The Nigger Factory. Gil Scott-Heron

women, and the three-story fraternity house which had once been for home economics (before Adler Annex) completed the other half of the oval.

      Earl parked in the ample lot, took a look at himself in the rear-view mirror, lit a cigarette, and got out. The newborn wind whistled at him. Smoke came from the chimney atop the small wooden hut that housed the security guard in the corner of the area. He saw through the naked branches of trees a pale-eyed, unblinking moon that hovered low in the sky like an oval of cold, shadowy clay.

      Jonesy was standing on the steps of the frat building. The stocky MJUMBE chieftain, who played linebacker on the football team, was dressed in a black, short-sleeved dashiki and dark trousers.

      ‘Niggers always rather be hip than warm,’ Earl thought as he contemplated how strongly the wind was whipping against the short-sleeved African shirt.

      Jonesy looked as though he wanted to say something, but noting the cold indifference on Earl’s face he merely nodded. He led the way into the building.

      The first floor was in total darkness. Earl could hear couples positioning themselves in the dark. It was against school regulations for women to be in the frat houses unless there was a chaperoned dance or some other university-sanctioned function going on. The frat men gave little attention to what school regulations stipulated. They unscrewed the first floor lightbulbs and did as they damn well pleased.

      ‘Upstairs,’ Jonesy mumbled.

      The two men took the stairs quickly and entered the thirdfloor meeting room where Baker, King, and Cotton sat around a square card table. Abul Menka sat in the corner staring intently out of the window. Earl took the chair directly opposite Baker. Jonesy stood by the door and folded his arms, looking over his shoulder out into the hall from time to time.

      ‘Happ’nin’, Earl?’ Baker asked.

      ‘Nothin’ much,’ Earl replied lightly. He hated bullshit like this, but he had expected a great deal of it. ‘I could use a run-down on the score.’

      ‘Yeah,’ Baker said as though bored. ‘We got a lista shit t’gether fo’ the Head Nigger.’ He grinned and continued to look through a pile of papers in front of him. ‘We figgered maybe you could take ’um over there if you wanned to.’

      Here we go, Earl thought as he took the list from Baker. If I wanted to.

      There was a tight feeling in the pit of the SGA president’s stomach. He could feel his pulse vibrating and drumming an uptempo solo next door to his brain. He lit a cigarette and left the pack on the table. He could feel the pairs of eyes drilling holes into his forehead. Though he noticed that Abul Menka had not looked up when he entered, he felt that even the notorious Captain Cool was tense, watching and waiting.

      ‘Yeah,’ was all that Earl said when he had completed his reading of the list.

      Ben King snorted like a bull. Earl cast a glance in the black giant’s direction and the returned stare blazed dislike. He met the look head-on. He was by no means intimidated by the huge football hero, though he had no eagerness to test the myths that had been built up pertaining to the larger man’s strength and ferocity.

      ‘So, uh, this is the score,’ Baker stammered uneasily. ‘We decided that perhaps, uh, things might be working out a little slowly for your office. We know how hard it is to get organized since we’re always tryin’ to organize things in the frat … we thought maybe you could, uh, use a little help to get the ball rollin’ an’ get people behind you.’ Baker was choosing his words very carefully. ‘Uh, it was shapin’ up like another one a them years like las’ year.’ The tension in the room could be felt as Baker dragged on. Earl did nothing to ease the pressure. He did not move or frown.

      ‘So we got things off the ground!’ King said suddenly.

      Earl chose to ignore King and did not even look to his left in the challenger’s direction. He wondered how much more he would be told about the things that were lying beneath the surface. He didn’t buy what Baker was saying for a second and the lie was infuriating him more than the overall maneuver. Everything was too hazy, but Baker was waiting for Earl to start the name-calling. Earl would have to force any direct split that became visible between the two groups. Baker could then go back and report that he had tried to work with the SGA leader without success. Ice. Ice. Ice.

      ‘Everybody knows the problems around here,’ the MJUMBE spokesman said slowly.

      Earl almost laughed. He could see that he was rattling Baker instead of the other way around. Baker had wanted to see him squirming, nervous, and uneasy in the unfamiliar position of follower. Earl’s deadpan composure was reversing the pressure and anxiety was crawling deeper and deeper into Baker’s eyes.

      ‘We got the same pains in the ass that they had here forty years ago if you read back issues of The Statesman. But whenever it comes time for a direct confrontation the students shy away. They so concerned wit’ a fuckin’ piece a bullshit paper that they refuse to pull their heads outta the fuckin’ groun’. Who cares if they spent four years in hell and lived like pigs in a sty? Thass why I sed: “if you wanted to get involved.” I don’t know how concerned you are about graduatin’ on time.’ Baker leaned back.

      ‘You may git in trubble,’ Ben King baby-talked. ‘We wudn’t wan’ anything like that.’

      ‘Look aroun’,’ Baker injected. ‘We all seniors. Fo’ uv us are on football grants that they could snatch in a minnit, but ain’ no man s’pose to sit fo’ alla this shit! We cain’ live with a pipe up our assholes, can we?’

      He was talking to keep Ben King quiet. Ben was 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