Copyright: Sister Justice, Issue 001, February 2023: Sister Justice is Here
by Jack Aievoli
Prologue
Women of ancient Africa often assumed transcendent and powerful leadership roles. As oracles, spirit mediums, seers, and advisors, women were prominent in spiritual systems across the contintent.
Princesses and Queens led nations and tribes. “Lovedu”, a tender but powerful monarch, reigned supreme. Women were respected and honored, as equal as any man.
Then came colonization, and the slave trade. Survival and exploitation replaced spirituality, and co-existence. A land was infected, poisoned and raided. For people.
The Worst became the Powerful.
No longer princesses or queens, females were relegated to subservient roles, bearers of children, keepers of homes, tenders of fields in a world ruled by power, brutality and greed.
Victims of a land turned and tainted, but not yet evolved, lawless and broken.
A world without Justice.
But some, with a Sjambash on one hip and Rungu on the other, Ngulu blade extending from their shoulder blades, a Nguba strapped on their forearm, brought justice.
They did not accept their daughters, mothers and sisters being raped, beaten and killed, their brothers, fathers deceived and taken, their cities and villages harvesting grounds.
They did not accept the treatment of their fellow women, young and old.
The stories spread by word. 2 sisters freed. A tainted chieftain disappears. A trans-sahara “shipment” disrupted and liberated.
A trail of blood and bodies that grew each time a story was told.
The people called them “udadenethu mahakara.”
Sisters. Sisters of Justice.
______________________________________________________________________
Jameela closed her eyes and prayed.
Prayed that it was just a dream, that she hadn’t left with Devrin, that Devrin hadn’t taken her here, a dirty apartment somewhere uptown. A dirty apartment with 5 other men, and another scared looking girl, Maheshi, her shirt ripped and peeled off, crying.
She prayed that Devrin hadn’t just hit her, and wasn’t about to hit her again.
Devrin laughed. “What, you prayin’?” He looked at his cronies. “She prayin’, y’all.”
He laughed again. “What for? 5-0? Superman? “ He snorted. “Sistah Justice???!!”
Jameela WAS praying for Sister Justice.
———————————————————————————————————————
18 Hours Earlier
Justeece was gliding, gliding through the air, breathing a cloud as she drew a graceful arc towards earth, air whistling by her ears as she drew her breath in, and looked at the vast, green world unfurled beneath her.
Then the alarm went off. 5:05.
Justeece opened one eye and looked at the treadmill. It looked back, unflinchingly. Always, unflinchingly, an immoveable object of guilt between her and her day.
15 minutes later Jameel was sprinting, wet with sweat as her treadmill screen coursed through lush jungles and veldts, zebras and antelopes flecking the landscape, lush grass swaying.
How she wished she was really there, instead of working up an intense sweat in her bedroom, hoping Zaking wouldn’t rise before her run ended.
Hoping Gevone would show up, and get Z to school. Like he pretty much never did.
Now it’s 6:05, Justeece is squeezing off crunches, thinking. ‘Got eggs. Get him fed. Ride with him to Midtown, walk him to School, get back on the 2 to City Hall, I should be a’ight’. Fukn Gevone, show once!’
6:15, Justeece gently shakes Zaking’s shoulder. “Time to roll, little man.” She so wanted to just curl up next to him, put the hot cup of coffee in her hand onto the night stand, cuddle her beautiful boy next to her, call in.
‘We don’t do things like that.’ Dad’s voice. Always Dad’s voice.
‘I know Daddy.’ Justeece batted away the melancholy that tried to sneak in as she wished she could call him, leave Z with Grandpa, put her head on his shoulder like she used to.
But Dad wasn’t around. Neither was Z’s dad, really. It was all her.
“Let’s go!” A gentle kiss on the cheek, and another nudge, and Zaking rolled over, yawning.
“Boy, that breath is hot lava from the depths of I don’t know! Brush those teeth!”
Zaking would get up and get ready. He always did.
By 7:15 Gevone hadn’t showed up. No point texting. Justeece and Zaking were on the D, heading downtown, by 7:31. She still had a good chance to be in by 9:15.
Justeece, happy to have a seat, settled in and looked around. A Spanish mom, probably Dominican, with a stroller, and a kid pressed to her side. 3 little black girls with their hair done, dresses so pretty, pressed up against Mom as she leaned against the door sign stating “Do not lean on doors.” A family 4, 2 boys 2 girls, not as kempt or dressed so pretty, bouncing around, Mom trying desperately to herd them while bouncing a 5th in her sinewy left arm.
