Andrea (TEA) Clinton Author







One who loves you more

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Tired of hearing her mother rant and rave about her gold digging ways, Alisa decides to take her great grandmother's advice, "Always get a man who loves you more than you love him." Stumbling upon Omar in his brand new Cadillac, Alisa decides to make him her man, or rather, her victim, or will the tables turn? Hell erupts, splatters like geysers, while everyone's skeletons fly out of closets in this edgy novel, "Life Knows No Bounds: One Who Loves You More."





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"Welcome to my Jungle"




One Who Loves You More:

I don’t even remember this dude’s name, which goes to show how much I cared about the whole thing. But he asked the famous question soon after we sat and had a few laughs.

“So Alisa, you have a man?”

“Not really.” He asked me what I meant. So I explained and he replied that Omar was playing me. He said Omar sounded like a player because he would not snatch up a fine sister like me and make me his own. I knew what he knew not; there were some underlying issues and circumstances goin’ on. Lots of times people give advice off the top of their heads like that without knowing the whole story. But I didn’t bother to worry over what he said. I just enjoyed another man’s company, along with the $7 banana split he bought me.

We didn’t talk about anything heated, just what he did for a living, and my so-called goals. He, unlike Omar, understood that I wanted to just chill, take care of my man and live life to the fullest. He said a man like Omar wants a woman to be more independent to relieve the pressure off himself. I disagreed. I knew it wasn’t about the money. Heck, Omar was a drug dealer. I felt Omar thought it would be a challenge to change a girl like me, because I’m stubborn, set in my ways and used to men hooking me up and taking care of me. I felt it was about the male dominating thing. You know, the Frankenstein Syndrome. Where a man feels complete when he makes a woman. Then takes much pride in the finished product when she turns out to be the model woman. A lot of men get like that, especially over a girl with a reputation like mine, who only date men rolling in the dollars. They try to turn us out, and when they do, they walk around with us, their trophy, like show dogs; b—ches. How many men have you seen, no matter where they come from, get a ghetto girl and dress her up, clothes, personality, education, everything, then take her around their peers to show her off—I’ve seen plenty.

But his take on the issue was interesting and just what I was looking for. He said he’d love to have a woman take care of home, treat herself daily to keep herself up, shopping, hair and nails, massages, etc. I liked what he was about, but he was like a hollow log with no interior. He was so mechanical; it felt like I was speaking to a robot. It seemed that he memorized the things he knew women like me wanted to hear, and spit it at me so I could be so excited to have struck gold.

We were done when Tracey came over and said she was ready to go. He said he’d drop me off, so I figured what the heck, Omar ain’t been around. So we went, and I thought that if that Negro did pop up, it would serve him right to get jealous. He had no business going all those days without calling or coming to see me. What’d he think I’d do? I’m me. This was gonna happen sooner or later, right?

We pulled up in front of the apartment building, with Tracey following in her car. She got out and waved to us, and went inside Shakirah’s. He and I sat and spoke for about 10 minutes more. Until of course, ole Freddy Krueger came storming out of the building, fangs out and all, crazed with anger like he came back to Elm Street to set it off with napalm or something. I immediately knew I’d better get out of that dude’s car. So I did, yelling, “GO, GO! GO! That’s him and he pissed; you better go.” The guy started the car up quick.

Tracey, Shakirah and Man-Man rushed out just after. Shakirah was yelling, “Omar stop! Don’t do it like that Omar! O’! O’!”

My brother was pulling his white tank tee shirt down over his chest and running to catch up with Omar at the same time. “O’! O’! O’ man, calm down! Omar, don’t do it man!” I could see my brother was trying to show some restraint because he didn’t know how far Omar would go because affairs of the heart can be fatal, I was still his sister.

Then the stupid guy stuck his head out the car window and tried to rationalize, “Yo chief, she said she don’t belong to no one aaaiiight? So don’t come over here with all that Ra-Ra sh—t.”

I yelled at this fool, “Drive maaan! Go-Go-Go!” By then Omar was stepping off the curb heading toward the car, with his hand reaching behind his back to pull out his gun. When the dude saw the look on Omar’s face and that hand disappear, he pulled off like he was in a drag race. I think the tire burnout noise drawing so much attention is the only reason Omar didn’t pull out that gun and shoot after the car. He instead after watching dude speed off, dropped his hands by his side, turned and focused on me.

Omar headed for me. Sh—t! I thought. His face was filled with fire! I stumbled as I saw this Negro fuming as he approached me. I didn’t know how big this was gonna blow up but I felt for sure it was gonna blow up! And now he was there, in my face. “Why you always gotta play me huh! Why you always gotta play me!” He said facing me and grabbing my arms, squeezing the life outta them. But before I could say anything, my brother dashed over and from behind wrapped his arms around Omar, bear hugging him and swinging him away from me. When he was a few steps away, Man-Man yelled at me, “Git in the house! Now! Let me talk to him!”

So I just walked, quickly. A part of me wanted to smile, as the devil in some of us women like to see a man’s feelings for us exhibited. But then I got a li’l worried. I never thought of Omar hitting me before then. I still wasn’t sure if he ever would, but I knew that day I was close to gettin’ hit, slammed or snatched up and shook the hell out of if nothing else. So I was happy to head inside. I didn’t want to be out in the street with all that bull crap any way. I hated seeing it with my parents once or twice when I was a kid, and I hated it when I saw his parents in the streets carrying on, so I picked up my step to avoid a curbside performance.

But Omar had started yelling after me, and from the top of his lungs with that strong bass in his voice, while my brother had his arms around Omar, holding him back.

“Why you always gotta try and play me out! I’m not no sucka! I’m not no sucka! And you not gonna keep playing me like one! I’m a muthaf—kin’ man!  I’M A MUTHAF—KIN’ MAN! STOP TRYING TO PLAY ME OUT!”





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