He was a real nigga. And that’s what I dug ’bout him. But, at that moment, killin’ was my life. And I wasn’t goin’ down on some soft shit for some dick—for you, or any-fuckin’-body else. Maybe if he hadn’t tried to reach for his piece, maybe things woulda turned out different. Maybe it wouldn’t have. I don’t know. But what I do know is the nigga moved after I told him, warned him, not to. So, I took his head off. And his vacant brown eyes starin’ up at the ceilin’, his blood seepin’ outta his skull, his lifeless body sprawled out on the mattress next to his people’s—all those images had a bitch spooked for a minute. I stayed lifted for weeks, tryna keep that shit outta my head. But e’erytime I closed my eyes, he was there fuckin’ wit’ a bitch.

And when I stepped up in his funeral like I was the black Jackie O—the real Jackie O. Mrs. Kennedy, that is. Not that busted-ass rapper broad—laid out in my Chanel wears and bling, for one hot minute, all eyes were on me as I swayed my hips up to the double caskets. I touched the side of Grant’s face, then leaned in and kissed his forehead; the same spot my bullet hit when I shut his lights. Then I walked over and took his grievin’ mother’s hand, slidin’ her a card wit’ ten crisp Ben Franklins in it while expressin’ my condolences. She dabbed at her eyes, thankin’ me. Then I took my seat in the back of the room among the sea of mourners and scanned the room, takin’ in the faces of e’eryone. Oh, it was terrible listenin’ to the family and some’a his man’ ’n ’em scream and sob and fall out over the loss of two of their loved ones. I shifted in my seat a few times, dabbin’ at my eyes. But sittin’ through that ordeal was more torturous than B-Love’s funeral ever was. It ripped a hole in my heart to sit through the whole service starin’ at that nigga stuffed in a casket. Oh, it was terrible! But I survived it. And got over it!

And on some crazy shit, if I inhale deep enough, I can sometimes smell the muhfucka.