Life After Death: A Novel by Sister Souljah (English) Paperback Book

Description: Life After Death by Sister Souljah The long-anticipated sequel to Sister Souljahs million copy New York Times bestseller The Coldest Winter Ever. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description INSTANT #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER INSTANT USA TODAY BESTSELLER The long-anticipated sequel to Sister Souljahs million copy New York Times bestseller The Coldest Winter Ever.Winter Santiaga hit time served. Still stunning, still pretty, still bold, still loves her father more than any man in the world, still got her hustle and high fashion flow. Shes eager to pay back her enemies, rebuild her fathers empire, reset his crown, and ultimately to snatch Midnight back into her life no matter which bitch had him while she was locked up. But Winter is not the only one with revenge on her mind. Simone, Winters young business partner and friend, is locked and loaded and Winter is her target. Will she blow Winters head off? Can Winter dodge the bullets? Or will at least one bullet blast Winter into another world? Either way Winter is fearless. Hell is the same as any hood and certainly the Brooklyn hood she grew up in. Thats what Winter thinks. A heartwarming, heart-burning, passionate, sexual, comical, and completely original adventure is about to happen in real time—raw, shocking, soulful, and shameless. True fans wont let Winter travel alone on this amazing journey. Author Biography Sister Souljah is a graduate of Rutgers University. During her college years, she was known for her powerful voice, sharp political analysis, cultural allegiance, community organizing, and for her humanity. Post-graduation, Sister Souljah earned the love and support of her African American community by creating a national youth and student movement. She is credited for serving homeless families, creating academic, cultural, and recreational after-school programs, weekend academies, and sleep-away summer camps. Partnering with major mainstream celebrities, she provided her efforts free to all young people and families in need. A multidimensional woman, Souljah was the only female performing artist and voice of Public Enemy. She is also a wife and a mother. A storyteller who makes the entire world her home, she lives wherever she is "pushing her pen." Review "21 Books We Cant Wait to Read in 2021" * Essence *"The 10 Most Anticipated Books Of 2021" * Forbes *"The second novel follows Winter to a temptation-packed purgatory . . . LIFE AFTER DEATH . . . joins its predecessor—and the rest of Sister Souljahs work—in illuminating both the glamour and the danger of urban life." * The Atlantic *"An inventive sequel . . . . Souljahs fans will recognize familiar themes from her earlier realistic coming-of-age novel, while this raw and otherworldly tale conveys the terrible consequences of Winters poor choices, which will haunt her until she begs for redemption." * Booklist *"Mystical . . . Imaginative." * Publishers Weekly ***Praise for THE COLDEST WINTER EVER**"Sister Souljah has taken her talents from the stage to the page." -- Essence"I think she is an important voice in American literature, and I find her work spiritually rewarding and powerful." --Jada Pinkett Smith"The #1 author of the hip-hop generation." -- Sean "P. Diddy" Combs"Winter is nasty, spoiled, and almost unbelievably libidinous, and its ample evidence of the authors talent that she is also deeply sympathetic." -- The New Yorker"Winter is precious, babacious, and as tough as a hollow-point bullet." -- Salon.com"[Souljah] spread[s] messages that are clear, concise, and true to the game." -- The Source"Intriguing....Souljah exhibits a raw and true voice." -- Publishers Weekly Excerpt from Book After a nasty breakup of any couple, the war begins. I knew bitches who keyed their exs ride, or punctured his tires, or banged in his rims with a hammer. I knew bitches who beat the new bitchs ass, who her man had replaced her with. Or even stalked her, then choked her, stabbed her, shot her, or mercked her. I knew even live-er bitches who, instead of killing his new bitch, killed him. I knew bitches who ran up his credit cards, crashed his car, cut up his clothes, pawned his jewels, and even burned down his house. But when a man or woman who used to be lovers, living together, working together, eating together, showering and fucking together, and one betrays the other, betrayal makes the matter more meaner than murder. Cause you can just kill someone if you want to, no matter who you are. No matter who they are or where they hide. They bound to resurface eventually. Let