It’s been a minute since Sister Soulja published her critically-acclaimed novel, The Coldest Winter Ever — 25 years, to be exact. Soulja took readers on a wild journey into Brooklyn street life and drug culture while leaving a remarkable and unforgettable impression of protagonist Winter Santiaga. It wasn’t the first time the social justice advocate made a literary mark. She published No Disrespect in 1995, however, she would go on to create a literary universe and legacy stemming from Santiaga’s saga and the characters in her world. To date, Soulja has written six sequels to The Coldest Winter Ever: Midnight: A Gangster Love Story; Midnight and the Meaning of Love; Deeper Love Inside: The Porsche Santiaga Story; A Moment of Silences Midnight III; and Life After Death.
In her latest novel, Love After Midnight, Sister Soulja revisits Winter Santiaga to share another chapter of our favorite street heroine’s life. Sister Soulja shared an exclusive excerpt with BLACK ENTERPRISE to remind readers of what they already knew: Winter Santiaga is undefeated. Get into it.
Tonight, I need something stronger than weed. It hit me all at once. After being the coolest, nah, the coldest bitch on the planet, it was like, I was getting hit by an intense heatwave. Then anger overtook me. Fifteen fucking years on lock and finally free. But right now in this moment, I’m more hateful than grateful. Fuck the bullshit. Hate has its place. Suddenly famous, I’m out of my element. I’ve been all Brooklyn, da peeps and da streets or the cells. Upon my prison release in January this year, I caught a reality show starring me. The bag was big. Course I was amped about it. But somehow today . . . Fame gotta bitch feeling like comfortable is the most uncomfortable feeling. Blank mind. Blank soul. It’s false, empty, and vacant. I realize I’m addicted to struggle and hustle, moving and maneuvering, fight and fury, action and reaction, pressure and tension.
That’s how I got here in this dark club they calling a lounge. See, even the scene and the lingo switched up on me. No matter what they call it though, it’s where I need to be right now. It’s hot. The walls are sweating. Everybody is body to body. No air, the scent of perfumes and colognes and funk and strong liquor and scented smoke intermingling. Inhale weed, exhale frustration. Music, louder than thunder. This is how I need to party, with hood bitches who can’t pay their rent, but got $150 mani-pedis, $500 weaves, and $700 shoes. Fuck cameras and papparazzi and the rich crowd of fame, and children of fame. Whether they young or grown, they all be insecure, suicidal, fake, and psychotic. They perform and talk too much about nothing. Think they know everything but never did nothing real. Don’t know the real deal about shit and whine like newborns bout this and that. My party needs to be packed with niggas and bitches who ain’t got a damn thing to actually celebrate, but who keep on pushing, rock the spot, make it pulsate, rhyme, sing, scream, or just mouth the lyrics, eat the beats, and make moves that look like seizures, or others who just lean back or glide and ride the rhythm real smooth. I party with the ones who got no real reason to be confident, but still be the boldest, baddest, and the coldest. I love that. I crave that. But, in the 21st century I find myself chasing a feeling I used to feel. So much so, I am wondering if the feeling I felt before is no more in existence. Somehow, wafted away in the wind. But I’m still here. Ain’t found one man who can make my pussy pump, soul jump, or hips hump. I want to feel something. Make my eyes widen. Make me cry. Make me laugh so hard my stomach aches. Make my nipples plump, my thighs shake, my toes curl. Bite me. Fight me. I’ll bite you back. Excite me. Make me cum six or seven times in one night. That’s the only way for me to feel right and alive. ’Cause I am alive and love that fact. But neer nigga got that look, style, clout, or that energy. I know what it looks like. When I see it, I’ll snatch it, trap it, and make it mine. But I ain’t seen it day or night, night or day in the short amount of weeks that I have been free, awake, and active.
My bodyguard is with me. My investors insisted.
They guard me like gold. My new accountant told me to look at each of my body parts as units of wealth. My time and each and every second as representing a certain dollar amount that I choose as my price quote. Make all pay to play. That’s the only way to prevent people, agents, businesses, and companies from wasting or interrupting my time, which equals my potential earnings. When I think of my name, Winter Santiaga, as a brand, and my body parts each separately as a unit of wealth, that gives me the power to sift out the diamonds and throw away the ordinary rocks, he says.
I’m on my private time now, although I’m mixed in with the public at this club. I mean lounge. Dancing and drenched. My mood and my mind are swirling inside of the music. Don’t even see what nigga pushed up on me. I make my bodyguard stand at least six feet or six bodies away from wherever I am. I tell him, “play dead.” I don’t want him to be a cooler to my hot or my heat or my hunt. He’s in my employ. He has to do what I say. I’m his boss. That kills my desire to mix it up with him, even though he’s all muscle. I don’t want my new love or my husband to be under my command. Then when he’s coming for me, I won’t be able to tell if it’s because of money, lust, admiration, or love. I need it to at least before lust for sure. A man’s lust makes my lust multiply. It’s okay if he admires me, long as he ain’t acting like a fucking freakyfan groupie or stalker. I mean I love my fans, but I need the man I choose to not be a fan or a stalker. I need my man to have his own mind, schedule, and schemes, his own money and things, his own style and swag, Word up! I need my man to have 21st-century legit business, sprinkled with a half kilo of 20th-century murder energy. I laugh to myself. But, I’m serious. Just then, in a flash, or should I say a glance, I spotted an unusually pretty bitch seated at the bar. I’m not about that girl-on-girl action, but I’m definitely about that beauty. I’m it. But I see myself every day. So, therefore, I’m drawn to other unique, beautiful people and things. So I walked over.
Excerpted from LOVE AFTER MIDNIGHT by Sister Soulja. Copyright © 2024. Available from Emily Bestler Books, Atria, an imprint of Simon & Schuster Publishers.
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 humanity. Post-graduation, Souljah earned the love and support of her African American community by creating a national youth and student movement. She is credited with serving homeless families and creating academic, cultural, and recreational after-school programs, weekend academies, and sleepaway 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 artist to become a member of the most explosive hip-hop group of all time, 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.”