“Fair? Where’d you get that nonsense from? Someone told you life was supposed to be fair? Why don’t you ask the woman who buried her seventeen-year-old son because he wore a hoodie just how fair life can be? Ayomide, you’re my child, and I love you. But you ever open your mouth to spout this craziness again, and you and me, we gonna really have it out. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

I mumble something.

“I don’t hear you, little girl.”

“Yes! Yes. I understand.”

“Good. Tomorrow, I expect you to be at the youth group meeting, bright and early. Now get yourself up the stairs and recalibrate your thinking.”

I start up the stairs. She calls out, “And so help me God, if you stomp away like some teen in a damn movie, I’ll come up there and drag your behind back down.”

I can’t process the amount of anger that’s passing through me. I’m livid, and rage flows through every inch of me. It comes out in the form of hot, salty tears and runs down my face. My jaw is clenched and everything in me is tight. It feels like there’s a huge ball of fire in the middle of my chest. My mother is watching me. Her face is stern and her hands are firmly planted on her hips. I should just turn away and go up to my room, but I can’t.

“Fine, Mom, I’ll do exactly as you say. But just tell me this: I’ve been a soldier in the Rosalie Bosia army all my life. When is my contract up? Or better yet, how much? How much will it take to be free of you?”

Chapter Four

The Twins

My bedroom is a monument to strong and powerful Black women in American history. There are two beautiful sketches on my desk, one of Sojourner Truth and the other of Ellen Craft. They perfectly capture their defiant stances and determined gazes. And on the wall just above my bed is a bright watercolor painting of various influential Black women, from Shirley Chisholm to the former First Lady.

But the best part of my room is the ceiling above my bed. My friends helped me embed glow-in-the-dark letters that spell out my favorite poem—“Ego Tripping,” by Nikki Giovanni. Sometimes, I lie down on the bed and look up at her words and marvel at how magical she makes us Black girls sound. The poem talks about how she built the Sphinx and gave birth to vast deserts by just thinking about them. She also talks about being such a boss that even when she’s wrong, she’s right. It’s so damn cool.