Zolta's Wild Ride on the Pecker Express

By Doris Spears

In the pursuit of new adventures, Zolta and Lightnin discover their diverging mindsets to circumstances in their odyseey that uncover self-revelation that is alternately astonishing, tragic, funny and redemptive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798218966300

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Dedication

This novel is dedicated to my progeny: daughters, Shahran Spears-Etherly, Elementary School Principal, who at the tender age of two commanded everyone’s attention at our luncheon by uttering her first words in lengthy complete sentences; Dr.Erika Millhouse-Pettis, a most worthy warrior for life’s complex challenges; my son comedian-actor Aries Spears; who arrived in this world early by two months but whose voice could be heard well above the other preemies in the nursery. Amazing sidekicks of the ages-Ms. Zita Berry and Ms.Winifred Howard; all my relatives, friends, and kindred spirits who are too numerous to mention with deeply humble nods to my Aunt Helen Spears Harper, Mrs. Frankie McCullough-Educator; Mrs.Annie Lee Spears Curtis-Mom, and Blues Singing Legend Miss. Alberta Hunter, four larger than life women who fed my passion for cooking, eating, reading, writing, and music as though my life depended on it, as it surely does. And also to RP who has seeded my life throughout with GREAT love and appreciation.

In America there is Religion; there is the Unites States Constitution; there is human nature. The first two serve as guidelines for man’s behavior towards his three largest appetites. After hunger for food is sated, and mental hunger for stimulation is sated; man continues to prove historically that he will irreverently sate his sexual hunger in the absence or inspite of both guides, consequences be damned.

Doris Spears

Zolta's Wild Ride on the Pecker Express

©2023 Doris Spears

Cover Artwork/Design by Ben Johnson, a dear friend.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely co-incidemtal.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

print ISBN: 979-8-21896-629-4

ebook ISBN: 979-8-21896-630-0

Contents

Part 1: ENTER PRIAPUS1

CHAPTER 1: The Bitters3

CHAPTER 2: Kumba13

CHAPTER 3: Dreams Renewed21

CHAPTER 4: The Town’s The Thing28

CHAPTER 5: CABAL First Dance34

CHAPTER 6: A Day In The Life50

CHAPTER 7: Arts Hall/ Hair63

CHAPTER 8: Whoop Ass72

CHAPTER 9: Failed Seduction81

CHAPTER 10: Disney World90

CHAPTER 11: Zeke –Rise Against the Tide101

CHAPTER 12: Lightnin’s Surprise109

CHAPTER 13: Zolta Rising116

CHAPTER 14: Jacknife Bay132

CHAPTER 15: Holy Trouble141

CHAPTER 16: Quiet Storms150

CHAPTER 17: Rumblins157

CHAPTER 18: Ruminations165

CHAPTER 19: Cabal Again180

Part II: Priapus Unchained199

CHAPTER 20: Eureeka201

CHAPTER 21: Cardinal Village218

CHAPTER 22: H.S.Blues/The Threat229

CHAPTER 23: Ruminations II243

CHAPTER 24: Ruminations III256

CHAPTER 25: The Women271

CHAPTER 26: Cardinal Change281

CHAPTER 27: Faux Showdown/Real Tow288

CHAPTER 28: Prime Time300

CHAPTER 29: THE RUBICON305

Part 1:

ENTER

PRIAPUS

CHAPTER 1:

The Bitters

Zolta Victorius, my niece, looked like a bright young law student. Coolness and curiosity waxed and waned in her dark expressive intelligent eyes, lendin an easy grace and quiet strength to her genteel bearin. Her smile, splendidly gap-toothed she held mostly for her two kids, Zora and Zeke.

In attemptin to seek out the best life for her family, they settled in Chicago on the south east side of town in a area vibratin wit gentrification called Promise. It was a clean, popular, prosperous lookin neighborhood, Promise was; of tree lined streets, manicured lawns, power washed European style apartments, and Frank Lloyd Wright homes once inhabited by wealthy European Jews who still owned much of the real estate there. Zolta’s landlord was related to her supervisor at the insurance company where she worked and the warmth of that friendship got her the connection to the apartment. Ever grateful to protect connections she earned, she paid the rent on time, some months even way ahead.

But Promise was promisin for an equally valuable reason. Inhabited now, largely on a lease basis, by a somewhat affluent middle class group of American Blacks, the future preservation of Promise and rejuvenatin the saggin areas around it seemed a done deal wit President Barack Obama’s economic incentives made possible by the American Recovery and Re-investment Act.

