Page 32 of Own It

Once Zaire was fully out of my car, I sped off in the direction of Godfrey Boxing Gym, the gym I owned for a multitude of reasons, just like with the bread company. Same as Godfrey Baking company, the boxing gym was a front for being the plug in the city, but it was also founded simply because I loved the sport. I would never be able to do the shit professionally, but it was still embedded in a nigga.

Once parked, I hopped out, scoping the scene like always. My head stayed on a swivel, and it was the only way I could go about shit to be sure I was never caught slipping. I hated this aspect of being in the streets, but it was what it was.

Eventually, within the next few years or so, I would let all this shit go. The bread company and the boxing gym were making more than enough for me to live comfortably off that shit, and I would get the luxury of not having to look over my fucking shoulder anymore.

“What’s good?” I bobbed my head upon reaching the top of the stairs that led from the lobby up to the actual boxing floor.

My pops, Ayan, and the latter’s trainer were in one of the many rings, working out. I threw out one fucking greeting for all of them niggas, keeping it pushing past them since there was no need to walk up, slap hands, or acknowledge them any more than I already had.

“How you doing, Rah?” Ayan’s trainer, Boyd, smiled and lifted a hand to me.

I checked the schedule to see how many more people would be coming in to train, then proceeded to my office. I wasn’t in that muthafucka for two minutes before I saw my pops on the other side of the door, knocking on my window despite me having told his ass not to do that shit.

“Come in.” I shook my head, taking a seat.

“You ain’t see me and your brother out there?” he queried stupidly.

“Didn’t I speak?”

“Yes, but barely.” My father sat down across from me. When I neglected to respond to his ass, he shook his head. “Why you still tripping off a ho, Rah?”

“I ain’t tripping off shit. I spoke to everybody out there. I ain’t realize I needed to do backflips and shit to greet you and yo’ son. And you realize that ho is the mother of ya grandkids, right?”

“I do, but that doesn’t mean she’s not a ho.” The nigga had a point there, so I didn’t say shit. “Well, ya brother feels like you dissed him.”

“Aight.” I chuckled humorlessly, in disbelief that Ayan was the one acting like I took his bitch. “Well, he got what he got. If he has an issue with how I spoke to him, he can come tell me himself. Nigga thirty-three years old and sending his pops to handle his issue.”

Nate shook his head, and I already knew what he was thinking—that I was jealous or hating on Ayan when that couldn’t be further from the fucking truth. Any issues Ayan and I had were because of him. I kept shit cordial at all times, but for some reason, the muthafucka always had a grievance.

“You know how many women are out in the world? Get you one, Son.”

“You telling me that?” I laughed a genuine laugh that time. “Anything else? I got shit to handle. I just came to check on some reports.” I rose to my feet. “Got three more coming in to train today. I should be back before the last one leaves,” I said.

“What business you got?” He ascended as well, sizing me up a bit as I bypassed him and reached for the door.

“You a smart man, or so it seems like. I don’t have to explain that part to you, Nate.”

We all called him Nate. It wasn’t necessarily a preference but a requirement. I called the nigga dad one time at five years old, and he beat my ass so bad I could still recall it today, twenty-eight years later.

“That stupid bread company and that street shit you into is a waste of talent. You need to be training like Ayan and working to get back out there,” he expressed.

The nigga had a one-sided beef with the Godfrey Baking Co., and a part of me believed it was because he had nothing to do with that shit. The other was that he hated that it was an ode to my moms. As much as he claimed to love and miss her, the muthafucka was jealous. I didn’t get how the fuck he expected us to feel shit for him when he made it his purpose to be a distant, callous, and emotionless father. My mama was the opposite.

As far as the drug dealing, he claimed it was dangerous and that was why he didn’t want me in that shit, but I couldn’t be so sure. Any injury I’d ever endured, the nigga never gave a fuck. And the entire three plus years I spent in prison, he didn’t pick up the phone or come see a nigga once. So him caring so deeply about my well-being seemed fallacious.

“That part of my life is over. Once I put a bullet in Judd, my boxing days were done, and you know that shit. I’m not about to waste my fucking time and run my body ragged for some shit that won’t ever be. Nor will I neglect the other shit bringing me money for something that never will again.”

“Rakim—”

“No. I accepted my fate a long fucking time ago. You need to get on board, my nigga.”

With that said, I tugged the door open and left out, waving for his ass to follow so I could lock it up.

We didn’t exchange any more words as he trailed me down the few steps that led to the boxing gym area. Just as we did, LaMia came up from the first floor, holding hands with my nephew, Ayan Jr., and my niece, Ayanna, who were four and two years old respectively.

“Uncle Rah!” They both shouted in unison, dropping LaMia’s hands and rushing toward me.

“Oh!” I gasped playfully as they rushed me, bending down to hug them both before kissing their cheeks.