Initiation Day 

Shaka hasn’t seen LaMilton in days. He’s staying low key, no doubt about it. But invisibility fades. One must show up. So they’ll meet, eventually. It’s summertime. Plus, he has an ego. LaMilton thinks he’s good at everything: slap boxing, playing basketball, strike-out, sandlot football, and softball. No way he avoids the park. That’s the primary place where he gets his jollies off. 

Shaka wants to kick LaMilton’s ass, really bad. He’s a thief. Picks his pocket at Jewel’s a week ago. Nice and smooth. That day, Shaka runs into LaMilton at this grocery store. He doesn’t give it much thought, but his money is sticking up from his white t-shirt pocket. LaMilton then uses his football—which he likes carrying around—as a ruse to show him how he should hold it. Being a good sport, Shaka lets him. But he dislikes his gripping suggestion. After several demonstrations they eventually go their separate directions. And after walking a ways, Shaka realizes what LaMilton has done. He turns and gives chase, but the head start LaMilton has is too great and Shaka is unable to catch him. 

“YOU BETTER RUN, MOTHERFUCKER!” huff and puffs Shaka, breathless after chasing him across the busy four-lane 59th Street and losing him in the back alley behind Hermitage Street. 

To Shaka, it’s not about the six bucks, but about the six bucks. He informs his mother, who admonishes him for being a sucker. Although the incident isn’t costly, she uses it as a teachable lesson. But at some point, and she explains it, not all games in life are the same, so he can’t let this one slide. Action is required. Never let anyone think you’re a sucker. They’ll take it as a sign of weakness. Being the prey isn’t fun and often hurts. 

Now it’s Tuesday afternoon. A week after the incident. Shaka is chilling on the stairs, playing his Mattel Football handheld video game. His mother, Ymoja Kahn, is in the kitchen, enjoying a small glass of rum, smoking a spliff, and making a Jamaican Black Cake. He is so into his game, his mother’s calls go unheard. Then his full name is said: “Shaka Hodari Kahn!” He jumps up and stands before her. 

“Boy! Are you deaf or what?” 

“No, Mama, I didn’t hear you.” 

“I put that belt on your narrow ass, I bet your hearing improves.” 

“Yes, Mama.” 

“Don’t yes, Mama me—and hand me that damn thing.” He reluctantly gives up the game. “I need you to run to Jewel’s and buy some McCormick vanilla extract. Can you do that and bring my change back?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“You sure?” 

Shaka gives her a funny look but nods. Ymoja lifts her blouse, unveiling a black Glock 19 in her waistband. Shaka has never known his mother to go anywhere without her handgun. It’s her version of an American Express card. But if you ask her: “It’s meant for people who don’t have a lick of sense, because the most lowdown speak different languages and come in all colors.” 

She reaches up into her bra and takes out the bank, a billfold, and hands him a ten, which he pockets. Before he heads out, Shaka goes into the cupboard and grabs a handful of homemade beef jerky stored in an airtight container. He rushes outside and is met instantly by the heat and humidity. He chews a piece of jerky and prays for a LaMilton sighting. Jewel’s is just four city blocks away, on 59th Street, right across the street from Hermitage Park. A visit there is necessary. 

Shaka hasn’t gone far, about a block, when he hears House music blasting. He already knows it’s Taeshawn. He jogs up to his house and finds him in that damn Bob Avellini jersey sitting on the front porch, eating what looks like a pork chop sandwich on a poppy seed bun and a plate of sweet potato french fries, with his gigantic boom box at his feet. 

“Of all the Bears’ players, you wear that buster’s number.” 

“I like the number 7, not him.” 

“Whatever.” 

“I’m worried about you. I heard what happened.” 

Shaka gives him a blank look. He isn’t sure what he’s referencing. So, not wishing to address his friend’s question, he plops down a few steps below the boom box and sticks his ear into the speaker, letting the kick drum and snare permeate his entire mind and body. 

“You know! That shit with LaMilton. I’m surprised you haven’t beat that punk’s ass yet. What’s the holdup?” 

“Holdup! How do you know about that? You’ve been on house arrest.” 

“I can use the phone, dummy. People talk. Some brag.” 

“Do they, now?” 

“Just so you’ll know: I heard at gym the other day he’s thinking about joining the Gangster Disciples. So you know what that means?” 

“Fuck!” 

“Right! And some!” says Taeshawn. “You better get his ass before he and them get you, you hear what I’m saying?” 

Shaka agrees, but remains amazed at his friend’s ability to ear-hustle. For a guy who constantly stays on punishment, he knows an awful lot about what’s going down in the neighborhood without actually being there. Taeshawn is right, though. If LaMilton becomes affiliated, then putting his hands on him will get harder and more dangerous — for him. 

