“Nigga” Problems

As black males, calling one another nigga is seen as a term of endearment, something we take pride in. “If you my nigga, you my nigga then”.  We strayed far away from the angry euphemisms of yesteryear, dropping the “-er” ending and adding the “a” with hopes that it might soften the blows of racism. Older and wiser black folks will tell us that using that word, regardless of its ending, is still detrimental to our progression as a people. Having niggas comes from a deep seated common interest, usually women, drugs or music. Yes, there is a direct correlation between my usage of the word nigga and what niggas who use the word like to do.

Unfortunately, the same niggas who you would call your niggas will turn on you, causing you to question their loyalty.  A nigga can’t trust another nigga as far as he can throw him. It’s ironic how you can hold your contemporary to such a high standard and expect so much from him, even though you don’t trust him.  I’ve become way too accustomed to letting my “niggas” become familiar with certain personal aspects of my life, only for them to use it against me. There was an unspoken code I had to understand and most of the rules didn’t make sense outside of my circle of friends, but I still had no choice but to abide by them.

“Never let a nigga get too close to your woman, never confide in your nigga about your dealings with your woman, never let you nigga know when you and your woman are unhappy and never ever leave your nigga alone with your woman. Period.” All these codes, seen as some unwritten code of conduct between niggas, have been broken and or violated by one of my niggas in recent memory. I can count on both hands the number of times my relationship was compromised because one of my niggas overstepped his boundaries. In retrospect, the fact that I let myself get so out character over a female is absolutely ridiculous. My father always told me to never lose myself over somebody who was replaceable, but pride and the desire to look cool in front of my friends once again, overpowered my father’s teachings. One night, my friends and I decided to throw a function and invite a few people, one of those people being the girl I was involved with at the time.  After a night of drinking, my intoxicated rage left me dealing with myself in a manner to which I was not accustomed. This new feeling left me outside beating up street lights while the girl I was dealing with was in the house surrounded by “my niggas”. Now, one would like to believe that if a nigga was really his nigga, he would not even DARE step to your female. In a perfect world, you would think that the unseen nigga-to-nigga’s-girlfriend barrier would be respected.  The code of conduct would be used wisely, but not in my favor.

I would soon become aware that while I was outside, dealing with demons of the liquid variety, my “niggas” were inside, each attempting to make passes at my girl. Need I not remind you that these were the same niggas who talked my ear off with that “She’s good to you Bruh, don’t lose her”. I allowed these niggas to get me off my game and allowed them to get comfortable enough to get close to my woman. Now, as I sit here writing this essay, I remind myself of all the times I could have EASILY crossed one my niggas for a small piece of vagina. Really, the number of times I could’ve spent time between the legs of some poor, unsuspecting nigga’s girlfriend is staggering. But I guess everybody aint built like me. 

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