Not Enough Nigger, Not Enough Revolutionary

In the Service of our Ancestors and African Love,
Listen Seeker, I come in peace,

“By the time the fool has learned the game, the players have dispersed.” — African Proverb

If one thing can be said of the majority of our people, it is that we are getting played. Not only by Caucasians but to an extreme extent by our own people too. “An African War without an African Army is an African Genocide.” That’s fact. In the following semi-autobiographical story based on a dream, Zuba represents ‘a self-described Revolutionary’ and the effectiveness of his deeds in spite of War. After reading the story, compare Zuba to other ‘self-described Revolutionaries’ and seriously consider whether these ‘Revolutionaries’ that we hail truly hinder the African Genocide or are they playing us?

Not Enough Nigger, Not Enough Revolutionary
By Onitaset Kumat

“Eat lead” shouted a sweaty Caucasian as he held down the trigger to a gatling gun, wiping away his numerous foes one after the other. Zuba yawned; however, his siblings were gripped. “Dang that nigga no joke,” one offered, urging Zuba to roll his eyes. “He’s not even a ‘nigga'” Zuba quipped when his step-brother rebutted, “My nigga just watch the show.” Zuba again yawned.

Zuba is fourteen-years-old and a self-described Revolutionary. When he’s home, he spends countless hours on his laptop reading “Afro-centric” literature and offering his “Afro-centric” perspective. He’s not home though. He’s visiting his Father whose divorce returned him to the ‘hood’ his Mother tried to hide from Zuba. So he waits for the night to be over with his sister, half-brother and step-brothers as they watch “a White Supremacists’ Film.”

“I got you,” the sweaty Caucasian remarks, holding an ugly Caucasian by her narrow waist and leaning in for a plain lipless kiss. “These Caucasians, all they try to do is portray themselves as the epitome,” Zuba remarks with no audience. “This guy kills 40 people, how? He’s naked for crying out loud!” His younger sister shushes him. Zuba looks at the clock. 11:34 PM. It’s too late to go on his laptop. But he’s very bored with his company. Zuba reaches for his backback and goes to the bathroom.

Though his family house, Zuba wets some toilet paper and glides it around the rim of the seat. His step-brothers aren’t tidy he reasons. The sound of the streets presses through the bathroom window. A few screams reach Zuba. It’s from outside. It’s always like this here. He reaches to wipe. There isn’t enough paper. This is exactly what he told his Mother would happen. Without pulling up his pants, he runs to his bag and gets an extra roll he packed ‘just in case.’ You have to be prepared for anything.

When he returns to the room, the movie is still the rave. “Niggas be shooting so much” a brother complains. Whether he speaks of the TV or the ‘hood,’ Zuba doesn’t know. It’s almost midnight. “I’m going to bed,” Zuba remarks. He gets out of his brothers’ bedroom and goes to the living room. His Father never left out any sheets for him, so Zuba awakens his Father for a few. He then lies on the couch, nude under two bedsheets.

As he dozes off a loud thud is heard near the kitchen. From the living room Zuba can see Caucasians with guns storming into his Father’s apartment. Zuba counts five of them. Two with pistols, three with semi-automatic rifles. They are policeman. One distinguishes himself as their leader. He carries a pistol, has slimy brown hair, wide shoulders and seems borderline insane.

Zuba’s Father leaves his bedroom with his hands up. He sits on the couch adjacent to Zuba. The leader speaks to Zuba’s father, “My name is Sergeant M__.” He looks around. “I am calling the shots here.” He waits for a response. “Now, nigger, where were you twenty minutes ago.” Zuba’s Father looks up. A pasty blonde chubby man stands watch with a pistol and a heavily suited honkey with a visor stands in the kitchen with a rifle. Sgt. M__ tells him, “I’m right here nigger. Where were you?” Zuba’s Father lowers his head, “I was here Sir.” Zuba looks away.

Sgt. M__ sits beside Zuba causing Zuba to look back to his Father. Sgt. M__ then spins his pistol by the trigger, the whole time facing the gun at Zuba’s Father. “What about you boy?” he asked Zuba, “Where were you?” Zuba pulls his sheet higher, “I was here Sir.” He felt bad. ‘Sir.’ Why did he say ‘Sir?’ “Well,” Sgt. M__ started, “Do you niggers know why I am here?” Zuba honestly shook his head. “It seems one of you niggers shot another and you know there aren’t any guns allowed in this neighborhood.” Zuba looked upon the five gunman in his Father’s home. “Let me rephrase,” Sgt. M__ corrected, “You know you niggers aren’t allowed to have guns in this neighborhood.” Zuba again pulled his sheets up.

