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Hold My Nigga Moment by Ole #Poetry

Ole is truth. Ole is fire. Ole is life. Olestruth.com


What is a nigga moment? Is it a couple a niggas getting hella mad over dumb ish? New shoes ish? Get your weapons out and spill blood ish? “Eish, baas it was not me” ish? Some cave ish? Retarded people, yes I said retarded for centuries in class; by class; for class, no class ish? I don’t know. What I know is that it dogs me around; stuck to my shoes, behind my back yet never making a sound. I feel it most when near people. On their faces it’s found, like puppet master shadows leading a dance from the background.

I feel it every time someone tries to make me a nigga like: when I’m my white friends’ one black friend; when Indian people say nigga like homie Gandhi was my friend; or black friends kinda treat me like I’m one of they white friends. Hai!

 

A nigger moment’s between niggers, so I figure I should try and be the man bigger; take the road high; walk the road narrow, straight arrow. Block out the stupid penny for your thoughts, chasing a sparrow on Twitter.

I’m not too fond of reading a face. Bookworm habits are more fitting a pace for a boy raised in a place where assimilation was key to fly into space and dance with the gods who came across the sea and disgraced his whole race.

See I’m not your average nigger. I’m one with a vision, born with a mission to bring about a Saipan fission.

I was cut from my roots so I could mimic people from every skin-colour or hue: talk white; dance black; and save like a Jew.

So I like Tupac and anime, but sometimes listen to Oprah. I’m a lover of both science and Deepak Chopra.

 

Curse then the gods of your logic. I may concede being a Negro but I am nobody’s nigger. I break out of the boxes that chain and keep me feeling lethargic, nostalgic antiquities of my so called “melanin magic”.

Forget the stereotypes. I come to poison your thinking, cut my wrists open and bleed black without blinking.

Dip a pen in my wounds and let my life blood sink into blank pages waiting to tell the tales of a youth seeking identity in people that he never knew.

So hold your parents who would die if you brought home a black guy. Hold your speech on black consciousness and the ego that feeds it. And hold my “nigga moment” too, this Negro no longer needs it.

Andrew McDowell

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