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From Sunday 14th to Saturday 20th June 2009, Nuremberg, the city of Human Rights, staged an impressive African Week. The opening events were splashed at the Erfahrungsfeld zur Entfaltung der Sinne, set in the sprawling meadows of the Wöhrder Wiese, amid sculptures and playgrounds for children, with the River Pegnitz snaking lazily across. “HOOOOONNNNKKK!” blared the horn of the gigantic ship bearing down on me. Terrified in my fragile, rubber raft, I began to row like hell to get out of the way. Sweating in spite of the frigid temperatures, I squeezed my eyes tighter and braced my ears for another irritating blast that would further tick me off. Cautiously, I eased one eyelid open to assess this horrific situation. 'If the way in above has been blocked, how could that have been done without us bumping into the blockers?' wondered Monique as the four girls hurried along as best they could upon entering the narrow, twisting tunnel down which Surban had vanished. Even though controversies exist among believing scholars, the following observations, though presented in brief, seem to lead us to the conclusion that the Qur’an supports the basic views held by modern science about biological evolution. Let us approach the topic directly and as concisely as possible. It is no secret to any informed person that the United States and the rest of the world must stop burning fossil fuels if we are to survive as a people and a planet. All intelligent scientific information points out that CO2 emissions into the atmosphere from the burning of fossil fuels are responsible for climate change that will eventually cause the demise of planet Earth and its inhabitants. “Mom, there's a rat.” Mick's voice was slightly hushed, deliberately calm. I placed my tray on a table and returned to the counter to get some napkins and utensils. As I headed back to my table, I got the shock of my life and stood frozen in place: my tray was on fire! I ran over to see what was burning. A fire was consuming my bag of sweets. In a panic, I sprang into action and tried to blow the flames out; but my feeble puffs were as effective as telling a cat to sit. A slew of “colorful words” came to mind, but cussing would add nothing to this drama. I looked around for a fire extinguisher but found none. Carefully, I snatched the bag off my tray, flung it to the floor and frantically performed the clumsiest Mexican hat dance this side of Texas to put out the rest of the flames. At the core of Africa’s problems are the Africans themselves. No other group has been as physically and psychologically brutalized by strangers for all of 500 years. The end is nowhere in sight. Slavery has been practiced throughout human history, also between homogeneous groups. But for Africans, after slavery came colonization. This experience was more traumatizing than slavery. Strange people appeared out of nowhere to take the land – the people’s highest religious symbol. There was no stopping them; a handful could kill 10,000 warriors in a matter of hours. It was a morning of hell; a glowing darkness had invaded the land. The elephant had departed and the land was left in a world of strangers that had come to make them look like slaves. Okonkwo, a man of the people had left them to the great beyond. In the process he left the land to the white men. Do you know that you can learn to write very well without even learning to think in the so-called ‘efficient’ way? In other words, do you know that you can think deeply without thinking at all, and just by using your five eyes instead? If you don’t, you’ll have a lot of pleasure now. They have condemned us as mad. But I know better. It is just another play in a plot within a plot. The mad ones are out there. Only not just mad. Demented. Twisted. They preen and wear suits, granted, but their minds are infected, roiling with a million wriggling worms. I know who’s mad, alright. From the beginning of the 13th century a certain Wolfram von Eschenback of Germany created the image of the so-called noble Moor as a knight full of virtues, courage and a ripe fruit of faithfulness. The Moor’s education was touted to be beyond any other, pure and brave in battle he was too. No other knight before him was so gentle for he knew no injustice, according to von Eschenback. “My friend, I left my home country and my little boy Veloda with his father in my country, Easternland, dreaming that I could get a better job leading to a better life in Kristiania. I left everything including relatives, promising them that when I would come back to Easternland, they will enjoy my wealth forever. But my dreams seem to be embryonic, for no fruit has appeared in my dream…” Lee currently coaches 7 of the top 10 talk show hosts in America; people like, Michael Medved, Mike Gallagher, Dennis Prager, Hugh Hewitt and Bill Bennett. He also developed “The Laura Ingraham Show” and was Laura’s Executive Producer for many years. This manuscript proposes that human personality can be generally classified by shapes, such as squares, circles and triangles. Squares symbolize those who adhere to facts and beliefs. Circles represent those who are outgoing and flexible, and triangles stand for those who are indecisive and fluctuate between square and circle. The author raises examples for each shape and systemically analyzes the potential outcomes that result from the interaction between personality shapes in a marriage or in the workplace. There are several descriptions