Page 2 of The Mob: Shio Cuppacio
The camera switched to my mother, who was fanning while nodding, dressed to the nines, face not giving any indication that she’d once lived a life that was half heartache and half love. As if she knew I was watching, she grinned a little harder.
“Timothy six, ten. For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil. Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many sorrows.” He slammed the bible shut, removed the mic, and tucked his hand in his pants pocket as he glided across the pulpit. “See, a lot of y’all want more. More money. More cars. More clothes. More jewelry. A bigger home. But God said, be CONTENT! Be content with what you have! See, you don’t need more! What you need is to be happy with what you have! For in the end, we can’t take none of this with us.” He spread his arms wide to represent the “this”.
“Sometimes, receiving more comes with more problems that we aren’t prepared for. You are exactly where you are meant to be?—”
“Why is the TV so loud?” the feminine voice interrupted as the sermon was paused, freezing Pastor Washington, whose arms were still outstretched.
A gentle hand on my chest made me turn my face away from the TV to the pink, short, manicured nails on the bark-colored hand. Shea butter drifted up my nose as she moved the covers aside and swung her leg over my torso. My hands went to her meaty thighs as she sat on my sore abdomen.
I’d been working out recently, focusing on changing my eating habits and how I spent my time. The workouts were tough, but I knew that in time, I’d be used to it and where I wanted to be physically. There was a plethora of shit I wanted to do, and the angst of it all weighed down on me heavier than the curvy body resting on my frame.
“You rolled over on the remote, Bahati.”
Rolling her neck to ease away the stiffness that sleep had created, her braids cascaded down the left side of her body. They were bra-length long with the ends curled. Being an East African Kenyan, Bahati had all of the exotic features of an African girl. Her skin was like black marble: dark, smooth, and shiny. Her lips were nearly double that of a typical woman’s, but they looked good on her round face. No matter what time of day it was, her skin always looked glossy, like she’d not only bathed but slept in oils and butters.
She purred. “I’d much rather listen to music. Alexa, play ‘Charm’ by Rema.”
Even though she’d been living in the United States since her father hauled them over at the tender age of seven, you’d think she had never left the motherland. Her voice held a deep tenor to it that tended to rise up a few octaves when she was excited and lowered when she was aroused, like now. Her hips began to gyrate as Rema’s lyrics sounded off loudly, as if she didn’t have neighbors and it wasn’t nearly three in the morning.
“Bahati.”
My hands traveled from her thick thighs to her round hips. Her ass was so big that even though her pussy, which wascovered in black lace, was grinding on my stomach, her ass was still directly on the base of my dick. She’d wanted to get fucked last night, but I was too spaced out for that shit. Not only had I popped a pill, but I’d had a few sips of lean. Add that in with the way my mind had been racing, I knew I was no more good. Still, she showered, oiled down in her favorite homemade shea butter that she had religiously shipped from home, and dressed in a matching lace bra and panty set.
Bahati was any niggas type. Not only was she dark as night, but her waist-to-ass ratio should be studied. With how thin her stomach was, she had to have some ribs or something taken out. I’d seen her mother, though, and came to the conclusion that her shit was very much genetic. She wasn’t rich, even though she often had the attitude of a snobby daddy’s girl. With what I hit her off with and the overtime she worked at the pharmacy, she was able to live decently. Above average, actually. I’d never seen her not put together. Her hair was always braided, her skin was always glowing, and her pussy was always wet.
With her hands flat on my chest, she lowered her body so that she was face to face with me, her hips not missing a beat.“Come here, wetin dey worry you?”Bahati sang while she slow winded.
I could smell the spices from the Jollof rice, peas, and king fish she had eaten before bed on her breath. My plate was still in the microwave and would remain in that motherfucker.
“Bring body make I worry you? I know you senior me. I get money pass your Papa.”
Bahati did shit like this, and like the song, charmed the fucking socks off a nigga. It was hard to think sometimes around her thick ass. That’s why I did most of it when she was sleeping. She was a walking fucking dream. But no matter how sick her body was or how wet her pussy got, she just wasn’t my one. She was simply a piece on my board.
I’d met her at the library. I was looking for a tutor to teach me another language and ran right into her. I hadn’t been interested in learning Swahili, but thought,Why the hell not?Two years later, I was fluent and had secured not only some good pussy, but a connection too. Bahati’s father was a pharmacist, and she was a pharmacy tech while being in school to follow in her papa’s footsteps. He was determined to milk the USA for everything it offered. As long as the price was right, he dealt us, making sure to keep his baby girl’s hands clean. I wasn’t mad at it. Shit was never designed for men with skin that wasn’t pale. That trip to the library was one of the main reasons my cousins and I managed to keep some money in our pockets. We had our weed connect, but the shit we got from the pharmacy was the real reason we were eating.
Running her tongue across her pillowy lips, our noses grazed. Just as she was about to pop her ass again, I grabbed her neck. The pressure I applied wasn’t enough to hurt her, and with the way her pussy was heating up on my dick, I knew she liked it.
I knew a lot of shit about Bahati. I damn near lived at her fucking apartment and sometimes went to sleep in her pussy. I knew she loved a nigga, even though she’d never voiced it. East African girls were stubborn in that way. I knew she liked that rough shit, even though sometimes, she complained and ran from it. I knew she thought she had me wrapped around her pretty little fingers since she was one of the reasons we ate. She thought she had a nigga on lock, and even though she had the dick the most, that didn’t mean I or it belonged to her. I’d been clear with Bahati that one day, our arrangement would end. She would always laugh that shit off. Wasn’t shit funny, though.
I didn’t like no motherfucker feeling like they had the power to feed or starve me. That’s how I felt when it came to Bahati.
“Run that back,” I instructed with a firm squeeze.
“What, bebe?” She grinded.
Instead of answering, I squeezed her neck.
“I know you senior me. I get money pass your Papa,”she sang.
“Yeah… that. I get money pass your Papa.”
Her body rose a few degrees. “Yeah, bebe.”
“I’m not getting more money than your pops?—”
“Bebe, it’s just a song?—”
Squeezing, I halted her sentence. Letting her neck go, she sat up straight and kept on dancing.
