Niggers, Niggas And Negroes: Part one: Nigga-Rigged

By Teryl James

Niggers, Niggas, And Negroes is a gritty coming-of-age tale about a young man that wakes up to the ugly truth of his American ghetto caste.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Knappy Apps Publishing
• Release date: Jun 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798330220250

Teryl James

Teryl James, hailing from Compton, California, is a powerful new voice in contemporary literature. With his debut novel, *Niggers Niggas & Negroes*, James fearlessly tackles the complexities of Black identity and societal perceptions with raw honesty and unflinching candor. Growing up in the vibrant and challenging streets of Compton, he developed a keen insight into the struggles and triumphs of his community, which deeply informed his writing.James's work is characterized by its bold narrative style and incisive social commentary. *Niggers Niggas & Negroes* is a provocative exploration of language, culture, and history, pushing readers to confront uncomfortable truths and engage in meaningful dialogue about race and identity in America.Beyond writing, Teryl James is an advocate for social justice and community empowerment. He frequently speaks at schools and community centers, inspiring young people to find their voices and tell their own stories. James holds a degree in Sociology from California State University, Long Beach, and his writings have been featured in several literary journals and anthologies.With his debut novel, Teryl James cements his place as a significant literary figure, challenging readers to rethink their perspectives and embrace the complexities of the human experience.

Book preview

Niggers, Niggas, & Negroes

Part One: Nigga-Rigged

Teryl James

KnappyApps Publishing

Copyright © 2023 DMB

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

ISBN-13: 9781234567890

ISBN-10: 1477123456

Cover design by: Art Painter

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

Printed in the United States of America

Who decided the word nigger would make Black people angry for all time?

Dave Chappelle

Nigga-Rigged

Waking up to summer was no easy task for lazy afternoon; like the rest of us, it preferred the early morning sentiments of winter and the midday virtues of spring.  For one thing it was way too hot. Not a dry heat, but a sticky, wet, exhausting heat that fouled the air like chronic halitosis. Even the pitch-black darkness of night was better than the still listless sunshine that seemed to span eternity. And late day was noisy; cars choking and coughing in bustling afternoon traffic, the nerve-racking shrieks of nigger children anxious in anticipation of the last day of school, and the clamor of black people trying to make a living, all formed a maddening cacophony of sound that made the afternoon long for the drowsy days of fall…

A dying yellow ball of fire parked behind a skyscraper temporarily turning the skyline to deep azure; the outline of a giant faded moon hung just within arm’s reach. Like everything else I’d seen over the years, sunset had its own unique ritual just for this dark corner of the world. The first thing to signal the coming darkness was the noise. From the sizzle of electricity whizzing along telephone lines like a cricket’s serenade to croaky roar of, domino mutha fucka, night was loud just like niggas. And even though it was just falsetto night, high-pitched sirens were already screaming like howling werewolves in worship of the full moon.

A glint in the burgeoning night, one of cold metallic-blue, stole the first rays of moonlight, streaking in my peripheral vision like a dull shooting star. Instantly icicles shot through my warmblood, chilling me down to the bone.

Creep, creep, creep…

Out of nowhere or perhaps lured by the moon, the discord of Doppler-shifted funk roared into focus. Beastly percussions and a slithering electronic strum reverberated in my bowels. My mind was stuck, lost in its invisible headlights.

What was it—a who-ride?

A pimped-out Cutlass sitting on sharp one hundred-spoke teeth, Dayton wires, approached slowly, seemingly bouncing from the music blaring out of its dropped ass-end.

Fuck!

Each and every time gang-bangers who-rided on the block, I was reminded why my mama hated this street so much. There was only one way in and one way out for vehicles around here, which meant every time some bullshit went down, we were either the first to know or the last to find out. Neither situation gave us much time to get our shit together.

By the time the car got directly in front of us the thump of Grand Master Flash’s The Message rattled my poor mama’s window behind me. My heart matched the double clap rhythm, drowning my brain in adrenaline. Something wasn’t right; it was going too slow, and all the windows were rolled down.

No headlights on…

Gawd damned! A drive-by!