Stable Black neighborhoods like this was scarce in the city, them that could afford it wanted to be landlords. Folks was swoll up with pride, many believin his presidency signaled a new and better day for over-all Black accomplishment. In that swellin spirit; Black folk tried to buy whatever real estate they could there, that the Jews didn’t have locked down.

Ophelia and Reginald Blessworthy, she a retired nurse, and he, the town’s first fire chief of color, also retired, lived in a moderate size two story, three bedroom bungalow. From Zolta’s third floor apartment where she would sit some evenins enjoyin wine in her livin room, she got a prime view of the roof top deck that Blessworthy himself built for him and his wife to relax in and escape from Chicago’s blisterin summer heat. But it more and more became over-flow space for frequent wild parties throwed by the young folk there, forcin the elder Blessworthy’s permanently into they bedroom for quiet times and privacy.

Apart from the Blessworthys and they grown son and two daughters, one of which was a bewitchin hard core heroin addict, musta been thirty folks at any given time livin in or passin through that house, includin the addict’s friends, some stragglers and various other cousins and hangers-on.

Neckbone, a war veteran of Desert Storm; he run the extermination and clean up crew down at the shipyards. He married Clitoreen, the other daughter and he was the only one workin in the family.

....The Blessworthy’s was away at they fishin cabin that swelterin mornin that Neckbone come home plumb tired. TV and radio blarin, hi-fi- music cranked up too; fans blowin wit tissue stuck in em. Niggas was stretched out everywhere; layin cross all the livin room furniture, piled on top of the beds, under the beds, on the floor blockin the door ways. Slobber was flowin and snorin echoed off the walls like a continuous landslide of strugglin breath. Them that aint sleep was noddin deep. The arrestin smell of ass, farts, and feets hijacked the sluggish air and swarms of flies buzzin in delirious excitement; caint decide which part of these niggas anatomies they gon maggotize.

He blast the radio point blank. Couple niggas open one eye, seed that shit; (nigga don’t kill his music machine) and pure dee paralyzin fright, at dissonant odds with they various stages of crapulence, slammed they eyes shut again, settin eyelids a-tremble while they kept real still.

They prayed they was dreamin, and was hopin that just maybe, whatever is wrong with this muthafucka will make him leave so they can dash outside to freedom.

But Neckbone start flashin back sprayin fire-power from a Uzi in one hand and puncturin peoples wit a Glock semi in the other. Strolled through the rest of the first floor shootin everybody he see. Some of em he shoot three, four times. Then he holla "SHOT GUN! SHOOT HIM FO HE RUN NOW! Shot through the window brought down somethin outta the trees.

Bout that time Lightnin, the daddy of Zolta’s two kids on his way from the store, come past the hedge in the Blessworthy’s front yard. A red thick trail of liquid; paint he think at first, make his eyes follow it up the walk. Doubled over on the porch on her knees, head face down on the steps, all four hunnert pounds of Clitoreen met Lightnin’s gaze; her brains wedged through her crack skull cause by a bullet.

Quickly, he crouch down in protective mode, wonderin if the killer or killers might see him from some angle in the house through the good size door openin, while tryin at the same time to make sense of what he see. Terror and the uncompromisin pressure to shit, rocketed him up the three flights of stairs where he frantically dialed 911 and snatched Zolta awake. Now Lightnin fancied hisself a actor. His speech tumble out in such a rush, eyes bugged out, Zolta thought he give hisself over to funnin like he sometime do when he be actin, or bout to tell a joke.

Zolta come out and spied Clitoreen. For a minute she think her neighbor done fainted wearin one of them new pieces of head gear she was always knittin, but it was somethin bout this gear that pulled her closer. Her eyes took in the rest of the body; her ears the eerie quiet save for the steady chirpin of a sparrow; her skin the absence of a breeze, the brilliant hot glare of the sun and the air was somehow thinner to breathe. Her thoughts locked. GOD’s presence, never greater than at life or death, reigned.

Then, Zora and Zeke! They just played here with her baby yesterday! Spittal and bile chocked her, dribblin through her hand clasped over her clinched mouth. Zolta fell down beatin a path back up to her apartment, trippin up the stairs again on the second floor; her heart screamin against her throat so hard she thought it was gon bust. At the third floor window, breathless and surgin wit disbelief and dread she see Lightnin talkin to some cops, and helicopters, tact cars, and media sallyin down.