Justeece herself, stressed about maybe being late for work, a protective arm around Zaking.
“We’re holding the world together, girls.” It was too quiet for anyone to hear.
Zaking looked up. “What, Mom?”
Justeece sighed. “Nothing, baby. Just Mom talking nonsense. “ She looked around the car again. “Buncha nonsense.”
_____________________________________________________________________
The 2 Train to New Lots. A five block walk.
4 stories up, elevator not working. The hallway a row of gray doors, the smell of weed, cigarettes, and age as she walked through the dank hallway.
But stepping into Maritha’s apartment was like a portal to a different world.
The smell in the air transformed to something sweeter and tangier than curry, simmering on the stove. Justeece had no idea what it was, but it smelled delicious.
Colorful decorations and pictures warmed the walls, shoes and coats semi-organized but more strewn at the doorway, clothes everywhere, the TV blaring.
The boy that opened the door scurried back to the couch, which was shaped like a bad body, mishapen, depressed, fat, flat, protruding in the wrong places, as the boys played on, lost in a video game.
It was chaos. Chaos with Maritha in the middle of the tempest, bouncing a baby under her broad shoulder with one arm, while working whatever rich concoction was simmering on the stove with the other.
Maritha smiled, a radiant, beautiful, smile underneath her tied back hair under a wrap, her deep black skin, so ebony and perfect, her eyes showing everything, the strain, the hardship, the love, the gratitude, the strength … everything.
“Hi, Maritha! Calm as always around here, girl, I see …”
Maritha laughed. “Yes, Miss Justeece!. Calm!”
Marita and her family were refugees from Somalia. Her story – kidnapped, raped, impregnated, abandoned – ended with rescue, and a fresh start. So many didn’t.
“Very calm!.”
They spent the next 45 minutes online, as Justeece helped Marita navigate the state and county websites to do all the things single moms with no help and kids need to do: handle benefits, register kids for activities, make Doctor’s appointments, stay or get legal driving, find the lowest-cost prescriptions and formula for baby.
Marita spoke. “Sometimes the boys are lazy.” She gestured over at the kids on the couch, stretched out like they don’t know how big they’re getting, eyes locked on the TV screen. “They think they will play basketball for a living. But they stay out of trouble!.”
‘They stay out of trouble because of you.’ Justeece thought. ‘So I am going to help you as much as I can.”
“Are you getting child support, is he coming by?”
Marita laughed again. “Girl, please!”
Justeece spent another 30 minutes there, way more than she should have, and for a brief time, as she hugged Maritha goodbye, and the boys sorta nodded from the couch, she felt the satisfaction of a completed mission: this family had a chance, and she helped.
That feeling quickly faded as she walked back down to the 2 train, headed to her next stop.
——————————————————————————————————————-
It was just a couple stops to Pennsylvania Avenue. The walk was shorter this time, about 2 blocks, but the dread on Justeece’s shoulders hung like a weighted backpack.
348 Stuveysant, #1, was a ground level apartment in a brownstone. Justeece stepped down on to the small patio slightly beneath the sidewalk, and focused on her reason: Jameela, girls like Jameela, in awful situations like this.
‘That’s why you’re here, Justeece.’ Justeece steeled herself. ‘This is what you do.’
It took almost 2 minutes for the door to be opened, as she heard a dog barking frantically and angrily, a scuffle to get the dog contained, some shouting, then the door opened a crack.
“Yeah?” Samantha didn’t recognize her. She never did.
“Hi, it’s Justeece, your caseworker, we have an appointment?”
Samantha stared back, drunk or high, or something. “I ain’t got no appointment!”
Justeece spoke as the door started to close. “Your benefits cease if we don’t meet today.” Justeece was surprised at how strong and stern her voice was, but not another cancellation, she was going to see how Jameela was doing.
The door closed, Justeece heard more scuffles and arguing, and waited.
She knew she’d be let in. And she knew what she’d see.
Not the warm, lived-in, messy colorful nest that Maritha had built. Rather, sleek, black appliances and furniture, a huge TV and speaker, but sparse, colorless, unkempt in a dirty way, nothing cooking on the stove, an empty fridge, maybe an open beer on the kitchen table, the smell of weed hanging in the air.
30 more seconds, and the door opened.