“Taeshawn?” Shaka asks, changing the subject. “Is that the latest House Mix?” 

“It is. And yes, I’ll make you a copy.” 

“Thanks, and when?” 

“Later today?” 

“Bet… Say? Finish up and walk with me.” 

“Where?” 

“Tony’s house. Then Jewel’s.” 

“Nah, I’m good. Plus, I’m not well liked there. He’s my homeboy and all, but his mama isn’t too fond of those who don’t speak Spanish. You know that. And unlike you, I know very little. Like, what? Gracias. Sí. No sé. No entiendo. Not enough to hold a conversation. So no, I’m good.” 

“That’s because you don’t want to learn it. Even when we try to teach you. But it’s cool,” Shaka says. “It’s not Swahili, your native tongue. I get it.” 

“You got that right,” says Taeshawn. “But tell him I said: ‘¿Qué pasa?’ and I’ll catch up with him later.” 

“I’ll do that.” 

They exchange forearm dabs. Shaka hurries off, taking the gangway between Taeshawn’s house and his neighbor’s. He races farther down the alley, heading for Tony’s crib. He passes up some kids shooting hoops at a red milk crate attached to the garage. Shaka soon reaches his destination. He likes hanging out at Tony’s. The aroma of hot and spicy foods and freshly cooked tortillas always whets his appetite and he often gets to satisfy it. Then there’s Isabella. His best friend’s big sister is gorgeous, a real man-killer, and smart, is also a bilingual call center operator She has raised his standards in what he wants in a girlfriend. 

He climbs a high chain-link fence and when he lands is immediately met by a fast-charging German shepherd. “Hey, Cheyenne,” Shaka says. “Hey, girl.” The dog loses its aggressiveness and begins bounding playfully, tail wagging. Shaka feeds Cheyenne some beef jerky, but only after she obeys and sits. Then they continue forward. He finds Isabella relaxing in a lawn chair, legs crossed and smoking a joint. She prefers the backyard, because being up front is far too public and lame guys annoy her. It’s a headache not worth putting up with. 

“¿Qué pasa, Isabella?” says Shaka, then asks of her brother’s whereabouts. “¿Dónde está tu hermano?” 

“Él está dentro,” says Isabella, pointing at the house. “¡Pasale!” 

“Gracias,” says Shaka. 

Shaka doesn’t go inside. Not yet. He takes a seat in the other lawn chair. Cheyenne puts her face in his lap, seeking more pampering and snacks. He gives her the last of what he has, then tells her to get down so he can get situated and chat with Isabella for a moment. 

“Your Spanish has improved mightily,” says Isabella. “The girls are going to like you. Just you wait.” 

“You think so, huh?” says Shaka. 

“No doubt,” says Isabella, extending the roach. “¿Quieres un poco?” 

“Gracias, pero no,” says Shaka, shaking his head. “Me drogo en casa sin contacto.” 

Isabella laughs. She forgot how much smoking goes on at his house. Another puff is taken, then she flicks it into the grass. “Sígueme,” she says. They both get up and go inside. 

English isn’t spoken at all inside. It’s not allowed. In her household, Mrs. Camilla Alvarez, Antonio and Isabella’s mother, favors her own heritage and language. This dictum determines visitors and simultaneously limits who comes over. Taeshawn, albeit a paisano, isn’t welcome. 

“Hola, Shaka.” Mrs. Alvarez says. “Cierra mi puerta.” 

Shaka shuts the door and gives greetings. He then proceeds to do what he always does when he visits: he checks out all the food. There are bowls on the kitchen counter. Each one is full of something good: diced-up vegetables, ground beef, cheeses, rice, black beans, and spices. 

“¿Qué va covinar hoy, señora?” Shaka asks. 

“Burritos,” says Mrs. Alvarez. “¿Y Shaka, deja de escalar mi valla, okay? Tengo una puerta de entrada.” 

“Sí, señora,” says Shaka. 

“Déjalo en paz, mamá,” says Isabella, defending Shaka’s constant climbing over the back fence. 

“No,” says Mrs. Alvarez. “Podría dispararle y no queremos eso.” 

“No, mama,” says Isabella, after giving it careful thought. “No, nosotras no lo queremos.” 

Both women look at Shaka intensely to extract a promise that he will stop climbing the back fence to visit, so as not to be mistaken as a criminal and get shot. 

“Prometo,” says Shaka. “Prometo.” 

With that over, Isabella stays in the kitchen to help her mother finish stuffing and rolling burritos. Shaka heads for Tony’s bedroom. To get there, he winds through the house, passing up Aztecan art and decorations. He finds Tony lying on the floor with a bunch of baseball cards, plastic sleeves, and binders all around him. 

