Magna Carter Productions Presents: E-Book

B.P. Kingdom

• Herausgeber: tredition
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 236

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Follow as one man pursues self-contentment in the mist of the growing pains of manhood. Using the tools he was taught since childhood. Gaining valuable experience from colorful characters on his journey. Ultimately searching for intangible things that could fulfill his subconscious desire to please the Alpha and Omega.

Leseprobe

Copyright © 2017 B.P. Kingdom

Publisher: tredition GmbH, Hamburg, Germany

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

B.P. Kingdom

Magna Carter Productions Presents:

Saints, Shanks & Chicken Bones!

Special Thanks:

To my mom without you all of this wouldn’t be possible. And to the mother of my kids who always been a major source of support. And to my kids who have always been motivation and my sole purpose for my determination. And thanks to all my homeboys who know B.P. Kingdom! Also to my fiance‘ niece for being my foundation, much love Bae! But most important my one of kid sister who embodies the words, Big Sis!

To God be the glory.

Saints!

The funny thing about Saints they tend to forget that they once were sinner’s, and that they will forever be one with their flesh. The only difference between a Saint and Sinner, besides a sincere rendition of the Sinner‘s Prayer, is the partaking of grace, mercy anfd forgiveness. These are all free gift’s from God. But at times Saints will set a price for the Almighty and demand payment.

While they dance and shout there demons away in a church pew. Or satuarate handkerchiefs, while confessing to a man of cloth, thru a secret window. Or they’ll get off there peagasus, on bent knees, repenting until they become hoarse. And after the relieve thier concious, they will send you to hell. Forgetting that they have no heaven or hell to send you to. Forgetting it’s an constant internal struggle, Saint versus Sinner. One day you might see Pastor feeding the homeless, the next buying lotto tickets and cheap wine. It’s the struggle.

So if on any given Sunday, you see a nun speed past you in a Preacher Pusher. Honking the horn, giving you the finger, while her bible slides acoss the dash board, with her rosary beads dangling. Don’t start up your fiery furnace yet. Show some mercy, forgive the siiner and pray for the Saint and thank God for your life. But if both of them are apparently drunk, call 9-1-1 and have them both locked up!

Christmas Eve 2016

Chapter 1

Sitting in a cell on Christmas Eve, at war with my past, while my kids are anticipating celebrating the birth of Christ, with expressions of love and generosity, I stand in a corner of the back of my mind, trying to sort out the voices that have tried to indoctrinate their unseen motives in order to compromise my actions. Adding to the melee, my own thoughts have conjured up from my past, meshing together to create my own kaleidoscopic world. The tangible reality that surrounds me encased in brick, orange jumpsuits covering black skin like a surreal costume worn on Hallow’s Eve. And barbed wire as far as the eye can see, is not my concern. In actuality, the war within my psyche is threatening my entire existence.

My current situation has desensitized my perception of the universal adhesive known as ‘love’. I have become a walking parallelogram. One side, me, a complex being created by God, wonderfully made, defined by the pursuit of righteousness, but marred with imperfections. The other side, a social pariah, mocked by all, cursed by my gift of absorbing pain. One side struggling to strive for righteousness and things that are pleasing to the father. From this man, no good shall come. Sin dwells in him, therefore, the thing that he strives to do manifests itself into things he does not want to do. Parallel to this man is his shadow constantly seduced by evil spirits trying to make him self destruct. It’s ultimate goal is to give birth to death. All because of the self righteous bastard I met in prison, who became knowledgeable of the word, but was naive to the effects of scorned women and word of mouth.

Last night I seeked for solace in a familiar face that I haven’t seen in decades. Hoping that the sight of kin would alleviate some of the weight that lays heavily on my frigid frame, but I would never make it to my final destination. Earlier that day, feeling disrespected, I lashed out at Boss Lady and that lead to the sequence of events which illuminated the end of the road with flashing blue lights. After the meltdown, I was driven home. An empty castle greeted me with peace, lately being alone has been my domain. Atmospheric pressure is no longer a factor. As I sat in an alienated state, the voices began to taunt me. They laugh, gloat and celebrate the rare rare appearance of the man I used to be. Now guilt grips me like a cover binds the pages of a book. Now the guilt is mixed with anger which empowers the shadows. So I enlist the tortured souls of generations before me to combat the effects of the detrimental mix. Pretty soon the likes of Marvin Gaye, Donny Hathaway and Lynda Hyman pacified me and the voices.

