The Black People and The Nigger

A few years back, The Nigger had rounded the corner at his product placement job and ran full smack into a group of four Black people amidst a sea of white faces. These Black people were talking about the only thing they could have conceivably been talking about, being Black.

“What about you?” the big Bubba-lipped one asked The Nigger. “Don’t you think it’s crazy being Black and to be working here with all these white people?” He’d stage-whispered the ‘white people’ part. He’d wanted them to know he was talking about them without wanting to offend them.

The moment of truth had come early.

The Nigger looked around. He knew one of the guys from college. The college mate had been a friend. Another guy, a rapper, was working this product placement job part-time. The girl was a beauty. Short, slim, dark-skinned with burnt red dreadlocks and an absolutely incredible ass. Then there was Bubba-lips.

The Nigger took a deep breath and paused. Then he said it.

“I’m not Black.”

Silence.

Finally, Bubba-lips spoke. “What you mean you got Indian in you or you some kinda ‘Spanish’ or something? Your people from the Islands?”

“Nope,” The Nigger said. “My people picked cotton down south. And my ancestors are African. Very African.”

“So what do you mean?” the college friend asked.

The Nigger took another deep breath.

“What I mean is that I’m normal to me,” The Nigger said. “I’m my own standard. For me to willingly call myself ‘Black’ would mean not only that I accepted a designation placed on me by someone else, but also that I had decided to wear that alien designation by choice.”

Silence again.

“I kinda understand what you’re saying,” The Nigger’s college friend had began, throwing The Nigger a rope, “but I don’t agree with it.” The rope was pulled back.

“Yeah, that was some complete and utter bullshit,” the rapper said, shaking his head dismissively.

“So you one of those,” Bubba-lips said smiling conspiratorially. “I guess that’s just the way you was raised,” he added, slyly trying to pull off what is historically the greatest insult a Black person can levy on another Black; a knock on the parentage.

The girl, however, seemed won over. It wasn’t so much that she agreed with The Nigger’s position, but she quite openly admired the fact that The Nigger had faced down a crowd that had turned against him. And that he had done it alone.

The Nigger sat down and went to work. He shrugged off what he could have taken as a slight from his old college friend. He also hadn’t expected a simple rapper to grasp a concept as fundamental yet as esoteric as The Nigger had tried to lay on him.

Bubba-lips was different. About a month earlier, The Nigger had caught big Bubba-lips sitting in the break area with a none-too-attractive blonde explaining how where he came from “this kinda job isn’t anything we could even dream of.”

Bubba-lips was one of those “hustlers of Blackness”. His was a bizarro take on the likes of an Al Sharpton, but without any of the value added. And here The Nigger had come, trying to knock his hustle.

A short time after that, after The Nigger and the beautiful dreadlocked girl had briefly become lovers, she sat down next him and on a vacant computer, pulled up big Bubba-lip’s Facebook page.

There, standing in profile behind a sitting Bubba-lips, was a not-to-homely redheaded white girl with her arms wrapped around big Bubba-lips’ neck.

What followed underneath was some of the most rancid and unspeakable poetry anybody had ever seen anywhere.

That‘s a surprise!” the beautiful dread said to The Nigger.

“Not to me,” The Nigger said before turning his head and returning to work.

About the Author

dickiebhee
Dickie Bhee is a self-styled lunatic, a Renaissance showman, a Class A, Grade A buffoon, a nigga that believes in the greatness of Niggerhood a social gadfly and a genuine Man About Town. Also: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01E7NYMP4

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