“Call me black and I’ll get a complex knot of pride and insecurity tightening in my psyche. It’s a word that reminds me that I’m lesser than and different from, but it’s also a source of self-affirmation.”

Intense and compelling from the very beginning, Jeffrey Boakye bravely explores the ways in which people with darker skin are located in language. “Call me black and you’ll remind me that, racially, I’m everything I’m not, which makes me everything I am,” he continues. “Call me black and I won’t even flinch because I’m so used to calling myself black that it’s become the invisible lens. A perspective that has hardened into an objective truth. Call me black and I’ll welcome the definition, despite the fact that it denigrates just as much as it defines. Call me black and I’ll flinch. Call me black and I won’t even flinch.”

Afro-Caribbean. Coloured. Ethnic minority. Immigrant. BAME. Urban. Fam. Coon. Black. These are all terms, to name but a few, that I have been labelled, branded, characterised or called. Not all of them are derogatory. Some of them I’ve even used myself. Others are deeply abrasive. All of them, though, are part of the linguistic labyrinth of blackness, constructed not only to describe black identity but also to confine and obfuscate it. And it’s not just those living this experience who are getting lost in the lexical maze. Even those who built it can’t seem to escape. That’s because without a map of the terminology, the designers become trapped inside their own obliviousness to the black condition. Black, Listed offers everybody a way out.

It’s brilliantly simple: the book lists and explores the various terms by which black communities are described, represented, classified and oppressed. From “Jeffrey” to “wog”, this book is first and foremost an inventory of categorisations, names, insults and phrases. But it’s so much more than that. It’s also a comprehensive yet concise exploration of black identity. In this respect, it follows on naturally from Boakye’s first book, Hold Tight: Black Masculinity, Millennials, and the Meaning of Grime. An English teacher from south London, Boakye teaches all of us valuable lessons in history, sociology, politics, literature and pop culture.

Boakye begins with “official descriptors”, such as black British, ethnic minority or BAME. These are terms whose acceptance is widely shared but whose meaning is misunderstood. Boakye’s project is not an instruction manual, telling people what they can and cannot say. Instead, his objective is to educate. His first lesson is to illuminate how race is a social construct; nobody is actually black or white. In fact, the only reason people started calling themselves white was because they discovered people with darker skin. Needing a way to establish otherness, they chose unambiguous demarcation over scientific accuracy. Maybe one day we can reform our woefully inadequate collective vocabulary. But, as Boayke appreciates, we cannot even dream of doing so until we comprehend the ways in which “blackness” is defined.

The most uncomfortably insightful chapter is his explication of derogatory terms. I’ve lost count of the number of emails and letters telling me that I am disgusting, dirty and degenerate. Actually, those aren’t the exact terms they use. They don’t have to, because they have a much more potent word at their disposal: the N-word. The most useful lesson from Boakye, though, is not directed at those who combine their use of the N-word with explicit racism. Rather, it’s directed to those who think they can separate the two. Boakye cites Quentin Tarantino, a man who encourages people to say the N-word so as to reduce its power. After all, it’s just a word, right? But words matter. Plain and simple, the N-word was created as a referent for slaves. Its sole purpose is to denigrate and dehumanise. Its illocutionary force is unimaginable trauma. For this reason, the N-word will remain a signification of white supremacy, because that’s who the word was invented to serve.

This book is also about otherness. Boakye reminds us that even the most benevolent of intentions of liberal humanitarianism can be deeply harmful. As Boakye intelligently observes, for decades, 1 billion African people across 54 distinct nations have been reduced to one ubiquitous image of poverty, grief and suffering. Though deserving of credit for the worthwhile causes they fund, western charity campaigns have tattooed destitution on to a continent that in reality is as diverse as it is vibrant. Until we reflect upon the way in which we export aid, we will continue to import the perception of the black condition as one of helplessness.

The response I received when I made this point earlier this year can best be described as that of angered confusion: if you want to defeat racial prejudice, why do you keep bringing it up? Boakye’s answer is his most powerful insight: “Race is a construct, but the construct is real.” In other words, we cannot conflate our belief that race shouldn’t matter with the illusion that it doesn’t.

This requires admitting that not everybody else’s experience of the world is exactly the same, a message that I receive loud and clear when reading Boakye’s chapter on “Loaded Terms”. Black communities are relentlessly defined by tropes that, while not intentionally offensive, nonetheless have a marginalising effect. Boakye calls them little ideological hugs. Black people are “cool” because they are suspiciously independent and elusive, embodying a dissonance from the white norm. People of mixed heritage are “exotic”, marketable objects of wonder, admired for their relative proximity to whiteness. The underlying force is still racism, even if it has a smiley face.

This book gives a voice to those whose experience is persistently defined, refined and denied by others. Boakye shows how language does not always have to be insulting, offensive or loaded, it can also be incredibly emancipatory, particularly when the black community takes ownership of the terms of prose. Boakye’s “balled fist of black solidarity” represents a very clear demand: we must be at the table when blackness is defined. That’s what’s so empowering about this book, which treats the black community as agents of change who can steer the agenda. If blackness is a maze, then we must be the ones who design it. With architects like Jeffrey Boakye, I’m optimistic we can build ourselves an authentic future.

David Lammy is the Labour MP for Tottenham.

• Black, Listed: Black British Culture Explored by Jeffrey Boakye is published by Dialogue (£18.99). To order a copy go to guardianbookshop.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over £15, online orders only. Phone orders min p&p of £1.99