With the melodic ones filling the air, came relaxation. But with this comfort, memories of her arose. The queen that sits on the throne in my kingdom. She is the common denominator to the ever changing equation that is me. She is present even in her absence. Nowadays she reveals the pain, hurt, and anger I couldn’t relate with when I was her man. As her subject, the hats that I adorn are many. The jesture’s hat comes equipped with jokes, comedy skits and hilarious puns to keep her smiling. The lover’s hat comes with whispers of affection that she implanted within me since the day our eyes first met. When I wear the comforter’s hat, I am in tune with the most high. Compassion and empathy are relayed to her from verses mostly heard from pulpits. And just as the communion that we share climaxes, the nightmare begins. Her voice becomes unfamiliar and my demons become audible. Now I’m back in the game, without my queen. Left with an inevitable fool’s mate. In hindsight it’s my fault, my problem is that I am out of the spiritual order of things. Which is God, man, then woman. I’ve given God’s rightful place to women, submitting myself to idolatry. My demons play on this. With my queen gone and the King of kings not in his rightful place, I am rendered powerless. So instead of relaxing to the music, I am now mad at Boss Lady.

Still I sit pondering the logic of Boss Lady. I’m in a strange land inhabited by smiling faces with forked tongues. My family 3 states away except for my ccousin, whom I haven’t seen since we were kids. No childhood friends to hang out with, no familiar streets to ride through and dig the scene. Like a Rolls Royce Phantom at a shade tree mechanic, this is foreign territory to me. On top of all that, the constant propaganda from the evil spirits speak of my every waking hour. Lately, going on food binges has been my only comfort. I’d raid the kitchen and prepare a buffet, but today it won’t do. I crave the serum that prohibition to its knees, alcohol.

Alcohol has never been my friend, it has been my lover. A tumultuous relationship we have. In times of peril, it soothes me. Yet in times of peace it brings calamity. When I have no answers to the questions that require a plan of action, alcohol comes to my rescue, relieving me of my duties. The end result is always disaster, but my scapegoat shoulders the blame. So instead of succumbing to its allure, I revert my energy to social media. As soon as I log in, the family and friends I left back home emerge from cyberspace. Their posts, my only connection to my former existence. Some post a toast to the good life. Others post exclamating the battle between broken hearts. And some reserved for prayers, inspirational quotes, and words of giving thanks to the most high. After I intake, the inner thoughts of my friends and family, I post my frustrations. Just a quick interpretation of the situation Boss Lady put me in. But guilt overtook me. So I submitted another post, this one expressing the hatred I feel towards myself for letting anger control me. Stating that, it only lead me to jail, hell, or broken relationships. I followed those words up with a short prayer and repentance. Now, I was back in my element, serenity.

Then Boss Lady’s entourage walks in. Bags in hand, Adriana and her three girls entered with uncontained smiles. Next to enter, her daughter Kiba, who props herself on a chair at the kitchen table. Adrian sits her bags down, gives her daughters instructions on where to sit, then exits. I casually stroll into the kitchen and grab a snack to regain the resemblance of comfort back. Then I’m headed back to the recliner. On my way, the front door opens and Adrian is escorting the Boss Lady in. Our eyes connect and my passive aggressive nature redefines her. She is not the angel that I met online 11 months ago, who inspired me with motivational quotes to start my day off. She is not the whisper in my ear, before I lay, relaying her love for me. What stands before me now is the embodiment of the password to her wifi, just devious!

Usually when the living room fills, I retreat to the bedroom, but today I exploit full use of the recliner and lean back. I’m in no mood for the walls talking, revealing the conversations from Boss Lady’s routine saunce. If Boss Lady’s everybody Hates B.p. club, is going to convene, it will be done in front of its subject, me. But I suppose today’s meeting was rescheduled because the only sounds heard were the whispers. Olivia’s taps on the xylophone are the only factor able to dilute the tension surrounding the presence of the elephant in the room. In no time, I was lost in the lyrics, strolling down 110th street, checking out the scene. My rear view, a diamond glaring through the reflection of the sun rays dispersing through a sunroof top. But reality infiltrated my gangsta's paradise by using my sight against me. One glance at Boss Lady shattered my gleaming glass window. The Michigan coordinated assembly of gold and blue that covered her frame when we made it to her doctor’s appointment was now replaced with different attire. Now my liquid lover beckons me and my resistance to its allure is none.