The streets and alley-ways in the otherwise tranquil community of Promise thronged wit mobs of people rushin to the scene from all directions causin utter pandemonium. Clitoreen and Neckbone’s two year old was found by police bouncin up and down gigglin; his daddy’s body lay a few feet from him, a fatal self-inflicted gunshot through the face. What a difference a day made.

The main thing re-occurin to Zolta about the pillage was that twenty four hours earlier, them coulda been her kids in the body count. Zolta was from a hard workin family of Delta Mississippi sharecroppers whose women raised they beloved children against impossible odds, whether the father was Massa and Massa denied it... or in more modern times the daddy be a Black Man that a woman had to deny as the father to the state welfare agency to get a pitiful stipend for sustenance, to boost whatever that Black man could contribute under the table cause he was so often denied jobs cause of state sanctioned anti- Blackness and white supremacy.

There was no question. At all costs Zolta had to protect her kids. So, she quickly maximized her hookin and crookin skills and within two weeks moved herself and kids to the near north side of town to the heart of a neighborhood called the Gold Coast where they be safe from all them ghetto antics that was fightin for stage time and winnin, against what she believed in her heart up til now was staid middle class Black progress.

The area wasn’t called the Gold Coast for nothin. A popular talk show titan’s television program was broadcast from a studio in the same neighborhood within a few miles of Zolta’s new squat.

The new place was a big three bedroom apartment on the fourth floor of a well-kept brownstone situated on a tree-lined street, mixed wit expensive boutiques, stores, restaurants, and other high-end housin, wit the artsy folks who lived there, her neighbors.

Some gruff lookin guineas who didn’t talk much and kept things quiet run a string of binnesses there, one of which was a fancy bar on the street level of Zolta’s apartment building. The gals dance half naked. Wit the tourists and all mixin in, it gave a excitin, risqué, international flavor to the neighborhood and as long as they keep a low profile, neighborhood folk acted like them broads was the Rockettes of Radio City Music Hall in New York City.

Summer and Fall came and went. Winter set in and wasn’t no heat in the apartment. The owner, Mr. Salvatore Amore tell Zolta the heat workin, but got a trick boiler and by it bein off for the summer, it take a while to kick in so trustin him, she bought space heaters for her and the kids until such time occurred. Then one mornin mad cause icicles is on the inside of the windows; they breath vapor thick as cigar smoke, Zolta call downtown and register a complaint.

Her and Lightnin was goin through one of they many break-ups. He was visitin as often as she would let him fuck her, which wasn’t much. And though some nights she enjoy sleepin by herself, that cold ass apartment had her on the verge of reconsiderin the nature of they relationship and the frequency of his visits.

Then...instantly... it’s sizzlin like the Sudan up in there. The owner call and say contrite to her, You got plenty of heat now. Zolta say thank you to GOD for the toastiness. Wit peace of mind and breathin room for the future; the first since the Blessworthy murders, she found herself a babysitter the kids liked so she could work a extra job and start racin up life’s highway of progress unhampered once again.

One evenin at her new bar-tendin job on the south side, place called the Bird Cage Lounge; before the popular dance club got too crowded, she was enjoyin a plate of fried chicken and Marvin Gaye’s query What’s Goin On from the jukebox. The answer came in the swirlin hard roar of a blaze that sent shit crashin and crumblin, catchin Zolta’s ear, but not her eyes as somebody in the mesmerized group millin around the giant TV screen cried out Gaahd-dayum!

Zolta throwed a slack look up at the furniture and carpetin in the chopped away parts, then her eyes riveted. The chicken hit the plate. My kids! My kids! LORD!...Awww my kids!

She came to consciousness in a car outside the smokin ruins wit Lightnin and his friend Baby Gray. Luckily Lightnin had stop by to check on the kids before the fire broke out fully and rescued em all as the stairwell was collapsin and got em outside in the numbin icy slush and deep snow. They was sittin in one of the fire trucks wide eyed and scared. The words careened through Zolta’s mind like clangin bells in a tower, over and over, and over again. You got plenty of heat now!

