THE HOBO: Black Fields announces, “IT’S A FIELDS FAMILY AFFAIR!”

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PREVIOUSLY: After Black Fields learned his mother may have breast cancer, a manager for the Starbucks where he panhandles convinced him to take part in a Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. He abandoned the race part-way through to get high. As he did, he contemplated the unknown tumors found in his mother and reflected on his great aunt Josephine’s diagnosis and the two-year fight with the disease that she ultimately lost, which broke his heart. Black had grown up with her, spending many a night at her house causing mischief with his cousin, Chipmunk, the grandson she raised… 

“Auntie” Josephine’s funeral in ’92 was even more despairing than her death. She had been with the New Image Baptist Church on Alabama Ave., SE, since they purchased the land in 1966. So, it was only fitting that this would be the location of her final procession. 

Black could tell what type of affair it was going to be the moment he arrived. His cousins Skeebo, Shaky, and Peanut were standing amidst clouds of marijuana smoke. “Wussup cuz?” saluted Skeebo. 

With them were five other guys, a small faction of a larger posse that hung out around 3rd Street, SE, in the Washington Highlands community. They called their block “3rd World” and had a nefarious reputation. They were dressed in black, with t-shirts that read “RIP Josephine.”  

The guys were gathered around Skeebo’s candy-painted gold ’85 Cadillac Fleetwood on 28-inch DUB floaters with Vogue tires. They were bumping a mashed-up version of “Brandy” by the mighty O’Jays and Ice Cube’s “Dead Homies.”   

Skeebo was smoking a joint that resembled something Cheech and Chong smoked in the ‘80s classic “Up in Smoke.” Each of them held individual liters. So much liquor had been poured out for those dead and gone that the area smelled like a distillery. Remy Martin, Tanqueray, Paul Masson, Hennessey, and Seagram’s “Knotty-head” Gin was on deck. “I hope don’t nobody get robbed or shot at this funeral,” mused Black.  

He was still young then and had been programmed by society to fear guys such as these. Over the years, he was forced to overcome those fears. In his travels, he found that most were undeserving of their reputation, merely sheep in wolves clothing.  

Upon entering the church, the preacher was giving his soliloquy and the organ music was playing softly. It was a calm and quiet ceremony with only a few audible sniffles.   

Then, suddenly, it was like the doors to the funeral home were blown open! The sun shone brightly as everyone turned toward the entrance. For a moment, Black couldn’t make out the shadowy figures who were inching forward.  

Moments later, the entire congregation erupted into a cataclysm of emotion. “OH SNAP – ‘DAT’Z KOJO!!!” someone yelled.  

Kojo was Josephine’s son. In the 80’s he had ran with a group that hung out in the Trinidad section of Northeast. It was said they were affiliated with the drug kingpin Rayful Edmond, dealer Tony Lewis Sr., and hitman Wayne “Silk” Perry. When Edmond’s empire began to crumble, the entire crew was picked up and indicted on Federal charges of murder, conspiracy to sell cocaine, and racketeering.   

Kojo had five close associates, but when his day in court arrived, one had turned ‘State’s Evidence’. Alberto had been Kojo’s closest comrade and confidant, and he would have never suspected that Alberto would betray him. 

However when Alberto took the stand, he told a plethora of stories about the crew’s exploits; some true, some greatly exaggerated, others were outright lies. 

Ultimately, Kojo was found guilty on all counts. When the judge read the sentences, it was like he was reading box scores from NFL Sunday. “35 … 20 …15 … 40 … 7 … years for this … years for that … to run consecutively … you’re a menace to society…” Kojo had almost fainted when he came to the realization of what this meant. 

The four defendants were transported to D.C. Jail to be shipped to a federal prison. Alberto was placed into the witness protection program. To this day, Alberto’s “whereabouts are unknown.”  

Kojo was cuffed, shackled, and bound in a waist restraint. He was clad in an orange prison jumpsuit and surrounded by four Corrections Corporation of America officers. He appeared overjoyed to finally see family for the first time in three years.  