Fearing the worst, I decided it was time to put space between me and Boss Lady. As I got dressed, I began to compute the sequence from the meltdown post show. ‘Okay bruh, after the argument a quick stop at the Flea Market’. The commute home. I get out the car, she drives off, wearing the same outfit. I do not leave the house, she arrives wearing an entirely different outfit. Unbalanced by the confused state I’m in, I am unnerved, but still able to proceed out the door. The Carolina cold wind enhances the harsh reality that I am not in Florida anymore. I fiend for the taste of a hard drink and an admission to the nearest pity party. The voices began to edge me on, but unwilling to give my sobriety up so they can claim another victory over me, I resist the urge. I walk up the hill to the same establishment that provided me my liquid lover on numerous occasions, and purchase a cigar. Back outside, a neon lit oasis gives me a destination. I now sing the praises of Krispy Kreme. A couple of steps and I’ve arrived. Not much later, I’m seated under a canopy, watching steam from a cup of joe and my exhaled tobacco smoke collide and then get carried away by the cold wind. I envision my problems entering that combination, becoming part of its travelers, but not so because now my witchcraft woman has arrived, ready to speak.

Chapter 2

I have been called many names, but the one least spoken of, is my government one. I was born Bravell Phanese Kingdom, on January 17, 1979, to the parents Reverend and Mrs. Kingdom. My dad was a brick mason by trade and when he wasn’t providing for our family which consisted of my two eldest siblings Cashmere and Rose, then a couple of years later came Jewel. My dad was preaching the word of God and my mom being a childcare worker, which made catering to the needs of others, a natural instinct in our family. Faith was the focal point of our entire existence, making Sunday the most important day of the week. For centuries theologians and students of the word have debated whether Sunday was the original Sabbath, but in our house there were no debates, Sunday’s were to be reverenced and dedicated to God.

On any given Sunday, morning at the Kingdom house would be hectic. The likes of Shirley Caesar and Rev. James Cleveland would usher in the spirit of praise and worship in our home. My mom’s headquarters was the kitchen, where she multi tasked, dispersing instructions and judgements. We, being anxious defendants, marching back and forth to get verdicts on our appearance. “Vell you have ring around the collar, change that shirt,” “Yes Ma’am”. “Rose those stockings don’t match that dress, find another pair,” “Yes Ma’am”. Cashmere take those tennis shoes off you’re not going to basketball practice,””Yes Ma’am”. “And Jewell go in there and find the rest of your berets,””Yes Ma’am”. And with sure ingenuity, Mrs. Kingdom exploited the resources she had at her disposal. The stove would also become a hot water heater and clothes dryer. She would put water in a huge pot, boiled it, then poured it in the tub, viola’, a hot bath. Something had to be washed in a hurry, no dryer, no problem, she would open the oven door lay the clothing on the door, then turn the oven on broil. A foiled sheet on the edge of the edge of the dining room table became the ironing board. She did all this while preparing Sunday morning breakfast without coming close to scorching the eggs. Not to discredit the other weekdays, where she displayed the soul of a nurturer, on Sundays she was amplified, humming blessed assurance. From far back as I could remember, my mom mastered the tricks of motherhood, taking the sting out of poverty, therefore sheltering us from it’s effects.

Echoing from my sister’s room would be “Ouch” and “that hurts” as my sister Rose would attempt to tame Jewell’s full head of hair. Jewell being the baby girl of the family always craved the attention of her star role. Her means of getting it ranged from exaggerating a situation usually involving physical altercations, to straight up tattle telling. So it was always a challenge to interact with her. But her baby face and chipped toothed smile always seducing you into her cage. Just to be betrayed by the canary, aka the creator’s secret weapon. To be specific she was the male creator’s secret weapon, yes indeed, she had the Reverend wrapped around her saliva soaked thumb. Making the other siblings environment hostile in her presence, her arrival undetectable if it wasn’t for her fetish for the taste of the thumb and the aroma that it secreted.