down their guard eventually, and thats precisely when they can get got. But ex-lovers, who more than just creeping and fucking other niggas or bitches, where one betrayed the other, told a life-changing secret tat he or she had confided with, sold him or her out to his or her sworn enemy, called the cops on him or her for any damn reason, flipped on em in a court of law or was way-worser, like working as an undercover police, a bitch-ass informant, spying and telling on his or her lover, murder aint enough get-back. A betrayed nigga or bitch wants to be the one who delivers the hurt over an extended period of time. Not a quick stabbing or gunning down. A betrayed lover wants to witness his or her traitor in severe loss of either: wealth, status, or something or someone he cherished. A betrayed lover wants to see the traitor in actual excruciating pain. He or she wants to taunt and torture first and then deliver the last blow that leads to the traitors complete and final downfall. I know. Bullet was the main one who betrayed me. Hes at the top of my payback list. He was my nigga for many months before I got arrested. Yeah, he was a hustler. I fucking loved that. His fuck game was strong. I loved that too. Once he and I first hooked up, I never fucked around with no other nigga but him. Im a loyal bitch. Loyalty runs through the Santiaga blood. But he never fully acknowledged my loyalty to him. He never gave his loyalty to me. It wasnt about me thinking, expecting, or believing that he was out fucking some random bitches while we was together. He didnt cause me to feel or think that he was. It was that he . . . I dont know. He loved me with his mind and body but never gave me his heart. He treated me like a suspect, who was bound to turn on him or turn him in. I wasnt. Im the one bitch that wouldnt . . . ever, Santiagas are born snitch-free. Bullet put our Manhattan condo in my name, and every purchase he made for both of us in my name. Back then, at the time, I thought that meant he loved me. Of course I did, he provided. In turn, I covered for him here and there. Held his coke, concealed his weapons, and carried his cash here and there quietly whenever he told me to. I was trying to earn my way up and also in, to his heart. I thought we should be on some Bonnie-and-Clyde shit. But fuck Bonnie and Clyde. We should be on some Winter-and-Bullet shit, stacking our chips and styling and fucking and eating and chilling and staying together. Turned out, he put everything in my name not for love or for providing for a top bitch and daughter of legendary hustler and entrepreneur Ricky Santiaga. Instead Bullet was on some Brooklyn scheming. He made it so that if everything or anything went wrong, he could drop all the legalities and blame onto me without losing any street credibility because it wasnt like he snitched on me. He simply left a paper trail and documentation all in my name that told the fictitious story of me being the hustler and him being blameless, unarrestable, and scot-free. On the day of my arrest that led to my conviction as a drug dealer sentenced to serve fifteen years on a mandatory minimum, which at the time I had never even heard of, my nigga Bullet had a car rented with a credit card in my name. In the rental car was me and the product, I was bout to ride round trip to Virginia on a run with him, a big and necessary business move. Simone, who for some reason cant get the fuck out of my mind or life or death story, saw me sitting there on our Brooklyn block in the rental waiting on Bullet. I didnt see her, though. Simone had bullshit beef with me that she swore was real. So, soon as she saw me that day, it was on. Bitch threw a brick through the rental window. Bitch dragged me out the car swinging. We thumped. My nigga Bullet saw the rah-rah from the distance. He started rushing over. He fired one shot in the air to cause the commotion to break. Seeing him boosted my confidence, but the gunshot distracted me from keeping my eyes on her. Simone took advantage and sliced my face. Bullet held my bleeding face in his hands. He sat me back in the rental car. He tossed the gun beneath the seat. He walked around to the drivers side. I was relieved that he had rescued me. But the furious fight and the gunshot drew out the cops. The cops swooped in and Bullet, instead of jumping into the rental car and speeding away, walked off calmly as if he never was with me. Never even knew me and never intended to get in the car with me at all. I was arrested in the rental car that was in my name, with the weight stuffed inside teddy bears, and the weapon tossed beneath the seat. They