Street Chronicles Girls in the Game Read online

  ALSO BY NIKKI TURNER

  Forever a Hustler's Wife

  Death Before Dishonor

  Riding Dirty on 1-95

  Street Chronicles:

  Tales from da Hood

  (editor and contributing author)

  The Glamorous Life

  Girls from da Hood

  Girls from da Hood 2

  A Project Chick

  The Game:

  Short Stories About the Life

  (contributing author)

  A Hustler's Wife

  Got our name from a woman, got our game

  from a woman. …

  —TUPAC SHAKUR

  DEAR READER:

  Have you ever heard the saying, “Beside every great man stands a great woman”? Well, the truth of it is behind every great man stands a great woman pushing him in the back to get him off his butt to make sure he handles his business.

  When the game is referred to, it's usually the men who everyone automatically assumes are in control, running the show. Shot calling, hustling, balling, grinding, or pimping, it's the male icon that's glorified. But no one talks about his female counterpart, who more times than not, holds it all together for her man. For every Bishop Don “Magic” Juan, there is a Madame Marie LeVeau, and for every Clyde there is a Bonnie.

  This collection of stories is not a celebration of the gangstress, pimpstress, bailer chick, boss bitch, or female hustler, but a depiction of a lifestyle, the description of the unsung, and their yet untold stories. Every fable told isn't a fairy tale because every life lived doesn't have a happy ending. This is the game, from a female's perspective, penned and endorsed by some of the hottest girl writers in the game. These stories present the reality of many who lived it, and some who didn't make it through. If you can't congratulate, don't hate, stay in your lane and, most important, acknowledge … the Girls in the Game!

  Some people may sit back, look down their noses, and judge the women in these stories from the safety and sanctity of their own world. They may call them whores, bitches, connivers, or sluts, but until they've faced their reality, they will never know what they would do if they were in these women's pumps. Others may take a look inside these chronicles and see someone they know, someone they've met, or maybe even see themselves and realize they're not alone.

  Whatever you get out of these pages, don't forget that it's a dirty game and women are usually the best players.

  I thank you from the bottom of my heart for picking up this book. It's always good to see one sister supporting another … and I am glad you chose me. But to you, my brothers, make no mistake about it: I love you like a fat bitch loves cake, but this one time I had to go all out for my sisters and get on some real Girl Power. I promise you, the next one's for you!

  Much love,

  Nikki Turner

  WORD ON THE STREET

  Dear Reader: BY NIKKI TURNER

  Introduction BY FREE

  Crowning Miss Baby Mama BY CHUNICHI

  Power BY LAKESA COX

  Bossy BY TYSHA

  Game Face BY MEISHA C. HOLMES

  Beyatchlll BY JOY

  When the Dust Settles BY WAHIDA CLARK

  Acknowledgments

  Player Stats

  INTRODUCTION

  BY FREE

  Now just the title of this book alone can have your mind and thoughts all over the place, depending on who you are and where you come from. What is the game exactly? Is it like Monopoly or chess? Or both? Are you playing, or are you being played? Well, the game is what you make of it—or don't make of it. It's your choice completely.

  Now being a girl in the game is as much acknowledging your power as it is being humble about it. Believe it or not, a girl can make or break a kingdom, hold up or tear down a house, make love or make war. You might ask how this is possible, when it's a man's world—or so they say.

  But it's really not. Men can't have babies, so how could this be their world? Some male testosterone shmuck put that out there and it stuck. But what if they are right and it really is a man's world? Ladies, let's all just stop moving, breathing, speaking, reading, kissing, cooking, growing, treating, nurturing, and supporting and see what exactly will happen to the world.

  A girl in the game must recognize early on that power is not about winning, or about cameras flashing, and that most of the time, once you get the power, you become the enemy and are looked at as having the strength of a man and will be treated like one. Watch out! Be careful what you wish for, and most of all be ready when you get it.

