and hit I-95 North.
Forty-five minutes to Baltimore. Enough time to let the rage I’d been carrying since Zainab told me her story settle into something colder.
Something useful. I wasn’t about to roll up there sloppy and emotional.
That’s how niggas got caught. This was business.
Calculated. Precise. The same way I’d been handling shit since I was thirteen years old and learned that violence was a language everybody understood.
Shamir Ali was about to get a whole conversation.
True Organics looked exactly how I pictured it.
Little storefront wedged between a barbershop and a check-cashing joint on a block that had seen way better days.
Windows cluttered with hand-painted signs pushing that Hotep agenda—“BLACK SEED OIL - CURE FOR EVERYTHING BUT DEATH” and “FRESH SEA MOSS GEL - $25/JAR” and “ALKALINE WATER - PURIFY YOUR TEMPLE.”
I parked across the street and observed for a minute.
Quarter after ten. Not much moving. Couple of older women strolled past with shopping bags.
Some young boy on a bike rode by with a speaker strapped to his handlebars, blasting Future like he ain’t have neighbors.
Nobody paying attention to the black Bentayga sitting at the curb.
Perfect.
I got out, crossed the street, moved casual. Just another brother looking for some overpriced wellness products.
The bell chimed when I stepped inside, and that smell hit me immediately—frankincense and myrrh thick enough to choke on, mixed with dried herbs and whatever else these fake-conscious niggas burned to feel spiritual.
Store was small and cluttered, shelves stacked to the ceiling with supplements and oils and products rocking labels designed to look “African” even though they was probably made in a factory in China.
And there that nigga was.
Shamir Ali.
Behind the counter in a crisp white thawb and a cream kufi, looking like somebody’s righteous grandfather. Shorter than I expected. And way rounder—had a whole belly straining against that religious getup, which was hilarious considering he was supposed to be Mr. Health and Wellness.
I almost laughed out loud. This nigga out here selling alkaline water with a gut like he been hitting the fried fish plate every Friday and washing it down with beer.
He looked up when I walked in, face arranging itself into that retail smile. The one that said I’m peaceful and spiritual, please buy my overpriced sea moss.
“As-salamu alaykum, brother. Welcome to True Organics. How can I help you today?”
I didn’t respond. Just turned around, locked the front door, and flipped the sign from OPEN to CLOSED.
That fake smile disappeared real quick.
“Excuse me? What are you doing? We’re open—”
“Nah.” I turned back around and started walking toward him. Slow. Controlled. “You’re not.”
He stumbled backward, bumping into the shelf behind him, knocking over some bottles of elderberry syrup. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“What I want is for you to understand something, Shamir.”
His eyes went wide at the sound of his name. “If—if this is a robbery, just take the register. I won’t call nobody. Just take it and leave.”
I laughed. A real laugh. The kind that made him shrink back even further.
“You think I drove forty-five minutes for whatever sad bread you got in that register?” I stopped at the counter, looking down at him. “Nah, old man. This ain’t about money.”
“Then what—how do you know my name?”
“I know a lot about you.” I tilted my head, sizing him up. “I know you run this little health food store, but you walking around with a belly like you been eating chitlins and drinking Colt 45 every night. What happened to purifying your temple?”
“I don’t understand—”
“I know you had four wives. Bunch of kids. And I know you had twin daughters.” I paused, let that land. “Identical twins. Zainab and Zahara.”
Every bit of color drained from his face. His mouth opened and closed but nothing came out.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “I see you remember them. Good. This about to make a lot more sense.”
“Those girls—I haven’t seen them in years. They ran away—”
“They didn’t run away.” My voice went flat. Cold. “You beat them bloody. Had your wives check their hymens while you watched like a sick fuck. Then you threw them out on the street. Sixteen years old. Middle of the night. Nothing but the clothes on their backs.”
His eyes darted toward the back of the store. Looking for an exit. Looking for help.
Wasn’t neither one coming.
“That’s—you don’t have the full story—”
I came around that counter so fast he didn’t have time to react. My fist connected with his jaw and he dropped like a bag of his own organic quinoa.
He groaned, tried to crawl away, but I grabbed a handful of that thawb and dragged him toward the back.
His soft ass scraped across the floor, knocking over displays and products, but I ain’t slow down.
Pulled him through the doorway into the back office and tossed him into the chair behind the desk.
Found some packing tape on a shelf and went to work. Wrists to the chair arms. Ankles to the legs. He struggled, but this nigga was soft. Weak. Years of being the king of his little castle had made him forget that there was always somebody stronger.
When I finished, I stepped back and looked at him. Blood leaking from his nose. Crying like a baby. This was the man who terrorized his daughters? This pathetic, blubbering fool?
“Who sent you?” He was sobbing now, snot mixing with the blood. “Please—I have money—just tell me what you want!”
