Details about Life After Death by Sister Souljah
Life After Death by Sister Souljah – Gunshots! Brooklyn born, I know the sound. No matter whose nger is on the trigger, a nigga vs. a nigga, niggas vs. the law, or the law vs. niggas, gunshots red anywhere in the world means pay attention motherfuckers. But after these three shots, I don’t hear no clap back, running feet, or screeching police sirens. I don’t hear no cops calling out bullshit commands, like freeze! I don’t hear the scream of the ambulance or the swift feet of the curious running to the scene of the incident. I don’t hear the director calling out “Cut!” after rst having called out “Action!” I don’t hear the cheers, shout outs, or big ups from the VIP crowd, who I know had gathered, because I am the one who arranged their VIP passes to be the only ones invited to accompany the lm crew on my prison release day. I can’t even hear the howl of the wind, which normally is so loud upstate New York where I was locked up, that we could hear it from inside the prison walls, depending on where we were in the building. Fuck hearing, I can’t even see. Everything is deep black. Oh shit! That’s how I know. I, Winter Santiaga, am the one who got shot dead.