“¿Qué pasa, paisano?” 

“¡Shaka!” Tony says, jumping up and stepping over his organized chaos. “¿Qué pasa?” 

They exchange forearm dabs. 

“Está todo bien,” says Shaka. “Yo soy yendo a la tienda. ¿Quieres venir?” 

But Tony shakes his head, doesn’t want to go to the store with him. “¿Ya viste a LaMilton?” 

“No, pero lo haré.” 

“Shaka. ¿Qué son cinco dólares?” 

“Seis dólares, y es el principio.” 

“Sí,” Tony says. 

He reassures Shaka that LaMilton will pop up. They both walk to the front door. Forearm dabs are given, along with goodbyes. Shaka runs the remaining distance to make up for the lost time. 

Once at Jewel’s, he gets his mother’s vanilla extract and checks out. The automatic door opens. And as he exits, he looks up and sees the motherfucker. 

“Looking for me, bitch?” says LaMilton from afar, and runs off. Shaka shoves the brown bag in his front pocket and gives chase. A foot race leads to the alley behind the grocery store. Shaka finds three guys in matching black and blue T-shirts waiting for him. He turns around but another four come from the other direction. 

“Fuck!” 

It doesn’t look good. Shaka can’t escape. He’s trapped. The railroad overpass behind Jewel’s serves as an additional wall. He is outnumbered. Bulldozing through them is highly unlikely. His only option: go down swinging. Drill as many as possible. And yet, being in this pickle, he remains calm. He isn’t afraid even when they crowd him. A few faces he recognizes: the gang leader known as Chops, because he had forty teeth, LaMilton, and those seen around the way. 

“Don’t be scared,” says a male voice behind him. “You know what this is.” 

“A beatdown, that’s what,” says another male voice. 

The rest laugh and crack jokes. Shaka ignores them and doesn’t reply. His attention is focused on what his uncle and mother taught him in the basement. On how to fight. Now he must put it to use and follow the rules. Stay upright. Never charge blindly. Hit them hard and where it hurts most. Show no fear, nor mercy. Clobber but don’t kill, unless necessary and the last resort. 

LaMilton soon steps forward, talking mad shit. Saying Shaka is a punk and weak and fit for a beatdown. Chops explains that LaMilton has chosen him to fulfill his initiation. Shaka grins. Now his enemy is in his sights. He isn’t about to let this dude beat him to gain some clout. Shaka is ready to make an example of him. He first makes sure nobody steals on him, so he braces himself against the wall. He puts his dukes up, unorthodox style, guarding his face. 

“Oh shit,” says Chops. “He’s a Southpaw. This should be interesting.” 

“So what! I’ve been waiting for this,” says LaMilton. “I can take him.” 

“Don’t lie,” replies Shaka. “But it’s okay. Somebody gotta tell it, huh?” 

Soon jabs are exchanged, but none connect. They dance a bit, going from side to side. LaMilton rushes forward and throws a flurry of unsuccessful punches. Shaka blocks, dodges, and ducks, then counters, landing a hard left above LaMilton’s right eye. This stuns him. The blow forces him back. They circle some more. LaMilton unleashes another flurry. But Shaka tags him again and again. A body shot follows, catching LaMilton off guard. 

LaMilton is bent over, gasping for wind, but smirks. Shaka reacts fast, because he must prevent a tackle. So he delivers a sharp elbow into his opponent’s back and then slams him onto the pavement. Shaka hears that distinct grunt, like a crushing tackle given in football, then gets up quickly and pounces. He sits on LaMilton’s chest and hits him in the face repeatedly, but doesn’t stop there. He puts LaMilton into a crucifix choke hold, another wrestling move he recently learned. 

LaMilton struggles, kicking wildly, begging for help, but none comes. He can’t break free and soon his body slows down and is nearly limp, and that’s when Shaka releases him. He has almost let his rage get the better of him. He then proceeds to grab LaMilton by the foot and drag him across the pavement to the nearby dumpster. All the while, the gang members just watch. Shaka turns out his enemy’s pockets, confiscates his brand-new Stan Smith Adidas, then lifts and throws him into a front-load dumpster. He closes the lid for good measure. 

He turns around and faces a bunch of angry gangsters. His victory is sweet but brief. Now it appears he must fight them all. 

“Ooowwweee, now that’s how you show No-Love,” says Chops, the gang leader. “I could use somebody like you.” 

“Sorry. No can do. My mom would kill me,” says Shaka, his dukes back up, ready to box again. 