I grabbed a stool and sat down in front of him. Took my time. Let the silence stretch.
“You know anything about Yoruba tradition?” I asked.
He blinked, confused. “What?”
“The Yoruba people. West Africa. They got beliefs about twins. Call them Ibeji.” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “Twins are sacred to them. A blessing from the orishas. Supernatural beings who can bring fortune or disaster depending on how you treat the gift you’ve been given.”
He just stared at me, blood dripping down his chin.
“You were blessed with twin daughters, Shamir. Identical twins. You know how rare that is? How special?” My jaw tightened. “And what did you do with that blessing? You abused them. Controlled them. Beat them. Humiliated them. Then threw them away like they wasn’t nothing.”
“They were disobedient—they brought shame—”
I slapped him so hard the chair rocked back on two legs.
“Don’t.” I grabbed his face, fingers digging into his cheeks, forcing him to look at me. “Don’t you dare try to justify that shit to me. You ain’t a man of God. You’re a coward who hides behind religion to control women because you too weak to earn respect any other way.”
Tears streamed down his face. “Please… I’m sorry…”
“You sorry?” I let go of his face and laughed. “Nah. You ain’t sorry. You scared. Big difference.”
I stood up, paced around the little office, let him marinate in his fear.
“You know what happened to your daughters after you threw them out?” I asked, my back to him.
“I don’t—”
“They went to the only place they could. Meech. The boy you ain’t want Zahara with.” I turned around. “And you know what that nigga did? Cheated on her. Gave her an STD while she was pregnant with your grandson. Asked both of them for a threesome. Tried to assault Zainab when she was alone.”
His face twisted into something ugly.
“That’s what your choices led to. That’s the life you pushed them into.” I walked toward him. “And it got worse. Way worse. But you don’t deserve to know the rest. You don’t deserve to know how they suffered. What they survived. What they built in spite of you trying to destroy them.”
“Please…” His voice was barely there now. “I have money. Whatever you want. Just let me go.”
“I already told you.” I crouched down so we was eye level. “This ain’t about money.”
I stood and drove my fist into his gut. Once. Twice. Three times. He folded over as much as the tape allowed, gagging and wheezing.
“That’s for beating them.”
Grabbed his head and slammed it into my rising knee. Felt his nose crack.
“That’s for violating them in front of your wives.”
Stepped back and watched him sob and bleed and choke on his own fluids.
“And this?” I wrapped my hand around his throat. “This is for throwing them away like trash.”
I punched him dead in his windpipe. Hard. Felt the cartilage collapse under my knuckles.
He made a wet, horrible sound—mouth opening and closing, eyes bulging, face going from red to purple as he tried to breathe through a crushed airway. Panic took over his whole body, thrashing against the tape, fighting for air that wasn’t coming.
Part of me wanted to watch him die. Let him feel the same helplessness his daughters felt when he threw them into the street with nothing.
But nah.
Death was too easy. Too quick.
I wanted him to suffer. For years. The way Zainab and Zahara suffered.
I pulled my knife—always kept one on me—and tilted his head back. His eyes was wild now, veins popping, seconds away from passing out.
“Hold still,” I said calmly. “Unless you want me to hit an artery.”
Made a small cut in his throat, right below the crushed windpipe. Found the trachea. Created a small opening. Then I grabbed one of them metal reusable straws from the cup on his desk—how environmentally conscious of him—and slid it into the hole.
Air wheezed through the straw. His chest started moving again. The purple faded to gray.
He was breathing. Barely. Through a straw sticking out of his throat like some fucked up science experiment.
I wiped my blade on his thawb and put it away.
“You’re gonna live.” I stood over him. “Because I want you to live. I want you to spend every day for the rest of your pathetic existence remembering this. Remembering what it feels like to be powerless. To have somebody else decide if you get to breathe.”
He made a wet gurgling sound. Couldn’t talk with a collapsed windpipe.
Good.
“And every time you look in the mirror and see that scar—every time you feel whatever tube they put in your throat—you remember why.” I leaned down close to his ear. “This was for Zainab. And for Zahara. The daughters you threw away. The blessings you didn’t deserve.”
I straightened up and headed for the door.
“One more thing.” I paused, looked back at him. “If you ever think about looking for them—if their names even cross your mind—I’ll come back. And next time, I won’t be this nice.”
He gurgled something. Blood and spit running down his chin.
I walked out through the store, stepping over the mess of broken jars and spilled products. At the front door, I flipped the sign back to OPEN and unlocked it.
Somebody would wander in eventually. Find him. Call 911. They’d rush him to a hospital, save his worthless life.
And he’d have to live with what I did to him.
Forever.
I stepped onto the sidewalk. Late morning sun hit my face. Baltimore air—exhaust, fried food, the faint salt of the harbor in the distance.
I took a breath, rolled my shoulders, and walked to my car.
Just another Monday.