The D Word Blog by Jemisha Ford.
Post-September 12, 2020
Back at it again with this crazy story. But first I must keep y'all in the loop with the news in Chicago.
If you live in Saltplea, Chicago. Please be aware a man's body was found near an ATM machine in the middle of the night on Myrtle Heights. No one saw and sadly there were no cameras. According to authorities the camera that was around that specific ATM has frequent breakdowns.
It was not able to catch who this person was that killed Takeo Palmer.
To be honest, I'm not finishing my story. Instead, I wanna tell the truth. I know the person who was killed. No, he wasn't a friend but my first husband. My escort. Takeo stood about Six feet five in heeled boots.
Ladies and Gentlemen. I, Jemisha Ford, am a Lady. I started pimping men and women when I was twelve. When I got 15 my father, Harden got me a dog.
A dog is defined as a man that is a woman's, right-hand man. Takeo was my first dog. I know everything about him, his favorite color was gold. He enjoyed a lot of gold material. I remember before he left the house that day, September 5. He was wearing his lucky gold chain I got him for his birthday.
I am beyond heartbroken.
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Jemisha wiped her eyes. She sat there with her leg going up and down. She put her hands together. Kyrton walked into the bedroom. "Jewels," he called her. He came behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. "Talk to me."
"Get out," she uttered. "I don't wanna talk."
"Are you mad at me?" he smoothed down her black hair that reached her shoulders. "You can tell me."
"Why are you in here?" she blurted as she turned around. She glared at Kyrton, "You were the one to tell me. Be more fucking open and now my fucking nigga is laid out. Like when are you going to say something about that?"
Kyrton or Cretin as she called him stood still. He could see her holding back her frustrations. A beautiful almond brown-skinned woman with a round face. Pink blush spotted her cheeks. But underneath, a harden bitch. "Where are the others?" referring to her other men. "Where is my daughter?"
"Kala is still her room as told." He stated. "All the girl's are."
"Did you find anything?" asked Jemisha. The answer was cliché, he shut his eyes and left her side. Jemisha entwined her fingers. She's been nice to the world; she left struggle in Virginia and came to Chicago. But struggle followed.
As far as she was concerned, struggle was a person. Takeo was her first husband. And Cretin her second. She lived with many men and loved each one. She stayed in a house of 23 men.
She had eight children. Three on Takeo's side, and two on Cretin's.
Her son, Dominique came into the room. He laid his left cheek on her upper arm and squeezed her shoulder. "Mama, don't worry." The little boy told his mother. "Daddy finna go out and look for them niggas."
She turned her head to him, "Is that right?"
His nose wrinkled, "You get on my damn nerve."
"And what does that mean?" she furrowed.
"You don't believe in love like you used to." He gave his mother a kiss on the cheek, "Old depressed ass…" Dominique pouted as he walked away.
"Boy you got nerve," she tittered. It did the mind and heart good to have her son walk in. She lifted from the chair and grabbed her cane beside her.
How did this happen to her? She fell off a building. Got into fights, hit by cars, and shot. She stood six feet for a woman.
She went to the door and braced herself, taking in a deep breath. "Oh fuck, I'm in pain." It felt like needles rapidly jabbing at her hips. "Jairus!" she called down the hall. "Get me my wheelchair!"
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Jairus was a tall man, able to touch the ceiling like his son, Dost. "Did you take your pills?"
"I'm so tired of relying on pills. I've had pills, liquids, hot towels." She complained but she had all the right to. Her hip problems began last year, she was fine from the fall, fine from the car. Jemisha wasn't sure what was causing her pain. But she knew full well she wanted it to end.
Jairus took Jemisha to the kitchen. "Do you want anything?" he asked.
"Pancakes." She breathed. "Chocolate chip"
"A woman with fine taste." Snorted Jairus. He went to the cabinets and grabbed the box of complete pancake mix. In another cabinet, a bag of chocolate chips. "Beside's the pain in your hips. How is that fever?"
"Fever?" She forgot she had it. "Ask another question."
"Ok, your son is doing great in college." Said Jairus. "He called last night; he's been messing with tarot cards again."