Now my sister Rose on the other hand could only be defined as the apprentice at the time. My mom made sure that Rose was given detailed instructions on how to be a strong woman that would be able to succeed with inadequate resources. Rose’s name was frequently coming out of my mom's mouth from a age. And Sunday’s were no different. Some of her chores were time consuming as doing Jewell’s hair and some were simple as putting mints in her purse, so her breathe wouldn’t stink in public. And the lessons that weren’t taught orally, were taught by example. The title that every woman consciously or subconsciously aspires to have is what my mom was bestowing upon Rose, good girl!

In the boys room where mke and Cashmere resided, dwelled two different, auras. Since my brother had a different biological father, this was natural. If i had to give you my hypothesis using all of my God given senses, I would have to say he was the coolest negroe on the planet at that time. As for me I was awkward. And the stark contrast between us wasn’t limited to demeanor or characteristics, we were in physical appearance polar opposites also. He was dark, muscular and short. I was brown, scrawny and lanky. His hair was wavy and his teeth were perfectly aligned. Naps covered my head like they were trying to force me back into slavery. And teeth bucked so far out of my mouth, they were making statements without me having to open it. Despite us being different in every way, I held no animosity towards him. Him could I? He was my idle. And often as we got ready for church I would take mental notes on how he did things. Things like placing a rubber band over a lazy sock, to hold them up if the elastic was worn out. Or letting your pants sag just enough to retain some class, but not exposing your high waters. Sometimes he even gave me pointers like the importance of keeping white shoe laces clean with soap and water. In my eyes my big brother could do no wrong.

During our Sunday routine, glimpses of the Reverend were rare. And when you did see him it was limited to their broken bedroom door. Most of the time they closed it by placing a towel at the top, forcing it closed, which worked a lot, but when it didn’t, it created a crack. And this crack became addictive to us kids. And in this crack you were able to see the Reverend on a spiritual high. One moment you might see him on his knees talking to God. Another time you might see him tuning his guitar while reciting a song for that day’s devotional service. And times you’ll see him with the only bible I can recall him having, open studying the word. Even as kids not knowing how important those short glances were, we still knew our dad was not your average Joe. So there was an unspoken code of conduct when we see him in that setting, we are going to be on our best behavior. And with everyone on one accord, there was peace.

When mom yelled “come eat”. We all would pile in the kitchen. With a final inspection from her, we were given the green light to sit at the table. But out of the four, one of us was selected to take the Rev. his breakfast. Holding that plate was like being the ring bearer at a royal wedding attended by millions of R.S.V.P. ‘s. The hallway seemed endless and your nerves became unsettled. It was like entering the holiest of holy ground. No matter how many times you had been in that room, Sunday morning was a whole different experience. With gospel music flowing, the Tv tuned to the Trinity Broadcast Network featuring the guest preacher for the day, a bottle of olive oil set on the dresser waiting to be opened and dabbed upon the foreheads of parishioners, and the Rev. seated in front of an open bible. More than often it would be a long pause with you standing there motionless, scared to speak, not wanting to disturb his meditation. Then he would point to where he wanted the plate set and you were free to go. The feeling exiting the room could only be compared to a soldier completing a successful mission. Back at the dinner table, you were entitled to act boujee’, after all without you how would the Rev. had ate? In all actuality you had blessed him.

When the Rev. came out the room picking and spraying his fro with activator, we knew it was almost time to go. Last minute chores had to be completed. Rose would make sure the kitchen was clean. I fed the dog. Cashmere carried the Revs. amplifier and guitar to the car. Jewell usually sucked her thumb. But the funny part was no matter how fast we finished our chores, we still had to wait for my mom.

Born and raised in Southern Georgia my mom was the quintessential Southern Belle. Unlike most country natives who exchange country etiquette for the dog eat dog manifesto provided when entering a big city, the fast paced city life, only accentuated her southern hospitality. She was a stickler for quality over quantity. That with an expensive taste made her skills of improvisation impeccable. By any means necessary my mom got what she wanted. The end result came together when she stepped out the door on Sunday. Her natural beauty only accented by light foundations of make up. Hair laid, curled and twisted to perfection. Designer dresses and heels similar to ones worn by Jacqueline Onassis. But what always put her among the likes of Elizabeth Taylor, were her Diamonds. Even Though they had been purchased on a layaway plan, in some instances took years to pay off, they still shined like they took one day to purchase. To me , My mom was a praying man’s dream come true. With the lady of elegance in the car we would be on our way to sacrifice our worship and praise to the one true living God.

