CHI-RAQ [Kelly Oubre Jr.]

The beginning.

It seemed like time moved slow when news hit Cynthia. News that her mother was fatally shot in the head, early Monday morning. As if on queue, Cynthia ran out of her homeroom class, down the hall, and into the streets of Chicago—a city with streets plagued with violence.

Boarding the bus to Chicago's Medical Center, Cynthia took a seat, fidgeting while biting her lip. She dialed her father to see if there were any updates on her mother's condition—however his phone went straight to voicemail.

"Fuck," she hissed, tears burning her cheeks.

As the bus came to a halt near Chicago's Medical Center, Cynthia sprinted out the double-doors of the bus, crossing the street before entering the hospital's main enterance—her body filled with fatigue as she leaned against the counter for support. She huffed, inhaling and exhaling before looking up to the nurse.

"What room...is...Nia Abayomi...in..." She managed in between lagged breaths. The receptionist began to put pieces together,

"Are you her daughter? Cynthia Abayomi?" She asked, standing up before shuffling in front of the counter.

"This way."

The walk was by far the most tense, she just wished that her mother wasn't in so much of a hurry to leave the house in the first place. Had it been avoided, she wouldn't have been caught up in the crossfires of any gang related activities.

The nurse guided her to where her father awaited, younger brother, aunt, and older cousins. Immediately her feet were shaking when she'd seen a majority of her them with woeful eyes.

Looking at her father hurt her the most, a man so full of life, the foundation of the family, was breaking down right in front of her.

They stared into each other's eyes for a bout a good five minutes, but to her it felt like hours, "Dad.."

Still nothing, "Dad, what happened to mom?" Her voice was shaking.

This caused for more tears to shed down his face. He stood up from the waiting chairs in the ICU Department, his tall figure, stooping down to Cynthia's level.

"Well sweetie, mommy didn't make it," he began, tears running down his face some more. But for some reason, her body couldn't react to news of her mom's sudden, but tragic death. It's as if she expected this to be the ultimatum.

"Who killed her?" She asked, her voice stoic, her body numb as she watched her brother behind her father cry.

"They have the suspects in custody, they'll be charged with murder and gang affiliation. So your mother can die in vain." He mumbles.

"I'm glad," Cynthia replies, relief over her shoulders.

"Yeah....Chicago is a horrible place. Plagued with violence, and the mayors refuse to do anything about it. Something has to give."

Cynthia can only nod, still at a daze over the news. How come it wasn't affecting her yet? When she'd think of the concept of death, and losing her mom—she didn't know what she'd do. And now that both are occurring simultaneously, the expectations were unbecoming.

But for a black person, this was just another day in the life of South-side Chicago. Or what youth are calling it these days:

Chiraq.

Fall.
6 Months after my mother's death,
My mind was at ease but my heart can't rest, the burning feeling inside my chest. The sounds of shots would make for sleep in the south-side, too deep for a brotha's pride; some call it "mis-guide" because the Ed in education was defunED by the mayors that made Chiraq a safe "Haven" I cannot decimate this pain for you. Our future scholars, mother of our sons and daughters be killed for what other reason than being in the w—"