Beloved Hatred: An African-American Exodus

By Marvin Mukanaka

Although Samantha Newton naturally possesses a civilized tolerance for all races, the cruel mystery surrounding the white-cops-killing-black-men syndrome that took away her innocent black boyfriend rouses her demons. Albeit hesitantly, she decides to kill the runaway cop; she must find him before the police do, lest he live. The perpetrator shockingly appeals to Samantha's better angels eventually, a turn of events that shocks not just the black community. Still, it is unexpected that Samantha will sell herself to the "enemy" for literally nothing by eventually falling in love with him. This twist of love surprisingly energizes an African American exodus from American soil, for which Sammy needs to be a "Moses" of the time. After stumbling into police secrets related to her boyfriend's death that she had no right to, she must now figure out and mastermind this impossible mass exodus back to Africa.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781667806716

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© 2021 Marvin Mukanaka

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.

Print ISBN: 978-1-66780-670-9

eBook ISBN: 978-1-66780-671-6

To all mothers of all races

and the multitude of wailing women yet to mother

who continue to suffer excruciating ‘labor pain’

at the loss of a son or daughter shot with a bare bullet in the bloodbath of injustice,

and to the fathers of all races

and the ambitious men yet to father

who continue being tactfully supportive and tearfully sharing in this lifetime pain

whose life-loss nothing can atone for,

and yet the promised permanent justice whose dancing drums only play in the future

would finally be a fitting consolation

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Prologue

I can’t breathe, whispered Samantha helplessly, as a white man squeezed her neck with his broad left hand, his heavy body pinning her to the mattress, her arms tied to the four corners of the bed.

I can’t breathe, she repeated, not that she expected him to hear. And at this point, his ecstatic groaning was much louder than her faint voice. She could have screamed I can’t breathe a few more times but didn’t want to make it a protest.

Quite lost in the act, Samantha Newton, a beautiful African American woman, was momentarily distracted from her greater concerns of life by this strange white man’s insatiable appetite.

By no means was Samantha lost in the dirty act because of endearment to the stranger. Despite her submission, Samantha knew there was an urgent need to get away from this raunchy escapade momentarily, to save a troubled teenage boy stuck in the woods. This she had just discerned no sooner had the man gained his erotic momentum. But he would not let her go. His right-handed, long, lustful fingers now roped tightly around her waist rendered her motionless. She was trapped under the excessive mass—as if dead weight—of his amorous need.

Although it was a dream, there was more to it than to think of it as just a dream. As she lay there, fidgeting occasionally in her favorite pink pajamas, Samantha’s experience in the dream was real on every level, emotionally, intellectually, mentally, and spiritually. Having such a bad dream took away from the beauty of her bedroom, which she rated much higher than most hotel rooms. She turned and rolled side to side, as if trying to release herself from the hold of the dream on her.

The huge bedroom was unique to her, just the way she liked it. The pink colors and brightness, having been purposefully set, positively influenced her mood every time she stepped into it. She was always happy here. It was the favorite part of her house. The king-size bed, adorned with beautiful coverings, was right in the middle of the large, square room. Three different sizes, but all beige, comprised the six pillows on her bed.

It smelled like fresh vanilla because of the bowl of dried petals and shells that was often smothered with air freshener. Cleanliness was key to her happiness. Some clothes lay on the floor because they couldn’t fit into the drawers and yet didn’t really look untidy.

A darling to watch, Samantha had almost everything a woman craved, from sumptuous physical features and skin without blemish to a soothing personality. But that wasn’t the reason the same dream was so frequent to her. She had become quite familiar with the fact that her bedroom had become sort of haunted. Like most women, it wasn’t clear she was satisfied with her natural endowment. On her bed, as she got ready to sleep, after a meticulous shower, she often ran through a mental beauty checklist, feeling and touching herself, to make sure her body was indeed being well taken care of by every effort made. She couldn’t afford to lose a thing of what she had. The only threat to it was her impending old age, but that was well into the future.

