A Dead Man's Legacy

Since he walked in on that hot, humid summer day in July, he’s never even smiled at me once. His name was Paul, and he was a childhood friend of sorts. He just showed up at the bar one day and he’s been a regular ever since. When we were kids, we used to hang out together all the time. We were neighbors so he would often be at my house, or I’d be at his. For the longest time, we were even best friends, but you know how life goes. People grow apart; they’re here one day, gone the next. I tried to ask about him but I never got an answer. So, I moved on. What else could I do? It had been about 12 years since I last seen him. I felt as though it was faith that brought him here. It’s funny how even though I recognized him, I really didn’t at the same time. He was always handsome; I was glad that didn’t change. Age had made me wrinkled and bitter. There were a few new wrinkles on his face too, but Father Time only moves forward? He was more muscular now, but now he walked with an authority he never had before. Stepping on the Earth as if he despised her. Before, he would glide across the ground. Now, he had powerful, robotic strides and angry, forceful steps. It was his demeanor which troubled me most. It was as if he woke up with the weight of the heavens on his big, broad shoulders. Consequently, they were slumped over like a retired boxer. He never smiled. Not when the drunkards fought, not when the karaoke was unbearable, not when women would flirt with him. He was icy. I wanted to know why.

As the days went by Paul and I began to reconnect, little by little. I found out that he’s had a rough life since he left. His wife and child died last May in a car crash, then his grandma died. She raised him here. When my son was young, he had a horrible asthma attack. I… I remember watching him turn blue; I remember everything about that day. The worst feeling in life is being powerless. This tiny human, my tiny human, hurting and you- you can’t do a single thing. I thought about how I would react if I lost my little boy and I understood why he couldn’t smile. I understood the hatred in his steps and the emptiness in his eyes. One day I asked him why he came back. He said he came back to salvage what was left of his old life and find some sort of solace. It made me uneasy when I walked in this morning to suddenly see the broad smile on his face. Happy but uneasy.

“Hey Paul, how are you doing today?” I asked. “It’s a great day.” He replied with a dashing bright grin. I smiled back but I didn’t know what he was saying. I was just matching his energy. Then, he sits, and I give him his regular, a double shot of scotch and a single shot of bourbon, on the rocks. He’d babysit that one drink for hours. On occasion, we would have some deep conversations, the good ones. He was a soft-hearted man, a sad-hearted man. When he settled, he started talking. “Roger you know how they say home is where the heart is? How come they never tell you where to go when home breaks your heart? Where do you go when you feel insignificant in those fixed, sturdy, unchanging walls? Those walls. They taunt me. Sometimes I think I’m losing my mind. Teetering on the edge of insanity, praying to Death- for death.” I nodded in agreement, but I already knew he had gone over the edge. Beneath his stoic demeanor, was a man in pain; you’d know if you ever looked in his eyes.

I left him alone to liquor therapy and made a mental note to go check on him before I leave. A few minutes later I walked over, “You seem a little off today, Paul, everything alright?”. As he looked up, I felt as though he looked past my body and peered into my soul. Looking back now I can see the signs. I wish I should have known. He replied with a “Yeah I’m alright. Today is just a hard day for me.” Naturally, I asked why, to which he replied, “Today is my friend’s birthday but it isn’t a happy occasion because he died a while back.” He said with an icy indifference. As he spoke his eyes changed from pain to unadulterated hatred. He continued to talk about the friend for a few minutes and I soon felt as though I knew him too. Or rather that I had known him too. At this point he stopped talking for a minute so I thought this might be the perfect time to ask and I did, “How did he die?” He took a sip of his drink then took out a little piece of paper and started to talk about his late friend.

