The Coldest Winter Ever Read online

  Praise for Sister Souljah and

  The Coldest Winter Ever

  “Souljah, an Emile Zola of the hip-hop generation, has written a naturalist novel of a world without redemption. Her story, like the cultures it exposes, is an unflinching eye at the truth.”

  —Walter Mosley

  “Souljah adds a new voice to the most marginalized of the marginalized.”

  —Black Issues Book Review

  “[C]ompelling … tugs at the emotions.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “I think she is an important voice in American literature, and I find her work spiritually rewarding and powerful.”

  —Jada Pinkett Smith

  “[E]ngaging … a fast, fun read.”

  —The Plain Dealer

  “This is a wild tale … a vivid portrait of a girl you’d rather have as a friend than an enemy.”

  —Seventeen

  “Real and raw…. If a rap song could be a novel, it might resemble [this] book.”

  —Booklist

  “This is a ghetto fairy tale with a surprise ending…. There’s a lesson to be learned from The Coldest Winter Ever.”

  —The Tennessean

  “[A] tour de force.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  THE

  COLDEST

  WINTER

  EVER

  Washington Square Press 1230

  Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1999 by Lisa Williamson P/K/A Sister Souljah

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Atria Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7434-9938-5

  ISBN-10: 0-7434-9938-7

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-7010-6(Pbk)

  ISBN-10: 0-7432-7010-X (Pbk)

  First Washington Square Press trade paperback edition September 2005

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798 or [email protected]

  DEDICATION

  There is no such thing as love anymore,

  the kind that is so strong

  that you can feel it in your bones.

  You know we used to feel that emotion

  when we looked into the faces of our mother,

  father, sisters, brothers, family and friends.

  There is no such thing as love anymore.

  At least not the deep satisfying kind

  that sits on your heart and influences every

  decision and action we take throughout each day.

  There is no reason to celebrate anymore.

  Just empty actions and empty reactions,

  calculated gestures and financial arrangements.

  There is no such thing as love anymore …

  This novel is dedicated to the era in which we live.

  The era in which love, loyalty, truth, honor and respect died.

  Where humility and appreciation are nonexistent.

  Where families are divided and God reviled,

  The era.

  The Coldest Winter Ever.

  By Sister Souljah

  THANK YOU

  Serving Mother God and Father God, first, always

  and forever.

  Loyalty, respect, love and strength to my husband

  and son.

  A very special thanks to Tracy Sherrod.

  Thanks for your professional services:

  Judith Curr, Emily Bestler, Paolo Pepe.

  THE

  COLDEST

  WINTER

  EVER

  1

  I never liked Sister Souljah, straight up. She the type of female I’d like to cut in the face with my razor. Before I get heated just talking about her, let me make it clear who I am and where I stand. Don’t go jumping to any conclusions either. All of y’all are too quick to jump to her defense without knowing what somebody up close and personal thinks. When it comes right down to it, those are the ones who really count, the people who was there, who seen it all. Hell, you can’t smell nobody’s breath through a camera. You almost can’t even see their pimples. So you know that TV shit ain’t real. Don’t run ahead of me. Let me take my time and tell my story.

  Brooklyn-born I don’t have no sob stories for you about rats and roaches and pissy-pew hallways. I came busting out of my momma’s big coochie on January 28, 1977, during one of New York’s worst snowstorms. So my mother named me Winter. My father, Ricky Santiaga, was so proud of his new baby girl that he had a limo waiting to pick my moms up from the hospital. The same night I got home my pops gave me a diamond ring set in 24-karat gold. My moms said that my fingers were too small and soft to even hold a ring in place, but he insisted that he had a guy who would have it adjusted just right. It was important for me to know I deserved the best, no slum jewelry, cheap shoes, or knock-off designer stuff, only the real thing.

  We lived in the projects but we were cool with that. We weren’t wanting for a damn thing. I had three aunts, four uncles, and a whole slew of cousins. As far as we were concerned it was live for all of us to be chilling in the same building, or at least the next building over. We never had to worry about getting into fights because around our way we had reputation. Plus it was plain and simple common sense. If you put your hands on anybody in the family you would get jumped by the next oldest person in our family, and so on and so on. Sooner than later we didn’t even have to say a word. Everybody understood that our family had theour family had the neighborhood locked down, it wasn’t worth the trouble.

  Our apartment in the projects was dipped. We had royal red carpets on the floors, top-of-the-line furniture, a fully loaded entertainment center, equipment, and all that good stuff. I loved my pops with a passion. He was the smoothest nigga in the world. When he came into a room he made a difference. His cologne came around the corner introducing him before you could even see him. He spoke softly, with deep seriousness. He was light-skinned, tall, with curly black hair and a fine thin mustache to match. He was medium build, definitely in shape. The thing that stood out about him was his style. His clothes were crisp-expensive. He never wore the same shirt twice. He could do it like that ’cause he was smart. He never used the drugs he sold. He collected his money on time and made examples of any fool who tried to cheat him. He had a saying: One copper penny, one finger.