of and commandments for strategic conducts in the Qur‘an that can be juxtaposed with the generic concepts of business strategies to find illuminating parallels between managerial experiences and the divine codes of conduct. Such juxtaposition, over and above serving the purposes of academic interests and quenching intellectual thirst, can also redirect our freedom of choice in our management practices in order to help reconsider the limits of our freedom of choice in our vigorously competitive activities. Moreover, such a descriptive-analytical study will encourage us to reconsider the empirical implications of the related assertions of the Qur'an vis-à-vis the real situations of planned activities by the modern calculative man. I stared gloomily across the ridge, my eyes open but unseeing, awake but oblivious of the undulating valleys of my beloved land. Numerous species of birds chirped and cawed, nonchalant and happy in their carefree existence. The Railway Station was number three in the list of places to visit during my short stay in town. I came in on official duty to cover the centenary celebration for LIFELINE MAGAZINE. I handled its Social Events page. At forty-eight James Wanjiru was blessed with a physique that many envied. Time was kind to him and he retained a fitness that few twenty year olds could match. He was tall, robust and carried himself with a confident gait. Perhaps the only blemish on his otherwise perfect mien was the small balding patch on the top of his head. Ahead the way narrowed into a tunnel and the boxes and crates were left behind as the big woman probed forward drawing Surban and her stumbling mother along with her. 'There will be guards soon. We live or die on your behaviour. Keep silent and stay still when I tell you. Girl! Do you understand? Put your hand over your mother's mouth to stop her from making any sound. Tell me you will obey!' Both farmers, and Farmers Growing Fuel, applaud you as the first serious proponent of renewable energy, and specifically, renewable fuels, who has ever campaigned for and achieved the Presidency of the United States. We will do everything in our power to facilitate your renewable fuels goals, if you will proceed in a manner that offers each and every farmer involved in the renewable fuels chain, the same advantages and rewards that are offered every other participant. Obadiah waited until Benjamin was long asleep before making his way to the hidden cave. He had told him nothing of the priests or his secret shelter because he knew that, if it came down to saving his life, Benjamin would give them all up in a heartbeat. Benjamin was seemingly convinced that Obadiah was somehow stealing from the royal treasury, and Obadiah said nothing to steer him away from that theory. Every time the subject came up Obadiah would just smile knowingly and shake his head. It has been 28 years since AIDS was discovered, yet even well-educated people in Africa don’t believe it exists and use all manner of notions to dismiss it. Even if the world were to pump in all of the US government’s annual over US$2 trillion budget into combating AIDS, there would be no corresponding character reorientation towards sex and use of piercing instruments. We will go nowhere! This is the message of `Enemy Within`. Are you a teacher? Then you are a leader. Well, who are your followers? This question is not important because it has a clear answer. So let’s ask the right question. How will you lead? In 1908—exactly 100 years ago—the visionary Henry Ford created the Model “T” Ford. Its engine was fueled by Ethanol: the “perfect fuel”, as Henry called it; clean-burning, efficient, inexpensive, and produced from crops grown by American farmers, so that farms and rural communities throughout the nation could forever be self-sustaining and viable. Now, not only would farmers produce food for people and feed for livestock; they would also produce inexpensive transportation fuel, to fuel the great number of automobiles that Ford assembly lines were poised to produce. Nowadays, Pan-Africanism represents the aggregation of historical, cultural, spiritual, artistic, scientific and philosophical legacies of Africans from past times to the present. Pan Africanism as an ethical system traces its origins from ancient times, and promotes values that are the product of the African civilization and struggles against slavery, racism, colonialism, and neo-colonialism. The Moneymaker, by Catherine Wanjiku.N (Kenya) Posted 1/31/2009 “Poverty has beautified itself like three gem stones, the glitter lies below the skin. Poverty is good. I know your heart pace has increased. By the time I finish narrating this, you will have known why. It will take cultural, financial, political and religious teaching to alleviate poverty from the minds of people. My dear son, it is the most difficult lesson to teach. The poor resist riches. They want to create attention. This is why when other countries look at us they adore our riches, but when we look at ourselves we want to commit suicide due to lack of money. But isn’t committing suicide a sign of bowing to defeat and failure?” Belo So M, by Wingate Onyedi (Nigeria) Posted 1/31/2009 Samantha was lying face down in my bedroom. She was sniffing and whimpering. She was crying. Her long and full auburn hair was tossed all over the pillow. “Gawd! Oh Gawd!” she vituperated, hitting her fists on the pillow which unsuccessfully smothered her wailings. “Samantha dear, what is it?” I asked, hurrying over