In my city, church was a much needed refuge from the mean city streets. And the Reverend’s ministry took us to almost every hole in the wall congregation in the tri-city area. It wasn’t unusual for us to attend three or four services on Sunday. Pastor appreciation days, church anniversary, choir singing's and revivals highlighted our week. A chitlin circuit for the baptist. In those days the anointing was all over the Rev., Apparent whenever he stood in the pulpit. The fiery sermons he preached captivated all who was in the sound of his voice. Memorized verses from the good book spontaneously laced his compositions, given substance to his subjects. And when laid his hands on members , the power of God would at times lay them out, make them speak in tongues or simply move them to tears. While Jewell lay on mom's lap, Cashmere giving chicks the eye, Rose practicing on looking cute, I would sit in astonishment. My dad the Reverend was my hero and family was highly respected especially in our church. But like every hero has a weakness, the Rev. was not exempt. My hero and the coolest negro on the planet would eventually be in conflict leaving me torn between my two first examples of the definition of man.

Chapter 3

Around 1990, crack cocaine had solidified itself as a major force in Miami. Exposing the good, bad, and ugly of otherwise good natured, law abiding citizens. With no respect of gender, it turned out men and women alike. Opa-Locka was no exception to the rule. Our house was located on a back street, no adjacent homes behind us, just a long stretch of road starting from the 826 exit 17 ramp, ending with a right turn in front of the city dump. The canal on the other side of the street replaced the usual nosey backyard neighbors. And on the secluded stretch of road the city began to give up the cities secrets to me, during the late night hours. The sights outside my bedroom window stole my innocence. Tricks and Johns conducting business in fog filled cars. Torched and abandoned stolen cars being found lighting the darkness competing against flashing lights for shine time. A well dressed white man resting in his sedan deville was found with a hole in his thoughts. A body of a missing woman laying on the canal bank. The streets was talking.

From the outside looking in, you would think that the Kingdom residence was immune to the environment. Hard working parents, well mannered kids, the average christian family in the public eye, but privately there was turmoil. In church my dad was still leading the people to christ. Often after one of the Revs. influential sermons, the Kingdom kids would be repenting their sins. While the Rev. gained respect in church, he was losing it from my mom. Mom would always drill this quote in our memory, „Your home is your first church”. And evidently she thought the Rev. was not tending to his first flock to the best of his ability, and with time, the usually quiet southern belle began to express her grievances, Loudly!

A loan the Rev. gave my uncle was always an issue, but there were others. Working in the construction field you are prone to getting laid off and the Rev was laid off a lot. My mom would financially compensate the loss of income by working two and sometimes three jobs at a time . But to make matters worse, the times when he had plenty of work, he tended to be a little too generous with his offerings. All it took was a fellow preacher with a revelation from God and a dollar amount. It could be the second or third time the collection plate went around, the Rev. would still pull out his wallet. The sight of this would infuriate my mom, to pacify her, the Rev. would always say “Our ship is coming in”. Problem was seeing approaching ships, the lights have to be on, in the light house. And until this day I have a lot of questions alluding me about my faith and one is, Why haven’t I heard a preacher say, ”Members of the congregation, I just received divine revelation from God, take your offering money go home and pay your bills”.

With the ever present presence of hostility between our parents, we all victimized each other. It became a vicious cycle of abuse. While my mom slowly dismantled the Revs. manhood, with verbal assaults, I became Roses victim. Either she was picking at my physical attributes names like liver lips, yoke head and monkey man, she was trying her boxing skills on me. For Jewell anybody was game, it was a snitch thang. My victim was the dog. He became a bullseye, for my target practice sessions. Rotten grapefruits, mango seeds or rocks were tossed at his body, mercilessly. But my brother, my father's step child, the coolest negro I knew, was victimized to the degree that to call it abuse was an understatement.