“Move over kid,” Sgt. M__ told Zuba, and Zuba slid to the side. Now, sitting closer to Zuba’s Father, Sgt. M__ gave him the scoop, “We asked around the neighborhood. Your neighbors are saying they saw you arguing with the victim earlier today. Do you know a Tommy S.?” Everyone knows Tommy. Was Tommy shot and killed? Was Tommy a witness? How will Zuba’s Father respond?

“Yes, Sir.” Zuba’s Father offers. “And is it true that you were arguing with Tommy earlier today?” It was after midnight, the argument happened over twelve hours ago. It was an innocent argument: Who will win the NBA Finals? ; But it surely happened. “Yes, Sir.” Zuba’s Father offered. “Good nigger.” The officer smiled. “We’re going to make a search of your house,” the officer continued. At that moment a female officer with a very small poodle led the hound on a leash to sniff around the house. Untrained in that capacity, the pet sat on the couch beside Zuba. Sgt. M__ became wild with animal lust. “Look at that ass” he remarked speaking of the dog as it turned around on the seat. He then would bend in front of it and put his hands over the dog as though it were in a sphere and praise its form and pronounce his desire for sex. Zuba looked at the blonde officer standing watch, but that officer merely shrugged his shoulders. “I would tear you up,” Sgt. M__ says of the dog. He restrains himself from touching the dog.

“That is all,” Sgt. M__ told the female officer, his eyes fixed on the dog as it is pulled away. When it is out of sight, Sgt. M__ first smells the seat, then sits down again and turns to Zuba’s Father, “She was cute wasn’t she?” After no response, Sgt. M__ fixes his gun at Zuba’s Father’s head, “Did you kill Shaina?” Shaina? “Who is Shaina?” “The woman you killed nigger.” “I didn’t kill anyone.” “Yes you did, you killed her, we have witnesses.” “I never left this house.” “Nigger don’t lie.” “I am telling the truth.” “Why did you kill Shaina?”

“He didn’t do anything,” Zuba erupted. Nude under sheets, the young man overlooking the gun fixed on his Father’s head spoke up. Sgt. M__ turned around to Zuba. “What did you say boy?” “I said he didn’t do anything.” Then Sgt. M__ brought his gun to Zuba’s head. Sweat flooded the sheets. Zuba’s heart rate escalated. His whole body trembled at the prospect of his death. “Nigger, I can blast your head off right now. In fact, I think I will.” Pressing Zuba’s head back with the gun, Zuba’s eyes wander around the room. His Father’s head is sinked, the officers watch on. Sgt. M__ pull his gun back, “Better even, I’m arresting you. Get up.” Zuba rises, his sheet drops off baring hs naked, sweaty body. Sgt. M__ licks his thin lips. “Boys, we are done in here. Arrest this child. Nigger,” he turns toward Zuba’s Father, “you are lucky your boy is so stupid.” He reholsters his gun and leaves.

The blonde officer says, “Sorry man, that’s how Sgt. M__ is.” Zuba relaxes a little. “I gotta arrest you, but go get some clothes first.” Zuba trudges to the pile of clothes, puts it on and turns his back to the officer thanking him. When the cuffs are placed, Zuba thinks to ask his Father to send his laptop to his Mother, but he doesn’t. It’s the wrong time. His Father only sits with his head low. He’s crying. Zuba says, “Bye dad” and his Father cries more, “Bye son.” Zuba is carried away.

In the paddywagon, Zuba wonders what went wrong. So much could be said. The movements he was a part of–or thought he was a part of–were all put on hold in this one arrest. For that, he should not have spoken up. But it goes deeper. Things were wrong once the Police could come into the house and outnumber and outgun his family. But more deeply, things were wrong once the Police was an institution outside of the African Cultural Experience.

Even so, on a more superficial level, Zuba couldn’t help but wonder why he relaxed and felt comforted when the blonde offered for him to get his clothes. The officer enabled and enables officers like Sgt. M__. It donned on Zuba that he was played. He was played by Sgt. M__ who harassed his Father and arrested him. He was played by the blonde who acted as though he were nice but he was just as bad if not worse than Sgt. M__. And he was played by the internet revolutionaries, who debated hours upon hours reasoning that there were ‘good Whites’ and ‘good cops’ and ‘we are our worst enemy’ and celebrity gossip and what not. He was played by these folk because they helped shape his consciousness and his powerlessness. In the end he was played and he resolved to tell the truth about himself; the only one from his house caught by the Caucasians’ web. He should have kept his mouth shut like a “Nigger” or seriously organized a resistance like a Revolutionary, but he was Not Enough Nigger and Not Enough Revolutionary.

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