God Luv Us

Chapter One J essica has started to lend a quiet voice to her inner complaints. After our New Year’s Day party, I sensed that the uncertainty of our relationship has begun to wear her down. From the moment her pregnancy test came back positive. I knew her support for my career at Robert Charles would start to falter. Now, her co-existence with my duties as a counter-racist hitman have morphed into something more akin to simmering animosity. Our loving relationship has devolved into a contentious cold war. Jessica now hates what this career demands of me, while I was all too committed to performing this labor of love. I wouldn’t need a damn fortune teller to predict this outcome. This was heading towards me having to choose between God’s path, and the black woman I loved dearly. Early on, Jessica told me she believed in us. When we first started, she made me feel like she supported this mission the Lord had chosen for me. Back then, she was a rider and was more than down for the cause. Nowadays, it isn’t hard to catch her anxious spirit whenever I mention Robert Charles. Annoyed with Jessica’s snarky email, I tossed the cellphone onto the table before loosening my bow tie. Having to deal with her silent insecurities was beyond frustrating. Searching for some sort of mental reprieve, I grabbed the sweaty cocktail glass and forced down more than a few swallows. After all, I was in a damn bar, and there is no better place in the world to try and push away life’s tribulations. My eyes probed the darkness of the cocktail lounge, aching for any distraction I could find. Yet, my attempts to occupy my mind were futile. The loneliness of the bar forced me to watch three drunk Arab men awkwardly dance to old school hip hop. Here in Bahrain, my only company happened to be my scolding hookah bowl and this melted drink. This entire bar was way too cheesy, with its nineties style strobe light and long panel mirrors hanging from the ceiling. The whole layout felt like it was pulled out of a corny P. Diddy music video. Even in a deeply pious country like Bahrain, everyone wanted the swag of Black Americans. All over the world, it was fun to imitate Black Americans while not actually getting treated like a Black American. Frustrated by their phony appreciation, I took a small puff of my grape mint hookah, and blew the anger out of my lungs. Despite Jessica’s childish tirades, I constantly had to remind myself that this was her first pregnancy. The sudden turbulence of life can become overwhelming once the impending responsibilities of parenthood take root. Yet, a shot of luck has been stirred into our double expresso. Thankfully, I’ve had the opportunity to experience this wild journey of parenthood once before, so it’s my duty to guide Jessica as best as I can. During my first marriage, the harsh lessons of fatherhood taught me that underneath the bright glow of raising a child, sat a world of daunting realities. It"s not just the many sleepless nights that come along with infants, it’s the fact that outside of your love and comfort awaits a world eager to misuse them. Foremost among them is the fact that no matter how much love I poured into my son, that love alone wasn’t enough to protect him from the sharp jaws of Systemic White Supremacy. The day my son was brutally executed by that White demon, a piece of my heart was forever wounded. I guess watching Jessica glow with the same inner life that my slain wife once had…has made me a bit more detached this time around. The bloody experiences from my first family, have forced my spirit into this state of numbness. I find myself a little reluctant about blindly enjoying life’s moments. Deep down, I knew it was the horrifying presence of this numbness that was starting to worry her. Jessica would prefer that I smile and pretend it all away, but that isn’t who I am, at least not right now I’m not. “Achim…are you sure you’re ready to do this again?” She asked. “Why do you live in the past so much, baby?” Jessica would often demand. Even from the comfort of this sofa inside of the Grand Juffair Hotel, my mind replayed her nervous voice, asking me those two pointed questions. The questions alone weren’t of a concern, instead it’s my cold answers to them. In all honesty, I didn’t know if I was ready to go through all this madness again. If our enemies found out that the Chief Counter-Racist hitman for Robert Charles, had a whole damn family…that fact alone would easily become a death sentence for everyone I loved. Years ago, I had failed as a black man. I failed to protect my first family and I’d be damned if I doomed Jessica to that very same fate. “Excuse me, my dear. Would you like another drink sir?” She was naturally attractive and extremely sexy as she pointed at my empty glass with her broad smile. Her eyes blazed through me, summoning my wonder to the godly beauty of our biblical ancestors. The tortured sounds of her rough English fighting through that heavy Ethiopian accent, tugged at my self-awareness. It was obvious that English was not this woman’s preferred language. Who knows where this East African lady learned her English? To survive in this world dominated by White Supremacists, black people needed to be resourceful. After inspecting my empty glass, I handed it over to her before springing upwards towards her eager ear. Noticing me, she quickly leaned down and met me halfway. I felt her purposely rub her breasts up against my arm as I closed in, teasing me with a forbidden feel. Her eyes were ready to accommodate, so I knew it was best that I avoided them. “Yes, I’ll take another drink, sister.” I spoke over the bar’s corny music. “I’ll have a Blue Bullfrog, and please tell the bartender to go easy on the ice this time.” With a half-understanding nod, she shot me a cute smile before scurrying away. As my waiter and the Arabic