  All the ladies loved him but he wasn’t what I would call a ladies’ man. He never had no girlfriend, at least no female ever called the house trying to front on my moms. I can’t recall any incidents involving other women, accusations or any uncomfortableness. He was a family man. Everybody in the whole world knew my moms was his wife, his one and only, his soft spot even. Moms and Pops had been young lovers and, unlike a whole lot of niggas, they stayed together. She was fourteen when she had me. Folks said she looked great during pregnancy and would switch her ass around the neighborhood flowing easy, like water. She would wear her fine Italian leather stiletto heels even in her seventh month. Moms had everything by the way of clothes and anything else you could think of. Her mahogany skin was smooth as a Hershey’s chocolate bar. When she went anywhere she was
well coordinated. If she had on a zebra skin hat, she’d sport the zebra skin pants and would have a zebra skin pattern on all ten nails. She’d even have the Victoria’s Secret zebra pattern panties and camisole. What separated her from every other woman any of us knew was she just had so much class. While the others were putting their imitation leather and zebra skins on layaway, piece by piece, Momma wouldn’t be caught dead without her shit perfectly arranged. By the time hoes sported their outfits all their shit was played out, straight out of style. When it came to shopping Momma had no mercy and that’s the way Santiaga liked it. His woman was supposed to be the showstopper. Momma didn’t work ’cause beauty, she said, was a full-time occupation that left no room for anything else. She’d sit at her vanity table for three hours making sure she positioned each extra long lash on just right. She’d argue with anyone who said she wasn’t born with those lashes that framed her big, wide brown eyes that were gorgeous with or without falsies. She made it clear to me that beautiful women are supposed to be taken care of. She would whisper in my ear, “I’m just a bad bitch!”

  Now a bad bitch is a woman who handles her business without making it seem like business. Only dumb girls let love get them delirious to the point where they let things that really count go undone. For example, you see a good-looking nigga walking down the avenue, you get excited. You get wet just thinking about him. You step to him, size him up, and you think, Looks good. You slide you eyes down to his zipper, check for the print. Inside you scream, Yes, it’s all there! But then you realize he’s not wearing a watch, ain’t carrying no car keys, no jewels, and he’s sporting last month’s sneakers. He’s broke as hell. A bad bitch realizes that she has two options: (1) She can take him home and get her groove on just to enjoy the sex and don’t get emotionally involved because he can’t afford her; or (2) She can walk away and leave his broke ass standing right there. Having a relationship is out. Getting emotionally involved is out. Taking him seriously is out. If a bad bitch is extra slick she can keep this guy on the side for the good sex. He then becomes a commercial to the money man who is the main program. The money man is the guy who knows how to provide, knows how to bring home the goodness and bless his woman with everything she wants. Now the money man might not be ringing any bells sexually, but if he has ends—if his pockets are heavy—a bad bitch will moan like this nigga is the original Casanova. When he’s sexing her, she’ll shake, pant, and cry out like he’s creating orgasms as strong as ocean waves. Now Moms must have been a bad bitch because she had it both ways. She had the money man with the good looks, loyalty, and I know Pops was laying it down in the bedroom.

  Moms got her hair done once every three days. The shop we went to, ’cause she always took me, was for the high rollers’ girls. These were the few women in the neighborhood who are able to hook the big money fish. They all went to this shop to get their hair done, nails did, and, more importantly, to show off and update on shit going on. Earline’s was where we could get our hair done while we collected information on the side.

  By the time I was seven I understood the rules perfectly. Keep the family’s business quiet. Most things were better left unsaid. Even though this was the high rollers’ hair shop, we were clear that motherfuckers were jealous of us. My Pops’s operation was steadily building. As a young guy he started off as a lookout but was so sharp that now he has organized his own thing. He has his own workers and whatnot. People knew he was headed to being the next Big Willie by his style. He was respected for his product, which was never watered down, always a fair cut for your money. So me and my moms would catch those jealous glances, but we threw those shits right back. Our attitude toward other females was: “Hey, your man works for my Pops, now bow down to the family who puts food on the table for you and yours.”

  Santiaga was the number one businessman in our area by the time I was thirteen, running thangs. Although he taught me never to sweat the small stuff, it seemed like every move he made he thought about carefully. I would hear his key unlocking the first door into our apartment. Then the men he was with, his workers, they would stand in the limited space between the first door and the heavy metal second door that actually led into our place, and talk. After they handled their matters you would hear the first door open, then slam again. Pops would lock it and then unlock the second door to come inside. Whatever pressure he felt, whatever weight or business he had was left in between those two doors because when he came inside he brought his sexy smile, excited eyes, and power along with him.

  He would show us all love. He would have whatever any of us had asked him for in his pocket no matter how small the request, down to a Snickers bar. If any of us had a problem of any kind, we could ask him and he’d make the answer so simple that I’d wonder how I couldn’t of figured it out myself.

