It is better to blame others than to confront the truth of our being responsible for whatever has happened to us as an African race. I decided to write ‘Capitalist Nigger’ to open a debate on the state of the African race. But in doing so, my intention was not to treat my own contribution to the debate with kid gloves. It is to tell it like it is, the truth and nothing but the truth. My observations are bound to infuriate a lot of my people. Even the title of the title of the book is bound to make a lot of people angry. Many people will be angry, to say it mildly, when I question the intelligence of my people compared to the Asians (Indians, Pakistanis, Malaysians, Filipinos) and others who attained independence at the same time as most African countries. If the book generates the kind of dialogue, debate or argument for or against the position I have taken, so be it
teasing gone. "Don't you understand?" "See what?" I demanded, confused by his sudden mood swing as much as his words. "I'm never angry with you -- how could I be? Brave, trusting... warm as you are." "Then why?" I whispered, remembering the black moods that pulled him away from me, that I'd always interpreted as well-justified frustration -- frustration at my weakness, my slowness, my unruly human reactions... He put his hands carefully on both sides of my face. "I infuriate myself," he said gently. "The way I can't seem to keep from putting you in danger. My very existence puts you at risk. Sometimes I truly hate myself. I should be stronger, I should be able to --" I placed my hand over his mouth. "Don't." He took my hand, moving it from his lips, but holding it to his face. "I love you," he said. "It's a poor excuse for what I'm doing, but it's still true." It was the first time he'd said he loved me -- in so many words. He might not realize it, but I certainly
annaabi.ee 
