The Nigger Factory by Gil Scott Heron Read Free Book Online Page A

spoiling for an argument with Thomas. He had been told to lay cool. They had everything on their side. Earl had nothing. But the SGA leader’s apparent calm was unnerving.
    ‘What do you expec’ Calhoun t’say ’bout these?’ Earl said, fingering the demands.
    ‘He has ’til tomorrow noon. We don’ expec’ him t’say anything in particular t’night. When you take him a copy a the things, you need not even ask what he thinks. We’ll wait ’til tomorrow when the new copy a The Statesman hits. We boun’ t’git some readin’ out befo’ he does. Then we’ll be in good shape wit’ trustees, faculty, all the resta the bullshit artists . . . what we want ’um to see is some laid-out thought ’bout whuss happ’nin’.’
    ‘That’s short notice,’ Earl commented. Baker’s last lines about The Statesman had let him know that Victor Johnson was lined up with MJUMBE.
    ‘Shit! We too damn late!’ Speedy Cotton snorted.
    There was a pause and the only sound that could be heard was the tap-tap-tapping of Jonesy’s foot on the hollow floor.
    Earl was glad that shadows cloaked most of the room. He knew that a smile was creeping into his face. If he stayed there much longer he was a cinch to blow everything.
    ‘Waddaya think?’ Baker asked suddenly.
    Earl almost laughed. If anyone had ever told him that Ralph Baker would ever ask his opinion on anything he would have called them absolutely insane.
    ‘I couldn’t say,’ Earl breathed. ‘Like I sed: thass pretty short notice.’
    The room stirred. Something was going on in the doorway behind Earl. He didn’t bother to turn around.
    ‘What, man?’ Baker asked someone.
    ‘Dude name Johnson downstairs t’see you.’
    Baker watched Earl. No reaction.
    ‘Tell ’im ta wait. I be there.’ Baker snorted.
    ‘What time is Calhoun comin’ home?’ Earl asked.
    “Bout ten,’ Cotton said. ‘From the thee-ate-uh.’
    ‘Ol’ bag bitch!’ King cursed, recalling the maid.
    ‘Does he know about these?’
    ‘I doubt it,’ King said. ‘The firs’ thing you do when people start plottin’ on you’ shit ain’ goin’ to the movie.’
    Earl got up. ‘I’ll be goin’ over there ’bout ten.’ He turned toward the door. He could feel that heat rising to his head. Somehow he could feel that Abul Menka was looking at him for the first time since he entered the room. He turned and caught the stare head on. Yeah, he thought. I got alla these muthafuckuhs shook . . . thass good. But it’s not time fo’ you yet, Captain Cool. Or you, unfriendly Giant, as he thought of King. Time will come though.
    ‘You can wait here!’ King exclaimed on the verge of rage. Earl confidently estimated that he had upset King more than any of the others.
    ‘No. I missed dinna, man. I’m goin’ to O’Jay’s for a bite befo’ I go to the Plantation.’
    ‘Yeah,’ Baker mumbled.
    ‘Later,’ Earl said, leaving.
    When Baker next looked up Earl had gone and the only reminder of his presence was the echo of Ben King hammering the already battered card table time and time again.

6
    The Plan
    ‘Jonesy? Do me a favor and go down ta git Johnson.’
    ‘He in the lobby?’
    ‘Somewhere down there.’
    Jonesy exited. The four remaining young men in black dashikis sat in silence. Baker ran his hand over his hairless head. Speedy Cotton, the lithe, coal-complexioned halfback, yawned broadly. Ben King sat frozen in his chair. Abul Menka looked out of the window.
    Jonesy came back in, followed closely by a short young man of medium build who wore thick glasses and a blue business suit. He carried a pad and a pen under his arm.
    ‘Hi, brothers,’ he said emitting a smile that looked like a cracking mirror. He was extremely nervous and uncomfortable with the five MJUMBE chieftains and they were all aware of it.
    The three seated members vaguely acknowledged his presence. Abul Menka remained silent. Johnson didn’t notice. He fidgeted with the pad, looking through it for notes that