Strangely, this room looked very different in the ongoing dream, hardly visible in near darkness, but subconsciously she still knew it was the same bedroom.

Clearly Samantha was not a prostitute. But in the dream the stranger’s virility had turned her into a sex slave of some sort. Thinking more about the boy, Samantha did not understand where her magical powers came from, being able to discern events before they happened, but it did not matter for now.

Their spirits wrestled on the silvery-linen bed as the stranger kept trying to pull Samantha’s mind back into the indecent act. Still bothered, Samantha’s mind again mentally shifted to the boy in the woods. Via a spell, she saw the boy run toward a hill, a gold necklace bouncing from side to side around his neck, his tired legs dragging as he gasped for air, unfortunately coming more into the clear view of the huntsman pursuing him. The gold necklace stood out for its high value, and Samantha was curious about it.

If only he did not run toward the hill. Then the boy fainted. It was fortunate that he fell because the hunter now needed to wait for him to get up or else catch up to have a clear shot. Samantha prayed within her that the boy would stay down as this stranger ravaged her. The stranger thought she mumbled those words out of ecstasy, but she was praying in a strange tongue.

Gritting his teeth, the hunter took aim at the helpless boy. His weapon looked like a bow and arrow one moment, and an AR-15 machine gun the next minute. He aimed the weapon at the exact spot where the tired boy had fallen, inching closer and closer. The shifting images of the weapon did not distract Samantha from what was most important: to save the boy. And so she continued wishing.

As soon as the obsessed stranger relieved himself, Samantha’s spirit let loose and flew away. Her spirit zapped out of her body. Only when she had finally picked up the boy from the ground, grabbing him by the gold necklace, did Samantha realize he was already dead. It was too late.

Furious, Samantha turned to look at the hunter. But she could not kill him. It was not part of her mission.

You can have the carcass, screamed the hunter, walking away with a smirk on his cruel face, his voice thundering.

The thundering sound of the huntsman’s voice quaked Samantha out of her deep sleep, still in her pink pajamas. Panting, the memories of the dramatic dream immediately streamed afresh through her mind. She was worn out by the excessive weight of the dream. Drops of sweat bubbled on the sides of her head, heart beating fast, and her equally wet, hot armpits desperately needing to cool off.

She desperately needed to get up, in order to breathe. The cold sweat crawled down her neck as she gasped for breath.

Screaming aloud, Samantha punched the wall with a raging fist. Oh my God, I was dreaming again!

Chapter 1

Sodom City

The hoarse voice of thug-looking Joe Gonzalez scared the hell out of Police Officer Roy Phillips, even though he did not show it. Aside from his pride, Phillips was experienced enough to not look terrified of anything and hoped that his opponent was not experienced at the death threat he initially posed with his imposing figure.

Why the hell do you guys keep doing this to me, man? screamed angry Joe, handcuffed from behind and bent over on the hood. Ain’t this harassment, bro? Joe retorted.

After a brief resistance, which left Roy hoping that this would not be the fatal, last kicks of a dying horse, Joe stepped out of the car, lifted his black-knuckled hands, and obliged, much to the relief of the police officer. The large-framed suspect was clad in a black T-shirt, emblazoned with the caption I Can’t Breathe, which for some suspicious folks had become an escape to not be inspected or stopped by police.

Officer Roy was panting a little for breath, himself a considerably big figure. After finally cuffing Joe, he felt as if he had just stabbed to the ground a bull gone wild in the rodeo.

It’s not harassment if you are driving crazy, answered Roy, hand-searching Joe’s body from top to bottom, almost inappropriately under his crotch because of the unnecessary resistance.

You keep sniffing on me, man, Joe added. You stalking me, man. I can’t even breathe, bro.

Well, if you make things harder for me, you won’t be able to breathe for real. So, just quit that ‘I can’t breathe’ bullshit.

