Someone called him “Nigga”, they yelled it from the door.
His grandmother heard it in her bedroom, the pet name ripped her to the core.
“Hold up”, he yelled from the window, “Need to tell Grams, I leaving.”
He approached his grandmother quietly, tears were flowing, he thought she was grieving.
“Gram, are you okay? What has upset you so?”
She looked in her grandson’s face only hoping he could see their souls.
The souls of the heritage she knew, her raising was from the deep south,
The souls that would cringe from the pain they suffered from the whips and chains, as the Masta’s spit the name “Nigga'” from their mouths.
“Gram, why are you crying so? Are you hurt, what can I get for you?”
The souls that took it all, in spite of it all, those who stood tall so you can do what you do.
“Gram, nod your head please speak to me, tell me what you need.”
The words of her grandson hit her heart he was a part of their seed.
She patted her face with her tattered dress, calming herself to speak.
He waited patiently, as the name “Nigga, yo Nigga” was spoken as tough it was a beat.
His grandmother shook her head and wept again, her grandsons feelings were touched.
The love his grandmother had for him had been destroyed in one word, her teachings crushed.
She taught him from the time he was able to walk he was the descendant of warriors and kings.
If he answered to the call of “Nigga” or “boy” what did her teachings mean.
She taught him that although his father and uncles were not what they were deemed to be.
God would see her in the grave before she would let the streets take another from the family tree.
“Nigga you comin’ or what? What you want me to do”
Her grandson spoke ever so softly, “Gram you know I love you.”
“Go head man and don’t yell no more……by the way my name is Raheem.”
He returned to his grandmother and opened his arms.
“Gram, tell me more about those kings.”