  If something was on his mind, he’d go in the back to a private room he had Woody the carpenter build and pull out his chessboard. Funny thing was, he wouldn’t play with anybody, just against himself. When I’d ask him why, he’d say, “That’s how I stay on top baby. I look at life from every position. I play from every side. You gotta know what each man on the board is thinking down to the littlest motherfucker like the pawn.”

  Now Daddy would explain that other players are quick to sacrifice or ignore the pawn, but he was too smart for that. “The pawns are my soldiers,” he would say. “If I surround myself with strong soldiers, give them all a stake in the game, then they keep the hood strong and tight.” He would look into my eyes as if to ask do I understand. I didn’t want him to know that I dig him so much that I’d listen to him for as long as he wanted to talk, but I didn’t give a fuck about a game of chess. He would break down how around our way there were always some young kids tryna “spread their wings” and test his operation. He said they mostly stupid though ’cause no smart guy is gonna try to kick in the door of the big man unless he got an extra tight, professional, strong, and ruthless crew. But every now and then some dumb-ass young kid who had seen too many Scarface-type movies will try to overtake what can only kill him. “He loses,” Santiaga said, knocking the black king over on the chessboard. “He loses because he never understood the game.”

  The up-and-coming dealers on the block was Santiaga’s number two problem. I was his number one. He loved me like crazy but was getting nervous about the way men, young and old, was checking for me. It was amazing how in one year, from age twelve to thirteen, my titties sprouted. I even had the ass to match. I don’t know who was more excited, the men or me. I was walking around poking my stuff out in any direction that looked good to me. But anybody who stared my way for more than a few seconds was in danger of catching a critical beat down. Pops had already made an example of at least two niggas around my way. Santiaga sliced this one dude from his left ear to his right ear. We call that kind of cut a “hospital run.” But this guy never got to go to the hospital. Santiaga let his blood gush out until Doc got to our apartment. Now Doc ain’t really no doctor, he just had some medical training in the army. Santiaga calls him when he don’t need the police and hospital buttin’ around in his business. Well when Doc got finished with dude his cut just bubbled up all the way across his face. Everybody in the neighborhood started calling him Bubbles for that ugly scar. Bubbles’s crime was looking at me with lust in his eyes while he was supposed to be installing the safe in our apartment. Now Bubbles was a walking billboard that no one is allowed to fuck with Santiaga’s daughter. After that we got the second metal door installed in our apartment and none of Daddy’s “workers” were ever allowed past that door again.

  Now Moms thought Santiaga’s ways was overboard. She told him she was just gonna get me some birth control pills and let me go, ’cause “When a woman wants to get fucked, she gets fucked. She gets fucked whether it’s in a car or a closet.”

  Suggestions like this just got Santiaga more crazy. He made it clear to Moms, “Winter is not a woman yet. None of these lowlifes are gonna make a trick outta my flesh and blood.” Pop
s would pull me to the side, grab my shoulders with his strong hands and firm grip, stare into my eyes, and tell me slowly, “Only a hardworking man, a sharp thinker who doesn’t hesitate to do what he gotta do, to get you what you need to have, deserves you.”

  He repeated that lesson often. I would think to myself, Hmm, only Poppa fits that description. Now I loved Poppa but I hated the way he cock-blocked. Every teenage girl wants to cut loose and get close to the fire, but I was like a pot of boiling milk with the lid on. You know that’s ready to explode and slide down the side of the pan.

  So my peeps kept me busy by giving me things to do all the time. I had to watch my baby sisters Mercedes and Lexus, the twins. They was a real pain in the ass at eight months old. Then I had to look out for my other little sister Porsche, who was four. She wasn’t half bad since she didn’t shit all over all the time. Sometimes the three of them kids together got on my nerves so bad they almost made me want to go to school. But my policy was to go to school just enough so the authorities wouldn’t kick me out. If I had a new outfit to show off or some new jewels I knew I’d get sweated for, fine, but I wasn’t gonna report to school every day like it was some type of job when they weren’t even paying me for it. School was like a hustle. Teachers wanted me to come to school so they could get paid to control me. What do I get out of the deal? Enough said, I just wasn’t having it.

  As busy as they kept me, there was Midnight. I guess he got that name because midnight was about the only thing blacker than him. He was one of my father’s workers. He was real serious like my father. He always looked like he was thinking deep thoughts and had a lot on his mind. I figured maybe he had a plan to take over the world. I liked that because he would need to own the world to win me. He never smiled. He didn’t joke around like other niggas in our age group. He did his pickups and deliveries like clockwork. My father once referred to him as a strong young lieutenant. Santiaga liked him because he said he never tried to test or flex. He knew Santiaga was the boss and he was comfortable and cool with that. Midnight never attempted to skim, pay late, or run games, like some guys did when they first started out.