  I read Assata Shakur's open letter to the United States. Google it ladies, and read it and weep. There's a part in her letter in which she describes a “marooned woman” as “the women of the tribe that were ‘supposedly’ disgraced by rape or deaths of their husbands and therefore they were pretty much ostracized from their own villages and left to fend for themselves.” The idea of a marooned woman struck me. We aren't the only ones who the government “helped” become independent of our husbands in order to further the division in the race. Marooned women are also girls in the game who are stuck in catch-22's, never able to straighten out.

  A girl in the game must choose her suitor well. Pick a slouch and she will be looked at as one. Pick a king and she will be treated like a queen—but only if he is a true king. But if she's a true queen, she will know that she can reign alone.

  A man once told me when I was in a bad situation that you could either be the rug or the person walking on it. The truth of his words was revealed to me time and time again. This was a pearl of wisdom I wish I had lived by, but it's never too late to start. Here are a few more jewels that I've learned in my life that I'd like to share with you:

  Check your emotions

  Keep your own stash of condoms

  Choose your suitors wisely

  Remain true to your dreams

  Cut and let go when shit ain't right

  Be ready for power and all that comes with it

  Settle for nothing

  Stand proud, because you're a Girl in the Game!

  Free is a singer, writer, radio and television personality, and a true girl in the game. She lives in Los Angeles.

  FIRST UP TO BAT …

  CHUNICHI

  CROWNING

  MISS BABY

  MAMA

  Definition of a “baby mama”: That chick who will spite the current girlfriend or wife of the man she had a child with (aka baby daddy), and who will be connected to and able to get what she wants out of the baby daddy for life!

  Whoever thought a hood rat, guttersnipe young bitch like me would be rocking this nigga's world? I thought as I watched Li'l Man walk to the bathroom ass-naked. I'd just given him some of the most amazing sex of his life. The one thing that he loved about me was that I was a young thang who hadn't been passed around like some of these old chickenheads cluckin’ around, so the punany was fresh. And unlike the old heads, I can be folded into any pretzel position his little heart desires.

  Meeting Tyrone Simmons, known in the streets as Li'l Man, was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a nothing-ass crumb snatcher like me. I know it sounds harsh, but it is what it is. According to many psychologists, the first step to progress is acknowledging your faults. That theory alone has done the most to bring me to where I am in life. To understand me, one must study my game: the sweet roll of the dice that it took to make Li'l Man fall for me. But first, let me tell you the history behind my so brilliantly played game.

  Although Li'l Man was born and raised in Tidewater Park in Norfolk, Virginia, just as I had been, he was fortunate enough to have reached extreme heights. He was no longer living in the concrete walls that kept th
e bullets out and the roaches in the Park. “Park” is the name Norfolk city officials have so generously given the projects to create some sort of false image. They put up white picket fences, hoping to convey the idea of a park. Unfortunately, the projects are quite different from the parks where there are happy families spending sunny days in green grassy fields flying kites and having picnics.

  In the projects there are dark brick blocks that cast an everlasting shadow. The green grass is replaced with dirt paths leading through alleyways used as quick getaways from the cops and as hideouts for hos and addicts. The smiling faces have been replaced with faces of praying grandmothers who look upon unhappy families, including a cracked-out daughter, a locked-up son, and an HIV-positive grandbaby.

  One thing for sure: Just like the park, the projects are full of games. But the games of the projects aren't jump rope, or hopscotch, or ring-around-the-rosy It's more like a variation on hide-and-seek: nigga's in the cut waiting to move on the next nigga by surprise. Games of tag and dodgeball in the Park are niggas getting shot and dodging bullets. For the chicks, it's a game of chase: Everybody's after that nigga with a little bit of drug money or chasing behind that deadbeat baby daddy. So people like me and Li'l Man have been programmed to be a product of this jungle that the outsiders label as a fun-filled “park.”

  Generations of families living in the Park have bred a certain kind of man and woman. Conveniently, the Park has a single entrance and exit to keep us in and them out. We have our own stores and restaurants and even our own elementary schools. Until we reach our teenage years and go off to middle school, we're trapped in this box referred to as the Park.