“Sorry, I forgot. I don’t have that much time, though.” Samantha opened the door, and the scene Justeece envisaged played out almost exactly, except it was whisky in a bottle on the kitchen table, instead of a beer.
Jameel was on the black leather couch, leaning against against a guy Justeece did not recognize. His arm extended across the front of her body, pulling her up against him.
His feet were casually up on the coffee table, a spent blunt slowly smoking out in an ashtray. He had to be at least 23 or 24, ink up and down both arms as he looked back at Justeece.
Jameel was 16.
“Jameel, how you doin’?’ Justeece had first started working with the family when Jameel was 8. Jameel was a curious, smart, girl, always peppering Justeece with questions while Samantha, Jameel’s mom, treated Justeece like an inconvenience.
But Jameel did not look like a curious little girl now. Her eyes were red and glazed, her smile loose and suddenly too old for her. “Ahm doin’ good …”
‘No you’re not.’ But Justeece couldn’t say that.
The visit went as she expected.
“Whatchu mean that’s all ahm gittin’? My friend gets 1800 dollars a month in EBT!”
Justeece knew it was coming, and explained yet again. Jameel languished on the couch, occasionally kissing the guy touching her, smiling but Justeece could only see his arm as a band across Justeece’s body, binding her, holding her down. She wanted to kill him by the time she left, but instead, secretly snapped his picture.
Claudia would be annoyed, but Justeece always annoyed her that way. That’s what friends were for.
____________________________________________________________________
“Something isn’t right about him.”
Justeece was sure of it. “You know I get these feelings!”
Claudia sighed deeply. “Yes, I know, ‘Sixth Sense’, but just ‘cuz Ahma cop doesn’t mean I can just go arrest him because you have a feeling!”
“But look at that picture!” Justeece had texted it over before she called. “That brutha is at least 23 years old, and those are gang tats!”
Claudia felt that familiar frustration set in, the one where she had to defend she hated defending, the futility: “Girl, if I go after every shifty-lookin’ brutha with a young girl-friend, I’LL be going to Riker’s.”
Silence. She hated when Justeece did that.
“I’ll run his face through some facial recognition, and let you know. Claudia exhaled. “And that’s completely illegal, btw, Justy, totally illegal.”
“Love you, gi ….. oh fuck! Goddamit, lazy, piece of shit …. I gotta go, girl!”
Claudia didn’t have to ask, she knew: the school was calling Justeece. Gevone hadn’t shown up to pick up Zaking from school, and now Justeece had to get to east Manhattan, from East New York … 2 trains, and a bus, and stomach full of New York rush hour stress.
‘Gevone strikes again.’ At least she could look up this dude for Justeece, and hopefully find out he wasn’t a twenty-something banger. She would have loved to dig a quick right into Gevone’s gut, too, but only her keyboard was close by.
______________________________________________________________
Justeece was a sweaty mess as she squeezed into the open seat on the cross-town M16, her wide shoulders pressing up against fellow riders. The heavy Puerto Rican girl on her right turned to make one of those ‘really?’ faces, but then caught Justeece’s eye … Justeece was not sure was the girl saw, but if it was the rage she felt at Gevone, Devrin, ALL of them, home-girl was wise to look away: Justeece was ready to kill somebody
She buzzed, the metal door swung open to let her into the empty school, she heard her own heels echo as she marched down the hall to the Main Office, imagining steam coming out her ears.
Zaking sat alone on a small couch, a lonely counselor his only companion.
“I am so sorry. His father was supposed to get him.”
The counselor smiled in what she must have thought was a sympathetic way, but all Justeece saw was exhaustion and exasperation. “Well hopefully he’ll get better at it.” She didn’t mean it, and didn’t believe it, and neither did Justeece.
Zaking smiled as he took her hand, and they marched out, just in time to see Gevone running to the stairs, breathlessly.
“Oh, shit, Zak, Justy, I’m sorry I got …”
“Boy please!” Justeece’s hand shot up like a force field, and Gevone froze. “You don’t get to talk to me today!”
She pressed by, pulling Zak along, but he wrested his hand free to hug his Dad’s leg, a quick squeeze before running back to Justeece.
Justeece spun and walked away as Devrin lingered awkwardly at the entrance, his reason to be there suddenly gone.
His shoulders slumped with disappointment as he looked at his reflection in the metal door. His arms rippled underneath his shirt, his chest was deep, legs thick, shoulders wide, why was life so hard? Even when he tried to get it right, why was everything always so hard?
Of course, there was nobody to answer, nobody to call, nobody to help. Never had been.