The babysitter’s Mamma who lived not far from Zolta allowed her and the kids to stay wit them until she could get a grip and decide what to do. There was a lot to figure out. She couldn’t have imagine this would happen. Now homeless but wit a job, she got to thinkin about her life in a new way and how in the hell she was gon make it wit them kids. But thoughts about the Amore’s kept intrudin try as she might to prevent em. The landlord had already lied to her about why the heater wasn’t workin, and when it was suppose to start. Did Mr. Amore set the fire? Or have it set? NAW...they couldn’t...they wouldn’t...would they? Would they git that pissed cause the city force them to fix that heater!?

Odd too was that the bar, usually open 24-7, was closed that night. No other tenants was in the buildin. Usually there was at least two other tenants, nice people who spoke to her there all day, every day.

Why her kids and the babysitter was the only ones in the buildin the night of the fire trouble Zolta deeply, sickly increasin her suspicions that the fire was set on purpose. Dark thoughts obsessed her, leavin her sleepless, confused, and and as terror-filled as when she left the south side of Chicago.

One Spring mornin, her anger less palpable, on a pre-dawn jog through the neighborhood, a sudden down pour forced her inside of a small, well lit empty lookin deli not far from where she got burnt out at. A for lease sign was on it now but Zolta knew it use to belong to Mr. Amore, her landlord.

She stood at the counter waitin to buy a drink, when familiar voices amidst the sound of slidin boxes come to her ears from the storage area through a partition. She could make out through the thin slivered half door her ex-landlord’s nephew Luigi’s voice who use to joke wit her and often collected her rent. They never even tried to return her hefty deposit, say sorry for what you lost, or so long bitch. She wonder what he was gon say when he come out and see her there, thinkin he’d be shocked and that she finally come back for her deposit. She listened.

The claim... Uncle Sal. On time right? Maybe now I get the Porsche?

We have to move slow yet. Nipote the senior Amore respond tersely, No haste. Still too risky...but your boys did good. Better than that.

Affirmative Unc but....

Lento Nipote. This was much harder than 45th street.

Zolta was glued to the spot.

Unc... you got paid. More for the location, Maybe now I get the....

The door creeked and Zolta dropped to the floor, hopin no one would come in until she could get out.

I’ll miss the chicks Unc... Luigi chided, Won’t you?

Yeah...But chicks...eh! They’ll go over to Marv’s in Old Town..... But no more fires. We were lucky other buildins didn’t burn, I’m glad it worked out. Be patient Nipote. You’ll get the car....gimme a hand wit this pallet.

Zolta dashed out quick, leavin the door ajar shocked by the chance she’d hear such a conversation, yet relieved by the new revelations. Her breathin comin too fast, she ducked for composure into the deep gap of a buildin several yards from the deli. She cautiously peered back toward it and saw Luigi light a smoke in the pourin rain castin glances around curious about the gapin door. She ruminated ‘ Glad it worked out?! Worked out for who?’ Lucky that other buildins didn’t burn! Yet okay that her children and babysitter coulda died!

‘Amore’ meanin love was her ex-landlord’s name. He was love alright: He love lyin! he love money! he love killin! His words convince her that on some level the attack was racist.

Funny thing about money. Black money is as green as any when it’s needed. And all things bein unequal Black life is the easiest to take when there’s indifference to it. All things bein equal; sometimes what makes you a nigga is the way you treat others; sometimes it’s how you treat yourself. It was a bitter yet profound lesson to learn: That all niggas aint black-skinned. And that there was no love lost between guineas and niggas.

Zolta stop cookin pasta, eatin pizza and water ice just the same. Without tellin em why, she made the kids quit too for a while. It seemed the only way she could fight back and do honor to her rage.

Behind the Blessworthy killins, that fire fucked wit Zolta’s head like a amateur with a hot comb. Crazy ass Black niggas run her away from the south side and crazy ass guinea niggas sent her packin from the north side burnin patches of confusion in her thoughts and blisterin her reason to the root.

Yet somethin too, nagged her about Neckbone. His goin crazy scared more folks than it engaged em to talk about why he went off but in Zolta’s fright-filled analytical mind was a massive burden about that very thing; doubly heavy in the wake of the fire. It was as if some terrible malady some how connected them things.

After-all, the killins was in Promise. It wasn’t some drug infested neighborhood; indeed most of the folks there, whatever they was privately, they appeared to work hard and be law-abidin. Wasn’t no violent inducin Rap rhythms playin on the radio when the police arrived, though there was a joke floatin about that ZZ Hill’s Open House at My House was playin on the hi-fi when they come and it held in it lyrically a kernel of truth. In any case if Zolta had knowed when and where to look, the signals of a huge, impendin death boom, was right there, as plain as the flashin red lights and ringin bells at a railroad crossin announces a comin train.