  Unaware of how the world operates outside our box, we've developed our own way of thinking according to how our world operates. Even though we're now out of the box, we operate as if we weren't, treating every situation as though we were still living in the Park. For some this outlook gets them locked up, but for others it gives them the strongest sense of survival. In Li'l Man's case, it did the latter.

  He had taken his Park mentality and survival skills and developed a small drug ring, dominating the city of Norfolk. And just how did a twenty-seven-year-old dude like Li'l Man end up with a nineteen-year-old project chick like me? It's simple: Niggas always feel most comfortable with what they know, and the projects are what Li'l Man knows. A scheming bitch like me understands that. So when the opportunity knocked, I opened my legs and let him in, but not before I put a hole in the condom.

  Aaaaauuuugggghhh!” I screamed nine months later as the paralyzing pains of childbirth shot through my body. “Just take deep breaths, honey. It will be okay,” the nurse calmly instructed. “Just breathe and push. Breathe and push.”

  Although she meant well, I'd had it with this bitch and her instructions. Besides, nothing she suggested thus far had done a damn thang to ease the pain, so I decided to ignore her, refusing to breathe and refusing to push. As a matter of fact, I refused to do anything, even open my damn legs, until Li'l Man got there.

  “What time is it? Where is the phone? Give me the damn phone!” I demanded as I pushed the nurse away from me and attempted to climb out of the bed.

  “Ms. Carter, you're going to have to calm down,” the doctor interjected. “Open your legs, and let's deliver this baby.” I could sense the frustration in the doctor's voice.

  “I ain't got to do shit!” I retaliated, hoping he sensed the frustration in mine. “Do you know who the fuck I am? Do you know whose baby I'm having?” My yelling silenced everyone.

  Obviously these people didn't know who they were fucking with. No one told Tiara Carter what to do, and definitely no one told Li'l Man's wifey what to do. I lifted what seemed like my 300-pound body out the bed and grabbed the phone. I couldn't wait to drop this baby and this baby fat and get back to my old self. My 120-pound hourglass frame had turned into a 160-pound blown-glass vase. My 7 Jeans and baby tees had been replaced by sweats and oversize T-shirts.

  I dialed Li'l Man's cell phone for the hundredth time. Ring, ring … ring, ring … ring, ring.

  I couldn't understand why the hell he wasn't picking up. I knew damn well he got all the messages I left him on my way to the damn hospital. He was probably with one of his bitches.

  Cheating had been a regular routine of his since the first time we officially got together. This shit was getting ridiculous. That nigga knew I was in my ninth month and could be having this goddamn baby of his at any time. Just then a sharp pain jolted me. It felt as though it was electrocuting my body. It felt like my insides were ripping in two as I returned to the bed. I knew I couldn’t keep this baby from coming, so I decided to give in. Id just have to deal with Li'l Man's sorry ass later.

  “Please, Ms. Carter. We really need you to cooperate. Your baby is in danger,” the nurse begged.

  “Fine. Just do whatever the hell you have to do,” I said, lying back on the bed and spreading my legs. “Get this thing out of me.” Just then another sharp pain ripped through me. “Damn it, Li'l Man, where the fuck are you?” The contractions were hitting my ass like lightning bolts.

  The thought of having our baby without him present caused tears to roll down my face. I knew Li'l Man was seeing other women, but when it came to me, I was always top priority. After all, I am his baby mama.

  The nurse examined the consistency of my contractions once more before nodding to the doctor. I knew exactly what that meant: It was time. No more fucking around; I had to push this baby out.

  “Okay, Ms. Carter—” the doctor began to say as a loud ghetto voice ricocheted off the walls of the hospital hallway.

  “Tee, where you at, baby girl?” The doctor's sentence was interrupted by Li'l Man's call.

  “I'm in here, baby,” I yelled. “Room three!” A smile managed to slip in between the pains. He'd arrived just in time.

  Although I was still pissed that I'd been in labor for nearly nine hours before he'd gotten to the hospital, I was happy that he was finally here. When he came through the door, I looked at his perfect appearance.

