A Love Story 2 Mistress Rae A LOVE STORY: BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR A Forbidden Publications production, Septembe. Sister Souljah, the hip-hop generation's number one author and most compelling storyteller, delivers a powerful story about love and loyalty, strength and family. Midnight: a gangster love story. bySouljah, Sister. Publication date For print- disabled users. Borrow this book to access EPUB and PDF files.

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Story by Sister Souljah. Today's Featured Book of Color is Midnight: A Gangster Love Story. This is the prequel to. Sister Souljah's The Coldest Winter Ever. Editorial Reviews. From Publishers Weekly. Souljah's follow-up to her bestselling novel, Midnight: A Gangster Love Story (The Midnight Series Book 1) - site edition by Sister Souljah. Download it once and read it on your site device, PC . Issuu is a digital publishing platform that makes it simple to publish magazines, catalogs, newspapers, books, and more online. Easily share.

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Midnight : a gangster love story

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Midnight : a gangster love story

Ashes of Midnight Veil of Midnight willenthrall you and leave you breathless for more. He was slightly taller than me. The crowd was shouting out random shit. Somebody said something funny. In the split second that he looked away to chase the joke, I smashed his face with my right fist. His nose started bleeding. He was in a fighting stance now, looking angry and determined. Still he was making the mistake of having his eyes in the wrong place, watching his blood drops splatter in small circles on the cement.

Keep your eyes on his fists, DeQuan yelled at him. The kid got amped up and took a swing at me. I ducked. He missed. I landed a big bare-fisted punch in his stomach and he doubled over. Stand the fuck up, DeQuan yelled. I gave him time to straighten up before I punched him in his face again.

His eyes turned red and mucus gushed out of one nostril, mixing with his blood. Suddenly his chest started heaving. Tears started to form in his eyes. His two younger brothers were on their feet now, trying to stop the fight.

DeQuan pushed them both out of the way, leaned over, and started screaming face-to-face on his eleven-year-old brother. Oh, you gonna stand there and catch a fucking asthma attack because you losing the fight? Cut that shit out!

But the thirteen-year-old brother caught him by the neck of his jacket and held him right there. His fingers fiddled nervously with his belt. Those are his clothes. He can keep them. I walked away. I had shit to take care of and after fighting today nothing on me was dirty. There was no reason for me to go back upstairs. When I got back home, there was a plastic shopping bag against my apartment door. I looked inside.

There was a fresh pair of jeans folded with the tags on, a T-shirt, and a crisp fitted. The kicks gave away the sender.

They were the brand-new ones like the pair the eleven-year-old wore for the fight. I took the delivery three different ways. Two, that DeQuan was admitting the embarrassing defeat of his eleven-year-old brother. I took the shopping bag as a message to me, half threat, half reward. I wanted him to understand that I knew he was watching me but I was watching him too. He could come up to my apartment. I could come down to his just as easy. Before I could bang on the door, DeQuan pulled it open.

He had on new jeans and sneakers as usual. What do you want? DeQuan asked. One of those, I answered, with a nod toward his piece. DeQuan smiled. Come on in, kid, he said. This was my first time seeing the fifteen-year-old, who was almost as tall as DeQuan. I found out his name was DeMon.

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Each of them was sitting on one of two beds. Only the eleven-year-old with the asthma was sitting on top of his hands and had his head hanging down. Get your fucking head up, DeQuan barked on him. And keep it the fuck up, he added. Meanwhile, the thirteen-year-old, still standing, stared me down with hatred.

Even though he was almost twice my age, he looked like he wanted a crack at crashing my skull. DeSean, the ten-year-old brother, turned away when he noticed it was me, and looked out the window instead. Look this man in his eyes, DeQuan bossed him. Now all six of them were staring, focused on me. DeQuan had a wall no one could see because from the ceiling to the floor, it was covered by crisp sneaker boxes of all kinds.

They were perfectly stacked like in a small store. DeMon, give me box number seventy-seven, he told his fifteen-year-old brother. The brother hesitated at first, then he sped up and pulled the box out for him.

DeQuan took the box from his brother and told me to follow him down the hall.

In a dark corridor of their apartment, DeQuan squatted down to speak confidentially. He opened the top of the sneaker box, revealing two guns sparkling on top of white tissue paper. I could see one was a twenty-two, the other was a nine. When I saw the anger moving into his face, I corrected myself. No thanks, I said. How much is it? These cannons are big-boy toys, he said, raising up from his squat like he was reluctant or now refusing to sell it to me. I waited silently for him to quote the price.

If he was any good at it, it was his job to move his product. He felt my point. Bullets included, he told me, cool and confident that he had out-priced me and trapped me in his employ. I put my hand in my pockets and peeled off five hundred and fifty dollars.

For the first time ever, I saw him actually hesitate. His eyes stayed on my small money stack. I can sell you the pieces. But I cannot let you walk around in those fucked-up clothes.

I looked at him and thought to myself, this fashion shit must be their American religion. Then I thought again.

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Protecting my mother, Umma, is my religion. So I accepted.

He seemed used to giving orders and having them followed. And let me tell you this, little man. This is Brooklyn. That was my official introduction to NYC. I laid my kufi, my linen pants, my white silk Islamic shirt, and my sandals to rest.

These were all high-quality, respectable clothes made of the finest materials. Where I am from, jeans are considered casual clothes used when laboring, doing construction, working on the land, repairing the house, or maintaining the vehicles.

But in Brooklyn, my African dress clothes made me a target and I was prepared to turn my situation around and do what I needed to do to protect my family. Word of mouth in Brooklyn was as powerful as the call to prayer back home. So in less than twenty-four hours, the whole building knew I, the young fearless one, was packing. A few days after I copped, I saw my old sandals dangling from the telephone wires that ran from pole to pole way up high throughout the hood.