“His name was Ahmad, and he was a poet, not one of those who just put words together. He would sow these words, ideas and concepts together into a body of art that could only leave you amazed. He was one of the gifted ones. Destined for greatness and everyone knew it. You see, after I moved from here, I went to live in Birmingham, Alabama with my aunt.” I wanted to ask why he left so suddenly but I fear if I interrupted him, I would never get to understand him. As a bartender you learn when to talk and when to listen. I had to listen. He continued, “My aunt was sick, and she needed me because she only had me, so I had to drop everything to go be with her. My grandma understood but I told her not to tell anyone about why I left. After all, it wasn’t anyone else’s business. Ahmad lived a couple streets over from my aunt and I, with his mom and his little sister. I think the best way to begin this story, his story, is with this poem that he performed the day he died. It was during the protests for George Floyd. You remember him? Yeah, how could you forget?” He took out a crumbled piece of paper from his pocket. I wonder how long it had been in there. Then he began:

“Can you feel the pain?

Millions of blacks slain.

Endless drops, from tears that fall like rain,

Tearing us apart, must we forever die in vain?

So tell me-

Why do black mothers cry, time and time again?

Hunger, no sleep, everywhere is gangs

Jails then prison cells, their sons don’t come back the same.

Hospitals to morgues, we’re forced to live in pain

When bodies break, minds do to, how would you keep it sane?

Sipping on that drank, he gon feels this life a game

And if it ain’t, then faith must rot, for God must love our pain

But in the end, when it’s said then done, much of nothing’s changed

They hear our pleas;

They see us weep-

Still black bodies lay on streets.

Change is slow, so it seems, but for us, does it ever reach?

And yet:

Beautiful black bodies remain REGAL!

Royalty in every season

Governments abuse us, always without reason.

Fight for your rights, even if they call it treason!

You may not change the world today but listen to my reason:

Fight today for tomorrow, or forever keep a leash on.

Though I die, yet I live, only a man can take his freedom.”

That was it.” It was powerful. I felt Ahmad’s passion. Then, Paul continued, “As Ahmad finished speaking, he raised his fist, and that raised the spirits of the crowd. We had been protesting for months. Not much changed during that time but we garnered heavy media attention every time there was a protest, so we believed we had to make the world feel our presence every time we went out. In fact, I had been the one who told him to write that poem and perform it because I believed God spoke through him. It would be years before I realize that God didn’t speak to him nor through anyone anymore. Tell me, were you in the protests? Honestly, it doesn’t even matter now. Anyways, after eight minutes and forty-six seconds of silent kneeling someone started playing protest music. But when the words of Tupac Shakur started to vibrate in the still, dry mid-summer air, it was as if our hearts were set on fire. There were so many people there. Hundreds of men, women and children together, in unison, race put aside, standing in protest of hatred, the unloved, the mistreated and the underappreciated. I’d never felt anything like it and I haven’t felt it since either.