“You can lower your hands,” says Chops. “Don’t I know you? It’s Shaka, right?” He asks, “Your Mama named you after the Zulu king?” 

“More so the singer.” 

“No shit. She’s cool, too. One of Hyde Park’s finest.” 

Everybody takes a moment to clown him about having a girl’s name and being named after a black female singer, but Shaka doesn’t give a shit. His mother, a former Black Panther, and his uncle, a gorilla for a loan shark in Chicago Heights, had taught him how to fight. This is Chicago, damnit, where the fittest and luckiest survive. But he holds his tongue. However, it isn’t sitting too well with them to see one of their recruits go down in a fair fistfight. 

Chops tells his crew to fall back and give Shaka some space. And they do, but with reservations. Each one wants a piece of him, so they seek to put him in his place after what they just saw. They can’t have him walking around with a big head. 

“He has some hands, doesn’t he,” says Chops. “But he didn’t disrespect us. Just a wannabe.” 

“True…true,” says a gang member. 

“That’s right,” replies another gang member. “The boy in the trash is just weak and we don’t accept weaklings.” 

Chops informs them that Shaka has earned some clout and a free pass. He reminds them how none of them whooped ass like that. Not then, nor now. Shaka, for an eleven-year-old, is more skilled at fighting than they were at his age. He also believes he has more hidden tricks. So beware. 

“Say, Shaka? You’re good,” says Chops. “Nobody around here is going to fuck with you. You have my word on that. Enjoy your summer.” 

He walks up and hands him a blue business card. “Present this when you’re ready,” says Chops. “Let’s go, fellas.” 

They all leave him there in the alley. Shaka breathes a sigh of relief. Glad things never escalated. Shaka doesn’t bother with LaMilton, but he can hear his enemy’s muffled moans. He takes joy in his payback and returns home. 

Upon entering the house, he throws the gym shoes at the foot of the stairs. He proceeds into the kitchen and gives his mama her change, along with the two twenties taken off LaMilton and the blue business card. He puts the crinkled brown bag on the kitchen table. Ymoja reads the card. Printed in the center is: 

CHICAGO 

GANGSTER DISCIPLES 

Pussy, Drugs, Guns, and Protection are in each corner. His mother is surprised, but finds it quite bold that a prominent street gang advertises itself. She then tosses the card into the trash and gives her son a thorough examination, finding him no worse for wear. 

“You’ve been to the park, haven’t you?” 

“No Mama, I had a fight coming from the store. It was unavoidable.” 

“So why would they give you a card? I doubt they give them out to just anybody. So what did you do?” 

“I beat up LaMilton, that’s all.” 

“So you participated in a gang initiation!” 

“Not exactly, but kind of,” says Shaka. “Ma, they had me. I couldn’t go anywhere. I had to fight. LaMilton fingered me for his colors. Probably thought I was a pushover. He did get over on me. But he’ll never get them. I made sure of that. Got him back and then some. Believe me Mama, his name is trash.” 

“And for that they gave you a card.” 

“Yep! I said no thanks, but I was given one anyway. Thinking I might change my mind.” 

“Well, that’s not happening,” says Ymoja. 

“I told them that.” 

“Good,” says Ymoja. “As long as they know. Now! Go get cleaned up.” 

That evening, news spreads about the rumble in the alley. His house phone rings constantly, asking for him and details. Friends call, delivering tidbits about LaMilton. He’s been seen climbing out of the dumpster, smelly, his face bloodied, and walking home in his socks. Some people are skeptical. So every now and then, a guy or girl, or some combination thereof, walks by and looks, offers Shaka head nods, and keeps moving. Some throw up gang signs, testing him, but he doesn’t reply. 

Shaka does acknowledge them, a simple head nod. Nothing else. Having LaMilton’s all-white gym shoes on his feet offers proof. His paisanos, Tony and Taeshawn, are beside him, both twenty dollars richer, an unexpected gift. Despite all the interruptions, they still enjoy their huge burritos and pop while the boom box beneath them plays a cassette of the most recent WBMX recording. Even though he isn’t part of a gang, or a gangster, he and his friends know this summer will be different. 

WAYNE McCRAY

Wayne McCray is a Susurrus 2022 Pushcart Prize Nominee and 2023 Best of the Net Nominee. His short stories have appeared in Afro Literary Magazine, The Bookends Review, The Dillydoun Review, Drunk Monkeys, The Green Hills Literary Lantern, The Hooghly Review, Isele Magazine, Malarkey Books, The Ocotillo Review, Roi Faineant, The Rush Magazine, Sangam Literary Magazine, Swim Press, and Wingless Dreamer. He works diligently from his book-laden junk room.