cuffed, fingerprinted, mug-shotted, jailed, grilled, and investigated me. They asked me for names or just one big name. I gave them nothing. I rejected their bullshit tricks and game. The name is Santiaga, royalty not rats. I wasnt mad at Bullet for being a hustler, obviously. I wasnt mad at him for renting me the condo or even for taking me on his big business run to Virginia. I was down for him. I wanted to go. I didnt like being left out of the business or the action. Its that that nigga Bullet didnt come for me. He didnt add a dime to my legal defense. He didnt send one of his men to make sure I had all that I needed. He didnt put one cent on my commissary. He didnt write me one letter, slip me one kite from his peoples on lock. He didnt check for me and to me that meant he never loved me. Thats why hes on my payback list. He betrayed me. I never betrayed him, not even once. ******************************************************** Now Momma was dead center in my mental line of vision. In that freeze-frame she was Brooklyn Momma, before the move to our luxurious Long Island mansion. Before some nigga who was jelly shot her in her face and permanently altered her perfect look. But most importantly, the picture of Momma in my mind was before she ever toked a hit of that crack pipe. I knew, after having fifteen years on lock to just sit and think about it, that for me to accept my mother, aka Momma, aka Lana Santiaga, aka the Baddest Bitch on the Planet, after her crack breakdown would be the same as rejecting myself. No! It would be the same as destroying myself. Brooklyn Momma was the voice in my head. She was the image in my eyes, my pattern, my fabric, my fashion. She was all of the ingredients mixed together that made me, me . Momma was the most. She was the beautifulest, the livest, the baddest, the funniest, the finest, everything. I didnt need no books. Momma was all show-and-tell. She told me and showed me while she was telling me all that a bitch needs to know. "Ooh now, thats not cool," she would say when I shitted in my diaper at age two. Thats how way back my earliest memory of Momma goes. It is my first and earliest memory of anyone or anything, including myself. After Momma said that, she taught me how to pee and poop, where to pee and poop, and how to clean myself thoroughly and smell like a lady always should smell. "Come in the bathroom," she would wave me in. "Always close the door while you do your private business. And remember your private business and your business-business both aint nobody elses business!" She would talk to me like I was an adult, and then laugh at herself. But I knew she meant it and I understood her perfectly. "No potty," she would say, kicking the baby toilet into a corner. "Sit on the real seat like I do," she would say, pointing. I would be trying my best to balance my little body on the adult toilet with the humongous hole. "Now tinkle!" she would say, like it was a magical thing, not just pissing in the bowl. While I tinkled, Momma would turn away and look at herself in the bathroom mirror while singing a song, which relaxed me. Momma had the dopest music collection of original singles and albums. She knew every song ever made from the oldest to the newest. In my first memory, she was singing "All I Need," an old joint that she loved. She was doing Marvin Gayes part and Tammi Terrells twisting and turning her body while fixed on her own reflection. She was singing so passionately I wondered. Is she singing to Poppa? Or, is she singing to me? Or is she singing to herself? After that first memory, I remember Momma singing "Everybody Is a Star" to me in the scented bubble bath as we bathed at the same time in the same tub. Momma was musical and Poppa had the whole house wired with speakers in every room, including the kitchen and the bathroom, so that Momma could be happy at home. All fresh and clean, Momma is carrying me wrapped in the thickest, softest white terry-cloth towel to her bedroom. Both of us sitting on her king-sized bed, Momma would oil and Details ISBN1982139145 Author Sister Souljah Short Title Life after Death Pages 352 Language English Year 2022 ISBN-10 1982139145 ISBN-13 9781982139148 Format Paperback Subtitle A Novel DEWEY 813.6 Publisher Simon & Schuster Place of Publication New York Country of Publication United States NZ Release Date 2022-03-31 UK Release Date 2022-03-31 Audience General AU Release Date 2022-03-29 Series The Winter Santiaga Series Series Number 2 Imprint Emily Bestler Books Publication Date 2022-03-31 US Release Date 2022-03-31 We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:160753014;

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