Police lights flashed and filtered through the dark air, reflecting sharply off the black Dodge Charger parked in front of it. The scene from a great distance looked like a house engulfed in flames of fire. For starters, this brand of the Dodge was generally considered a hot car and easily bound to be stopped for the flimsiest of reasons. But that wasn’t the only reason he’d been stopped. Joe was only driving 2 mph above the speed limit and his alcohol level was well within the consumption limit. Joe immediately made clear his readiness, as he had done on other occasions, to walk a straight line with eyes closed on a sobriety test if needed.

Joe’s stubborn outrage was partly the result of a proven fact that black people were eight times more likely to be stopped or pulled over by police than their white counterparts in the not-so-United States of America. Perhaps, it would help to call it United Races of America. That was the stark reality of great America. And at that moment Joe was neither feeling nor being so great.

Also, this wasn’t the first time Joe had been stopped by the police. The count was up to four for that month alone. Just like many black drivers, he drove around expecting to be stopped or even shot at any moment by police. There was no other reason he could find for being pulled over, search as he may, apart from the fact that he was a permanent member of the black race by birth. Whether it was a curse or not, in these moments he hated being black.

On the notorious South Side of Chicago, where fun was synonymous with trouble and cops always had to calm things down, Officer Roy had gained a reputation for being edgy, begrudging, and a bully cop. Not only was he physically imposing. Roy, standing six-foot-two, was quite a big deal. His hands looked a little stiff when he walked, suggesting he lifted weights with his upper arms more than any other physical exercise. He hardly smiled. In the community, he was considered friendly but not inviting. He needed to be invited to show approachability. Among his peers, he was a cool guy. A word about cops went around really fast in these parts. And Roy wasn’t the only one.

The neighborhoods of Chicago had changed drastically. Parts of the South Side of Chicago that were now becoming known for embracing LGBTQ rights found common ground with those agitating for racial justice, especially in the wake of a white cop having placed a knee on a black man’s neck.

Many buildings and automobiles now bearing paintings, portraits, and posters with the words I Can’t Breathe were evidence that the environment had radically changed, becoming intimidating for especially white police officers. But they confidently knew that they had the law on their side. The atmosphere seemed to suggest to anyone in law enforcement, When you are around me, I can’t breathe, simply amplifying what had always been a standoff between police and community.

The community saw these cops often and mingled with them in a sense, via reports of crime and routine checks. So, there was a considerable level of familiarity that not only bred contempt but attempted vengeance too. Not everyone who gave a smile was a friend. For this reason, time and again, the police department shuffled the pack.

There was more to be mad about. Joe knew that law enforcement agents were out to get him, always sniffing the area. For a moment, Roy thought Joe might be the guy who had a bad exchange with him a few weeks back, accusing police of planting drugs in his best friend’s car as evidence.

Irrespective of that outcome, jibes between police and suspects often seemed harmless but always proved influential in their day-to-day cat ‘n’ dog chases. So, there was not a word either party took lightly. The accusations and counteraccusations often set the mood and clues for the next confrontation, and often led to investigations.

After a thorough search and questioning, Roy reluctantly decided to let Joe go. Reacting to the pain, Joe rubbed his wrists as he walked back to the Dodge, literally barking, his tail no longer between his legs.

You ain’t found no gun, no drugs, no nothing, Joe said, almost showing all his teeth. Then he opened the car door, shoved in, and slammed it. Am clean, man.

Roy gave him a thumbs-up and a smirk to shake off the slight embarrassment. What else was there to do? His thumbs-up seemed to say to Joe, I will get you eventually, and Joe knew that.

Joe turned the key and started his Charger. I might as well start carrying a gun.

Oh yeah? Roy engaged him. What the hell for?

For a date with you, Joe said, raving his powerful engine.

Are you planning to shoot someone? Roy asked, resting his hands on his thick belt.

Maybe. Joe looked through the half-drawn, tinted window. You are not afraid of death, are you? Joe spat into the air, over the glass, and immediately sped off, screeching his tires, leaving Roy rooted to the ground.