This was Ahmad’s first protest. His mother did not want him to go, in fact she had forbade him from going. She felt it was too dangerous. Ahmad, however, felt like this was his last chance to make an impact. He felt compelled to go and be a part of the movement because how could he not when everyone else was. Also, he was seventeen now, he believed he had the right to make that decision without her permission and how dangerous could it be if even some of his teachers were there? It was a question of how could he not go? That Sunday afternoon he told his mother that he would be going to his friend’s house for a few hours to do a school project. She asked about the friend and where he would be. So, he told her what she wanted to hear then he left. Looking back now, I wish I wasn’t, but I was- the friend he used. Some days I wake up and I ask myself, was it all my fault? Did I kill him? On those days, I just suffer.” I looked in his face and saw something I’d never seen before. Agony. Torment. Intertwined. Etched, on his face. As if he were a child who had just lost his balloon at the fair and now, was helpless to get that balloon back. Now life was forcing him to watch it floating away, away into the ether. The tears came. My experience with drunks had taught me that the best response whenever a grown man starts crying is to look away. This time I ignored my own advice. I told him it would be fine. I told him he would live to see better days even if they remained hard. I thought he would be fine. He thanked me and then took a walk to the bathroom, where he seemingly composed himself because when he came back, he just started again. “Yeah, I was the friend, and I told him that he could use me as an excuse. And because of that, I feel like I kill him sometimes. I go to therapy for it, it’s something I’m working through Roger. It’s just, that pain isn’t easy to live with. Every day, I would wake up bloodied and bruised from fighting these demons that fiend on my soul like a crackhead does fiend for that crack rock. Is it any wonder that I don’t believe in God? If he does exist, why does he continue to punish me.” He slammed the table in frustration. I signaled to my co-worker that this would be his last drink then I turned back to Paul. “You know Paul, I don’t think God hates you. He’s just a real prick sometimes. But whenever I feel that way, I remind myself of something my grandma used to say before she passed. She would always say God never gives you more than what you can bear. The strong must face the burdens. You’ll be fine buddy; you’ll feel better after a hot shower a good night’s sleep.” I patted him on the back, then he looked up and smiled. He replied, “Roger I think God mourns at the sight of wasted talent. I think God knows that I let his angel die young and ever since that day he’s cursed me. I must have the strongest shoulders in history, but Roger I’m tired of carrying this weight. See, Ahmad and I had planned that we would meet up in the park before we went to the protest. That was when he gave me this paper here. He wanted to practice the poem to make sure he got it perfect. We got it down after a couple tries then we headed for the protest. We made sure to not have any distinguishing features in case things took a dark turn. So, we dressed up in black everything, with hoodies. From the park we walked like two kilometers to where the protest was going to happen. And well, you already know what happened next. We went to the protest and Ahmad breathed life into us. It was amazing because it was like he knew exactly what he needed to say or rather exactly what we needed to hear. Let me tell you, hearing that poem, in Alabama, during that period where everything was happening to us, after all the months, after everything, hearing that poem with that crowd felt different. I suddenly felt like I was, like we were, in a revolution. After he spoke, we knelt for those nine minutes. For each minute I knelt, I felt as though I was at the highest point of rage. I just kept thinking about everything we had been through as a people. From being free in Africa to being slaves working for the white man in a system that changes its name but never its structure, and for centuries! I was disgusted, repulsed! The more things change the more they remain the same. Do you remember George Floyd calling for his mama? I keep seeing his daughter’s face, I keep hearing him say I can’t breathe. They lynched that nigga in front of the world. They lynched that nigga with impunity because George was just another nigga, never a man. They lynched him in front of us so we knew they could do it and they were confident they were gonna get away with it or they wouldn’t have done it. As I was thinking all this, I remember looking over seeing the pain on every face. Now I’m not a religious person but in that moment, I closed my eyes and said a little prayer because I knew what was going to happen would be nothing good. I could feel the tension in the air, and it stained every breath I took. When I opened my eyes, I told Ahmad to stay beside me. I told him how I was feeling. We had to be careful because people’s hearts were bleeding. He nodded, then everyone rose and began to march. Eventually, we come to this street where we see the police, and we’re trying to move past them, but they’ve closed the street down and so we can’t go anywhere. Suddenly, I see someone throw a bottle at the police. Then it’s bottles everywhere. The police start tear gassing us. Everyone is scattering. Someone hits a police officer with a bottle, he loses it and starts wailing on some random girl. We all see what’s happening and we grab his baton, and we start wailing on that motherfucker. There are fights everywhere between the police and protestors at this point. What a moment in time it was! They’re beating us and we’re beating them. A straight up street brawl.