He heard the engine of a bus going by, the throng of NY traffic as he shuffled west, no desire to get on the bus, no reason to run anywhere now.
The bus had just a bit of graffiti on it, a few words: “Sister Justice is Here.”
Sister Justice. A black woman, helping girls, a hero, some crazy shit floating around Snap and Insta.
‘A nice thought.’ Gevone stopped. ‘I hope she’s real.’ He looked into the window, his reflection again looking back at him. ‘Because I’m sure as hell not helping anybody.”
It wasn’t a declaration. It was a surrender.
——————————————————————————————————————
Claudia’s heart sank.
Devrin Watson. Multiple priors. 26 years old. Out on a no-bail gig.
She didn’t want to call Justeece. But she had to.
“So go arrest his ass! He’s with a 16 year old!” Justeece saw the world in black and white some times. Claudia couldn’t.
“I can’t do that. “
“It’s statutory rape!”
“You saw them having sex?” Claudia knew Justeece hadn’t.
“You know I didn’t.” Defeat set in Justeece’s tone. “You know I didn’t.”
Claudia’s tone was gentle. “You know I want to go in there. I’ll keep an eye out ok? You do the same, ok?”
She knew it wasn’t ok.
“Ok. Thanks, Claudia.” A pause. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Claudia hung up, and looked around her office. Her diploma and degree. Her Master’s. The picture of her graduating the Academy, another of her becoming a detective.
And not a damn thing she could do.
———————————————————————————————————————
Present
Jameel closed her eyes and prayed while Devrin laughed, and his friends began to tear Maheshi’s clothes off.
But she knew prayers never came true, really. That’s why she left with Devrin. Prayers and dreams were for people that weren’t strong enough to “ get it done with a gun”, that’s what Devrin said.
She waited with her eyes closed, and told herself she wouldn’t scream.
Devrin spoke again, but sounded different ..”What the fuck is …”
Jameela opened her eyes just as an object with a long handle, and hammerhead, sorta like she remembered from croquet at summer camp, embedded itself in Devrin’s forehead. He fell backwards, eyes rolled back up under his head. Was he dead?
“It’s a Rungu.” The voice came from a corner of the apartment as something stepped forward. Shrouded by what looked a like a large shield, and flecked by long blades extending from their shoulder blades, short blades on their hips, metal edges shining, whatever it was looked like a moving array of weapons to Jameel, fluid but impregnable. Dangerous.
Profanity shot forth Devrin’s friends, as they turned, reaching for their guns, lurching for the moving weapon that came out of the corner.
But they were so slow.
“This”, the figure said in what was now distinctly a deep but female voice, “is a Sengese”. A sharp knife appeared, drawn from the hip effortlessly and impossibly fast, then was in the air, then was deep in one man’s chest, a shocked expression met with a sharp boot to the face as he dropped to the ground.
Another man, a large, grizzled white guy, the one Jameel had seen give Devrin money, had managed to draw his gun. His name was Shay.
“Hit me with some sort of “rungu” shit now, bitch!” Jameel cringed as he pulled the trigger.
But the lady weapon didn’t cringe. The bullet sank harmlessly into her large shield, and before Shay could pull the trigger again, something that looked like a whip snapped in the air, and the gun was on the ground. Another snap and Shay was bleeding from his face, doubled over. A flick of a wrist, a shine in the air, and another guy went down, gurgling, blood spurting from his throat as he desperately, and fruitlessly, tried to breathe.
The 5th ran, as the Lady Weapon walked up to Shay, struggling to get on his feet.
“That ‘some sort of rungu’ was a ‘Sjambok’, you piece of shit.” Jameel heard ribs crack as the lady weapon kicked Shay in the stomach, and took a large weapon off her shoulders. It looked like a long pole with a sharp, hooked end.
“And this is a ‘Ngulu’.” Shay’s eyes grew wide with fear. It didn’t bother Jameel. “It is used for executions.”
The blade was a blur, and then Shay’s head was spinning in the air and landing on the ground, disconnected from his torso still on his knees, eyes still wide, grizzled, cruel face now lifeless, looking up at nothing. And it still didn’t bother Jameel.
Jameel and Maheshi looked on their savior stepped around and over the bodies as slowly gathered, wiped, and sheathed her weapons, before she approached them. Her had reached behind her waist, and then extended a hand with a 100 dollar bill to Jameel.
“Go get a cab. Get something to eat. Then go home.”