Roy had his way of guessing who might be selling or simply doing drugs. His gut feeling on the night led him to Joe, but the cop instinct was not always accurate. And he knew he was simply unlucky to miss out on finding the evidence. Retreating to his car, Roy heard a gunshot fly over his head and hit his car. Unsure, he flung the back door open and threw himself in, tucking his body.

Shots fired. Shots fired! Roy finally managed to scream into his radio. As soon as he said, shots fired, more shots followed him from a hidden shooter. Above him, over the bridge, a car suddenly sped away as soon as the shots stopped.

When Roy’s backup eventually arrived, they found five bullet casings for forensic evidence into an investigation that would probably last another decade, given the anonymous circumstances and the many other cases pending. Two of Roy’s front tires were completely deflated, apparently the only thing the shooter perhaps targeted or managed to hit. There was no other clue apart from Roy’s assessment that the shooter stood above him on the bridge. Since it had happened so fast, it had been difficult to see much through the dim-lit night.

The first step, even though this incident was not proven to be connected, would be to find Joe and bring him in for questioning. Questioning, a piece of art Roy enjoyed, was the currency of the police trade.

It was a new day and now looking back, lurking in the dark in a patrol SUV, Roy recounted that near-death experience, counting his blessings by gazing into the night stars. Being in a different place on a different day was always like another exciting chapter of a book to look forward to. That confrontation with Joe wasn’t the first and would most likely not be the last. But now was a new day.

Roy jabbed his knuckles into the dashboard, sitting in his patrol car while listening to radio messages from headquarters and other units, standing by, parked in a dark spot of the roadside. He swore that the fourth bullet had almost got his ear if he had not shut the door in time. And if he had not dropped to the floor quickly enough, it would have hit his head, cracked his skull, and violently kidnapped his poor soul.

That thought alone, of his soul being zapped, enraged him.

Was his soul poor or rich? Roy was not sure about that and was definitely in no mood for such a self-argument.

A flash of bright light across the dark sky awakened Roy out of his deep reflection. Not a gunshot. He had heard of people who saw flashes of lightning in the dark out of nowhere, but he had never seen one himself. Did he just see one? It could have been anything. It could have even been a UFO. Well, it could have been a good sign from heaven, which would be a good omen.

But his mind almost immediately reverted to his previous thoughts.

Roy was not the only cop pushing back against such violent internal monologue. There were hundreds of others doing duty in that manner, who hoped circumstances would justify their fatal shootings. Only the law kept Roy sane. Given a chance, putting aside the law for a brief moment, Roy and colleagues would annihilate a considerable number of offenders in the twinkling of an eye. But law enforcement had taught them to contain their rage, even though it threatened to jump above the law at any moment. After all, they were only human.

Just as crooks watched the night for potential prospects, cops too scrutinized the night with tired red eyes, sometimes slapping their faces to stay awake, for their work to roll out. They could be home, like everyone else, holding their women through the night, instead of holding cruel guns, but someone had to make this necessary sacrifice. Some of the cops thought about giving up, retiring, or changing jobs, so they could be sure their women did not indulge in extramarital affairs to make up for the loss of the many nights. Besides family, there were other reasons too.

In a succession of automobiles, a black sedan went past Roy’s studious view, seemingly a Dodge, and Roy’s heart jump-started a little. But a closer inspection through his piercing eyes revealed that it was not a Dodge. Roy took his heart back and relaxed.

Often unable to forget the past, Roy ran out of vocabulary in reflecting on how he hated, detested, abhorred, despised, loathed the fact that the recent near-death experience had come at the hands of a black man. He bore the soul of a wounded buffalo ready to charge into an oak tree.

It was only a lingering suspicion that the shooter was black because of the neighborhood in which it happened: Sodom City. The whole idea of a black person shooting at him produced a stench to his nostrils—literally. It nauseated him. Fellow white cops would feel the same, he was sure. Even worse, with days gone by, it still riled him as freshly as tonight. He was not only mentally wounded. Since then, he had been screaming expletives and unprintables at the thought of it. The curse words simply gushed out at the slip of the tongue.

