What's Really Hood! by Wahida Clark

mean the one your mother gave you?” She smiled. Seeing that Polo didn’t return her smile she got serious. First, she
     thanked him for sending Desiree flowers when she was in the hospital. Polo lied and said it wasn’t him. She waved him off.
     She explained in a whisper that Desiree hadn’t mentioned his name to the police and that she now wanted to thank him for saving
     her life. Polo knew it was pointless to lie after Jelena had told him that she was Desiree’s best friend and roommate.
    “How is Desiree doing?”
    “Fine. Just minor burns on her lower legs and back. She’s a fighter.”
    “That’s good.”
    “She was right about you.” She smiled as she looked him up and down.
    “About what?”
    “Said you looked like Michael Vick.” She then looked him in his eyes. “Polo, do you have a girlfriend?”
    “No… nobody to stress me if I don’t call or stay out. Why?”
    “Like I said. My girl wants to thank you and I know she likes you and I’m just looking out for my girl.” She then asked him
     to follow her outside. There was a light snowfall but Jelena was traveling in a well-equipped tan gold Lexus LX 470. Sitting
     in the passenger seat was Desiree, wearing a black mink coat and YSL shades. He got into the back as Jelena got behind the
     wheel. There was an odd moment at first until Desiree broke the silence. She turned slowly in her seat to look at Polo. She
     removed her shades and said thank you. Polo said it was no big deal. But it was a major deal to her. He had killed a man to
     protect her. She then asked if he wanted to go out to dinner later on that night if he was free. He accepted her offer.
    It was nine months later when Polo gave Desiree his last name. He was now a married man with a legal job and everything was
     all good.

THE “P” IS
FREE…

    BY LASHONDA TEAGUE

ONE
    T he pussy is freeee but the crack cost money! Oh yeaaah!
    Knowledge reigned supreme from the boom of Wiz’s brand-new gold Volkswagen Jetta. It was kitted bumper to bumper and cruised
     the streets of Newark on gold BBS rims.
    It was 1986 and Wiz was on top of the world, because the new game in the streets was making young nigguhs rich, damn near
     overnight. It was called crack or flavors, depending upon the vial cap color, and it was quickly becoming the answer to all
     the ghetto’s problems. Poverty, abuse, despair, you name it, crack was the shoulder we collectively cried on. But for nigguhs
     like Wiz, eighteen and hungry, the only addiction to the drug was the money it made, which created its own high. Not even
     a year ago, Wiz was a tackhead dropout, stealing cars and robbing cats for sheepskins. Now he had a sheepskin in every color,
     with Ballys to match, a solid gold dookie rope with the dangling anchor medallion and a four-finger ring that read WIZ KID
     in looping gold letters.
    He drove through the streets bumping KRS-One withthe windows down to let the spring air in. Every light he stopped at, his system turned heads. Nigguhs scowled and frowned,
     while women frowned upside down, from ear to ear.
    It was his system and kitted Jetta that got their attention, but his looks kept it. Wiz never had a problem scooping females.
     He had a peanut-butter-brown complexion, chinky hazel eyes that shimmered behind his gold CAZAL frames and dimples that winked
     from his cheeks when he smiled. Wiz was skinny, but his bowlegs made the shorties melt when he walked.
    Wiz definitely had his share of chicks, but none could claim his name because he was engaged to the streets with a summer
     wedding fast approaching. He had two crack houses, one on Goldsmith Avenue, the other on Chadwick, and was looking to open
     a third. Each spot brought in a grand on a bad day and Wiz stayed on top of his B.I., milking it for all it was worth. He
     pulled up to his spot on Chadwick, checking his beeper for the fifth time in as many minutes.
    “Damn, this bitch on my dick.” He sucked his teeth, faking annoyance that his