Jameel hesitated. “But .. but.” She looked up. “We’ll be alone, in this neighborhood ….”
The dark-clad figure looked down at her, a black mask clinging tightly to her face. Tight enough for Jameel to see her smile.
“No you won’t.”
Jameel face brightened, as the lady weapon turned away.
“Wait!. Wait!.”
She responded without turning. “You’ll be fine.”
“No, not that.” Jameel started to stand up. “Are you her? Are you … Sister Justice?”
Jameel could’ve sworn she heard a chuckle.
And then she was gone, a shadow into the shadows, faster than the dark invades the room after the lights go down, a soft metal tingle her only trace.
Jameel took a deep breath, and looked at Maheshi.
“Shake Shack?”
______________________________________________________
This City was hers. She moved lithely from roof to roof, from lamp pole to lamp pole, seemingly floating and jumping at the same time, powerful and quiet. Jameel and Maritha did not see her, but she saw them as they walked towards Grand Concourse, which would still be thick with traffic, and cabs, at this late hour.
She also saw them, 4 of them, about a block behind the girls, and gaining. She leapt closer, a mere 10 feet or so above them, moving easily along fire escapes and building facades.
“Yo, dey alone! Dey hot, let’s go!” One of the boys spoke, a large Spanish kid in a flannel shirt.
“I don’t know, man, what we gonna do?” A smaller, younger black kid spoke. “Like ..”
“Don’t be a bitch, yo!” The larger kid shoved him as the other boys laughed. “Don’t be a bitch!”
She landed in front of them, so quietly they had to look up to see her, shrouded in the darkness.
“Oh, you should be a bitch, yo.” She felt her shoulders, strong and wide, her legs, coiled and spring, a tensile weapon, barely held in place by taut tendons. “You should definitely be a bitch. Yo.”
“What the fuck is you s’posed to be?” The large kid approached her quickly. “You fucking kidding me?”
She didn’’t move as he approached, reaching out his hand to grab her throat. Then his his wrist was in her hand, spinning in the wrong direction then cracking, a broken pencil held together by a flap of skin as he screamed and went to his knees, his fall interrupted by her knee in his chest, ejecting him back towards his friends, skidding on the ground like a deer hit by a truck.
She stepped forward into the light, and looked at the boys, 3 of them clearly younger than their leader, now pitched on the ground, holding his wrist and crying.
They were cringing, and she knew what they saw: red eyes glaring through their maskholes, rungu on her hip and ngulu over her shoulder, muscles bursting across her 6 foot frame, hugged by her dark body suit as she moved towards them, floating more than walking, stream rising from her body in the cold night, a demon.
A demon of Justice.
“Run.”
She didn’t have to say it more than once.
———————————————————————————————————————
Justeece was an eagle soaring over the city. It was so beautiful and relaxing, soaring through the sky, nothing to worry about, Zaking all taken care …. shit! Zaking!
Her eyes snapped open. 6:35. “Shit!!!! Shit!!! I never oversleep!”
She rolled out of bed, her mind a jumble. Zak would be late, as he’d still be sleeping. She’d be late for work, she’d have to move her morning appointments.
And Jameel, she’d have to find an excuse to check in on Jameel.
‘Man. No rest for the Wicked.’ Dad again, every day before work. Damn she missed him.
But what was that noise coming from the kitchen, that smell? Bacon?
Justeece moved quickly to the door, proud of her boy but so worried that he’d cook, and opened the door to the dining room expecting the worst.
Zak was sitting at the table, eating scrambled eggs. Coffee was brewed. Zak was cleaned up and ready to go. And Gevone was over the sink, cleaning.
“What world did I wake up in?”
Gevone smiled and kept cleaning. The TV was on, and she heard the anchor, a bit of amusement in his voice: “A great story out of the Bronx, two kidnapped girls found, of all places, at Shake Shack, eating a burger! The anchor snickered. They said they were saved by Sister Justice.”
Gevone laughed again. “I figured Sister Justice is pretty busy, so maybe I could help a little bit.” He paused and looked at her. “ I’ll take him to school. Get a nice Starbucks and go save some kids.”
Justeece smiled just a little smile, and leaned against the wall. She didn’t know who Sister Justice was, but thanked her for this moment, this fleeting moment, of peace: if she inspired Gevone, she must have something going on.
‘Piga punga, girl.’ Kick ass. Dad always used to say that.‘Piga punga, Sister. I’ll go do the same.’