Ya've nevah heard 'bout a nun with a gun, have ya? I knew one. Mother Clara woz a real nun with a gun. She had, as we all came to know, a Smith & Wesson .45 always with her. Tucked in her immaculate white robe.

She woz black like me and mosta da othah people out here. She woz born on of da streets of Detroit. Her father woz a pimp and her mother a hooker, we heard da othah sistahs talking at her memorial service. "Clara herself had walked down da road along with me when she woz 16. Dat woz 4 yrs befo' she landed here and 'bout a year later she brought me here" said sistah Judith. "I thought she peddled coke just like her half-brother downtown". Dat woz sistah Harriet. "Nah, I knew her looong time," said sistah Judith lighting her cigarette. I woz pissed off at 'em 'coz this woz no occasion to bitch 'bout nobody, especially 'bout Mother Clara. Besides she woz dead now. She had put in a lot of work for all while she woz still alive and kicking.

Mother Clara had come in this community center when she woz 20 years old. She had been roughed up by some crooks in her hood and she woz addicted to coke. Mother Beth, da headmistress then, took her in and aftah 6 intensive months of rehabilitation Mother Clara joined da center. In da comin' months she brought many of her friends and cousins here, like Sis Judith. It woz she who started da orphanage where I stay now. And I couldn't have been happier. I mean this is anytime better than living out in streets and washing windscreens for money. I'll nevah forget Mother Clara's favor while I'm alive. Nor will many of my friends out here. Like, I get to go to school and stuff, and don't have to work, so it's kinda cool. ya know what I mean?

Comin' back to da topic. Yeah, Mother Clara had a .45 hidden in her robe. And Sammie says dat she carried it always. It's kinda creepy, ya know? A loaded piece in your belt dat could go off when ya bow down befo' Holy Jesus. Jeez! It woz, and is tough livin' out here leave alone helping out people. Da streets are filled with hooligans to bully da weak. But I don't think anybody carries a piece in da church. And a nun, nevah! It'll result in some incident. It's bound to happen. Someone may die 'coz of it, you know. And Mother Clara did.

I don't mean dat Mother Clara woz some stiff foolish ol' pussy. She woz da best ya get around here. But ya know what? We sometimes get a lil' overconfident of our abilities. I maybe no philosopher but I think dat woz what dat happened with Mother Clara. A sad end to a sad start.

She woz no dahlin' among her fellow nuns but she commanded some respect and understandably lotta fear. Sis Judith woz da one who least gave any shit. Mother Clara had been a friend and life-savior to her, but it didn't mean much to Sis Judith, or Judy like she prefers to be called. Rest all sistahs of da center were on Mother's beck and call 'coz each one had been helped and offered to lead a nun's life by her. And also I feel they were afraid they'd be shown da door if they weren't upto her.

Da center had a church, a nursin' home, counselin', a rehab, an orphanage, a shelter for de homeless and a big kitchen. It woz big all right, da biggest in whole of Detroit. And Mother along with 18 of her sistahs ran da place. Donations poured in from lotta places 'coz da center woz pretty famous. Mother nevah lost a chance to gather money for da center. Be it TV or radio or just plain ol' street parades. Everyone knew 'bout us.

And amazin' thing 'bout da place woz dat every sistah woz a reformed individual. Sellin' dope, whores and even a coupla ex-cons. Yeah! No kiddin' man, Sis Anne and Sis Celeste had spent some years in da penitentiary befo' they came here. Swear man, ask Sammie; He overheard somebody talkin'. Da center had given 'em a new lease of life. Like new lungs to breathe life back again or somethin'. Ya know what I'm sayin'?

Da center woz packed with troubled people, humans who lived in a lesser life, unknown in shadows, on brink of suicide. Center's a bloomin' rose dat emanates hope from it. Yeah! Dat's propah. A sweet-smellin' rose. Pregnant teenagers, bruised whores, crack-heads, ex-convicts, orphans, homeless winos flocked.

"Da Society," said Mother once, with her finger pointing out da window, "pushes 'em away; to da edge. Uninvited, unwanted. They are responsible for what shit they are in, of course. But tell me fellow g'men and ladies how does a lost sheep join da flock back? Who guides 'em back to da right path laid by Sweet Jesus?"

Sunday masses were frankly enough to generate dough for da whole week. Pete, my pal went 'bout with a plate. Pete had only one arm, dat held da plate. A birth defect. Perfect.

Mother woz shrewd and she had to be dat to be da Mother we knew. One who cared and read out Mark Twain to us aftah dinner. She shouldn't have died man. I cried fo' da first time aftah Mother had brought me here.

And dat sonofabitch Pinto'll die a dog's death. We all converge during evening news to catch up with trial proceedings. Pinto woz da person who woz responsible fo' what happened on dat day. And it woz just an ordinary day. Nothin' much 'bout it. Autumn wind woz blowin and da center woz brimming with people. 'Coz ya know, everybody who doesn't have a roof o'er his or her head in November dislikes cold. Joe sometimes talks 'bout how one dog would creep real close besides him during nights and how he could feel da dog's dick hardening against him. Joe's a wino and a chum of Pinto. He's been sober since he saw Mother's gun dat day. A lot of 'em winos have been sober since then. Pinto and Joe were distant cousins, ya see. They bragged dat they had their first drink together and will have their last drink together. Joe hardly talks to anyone now.

From what I hear, Pinto woz a widower and a father who had lost track of his kids. Sammie says dat Pinto used to drink 'bout all noon and crawl to sleep somewhere on da street. Evenings he would be there with a steel plate in hand queuing up for hot food, and free food. Mother would scold him bad; call him a pilashit in front of everybody. Pinto would just look at da table with his bloodshot eyes and typical wino look. Ya could see he woz angry but he woz hungry too. He kept his mouth shut and nodded when Mother asked him if he would turn up tomorrow to help da center. Joe would slide up besides him and they would be smilin' together again. Next day Joe would show up to chop vegetables but Pinto wozn't there notime.