Meanwhile, some of us had started breaking into businesses on the street and using things from the stores as weapons. I see this one lady break into a restaurant and steal frozen French fries, then start throwing that at police. This other guy went into the same restaurant and took an empty cannister of gas and was there beating cops with it. It was crazy. Bodies laid out all around, the burning sensation of the tear gas, I felt as though I wanted to tear my face off. We had to use milk from some random person to wash our faces. Everything had gone to hell, so we decided to leave. The plan was that, if the protests went sideways, we would go back to the park. So, we started walking, and when we looked back there were fires in trees, in trash cans, in buildings and even a police car was on fire, but it was sight of the deep crimson oozing slowly leaking from stationary bodies on the asphalt that stood out the most. It made me sick to my stomach. Now, we’re running to the park when we see a police car behind us, they flash us. Naturally, we don’t stop, and we start running even faster. We even jump a couple fences but they’re still chasing us. I really thought they were gonna catch us. Suddenly, a couple of looters run into us and drop ‘their’ stuff on the ground, but while they were picking it up, we got back up and continued running. Then the police actually started chasing them. We started laughing because we thought we were home free.” I interrupted because this was not where I thought this story was going. “Hold up, so the police didn’t kill him?” He shook his head to say no. “How did he die then?” I asked. “Well, you remember the looters? Turns out that the police got them, and they beat the black off them. One of them ended up in a coma and the other went to the emergency room, the former would wake up with brain damage, while the latter had some broken ribs and a busted face. However, there was actually a third looter waiting for them across the street, in a car. We didn’t see him, but he saw us. So, while we’re walking to the park talking about what just happened, he drove down on us and let off a couple shots. I heard the first one and dove over a bush. He sped off. I looked around. Where was Ahmad? Was he behind me? I looked over on the asphalt and there he was. The angel laid bleeding. I rushed over to try and help but as soon as I saw his eyes, I knew it was over. I looked at the bush I dove over and the green leaves were stained with pieces of Ahmad’s brain. Red and Green like some sick Christmas decoration. The smell of metal permeated the air. I looked to the sky as I held him in my arms, I cried to God but like always, he didn’t hear me. I sat there with his broken body for what seemed like hours. I remember the look on his face, it was total shock. He had no chance; the bullet blew the side of his head open. To this day I still see the hole whenever I close my eyes. After I realized no one was coming I know I couldn’t leave his body there, so I closed his eyes and then picked him up in my arms, and we began the journey to his house. I thought about what I was gonna say to his mama. How was I gonna console her? I couldn’t find the words. I thought and I thought, but I couldn’t find the words. So, I reached his house, and I rang his doorbell and all I can remember is the look on their faces when they saw him. The shock, the bewilderment, the agony. I don’t even remember collapsing, but apparently, I had been shot in my shoulder. Luckily for me, it went straight through, but I was now losing a lot of blood. I had so much adrenaline, I didn’t realize I got shot. I woke up in the hospital, the same hospital that the looter in the coma was at. Isn’t life poetic?

After that day I was lost for a while, my grandma told me to go the army to find some direction and some purpose. She was usually right, so I went. I served for a decade then I found someone, but you know how that went already. I was low, I asked God for a sign. That was when I saw a news article about this city. So, I came back home to find some peace. As faith would have it, I just so happened that I walked into this bar on the first day I came here. The moment I stepped in; I knew what I had to do. Drinking in the corner was the guy in the coma, one of the looters from that night. I never forgot his face but how fortunate is it that we both end in my home city? So, I tailed him after he finished drinking, went into his house right behind him and got the information I need. I killed him afterwards. I found the other looter, killed him too. The third looter, the one who killed Ahmad is sitting over there in the corner right now. I used the first looter to schedule a meet up with him. Him right there. In about twenty seconds, I’m gonna to walk over and finish it.”

I was bewildered. Why did he tell me all this? I had too little time to worry about that. I wanted to try and convince him. I asked him if this would be what Ahmad would want. He replied, “A dead man wants nothing for he’s dead, and a living man gets to choose his purpose. This moment, right here, this is Ahmad taking his revenge. This is a dead man’s legacy.” Then, just like he said he would, he went over to the man, that third man, that third looter and he blew his head wide open. He said nothing to him, but their eyes met, I could tell the looter recognized him. I wonder what it must have been like, looking at death down the barrel of a gun. Afterwards, Paul walked back over to the bar and finished his drink. I remember the smell, the smell of gunsmoke and blood, I can still taste it. I remember the sight of brain matter, forming a coat on the table and on the wall, with little blood splatters everywhere. Luckily, the other patrons ran out as soon as they heard the gunshot, no one tried to be a hero. I remember feeling as though I’m being washed in my own sweat. I remember hearing distant sirens moving towards me. I remember Paul putting the gun to his head. I remember him saying goodbye. I remember him thanking God for the opportunity. I remember watching his face explode. I stood in shock for a minute, then I passed out. I’ll say his name, Ahmaud Arbery.