He had been moved from one Federal facility to another. There were times when he was relatively close, but no one bothered to pay him a visit. Most of the congregation had given up and figured they’d never see him again. Others had outright forgotten about him. 

Kojo beamed as he shuffled forward. The shackles would only allow baby steps. He appeared overjoyed to finally see family for the first time in three years. As he was slowly escorted to get one last look at his mother, moans, sobs, and cries, erupted. The sight of the incarcerated relative was too much for the congregation to bear.  

Kojo’s smile instantly vanished as he caught a glimpse of his mother, dead in the casket. The cancer had eaten away at her and her appearance had changed drastically since he’d been locked up.   

“THIS AIN’T MY MAMA — NAW, NAW, NOOOO!!!” he squealed. His legs buckled and the officers had to hold him to keep him upright. Black had never seen a grown man shed tears the way Kojo did that day.   

He shrieked the most unsettling cry as the officers led him back to the van. He was only allowed to view his mother’s body. Reuniting with loved ones wasn’t part of the itinerary. Kojo’s appearance had the entire congregation disjointed. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house. Just when everyone thought things could get no sadder, they did.   

The pallbearers got into position and the funeral director stepped forward to close the coffin. Out of nowhere, Josephine’s daughter Yushika screamed, “NO YOU DON’T!”    

She zipped from the front pew and attempted to climb in the casket. “Don’t worry Mama…We goin’ home. I know you just sleep.”  

One of the pallbearer’s, Jethro, walked up to Yushika to console her. He reached for her arm and she swung it away and screeched, “GIT ‘DA (bleep!) AWAY FROM ME, SHE JUST SLEEP!”   

Then, overwhelmed with sorrow, she collapsed into Jethro’s arms and he led her outside. At this point, everyone was in tears.  

Yushika had been twitching the entire funeral. To onlookers, she appeared fidgety and anxious. Unbeknownst to all, she and her boyfriend Possum had smoked a “fifty-ball” of crack cocaine in their parked ’81 Oldsmobile Cutlass before most people arrived. Possum appeared normal, but Yushika was “geekin’ and trippin’.”  

Finally, they made it to Prospect Hill Cemetery, on North Capital St., NE. They were all gathered around the grave and the preacher was saying his last words. All of a sudden, there was grumbling that turned into loud talk.   

“I ain’t forgot how you stole my sister’s television and VCR,” accused Uncle Rodney.  

“I don’t kno’ wut ‘da (bleep!) you talkin’ bout!” Uncle Orlando, the target of the accusation, replied.  

Orlando had indeed stolen her television and VCR years earlier. He had been battling cocaine addiction for years and was no stranger to larceny. In some circles, his nickname was “Finesse” because of how nimble he was with a “five-finger discount.”  

“You got some nerve showin’ yo’ face at my sister’s funeral,” slammed Rodney.  

“She was my sister too!” Orlando shot back.  

Josephine’s oldest brother attempted to intercede. “Fella’s – this ain’t the place for that,” he said.  

“NAW – (bleep!) ‘dis (bleep!)” Rodney sneered.  

Seconds later “SMACK!!!” It was like the shot heard around the world. The sound of the impact of the backhand slap seemed to echo across the cemetery plot. The two men immediately locked horns.   

“OH (bleep!) – ‘DEY FIGHTIN’!!!” someone yelled.   

It took all six pallbearer’s and three male cousins to break up the skirmish. Everyone was in disbelief and had forgotten about poor Josephine laying there in the casket.  

“I’M GONNA KILL YOU WHEN I SEE YOU!” Orlando announced as he made his retreat. Then he jumped into his ’86 Ford Escort and sped off.  

Black dreaded any situation that would assemble the characters involved in the debacle that was Josephine’s funeral. He hoped dearly that his mother’s death wouldn’t precipitate such an event.  

Black just shook his head reminiscing, “Family just ain’t what it used ta’be.”  

### 

To be continued. This is an excerpt of Duane Foster’s manuscript “The Black Fields Chronicles: THE HOBO. 


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