How So? First, there was the resources bein drained by way too many folks than the place was meant to hold. Everybody’s tensions snappin and cracklin up against and off each other; petty feuds , greediness and self-directed Black hatefulness runnin through everything; and as important, the displacement and disrespect of the elder Blessworthys; it was all there.

Second, that drain fuck wit the balance of energy; then forged combative currents; too much pressure built, so somethin had to give.

Third, and from that mix sprung jungle law, the lowest form of cosmic law. And it cleared that house through Neckbone. It’s how shit happens, carnage is its own reward. In countries it’s called war, often of ‘complex’ cause; in the workplace it’s call ‘going postal’; in households it’s call ‘rampagin rebel levelin the larder’.

On the other hand, on the Gold Coast, folks whose incomes was through the roof like so many of em was; you really couldn’t tell what standard they held theyselves to. They money extended they options and they could disguise them options if need be in direct proportion to the limits of they cash. Suddenly class, color and crime showed a schism provin they could be mutually exclusive, but not necessarily....at least not when it come to Black folk.

The hindsight pierce Zolta like a fish hook as she struggle to find answers and solutions. She vowed under no circumstances would her kids ever have to live somewhere, where conditions might pull Zeke in jail and he get fucked up the ass, or he be in jail tossin a mufucka’s salad. Or that Zora be done got fucked so much she don’t have enough pussy left to grip a stripper poll.

She also found the Euro-centric fondness for mice and rats in movies, cartoons and as pets odd and extremely distasteful, so also out, was any place wit any hint that rodents ruled. And she was about to have a experience that would cement her feelins about that shit for good.

CHAPTER 2:

Kumba

Lightnin seem to share Zolta’s high expectations about the future of they kids...at least he said he did. He and his wife, Kumba, a stunnin lookin jet Black complexion woman and they four kids lived in a apartment on the south side along with Kumba’s ninety year old daddy.

She recalled clearly sittin in they apartment a few months before Zora was born half watchin the soaps cause that’s all Kumba liked and attemptin to have a conversation wit her, bout cookin or herbal teas or somethin when a rat bout six inches long brazenly walk from the bedroom across the floor in front of the television. In horrified silence Zolta lifted her feets high above the arm of the chair.

Goddammit! Kumba yell, hurlin a shoe cross the room at it.

That rat barely flinched; kept eatin his crumbs, thought to hisself, ‘Now that muthafucka there, throwin that shoe need a goddamn job, so me and mines can rummage through this raggedy ass cavity in peace.’

Kumba holler at the top of her voice, Ray Ray! Tricity! Hurrup! These damn rats it out here again! And the kids thumpin feet conveyed to the rat and by then a few of his smaller family members now browsin cross the floor that they better haul ass back to where they come from.

They gone now Mamma. Say Tricity, the eldest girl, breathin heavy, her thick kinky hair standin straight up over head, big eyes misty and serious.

Kumba flush wit embarrassament say to Zolta, I done told the landlord bout dese rats...but it aint nearly as many of em here now as was before.

Zolta thought to herself, no wonder Lightnin always tryin to bivouac up around my house. What do Lightnin say about the rats? she axe, Your place is throbbin with them!

Kumba sigh. He know they here. He don’t say nuthin cept sometime he bring home a trap or somethin.

All four kids come runnin breathless to the front room, talkin all at once.

We caught one! A big one Mamma, come see! Say Zaire.

Shut up Zaire. Mocha protest. You aint caught jack. Granddaddy did.

Sho did. Say Ray-Ray.

Uncomfortable wit Zolta’s gaze, Kumba lit a cigarette and smile weakly, Aint it terrible girl? she say finally, as she follow the kids in the direction of they find, I bet nobody else house you go over got rats that cause this much excitement.

Kumba... Zolta called out, stoppin the woman in her tracks, allowin these rats in your house around your family and your food is beyond disgustin, it’s possibly fatal. How can you let your landlord get away with this?

Her head fell heavily, I know girl...but what can I do?

What can you do!? return Zolta surprised, You can take the biggest of them bad boys you can catch, pack him in some baking soda, bleach , and plastic, wrap him in a box like a tantalizing gift and mail it to him...better yet, to his wife and kids. Include a note sayin, this is what my family battles everyday living in your building! Fix this!