Mother had a soft corner for Pinto. She had seen his young girl being born at da center's nursin' home and seen his wife die same place. Pinto's reaction both times had brought tears to her eyes. This she told me and Pete herself, with moist eyes while we woz helpin' with distributin' sheets in da shelter. Moments like those I really felt fo' her unlike da time when she had slapped me hard fo' callin Sammie an asshole. I wonder what she thought 'bout while going to sleep. She had to shoulder lotta responsibilities aftah Mother Beth died. But she did good. How could she be so indifferent and yet so caring stumped me always.

Tho' dat day woz a usual and ordinary one, I think it woz cursed. Mother swore and made no secret of it but she nevah uttered a foul word in fronta Lord, never. And dat damn mornin' she called Sis Judy a worthless, ungracious bitch, when she lit the candles with her cigarette lightah. Sis Judy didn't even look up at her. She just plain ignored her. Mother cursed again and went towards da nursin' home. She said 'bout some Dr. Wilkins makin' a visit. And then she spotted Pinto sittin' somewhere in da back benches. "Pinto!" she hollered. "Ya stinky no-good pilashit, get your ass down to da kitchen at once. Ya all got me swearin' in fronta da almighty. Go man, work and when ya die ya'll go to Heaven. Get your ass movin' now. I got no time." She left.

Pinto rose and went towards da kitchen. Joe woz there as usual, woz washin lettuce for da lunch. Pete and me followed Pinto. I remember him stand and watch Joe there, scratchin' his groin. He moved close, picked up a lettuce and stared at it for sometime. He then puked all over da washed lettuces. Joe cursed loudly. Sis Ruth woz there and she flared all her fangs at Pinto. Somebody threw a rotten tomato on his face. "Get lost!" someone shouted. Pinto covered his ears and sat down. His hair woz messed up. There woz puke on his coat and shirt. And his face woz all covered with da splattered tomato. Big Hoggie dragged him towards da bathroom. We followed 'em. Joe woz laughin' back in da kitchen. It was funny alright, damn funny. Big Hoggie placed him under a cold-water shower. He left to resume his work. Pinto just lay back like he'd been born there.

We got bored aftah da initial interest and left to check on Joe. We were afraid he would wash those lettuces again; to be cooked.

At lunch Mother woz calm. She went 'bout checkin on every one, as she usually did. And then Pinto showed up. All wet. "What da hell!" Mother exclaimed. Joe stood up from da table. So did Big Hoggie. "There's my man" grunted Pinto and ran towards Hoggie. He pushed Hoggie and a scuffle followed. Joe, Glen, Willie all grabbed both tempered winos and separated 'em. Mother woz aghast. She almost skinned Pinto fo' dat. Pinto stood quietly still drippin'. Mother wouldn't stop. "Why don't ya stop livin' like hell fo' once?" Pinto grimaced. He flinched and then suddenly furnished a razor. "You shut up bitch or I'll cut you." "Ya son of a bitch" sweared Hoggie.

This woz da moment when Mother took out her .45 and pointed it towards Pinto, threatening him. "I don't mind goin' to hell fo' murdah if its ya who I kill Pinto. Throw your blade and get your sorry ass outta here." Pinto like all of us woz dumbstruck. Sis Judy uttered a crazy laugh, while othah sistahs clutched their crosses. Pinto stepped back. Mother stuffed da gun in her belt satisfied and started towards him.

"Get your plate and sit down to eat," said Mother.

"Fuck your food, I don't want it. You think I'll starve if you don't pour semi-cooked porridge in my bowl. Bitch you ain't no Mother Teresa." and then Pinto looked at Hoggie. "You're done pal." He touched his razor. He had started leavin fo' da door when he decided dat this woz da day. He came back and pushed Mother. Sammie da only one still interested in his food, choked. Mother landed bad. Hoggie, Joe and all da wino gang made fo' Pinto. Pinto took out da gun from Mother's belt and pointed it towards 'em.

"Stop this," pleaded Mother clutchin her head. And Pinto looked at her fo' a moment just when da freakin' gun went off. Pinto woz shocked. Hoggie woz shot. A hole right thru' his neck. Nobody spoke. Mother started crying. We had nevah seen her cry. We had nevah seen somebody die. We woz too stunned to even breathe.

Pinto woz shakin' bad. Real bad. He lifted da gun to his head. "No" cried Mother. All people and sistahs and me woz just standin, looking on, I can't understand why. Pinto pulled da trigger but he woz shakin' bad. He shot his ear off. A horrifying wail or woz it a scream. Da gun fell off from his hands. Mother got up with some trouble. Pinto looked somewhere into da ceilin. Mother got up frownin 'n all and slapped Pinto hard. She got blood from his ear on his hands. Pinto screamed. Mother shouldn't have done dat. He reached for da gun on da floor and shot Mother. Red ran over white on her robe. "Ya bastard pilashit."

Pinto woz smilin now. "I'll see ya in hell u mudhafukin' sonofbitch" said Mother and died. She said "Mother fuckin" fo' heaven sake. Pinto grinned. He'd shot a nun with her own gun. He's gonna fry; believe me.

Da whole community came down cryin' and mournin' dat day. And da day aftah. She got a lotta headlines and biographies. And it woz one helluva showy burial.

We lost our Mother Clara. We miss her. We miss her gun. And her storytellin'. Mother ain't there to look aftah us.

Da Nun with da Gun