She smiled, "He's exploring."
"I think he's stupid." Jairus turned on the stove, went to the refrigerator. And got the butter out. Pulling a knife from the drawer, he cut a square piece of butter off the stick and threw it into the pan. "You could have spread the butter with the stick."
"I wasn't thinking." In a cabinet to his left, he got a bowl for the pancakes. If her hips weren't broken, she'd do it herself. "How's money?"
"Coming." He pours the powder into the bowl then ran water in it. "And going."
"If money was a person, who would it be?"
"Santa Clause." He took a spoon from one of the bottom drawers. Jemisha leaned in her palm. "You should have prepped these things beforehand."
"I know…" he grunted. Jairus stirred the mix and talked with his baby mama. "I don't remember the fever."
"I looked at the bite on your hand," he stopped stirring and got ready to pour the batter into the pan. "Don't forget to swirl it!" she noted. He put the ball down and swirled the melted butter. "How long again?"
"Three minutes on each side."
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Jemisha sat in the spacious living room of the house. In her lap, various photos of her husband Takeo and kids. She looked at him standing in front of their first car, a burgundy Cadillac. She set the photo down and picked another one, her fifth man Garo. His blonde hair styled in cornrows. Piercing near the corners of his lips, his blue eyes shining brighter in the Sunday sun when the picture was taken.
Her son Mania, born on Takeo's side came into the living room. His black dreadlocks passing his midback styled into a ponytail. Each dread with a golden ring around it.
He turned on the tv which was next to an ongoing fire in the fireplace. She didn't look away from the photos but her ears maintained focus on the coming news. "More on the body of the man on Myrtle Heights. The man has been identified as Takeo Palmer. Last week we said that there were no witnesses. It was early in the morning when a civilian walked into Saltplea police station saying he may have an idea who killed Takeo Palmer and why."
Jemisha's head turned to the tv. "Turn it up." She told him. Mania turned up the volume, the news cut to an interview with the man, his name appeared at the bottom of his face, Elias Dean. "I was coming from the bar around the corner. As I'm walking home, I hear this man scream across the street. I SET AN APARTMENT ON FIRE." Said Elias.
The reporter then asked him questions, "Did you know why?"
"I assumed he was a crackhead. It's a lot of niggas in Salt that do it. Especially since he confessed to probably murder." Told Elias, maintaining his composure. "I'm walking faster because I was like, he probably got a gun and shit. I got a sick mama at home who need me—I can't afford to be out here."
"But why…" she whispered under her breath. "Mama, he probably wanted money. Investigator, Douglas called, they couldn't find his credit card."
Jemisha through down the photos, her breathing became heavy, "Get that white nigga on the phone I wanna talk." Mania bore over his shoulder at his mother. This wasn't the time for her to be angry and he knew how she got when she was pissed. "From now on, you make sure them niggas talk to me"
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Jemisha tapped the pencil on the desk in her private room. A piano in the upper right-hand corner, a desk by the window looking out at the garden and pool, a lounge chair to the west wing with a table in front of it.
She held the phone to her ear as she spoke to investigator Douglas. "We're been looking inside and out. I don't think this man was part of the Band."
"Are you sure," she questioned because her doubt said the opposite. "don't you have—"
"Jewels, we cross referenced the names. There is no one in the group that matches the description given."
She sucked in air, "Did you talk to the nigga?"
"Elias stated he was black, probably around six feet with round eyes." Said Douglas. "Anything else?" Jemisha wrote down the description. "If you're asking about that fucking tattoo, the answer is no. But instead of a butterfly, he had a number on his neck. It looked like a prison number."
"So, he's jailbird?"
"Yep."
"any connection in the police datebase?"
"Yes." He tittered. "Prison number 6784O94.
"It has a letter?" she rose a brow. "He went to Saltvault Prison."
"Name?" she wrote down the prison name and prison number.
"Jewels…" he said over the phone. Jemisha leaned back in her chair, "You know you can't run free."
How funny. How long had he known her? "Then I guess you watching me fly away. What's his name?"
"Quillin Pauly Chatman."