It was a symbol, a reminder to me of where I was and who I had to be to hold my position. I considered myself to be at war with every single nigga I ran into, the big ones and the small ones. So I stay fit and strapped. It was no either-or situation for me.

In my room I pushed my bed up against the wall and into the corner. I needed the floor space. I did my pushups, situps, and pullups like it was part of my religion. In the hood, I noticed a lot of out-of-shape types, either too damn skinny or too damn fat.

Instead they hid behind the barrels of their guns. My father taught me that it is always better to have a choice of weapons. So I trained my body, my hands, and my feet to be my weapons too.

In a Brooklyn Ninjitsu school I did my official training. My teacher, who students called Sensei, was a thirty-something-year-old Japanese man who owned a nice-sized space that we called the dojo. It was a large, spacious four-room facility. We were trained to fight in the largest room. We had lockers in the locker room. Private lessons were offered in the smaller back room.

Sensei had his own office to chill in. The walls were lined with photographs of real fighters in wicked stances, some even flying in the air. The students were all handpicked and selected to train by Sensei. He wanted youth who were serious about fighting and defending something based on a real principle, and not just for the hell of it. He kept sharp rules on attendance and honor. He never screamed and never joked either. Sensei told us stories of ancient men who constantly had to fight to defend themselves and their families against individuals, corrupt armies and governments.

He demonstrated how they used everything they had to make weapons, and went up against their enemies even though they were completely outnumbered and favored to lose.

I considered my situation to be just like that. Even when I came across those born and raised in the U. They lived openly and carefree against the laws of Islam. I could not trust my new neighbors. Now I was mastering an ancient martial art form and converting myself into an urban ninja warrior.

My Brooklyn education came quick. The hood ate slow cats.

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I made it my job to learn the faces of every boy and man in my Brooklyn building. I learned from meeting DeQuan that I needed to know who was related to who, brothers, cousins, and uncles. I ranked each one of them in my mind based on the angle and position they played.

I learned quickly that every man in the hood got an angle. The lowest were the drug fiends. Yet they were the easiest to spot. They were broken men, women, and children worse off than beggars and willing to do anything for anybody for a hit of their addiction. They were going nowhere fast, aging right before my eyes, bent over, scratching, and thoughtless. At first I thought they were poor people.

Even back in the Sudan there are poor people. I soon found out and understood their condition. A poor man can fight and have a chance of winning.

A poor man can earn and build and become victorious. A fiend is a just a fucked-up, zombie, half-dead loser. Close to the bottom were the schoolboys. They got up every morning and went to school just like they were told.

They came home from school every afternoon, just like they were told. They was no real threat to me or anybody else. I kept my eye on them anyway. Most of them were a bunch of cowards. When I would see one of them alone, I could smell their fear. They would. This action might not be possible to undo.

Are you sure you want to continue? Upload Sign In Join. Save For Later. Create a List. Summary Sister Souljah, the hip-hop generation's number one author and most compelling storyteller, delivers a powerful story about love and loyalty, strength and family. Read on the Scribd mobile app Download the free Scribd mobile app to read anytime, anywhere.

Washington Square Press Released: Nov 30, ISBN: Book Preview Midnight - Sister Souljah. If you love me, you love me for the wrong reasons. Then shiver when I finally talk. My father had three wives. Not one wife, one wifey, and a bunch of random bitches on the side. So put your brews and blunts on pause. Rock with me for a few. My father was six foot eight and pure black from head to toe—a blessing, not a curse. And children born of an unhealthy womb become the curse.

So the womb itself is sacred. Enjoy the peace. I was seven years young. Remove the veil and head scarf, the American customs officers demanded. She kept her gaze on the floor and asked me in Arabic if they were finished. I asked them in English, Are you finished? Still smiling, one of the officers nodded.

The next day he was on the bench with two other boys when I came walking by. I had no choice but to pass by him. He needs his pump, the nine-year-old screamed. I took the bag and the sneaker box and started to leave.

Show and prove. Leave all that fucked-up shit you had on right there. He stood over me. I never rocked another pair of sandals. In the streets of Brooklyn, a young Midnight uses his Islamic mind-set and African intelligence to protect the ones he loves, build a business, reclaim his wealth and status, and remain true to his beliefs.

Over the course of four years, Midnight eschews traditional school and eventually enrolls into a Japanese martial-arts dojo, where he trains to be as nimble as a Japanese ninja. When a strange man professes his attraction to Umma, Midnight hunts him down and kills him in Prospect Park—a perfect murder that the police never solve.

He is also obsessed with protecting his family and procures a stash of weapons for protection. He frequents a small bookstore where he plays regular games of chess with its owner. However, he is extremely guarded and no one outside of his immediate family ever finds out whom he really is or even what his real name is. Later, Midnight meets a young woman named Akemi, who is an art prodigy from Japan who takes advanced-placement classes at Pratt Institute. Midnight tries to manage his life with Akemi and look out for his family and hang out with his friends while managing his family's newly opened business.

He comes to terms with struggles that occur from day to day.About her, I felt the same way. If you knew me, you would know what I believe. This order was considered an offense and insult to us. They save and scrimp and are even able to download a home but still have nothing but complaints and insults to how life is in America and how things are done. Souljah's sensitive treatment of her protagonist is honest and affecting, with some realistic moments of crisis.

It was one of the many tests he gave me to prepare me for life. My father taught me to lay low. You got nothing that makes me want to stay. To download free my sister, my sister shoprite you need to register.

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