  As he walked over and kissed me on the cheek and grabbed my hand, I could smell the fresh scent of his Issey Miyake cologne. Damn, did he look good or what?

  “What up, Doc? We ready. Let's have this baby, big boy,” Li'l Man said, rubbing his hands together.

  Both the nurse and the doctor stood speechless at Li'l Man's ghetto etiquette. He came in there as if the doctor was not going to deliver the baby until he had instructed him to do so.

  “Sir, we are going to need to get you into scrubs,” the nurse said.

  “Scrub? Who you callin’ a scrub?” Li'l Man snapped with a hard-core look on his face.

  The nurse looked as though she was going to shit in her pants, and the doctor was five seconds away from calling hospital security.

  “I'm just fuckin’ wit'cha,” Li'l Man joked. “Lace me with them hospital threads.”

  “Baby, you so stupid.” I tried to laugh at his humor before another labor pain hit my ass.

  The nurse quickly got Li'l Man into his scrubs while another nurse joined the party to assist. Twenty more torturous minutes of pushing, and the baby was out.

  “It's a boy!” the doctor said as he pulled the bundle of flesh from my womb. The nurse then swept the baby off and cleaned him up.

  Li'l Man followed right behind them, excited as a kid on Christmas Eve staring at the biggest box under the tree with his name on it. I was glad at least somebody was happy to have the baby here. Although I was proud to wear the title of Li'l Man's baby mama, I was not ready to be nobody's mommy. The last thing a trick like me wanted to be was all tied down and shit. The only reason that baby was here was for Li'l Man's happiness and for my security. There was no other way I would put up with his lying, cheating ass.

  Although he had a nice home where he brought only me and where we spent most of our time together, I knew Li'l Man lived in the streets with chicks in each of the seven cities of VA. Still, he's the best thing that a youn
g project chick like me could have in her life. It wasn't every day that a big drug dealer like Li'l Man wanted someone like me as his wifey No, I didn't hit the lottery, but my long-term winnings as his baby mama were the closest thing to it. Believe you me, if it wasn't for that, my ass would have been at the first abortion clinic that would have me, knocking the doors in and climbing through windows to take my spot in the meat-chop line. But don't get it twisted. Unlike most of these broads flooding the local abortion clinics, using abortion as a form of birth control, my shit was planned … planned down to the muthafuckin’ line that crosses the T and the muthafuckin’ circle that dots the I.

  Tyrone Simmons Junior is Li'l Man's firstborn, and I, Tiara Carter, am the mother. No bitch would ever have anything on me. My baby would be a guaranteed lifelong meal ticket. As long as my child is alive, I have permanent ties to Li'l Man, no matter if I am his girl or not. And so what the fuck if some other broad managed to get herself knocked up by Li'l Man as well? No bitch would ever be able to say that they mothered his firstborn. And if it were up to me, no chick would ever hold the title of his baby mama other than me. And in case a bitch did get one by on him, it still wouldn't matter, ‘cause the first baby mama will always be the shit! Any other is just an unwanted burden.

  Once the nurses had TJ. all cleaned up, they brought him right over to me. I guess the average mother would have been thrilled to hold her new baby, but not me. No, sirree!

  “Oh, no,” I said, putting my hand up and stopping the cheerful-ass nurse dead in her tracks. “Give him to his daddy. Hell, that's where he'll be spending most of his time anyway.”

  The nurse gave me a questioning look before handing TJ. over to Li'l Man. I must say, they looked so cute together. Maybe if Li'l Man moved me and TJ. into his home then we could raise the baby together, but just me doing it alone, I couldn't see it. Hell, no!

  As Li'l Man played with our son, the nurses helped me get cleaned up and changed into my new Victoria's Secret pajamas and slippers that Li'l Man had bought especially for this occasion. I was exhausted from the long, tiring delivery and wanted to take a nap, but not before I dug into Li'l Man's ass for arriving so late. I hated to ruin the beautiful moment he was having with his child, but I had to get this shit off my heavy, overweight, milk-filled chest.