It was as clear as daylight, except to pretenders, that the racial gulf in America had left both white and black people mentally fatigued. Everyone was a casualty, and a casual attitude to the problem did not spare anyone from this mental fatigue. This was so much that police, for all their good efforts, produced knee-jerk reactions to blacks who were at crossroads with the law. Sometimes black people were guilty, other times not.

The pushback was natural. Attitude is everything, someone once said, and this was all about attitude. Attitudes on both sides of the aisle made every moment edgy.

The radio messages continued flowing, some of them announcing fatalities. Roy listened and keenly observed the world of racing automobiles around him. Occasionally, he thought about death randomly. He had to.

Like many in Roy’s position, he was used to the thought and yet intolerant to the threat. He knew of the necessity of being ready for death, even though he was not. Along with all the heart-stopping dread that death brought, among many other arguably necessary evils, it was almost always associated with darkness. That logical conclusion was not farfetched considering that much mischief took place in these unseen moments, which provided the margin for error even to those who meant no harm.

Deep darkness, if it were to be measured, coincided with graver danger and greater threats of death. Ironically, in the dark, when death stalked, is when many dared the uncommon and found the sweetest pleasures often sought.

Roy was aware that some philosophers argued that all humans experienced some kind of premonition about their hour of death, through dreams, intuition, a sixth sense, prelude incidents, or others. By that standard, having survived not only one moment of madness, Roy was also sure that his time to die was nowhere near. Surely, that was why he had survived those gunshots.

Speaking further of death, and the fact that darkness symbolized death, Roy realized that people did not talk of dancing the day away. Rather, they danced the night away. He wondered if that had anything to do with fear; just shake the body while dancing in the hope of chasing the night away. Moreover, people drank the night away instead of the day. He found that intriguing.

Such busy thinking kept him going in the night, which seemed longer than what it was said to be.

Roy wished he could have that privilege to dance at that very moment. But being on duty, looking out for specific red flags on the road, Roy sank into the leather seat and simply thought the night away.

Chapter 2

Restless Ambitions

It was the first day of Black History Month. Unfortunately, not only was February famous for love but hate too. Both lovers and haters came to the party, even though the story of love had the lion’s share of news. Nightfall had just hit its darkest point; the part a poet would consider the darkest part of black, enough to make a superstitious person wonder what lingered or stalked the night.

Black History Month was a perfect time to wear I Can’t Breathe labeled garments, and evidently, there was no shortage of that initiative throughout that month. This race message had quickly become a popular global label.

Astrologers, stargazers, and keen observers beheld changes in the galaxy with a sixth sense. One could imagine that astrologers even had the ability to measure the thickness of darkness per given night, a thing that the vast majority were naturally desensitized from.

Coincidentally, this was a Friday, the first February Friday, which Chicagoans in the state of Illinois called FFF and were somehow managing to quickly spread to other parts of the larger American culture. Friday in general was considered a special calendar day and an opportunity for the soul of humanity to indulge without limit. That perception alone meant that souls were off the leash or on the loose, for love, which sometimes ended in hatred or hate crimes, unfortunately.

As much as love was in the air, such optimism did not remove from the documented fact that Chicago was a city of guns as well as roses, like many other cities in America.

The ominous yellow moon was full too. It stood as a bright contrast against the skyline’s thick darkness, a sight to behold and a trigger to the curious soul. The sign made this particular Friday evening extra special, observed by people’s boisterous spirits, wagging their tails. The outstanding moon was a yellow glow, almost a burning of sulphur in its early stages, you would think. Plus, it was not often that such a rich form percolated off the full moon.

Night traffic, as expected, remained frantic and ferocious for the fact that Friday was traditionally a day of outings. It was not as frenzied as rush hour but altogether a highlight nonetheless. Smiling faces lit up car windshields,