The Anastasia Chronicles: Niggas for Yeshua

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Somewhere in the United States of America, Anastasia stood in the basement of a church that served hot meals to the unhoused on a crispy Fall Wednesday morning. The line was mostly filled with men; she was one of very few women present.

When her turn finally arrived at the front, the volunteer behind the table handed her a bag containing milk and juice.

"No milk, please," Ana said gently, moving down the line.

Next were apples and bananas that looked like they’d been sitting in a refrigerator all night. Trying her best to appear grateful and humble, Ana summoned a polite, "Not today."

She moved further down. The next volunteer offered a small bag of pork rinds and a generic brand of chocolate sandwich cookies. She accepted the cookies. "Thank you," she said with a warm nod.

Then came the heavy air—the unmistakable scent of men who had long given up on hygiene. Nothing like standing in the middle of a room full of musty men, Ana thought to herself.

She made her way to the beverage station of the homeless obstacle course.

"Coffee, tea, or hot cocoa?" the volunteer asked.

"Let's do tea," Ana replied confidently.

The volunteer paused, doing a subtle double-take glancing up at Ana. "Tea coming right up," she said, caught off guard.

Almost everyone without hesitation chose coffee, but here was Ana—the odd one out. Ana was used to being "the other kind" nearly everywhere she went. It wasn't that she tried to be different; it was just who she was, no matter how hard she attempted to blend into the crowd.

Holding her white styrofoam cup, Ana walked into the crowded dining area.

"Niggas for Yeshua!" she overheard a group of men exclaim, dapping each other up in greeting.

What in the world did I just walk in on? Ana thought as she headed toward a table along the back wall, setting up her spot where she could maintain a clear view of everyone entering and leaving.

"Man, she think she better than me. These chicks be crazy," one man remarked to his friends.

Another standing opposite of him...stood head and shoulders above the rest—not just in height, but in presence. There was something distinct about him that Ana couldn't quite pinpoint. He was clearly intelligent and well-versed in the history of Jesus—or "Yeshua," as he called Him.

"He doesn't look like a Christian," Ana thought to herself, before immediately catching herself. But what does looking like a Christian even look like? she mused.

Mr. Carhartt. That would be Ana's nickname for him until she learned his real name. Ana loved assigning nicknames to the people she encountered on her journey. Her new roommates back at the women's shelter where she stayed for now were already dubbed "Nancy Drew" and "Dubai"—but we’ll get to them later.

Back to Mr. Carhartt. He was tall, brown-skinned, moisturized, and looked to be near Ana’s age, maybe forty-seven or forty-eight. He had a smooth, shiny bald head, clean skin, an athletic build, and wore a tan Carhartt winter vest. His voice cut through the noise of the room—deep, strong, and inherently masculine. The kind of voice that naturally commanded attention.

And it certainly got hers. A nice pair of dark washed jeans with some Timbs on. To most people in that room, he probably looked like a "thug"—the usual urban stereotype. But Ana saw right past the surface. Something about him peaked her interest.

Ana sat against the wall, sipping her tea with her baseball cap pulled low, subtly reading the room. Two things she always noticed first about a man were his confidence and the words coming out of his mouth. Words backed by actions told the whole story.

"That food isn't good for you, bro," Carhartt was telling a man nearby, holding his own drink—was it tea? Ana wondered. "That stuff has all kinds of ingredients in it that harm your body. I only mess with fruit and veggies. Every now and then I might have some meat."

He was leaner compared to the men gathered around him. I wonder if he’s one of those 'woke' brothers, Ana mused. She was curious to know more. She could spot an alpha male with her eyes closed, and she knew they shared at least one trait: both of them knew how to command a room simply by walking in and being themselves, without saying a word.

Without an ounce of arrogance, she knew his eyes would eventually find hers.

And they did.

Carhartt and Ana locked eyes for a brief moment. She looked away, glanced back, and looked away once more....an old trick she learned from AwwAlexis on Youtube.

Got him, she thought.

While Ana’s focus was on Carhartt, the friend sitting next to him was staring intently at her.

I'm not interested in you, sweetie... I want your friend, she thought.

Mr. Passenger Seat was sizing Ana up like a four-course meal, licking his lips and biting down on his lower lip. Ana took care not to give him any impression of encouragement. He wasn't bad-looking, but Ana had already made her choice.

Ana knew how to play it cool while observing Mr. Carhartt's every move. Approaching men or shooting her shot had never been her style. She understood her worth and knew how to position herself to be seen and approached. "May the best suitor win" was how she moved about life on a chessboard. In her mind, she was the Queen—the most versatile piece on the board, free to maneuver with complete authority. She never needed to announce her royal status; men and women alike recognized who she was the moment she stepped into a room and sometimes that caused issues for her...other times it propped her up.

Ana knew how to let her posture, steady eye contact, and quiet demeanor do all the talking.

In an environment where so many felt powerless and at the mercy of their circumstances, Ana maintained absolute sovereignty over her mind, her standards, and who earned access to her space. She let options present themselves, and she did the picking and choosing.

There was something magnetic and mysterious about how Ana carried herself, and she was well aware of it. People often mistook her for standoffish or unapproachable, but once they spoke with her, it was clear she wasn't pretentious at all. She was humble, grounded, and quiet in her confidence. Some respected it; others resented it, preferring her to walk around with her head down looking defeated.

Ana might have been experiencing homelessness, but she was far from desperate. She felt no need to accept whatever crumb was handed to her. She knew how to decline opportunities, men, potential friendships, or offers that didn't align with her values and purpose.

She conducted herself beyond her current circumstances. She had her difficult days, but overall, she saw herself past poverty. She envisioned herself established and financially secure.

To a reader, that might sound like a stretch given where she sat in a soup kitchen, but Ana’s faith in God was rock-solid and deeply personal. Most people around her viewed her as overly ambitious, chasing lofty, unattainable goals. But in Ana’s mind, there was no room for a Plan B. God had given her a vision for her life, and she was prepared to overcome whatever obstacles stood in her way.

She understood from jump she wasn't walking alone and she had a higher power working alongside her and fighting on her behalf. She was entirely focused on crushing her goals to build the life she deserved—and woe to anyone or anything who tried to stand in her way.

Ana never lingered in one spot for too long; she knew when it was time to move along. She gathered her things, took the sandwich and cookies she had no plans of eating, and laid them neatly on the table for the next person. Living this lifestyle, she refused to waste food. Something about it never sat well with her.

She could feel the eyes of both men on her—Mr. Carhartt and Mr. Passenger Seat. One held plain lust in his gaze; the other didn't.

To reach the exit, she had to cross directly through their path. She shifted her tea into her right hand, let her canvas bag drape over her shoulder, and slid on her sunglasses. She walked right past them without glancing their way.

"Have a good day, beautiful," Mr. Passenger Seat called out as she passed.

Ana slightly cringed and looked back briefly, offering a short, sweet, and polite, "You too."

As she continued toward the door, she hoped Mr. Carhartt could read between the lines of everything she was—and wasn't—saying: I’m not interested in you, sweetie, but thanks for the compliment... now, who’s your friend?

She pushed through the double glass doors, the bright morning sun striking her face. Feeling optimistic about the day ahead, she stepped onto the sidewalk and set off toward the women's shelter where she was staying for the time being. It was time to meet with "the caseworker."

Ana had found herself in this exact chapter before, but this time, she was putting an end to this vicious repetitive cycle once and for all. She recognized the trap—same story, different names.

Game on, Ana thought to herself.

~ Written by Tashia L. McLayea