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It was the morning of my birthday and my eyes fluttered open remaining true to my body’s timer. I stilled there in the bed giving my mind a chance to synchronize with my body. I took a few seconds to reflect and give praises to Allah for another year of health, wealth, and prosperity. Even with as much stress as I had I knew I was a blessed man. I allowed my mind to rolodex my countless fortunes when the phone rang at about a little after five a.m. I couldn’t think who would call me at that hour. When I grabbed the phone I immediately noted the 718 area code, it was a Brooklyn caller.
“Peace-Peace,” I mumbled.
“Azmir?” a woman with a trembling thick New York accent asked.
“Yeah, who is this?” I asked still trying to collect my wits.
“Azmir, ‘dis…Yazmine,” the raspy woman informed. Seconds after I processed the words and the gruff in her voice my heart dropped.
“Who?” I had to ask again to be sure.
“Yazmine…ya’ mother?” she said undoubtedly. I didn’t know what to say.
She obviously noticed. “I know it’s been a minute but I fought wit’ myself all night about making ‘dis call.” Still, I had nothing to offer. She continued, “I know you wanna know where I been. I’m in Brooklyn now. I been out here for about a year now wit’ a frien’ of mines.”
“Okay…” was all I my mind could produce.
“Ummm, I was locked up Azmir. I did a twenty solid, man,” she crowed. I heard the tears in her voice. “I made parole on your birthday last year.” She paused for a while waiting for me to say something. “You there, beloved?” she asked because of the silence. I felt a ball in my throat.
I cleared it out before saying, “Indeed.”
“I couldn’t find you. You was like a needle in a damn haystack, man,” she chuckled and then sniffled. “I called everybody I could think about. I came to BK asking all your little friends ‘dat I could remember. Seem like everybody dead or locked the fuck up. I remember being in lock up hearing about little…well, big Christopher—I know y’all called him B.I.G.. I cried all night, man.” I recalled losing my man, too. It was painful for me like no other time in my life.
“I see Shawn…Jazz or whatever y’all used to call him…on TV all the time wit’ ‘dat singer...’da girl wit’ the blonde hair that sing and dance. I saw Trevor the other day around the way. I can’t believe he cut his dreads and shit!” Yazmine was rambling because she was short of words. And so was I. “Then I called my old girl, Pamela, back in Chicago. She told me she ain’t seen you in years but she used to always see Daryl come by after they snatched me. She told me her niece, Tonda fucked wit’ you like ten years ago and you flew her out to California and shit. And ‘dats when I thought Daryl musta took you out there wit’ him. It still wasn’t easy to find you. I had to find Daryl first. I hear how ‘dat stuck up bitch he married just died. Allah rest ‘da dead.” She paused again. I looked at the clock again and realized she didn’t know how early it was out here.
“Yeah…” I uttered. Again she paused.
“Look, man…I just wanted to say happy born day to you. I don’t want nothing.” She’d finally caught on.
“Thanks.”
“You got that caller I.D. shit?”
“Ummm, yeah.”
“Well ‘dats my number if you wanna get at me.”
“Indeed,” I muttered tentatively. And like that she was gone.