bartender talked, I saw the bar’s front door swing open. A small group of young white men walked inside the lounge. All of them were wearing stares that longed for excitement. Sporting dark dress pants and long sleeve shirts, they all flossed shiny necklaces and gold pinky rings. Unlike the more modestly dressed Arabs, each one of these corny looking white boys was loud and obnoxious. Even from my sofa, I could tell that these young men were all U.S. Marines, most likely stationed at the Navy’s 5th Fleet Command in Juffair. The presence of U.S. Service Members in Bahrain is omnipresent and unmistakable. From the bubbly nightclubs, five-star restaurants, lavish jewelry shops and gourmet weekend brunches, Bahrain has an extremely active night life. Despite huge cultural and language differences, U.S. servicemembers eagerly spend their money everywhere. There is no doubt in my mind that this group of barely drinking age young men had come here to cure a spell of boredom. As the group found lounge chairs for themselves, the front door once again opened and my overanxious partner wallowed into the dark lounge. His light-yellow long sleeve shirt looked half wet, and his brown skin shined with sweat. With his hairy chin and unmanicured line up, I could tell that he hadn’t bothered to visit the barbershop I recommended to him. From the discomfort in his spirit, I knew my partner was rushing himself. When the door closed behind him, our eyes briefly met. It only took a millisecond to see the lack of poise blossoming within him. He was under pressure, and instead of meeting the challenge with confidence, Anthony was allowing self-doubt to grow its roots. His lack of self-confidence was the main reason Aunt Rita and her Robert Charles counterparts demanded that I supervise this whole Bahrain operation. Several months earlier, Anthony had badly botched a lucrative hit in Oregon, allowing a murderous member of the Hound Boyz to escape his grasp and flee to Ukraine. Robert Charles has a reputation for delivering justice to our paying customers, so Anthony’s failure to kill the racist bastard was not just embarrassing, but it was bad for business. I personally believed Anthony’s Caribbean Island upbringing was failing him. He was superb at taking orders and executing a set plan, but when things got fluid, he tended to struggle. Making a snap decision in a critical moment was certainly not his calling card. Robert Charles’ leadership believed Anthony needed more seasoning before he could operate independently. Jessica wasn’t thrilled that I was forced to go back out for field work again. My days as a boots on the ground assassin were supposed to be over, but Robert Charles thought it best to pull me out of moth balls until Anthony was ready for primetime. Looking confused, he quietly found himself a seat near the well-lit bar and pulled out his cellphone. After watching him type away, I felt my own phone vibrate on the marble tabletop in front of me. Within two minutes, Anthony had already made two errors that were all too common among inexperienced operators. For one, I knew he had been trailing too close behind that group of white Marines. There was no logical reason for him to come into the bar right after they entered. That, coupled with his decision to sit at the bar, where everyone with two eyes could see him, pissed me off. Now, I felt the need to grab this situation before it spiraled beyond the scope of his limited capabilities. “Is he already in here? I wanna make sure I didn’t miss him,” Anthony texted. “Calm down. Remember, confidence is king.” I texted back. “Control the situation or the situation will control you.” “First, get up and find a seat away from the bar. Do it before the waitress notices you and comes over to take your order,” I followed up. Anthony took in my text messages, then dumped his phone into his pocket. He obediently rose from his seat and slowly made his way across the room to a corner set of lounge chairs. Now, he was in a much better vantage point to see everything happening around him. With a slight head nod, I acknowledged the prudence of his choice. Moments later, the Ethiopian waitress arrived with my freshly squeezed Blue Bullfrog. Without hesitating, I took a test sip and tasted mixed alcohol faintly masked by a sweet blast of citrus. This was a grown man’s drink; light weights need not apply. You only needed one Blue Bullfrog to hold you over for the rest of the night, and that too was part of my plan. Before the waitress could leave, I handed her three U.S. twenty-dollar bills and told her to keep the change. I watched her brown eyes explode with happiness as she quickly calculated her tip. Visibly appreciative, she leaned down and teased my cheek with a respectful kiss before offering a flirty smile. “Thank you, my brother. Thank you so much, my love,” she spit out in her rough sounding English. “You are very kind and very handsome. I know you. You are a good man.” “If you want another drink sir, just let me know, OK. I take care of you, OK,” she continued. Pleased, the waitress winked before walking over to Anthony. As the two introduced themselves, the bar’s front door opened again, and I instinctively knew who was about to enter. Three elegantly dressed Eastern European w****s walked inside. They were followed by a short white man with a long brown ponytail. The pale skin of the women instantly drew gazes from the sexually curious Arabic men in the bar. Brimming with the self-confidence that automatically came with their status as white women, the ladies of the night made their lounge entrance an eye-grabbing one. Behind them, the short white man began to dance clumsily to rap music. He struggled to stay on beat while walking, making him look like a damn goofball. All of them knew they were being watched, and they undoubtedly relished the attention.