I glanced to the side waiting for Foodstamp to react; he didn’t move a muscle. I didn’t know if I was breathing, but I could feel the air chilling around my face. My heart was somewhere around my knees, begging me to run away, but I couldn’t leave Foodstamp; he was the homie. Suddenly a pair of black hands appeared out the windows. I flinched. A single bead of sweat tickled on its way down my cheek. No…not in the face…

I was too young for a closed-casket funeral.

There were no guns though…not yet. They threw up their set, hand signs signifying their gang affiliation. I recognized the four fingers up, two fingers down, and the lowercase g made with the thumb, fourth index and middle fingers; Ghost Town Crips. I finally exhaled; they were from the chittlin’ flats. Foodstamp threw up the same sign and hollered, Gee tee cree ip. Satisfied, they sped off to the tune of the souring syncopated verse:

‘It seems like a jungle sometimes;

it makes me wonder how I keep from going under….’

Our eyes followed the vehicle until it slipped back in the darkness. As soon as the car was out of sight, I nonchalantly turned my attention back to our conversation.

…I heard the same shit…‘cept back then them niggas didn’t even have no gun.

This was the way it was in the ‘hood. The experience of violence was so common, so pervasive, so every day to people like me that it necessitated nothing other than an instinctual physical response. Nowhere in the community was anyone deploring the evils of guns, sticks, and knives or the short brutal lives of the black men that wielded them. In fact, the only times it was ever publicly lamented was during the funeral procession from the church to the grave of someone who died much too young; or when a slick dressed nigga was trying to get into office. Nowhere was there outrage, so the godless disregard for life festered unchecked—even in the hearts and minds of black people who knew better.

Them niggas was real hard back then, Foodstamp nodded, keeping his hard and focused en garde look.

To be true, his tension had nothing to do with the fact that we had both come a couple of seconds away from death; such was triviality and impossible for either of us to fully comprehend. Back then I would just lie to myself and say I felt nothing and snatch on my nut sack for effect. But again, the truth was I felt the uneasiness too, perhaps all young niggas did one way or the other. Maybe the transition from youth to adulthood opened a niggas eyes to the harsh reality of his caste. For me it was a gut feeling that said something about this life just wasn’t right. Looking around, at my mama’s heartbroken shack amongst a shantytown of lost hope and failed dreams, I often longed for the day when I could escape this wrongness.

As the silence grew older the emotion passed again and I started to say some nigga bullshit to help usher Foodstamp out of his black hole. But it was too late; the edges of his face had already hardened, his expression turned to stone.

Nigga, what is we doin’ here? He demanded. The words burst out his mouth with a little bit of spittle, the result of a slight lisp that manifested itself mostly when he was angry. We bull shittin’. Foodstamp stammered away from a handrail we were both leaning on, his lanky arms flailing madly like a young albatross that hadn’t quite mastered flight.

These streets had given Foodstamp that name long ago. I heard most niggas lived in such a state of perpetual denial that they would have riled at the mere mention of government welfare, but in these streets nicknames always held at least a little bit of truth. There weren’t any six-foot-seven, two hundred fifty-pound Tinys or ugly old whores called Pretty Betty in my ‘hood. Life was hard and fast; niggas had no time for such tomfoolery. A nigga named Killa Rob was at the very least known for packing a piece, just as Leakin’ Ass Tony was always going to give a bitch the clap. The moniker Foodstamp was no exception, and like any nigga with a nickname, Foodstamp wore it proudly.

Slowly I lifted my weight off the handrail. I held my fists up high, and then slowly opened my hands, stretching my fingertips just above the shadows of crumbling chimneys. A plume of air escaped from my lips, a yawn. I stared at those broken chimneys again sniffing my t-shirt inconspicuously, hoping not to catch the scent of charcoal. I pulled myself to full height and reached out again. But even on my tippy-toes, the moon was still a fingertip away. Perhaps it was no better than this place and maybe it was made of cheese, but I still wanted to find out for myself.

Disappointed I gazed passed the sky into the darkening horizon where my universe came into focus. Tenements loomed in the distance; two sets of red brick projects packed with nothing but niggas. A nigga would probably die over there tonight, I mused, and