“That B****, Who Has it All!” The fans have spoken and Malika Samuels has been crowned the “IT” girl. To the world, she is fabulous, a well-known social media influencer and the wife of a five-time championship winning professional basketball player. To the streets, she is a crafty chick from the Bronx that made it out of the hood and to the top. Malika’s life is elite, filled with luxury, fame, success, fashion, popularity, and riches. She has everything a woman could ever dream of….
Or is it all a facade?
Under the veil, Malika Samuels is a confused woman living through her trauma. It appears that Malika is living a dream life, but in reality what appears to be a dream is Malika’s nightmare. Her life is a facade, pretending for the sake of keeping up appearances. Fed-up with the illusion of her life, Malika is now ready to live in her truth, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Unveiled takes readers on a journey of love, passion, drama, abuse, crime, and power. Malika uncovers the veil of the facade; underneath the wealth, fame, and glamour lies the ugly truth that the perfect life is not so perfect after all. There is a high price to pay to be “That B****, Who Has it All”…
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EXCERPT:
April 25, 1988 – Kingston (Standpipe), Jamaica
While people were lining up to see Coming to America, N.W.A’s Straight Outta Compton was hitting the charts, and Hurricane Gilbert was ravaging the small island of Jamaica, my life was just beginning.
“I told your mother not to have a baby by the fucking devil himself and yet she had you.” Aunt Dedra often said to me.
In some sick twisted way, it would appear that I am the spawn of Satan, also known as Trevor Tanners.
My mother, Mallory Hines, died moments after I was born like so many other black women. I was raised in a single father household with my father who wished that I had died alongside my mother. Mallory was gorgeous and strong-willed. She had to be strong-willed, in order to put up with my father. Trevor was such a fucked-up individual that it was inevitable that he would fuck my life up or traumatize me in some way. Mallory suffered from high blood pressure and word on the street was that Trevor’s heavy hand contributed to her untimely death.
Shit, he was not the only one who called me that. There were a few of my mother’s family members who also felt that way.
“One likkle evil pickney!” They would say in Patois, the traditional Jamaican dialect.
I received all of this for being alive, all for breathing. I hadn’t asked for any of this, yet they treated me like I had control over it all. I never understood why, I never asked to be brought into this world. I guess that is why I blamed myself on so many occasions when I was being physically abused by an alcoholic son of a bitch. I reasoned that I deserved to be abused because of the murderer that I was.
My life in Jamaica was short-lived as I was only raised there for a short period of time; until I was four years old to be exact. Trevor Tanners and I moved to the Bronx, New York City in 1992. Growing up with Trevor was traumatizing; the type of shit that leaves you with post-traumatic stress disorder and all types of daddy issues that result in years of needed therapy. The problems that members in the black community like to pretend do not exist but currently are ruining so much of our youth. I can show you better than I can tell you.
*****
“Lika, come here!” Trevor yelled, slurring his words through his heavy Jamaican accent. “Yes, Dad.” I responded, exhaling as I hopped down from my twin bed.
At the young age of thirteen years old I had the attitude of a teenager and the responsible mindset of a young woman that was in her twenties. I did not have the luxury of having a childhood, my life circumstances required me to grow up quickly.
I sashayed down the stairs and into the kitchen to see what Trevor could possibly want from me because he always wanted something. Trevor seemed to think that I was much more of a maid to him and his whores than his daughter. The high ponytail that I wore complimented my round face, large beautiful green doe eyes, caramel complexion, full lips, perfectly arched eyebrows, dimples, and long eyelashes.
Trevor sat before the round wooden table, in a dining room chair that was covered in plastic with green upholstery. The kitchen was painted forest green with brown wooden cabinets and green marble granite counter tops. I hated everything about this home, especially the kitchen that I spent way too much time in.
Trevor sat looking how he usually did, drunk out of his mind. A blue dad cap sat lopsided atop his bald head. His oversized white wife beater was dingy with brown food stains and a large hole, accompanied by ill-fitted baggy light denim jeans. A roach sat, relaxing, on his shoulder.
My green eyes rolled to the ceiling in disgust. I shook my head as I walked into the kitchen; I was instantly repulsed every time that I saw Trevor’s face. He was a slim dark-skinned man with a salt and pepper untamed beard and bad acne, the kind that left craters in his face. Thank God for Mallory’s beauty because Trevor was a hideous man, at least he was nowadays. Old photos told me that he was once quite attractive. Years of not taking care of himself had finally caught up to Trevor.
June 19, 2001 – The Bronx, New York City
Trevor sat slumped in the chair, trying to formulate his slurred words. A bottle of clear Jamaican rum sat rested on the table, in between his tight grip.
“Yuh nuh, see wah time it is?” He questioned, slurring his words.