Kumba’s eyes widened, Yeah?

Of course...you must do it Kumba. I’ll help you. You gotta protect your kids girl. Let’s use the rat in the trap that was just caught. She say excitedly, pledgin to herself to not visit Kumba any more cause this was just too damn fucked up.

Kumba’s eyes shadowed, her bubbly smile startin to fade.

Zolta glance at the two kids who was watchin the two women wit great hope and eagerness. Ray-Ray! Zolta order, Go get that rat, leave him in the trap, and get a shoe box from your granddaddy’s room and bring him to me and your Mamma in the livin room.

As the sound of their thumpin feet died down the hall, Zolta turned to Kumba and gently touched her arm, I guarantee you, we’ll get results.

Wit the rat now dressed as Zolta directed, his nasty ass was boxed on the mantle when Lightnin git there to pick up Zolta. The two women wink at each other and smile. The gesture wasn’t lost on Lightnin when he walk through the door but the talk of his political meetin at a chapter of CABAL (Commission Addressing Blackness Arts and Life) a 21st century group of activists enamored of the sympathies and strategies of the Black Panther party of the 1960’s but wit a emphasis on police brutality and prison condition reform was more urgent for him to share wit Zolta as he ushered her out the door, notin also the smiles disappear from everyone’s face as he did so.

Next evenin Zolta called Kumba, anxious to know when they was gon go to the post office to mail the rat. Girl, I caint do it. Kumba said talkin low.

What do you mean, you can’t do it! You’ve got to do it! Zolta pushed.

Silence.

Kumba?

Silence.

Suddenly Kumba say cheerily, So what you up to?

Zolta took the receiver from her ear and glared into it as if to see the woman’s face.

Right now, she answer, I’m up to finding out why we can’t mail that rat. Then it slowly hit her, Is Lightnin there?

Uh huh...he’s in the back wit daddy. Kumba’s speech quicken to a whisper. But they comin towards the livin room now. Ray-Ray told him what was in the box.

Did he get mad?

I seen him madder...but he told me we caint do that...that the landlord could put us out...he said you a good woman, but sometime you too crazy for your own good.

Considerin the statement mildly annoyin Zolta, teased, So you gon back down Kumba? This is for your kids and you! You can do this! Don’t be a coward!

Kumba sighed wearily, Girl, you aint got a house full of kids. If we git put out of here, where we goin? We caint afford to live like you do...I aint got no job.

Zolta wondered why she didn’t have one and thought about askin her about it but didn’t. So you just gon stay there and let them rats turn out litters of babies in your place, nestin in your clothes and furniture, shittin and pissin on everything, eatin off your groceries, makin your kids sick, and socializing with your guests? That’s lunacy Kumba. You don’t have to take that! Take that low-life nigga’s ass to court. He can’t possibly win.

Zolta could hear Lightnin’s expressive voice comin closer in the background so Kumba spoke loudly, Alright girl, I’ll call you back and tell you how to fix that banana puddin.

And then much to Zolta’s dismay, Kumba hung up. She couldn’t believe she let Lightnin scare her into not doin what’s right by her kids. Lightnin mighta been alright wit Kumba and the rats, and Zolta tripped a minute wonderin why Lightnin didn’t rid them of the problem. But Zolta’s plate was full and as the worries for her own kids future engulf her; she wasn’t livin large so much as she just looked like she should have been; Kumba’s rat problem left her mind.

Truth be told them rats didn’t bother Lightnin at all. He was just happy to have two pieces of ass at the same time on opposite ends of town that knew each other and got along.

Zolta-Attribution

Though Zolta and Lightnin had produce two kids together, they didn’t know each other that well and Zolta didn’t axe Lightnin nothin about hisself that she didn’t want him to axe her about herself. She reminded him of it whenever he got too nosy. Still with the kids between em now, a degree of intimacy grew and when he growed sad and quiet, like he would at times; she start to suspect somethin was worryin him.

It was then that she let him confide in her about his personal problems in his marriage; bout Kumba’s old fashion sex ideas and some socio-familial practices of the tribes of some of Black people’s African ancestors, and more recently of men he knew from the gulf wars; Muslims wit multi-wife families. He proceed to introduce Zolta to Kumba but Zolta told him she’d accept a three-some drawin the line at the sex, and bein a Muslim on any level or branch was out period.

There was darker reasons too that she limit what she want him to