torrrieee

It used to be said by slave masters, who only wanted good old field niggas. But I wonder how the field nigga would feel, if he was sitting next to me on the A train, at approximately 3 o’ clock, any day of the week, and he heard his little great, great, grandson speak dozens if not hundreds of times from 59th St to West 4th, the word that made black families pack up in the South and move North. Would he slam a couple of these boys against the doors and ask, ‘What’s the deal nigga? Do you think you keepin it real nigga? Do you know how I was killed nigga? They murdered me, with hot rods of steel nigga. Now how do you think this makes me feel nigga?’… Or would he just sit there, and listen, silently like white people do, silently like I do, silently like we all do. So what do I do? I go to Wall Street. Do you know why they call it Wall Street? Because centuries ago, there were these huge high walls, and down on the street, were slaves with shackles on their feet, there to be bought and sold by the fleet like shares of intel. Phrases shouted daily like: ‘Where’s my niggers?’ ‘There’s my niggers.’ ‘Whose niggers are those?’ Now here we are centuries after slavery, insulting our ancestry’s bravery by shouting phrases daily like ‘Where’s ma niggas?’ ‘Waddup nigga?’ ‘You know you ma nigga right?’ So don’t blame the boys on the A train… Blame the men who put the myth that it was okay to say it in their brain, blame the kings of comedy, the ultimate nigga record holders… and hopefully this nigga, nigga, nigga poem, is making you uncomfortable to the point where this poem can be the gun, and it’s voice can be the trigger…