In true Trevor fashion, everything was a question where the magical answer would somehow result in an ass whooping for me.
Of course, he had his rum for breakfast. I thought, walking past him and over to the fridge. It was now time for breakfast and instead of Trevor, the father, making me, the daughter, something to eat, it was my responsibility to feed him. Since nine years old I had been making my own meals and his too. There were rare occasions when Trevor was sober enough to act like a parent. Sometimes, one of his concubines that were desperate for a man would come around and cook but those days never lasted too long because soon enough they realized they were not that fucking desperate after all, they’d rather be single.
“Likkle murdering bitch, yuh nuh hear me a chat to yuh!” Trevor barked, spit flying from his mouth as he pointed his finger at me.
Trevor stumbled to get out of his seat, falling back into it as soon as he lifted himself from the chair. Here we go. I thought, emerging from the white refrigerator with four eggs and six sausages.
“Aye, bring your ass over here! Look so much like your fucking mother why she neva tek yuh wid her!” Trevor continued; his cruel words were routine.
I had heard the words so many times that they no longer hurt my feelings. My childhood was a prison sentence, and I was counting down the days until I could be free.
Suddenly, as I was placing the eggs and sausages on the counter, like lightning Trevor flew from his seat. He snuck up on me from behind, grabbed me by the neck and lifted me in the air directly in front of the countertop, choking me with his right hand.
Crack! The egg that I had in my hand hit the ground as my little fingers clawed at his hands.
“I should kill you! You disrespectful likkle light-skinned bitch!” Trevor threatened, spit particles raining down onto my face.
Gasping for air, I clawed at his hands, mentally begging him to release me. My eyes bulged in my head. Nine . . . Ten . . . Eleven . . . Twelve. I thought, counting down the seconds that I had been choked in my head. Trevor choking me was not new to me, I knew that I had about fifteen seconds before I passed out. Panicking, I dug my nails into his flesh. I prayed that Trevor would release me and that today would not be the unlucky day that this sick fuck killed me.
Unexpectedly, he released me before rushing out of the kitchen, causing my body to come crashing down onto the white tile. With both of my hands, I grabbed my neck and breathed frantically. Air rushed to my lungs as I tried to breathe. My frail young body laid on the cold tile, shivering as I came to. Tears flowed from my eyes so heavily that I was unable to see beyond the flood puddles that were forming. I was so young and innocent, yet my life was burdened with so much trauma. As I attempted to gather myself from the floor Trevor stalked back into the kitchen, staggering and stumbling.
“Aye! Get up and mek mi food before mi kill yuh bloodclaat in here!” Trevor commanded, barreling over top of me.
Somehow, I found the strength to pick myself up off the floor. I wiped the heavy tears from my eyes. I was tired of my life. Actually, tired was an understatement. I was exasperated, exhausted, fatigued, weary, drained, burned out, all of the above for one thousand Alex! I was everything that a thirteen-year-old girl should not be.
Trevor sat back down in his seat while I stood at the counter, staring down at the eggs and sausages. I wish I would have died with my mom. I thought.
Dazed, Trevor stirred me out of my thoughts with a smack so hard that I could have physically flown backwards in time. I grabbed the side of my cheek with my hand as a burning sensation ragged through my cheek. Welcome to my life living with Trevor—for no reason at all, nothing to provoke him, he found pleasure in getting drunk and emotionally and physically abusing his only daughter.
Suddenly, I grabbed the knife from the counter and acted before I could think twice. “Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” Trevor cried as I plunged the knife into the side of his neck.
I shoved the knife as deep as it would go before using all my strength to turn it so that it would go deeper. I bolted, running out of the kitchen in an attempt to get out of his reach as quickly as possible. I ran through the kitchen doors and upstairs.
“Aye Gyal! Come here! Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” Trevor shrieked from the kitchen floor.
Looking down at my blood-covered hands, my face contorted in horror as I rushed into the bathroom to wash the blood off of them. The seconds felt like minutes as I scrubbed Trevor’s blood off of my trembling hands. I was not sure of what my next move was, but I knew that I had to be out of the house as fast as possible, either he would come and find me or if I was lucky, I killed him. Either way, I had to get out of the house as quickly as possible!
Author Bio:
Debut Author Celsi-Leigh (Kelsi - Lee), is stepping into the literary world with the groundbreaking novel Unveiled. Born in Kingston, Jamaica, raised in Philadelphia, Celsi-Leigh’s life experiences have culminated into a unique writing style that is raw and uncut. Through her literary work, she aims to deliver an honest point of view about the current climate of society, connecting with fans through her urban edge. Familiarize yourself with the work of Celsi-Leigh because she is just getting started, there is much more greatness to come.
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