to her side, taking her in my arms and stroking her luxuriant hair. “It is Bob,” she said, heaving in tortuous agony. The Decision, by Henry Onyeama (Nigeria) Posted 1/17/2009 There are decisions and there are decisions. But this was the mother of decisions. I had decided the road to take before I boarded the plane at Heathrow; before the London School of Economics released the result that proclaimed me the best graduating student in the institution’s MBA programme; even before the telephone call from my father. But knowing is a planet away from doing. At fifteen Bianca Biranee has blossomed into a willowy beauty, a nubile teenager who can do more than keep a man’s bed warm at night. Her little full mouth and pouting lips look as though created with a careful brilliant smear of lipstick already on them; and her nose, almost aquiline, sits gracefully between two sparkling eyes, on a towering five feet eight inches height. At fifteen she has come under the roving radar of randy men but age did not bring with it any clues to discern the fine line between lust and love. Windows and Reflections, by Ife Okoli (Nigeria) Posted 1/10/2009 "Sir? Did you hear me, Sir?" The secretary with her fingers poised over the notepad in her hand paused, worried. Without thinking she shifted in her chair and the mini skirt she had on rode higher exposing smooth brown thighs. Not that he would notice, any way, she thought bitterly. The Belt, by Maria Storfjord (Norway) Posted 1/10/2009 She was sitting in her room, a little girl of 5 years old. "I'm all alone in the whole world." She thought. Her daddy had just moved out, and she felt all alone. Even though her daddy wasn't and ain't nice, she still loves him. She's crying like a baby, but nobody hears her. She's thinking: Should I?, or shouldn’t I? She decides to do it.She grabs the belt, she put out. An Afternoon Stroll, by Andrew Tan (USA) Posted 1/10/2009 Fresh air filled the autumn day, cool and crisp, as he walked along a wide asphalt path. Orange and yellow colored the world. A whispering breeze whistled through maple leaves while oak trees stood guard; pillars leading to an ancient Greek temple. If your wife is still asleep when you have woken up, give her a gentle kiss on the forehead. Whenever you have the opportunity, offer her a flower or a bouquet of flowers with a smile. Children do not think about time in the same way as older folks. They are too busy playing games and chatting with their friends. They grow into adults who gain responsibilities and commitments When writing a book it’s difficult to stand back and see it from outside. For the writer, the work becomes an organic whole, almost a slice of life, and objectivity is tossed to the winds. However, with the advent of Print on Demand Publishing, it often becomes the author’s task to sell the book, and that’s where it becomes necessary to see the book as a product. Submitted for Caine Prize consideration Ben, the Kaduna Bureau Chief of the New Nation newspaper, sat down to write his report on the riot. But just as he picked up his pen, he heard a violent knock on the door. And before he turned, the door had caved in under the heavy bombardment of police boots. Submitted for Caine Prize consideration The heat in Khartoum is unbearable to your skin, having come recently from the relatively cooler South. You stand, briefly wiping sweat from your forehead with a handkerchief, and wondering where you can get a soft drink or water, where there may be a food store or restaurant that by any chance could be open. You cannot imagine why they are that sick in their heads as to cut off the water supply. Why do they force everyone to fast, even if they are not believers of that faith? Why force everything on a common man? Submitted for Caine Prize consideration We called it Porto Kiri; they called it Fernando Po. That’s where I set out early to prove a point in my life, maybe to prove a point to my loved-one, Adaure. She was the loveliest of all fruits in the largest of all trees; succulent and stunning in appearance. Submitted for Caine Prize consideration The local folk tell tales about there being a mami-water or mermaid who lived in the sea and who had lost her only daughter. It is said that when the sea was rough, it is because she was angry about not finding her daughter and determined to exert revenge for the loss of her precious child. She would drag unfortunate swimmers into a vortex she had created, leading them to their watery graves. On really bad days, the sea at the Bar Beach would overflow its banks and flood the roads which usually lay a good eight hundred metres from the edge of the sea. It wasn’t the first time for smoke to enter my eyes; neither will it be the last. The first was when I was little, then residing at Enugu, precisely at Uwani, before the civil war. We used to walk past the coal mine on our way to school, and back from school. Then the black smoke would fill the atmosphere, and it peppered us in our eyes. That was my first experience of smoke in my eyes. Sexual violence had harsh and lasting consequences for Tutsi women. The harm experienced by Tutsi women has been particularly severe in light of the physical, psychological, and social impact that it continues to have on their daily lives. With a population that is estimated to be seventy percent female, the magnitude of the detrimental effects on Rwandan society as a whole cannot be underestimated. Tutsi women were violated on multiple levels: as Tutsis, as women, and as Tutsi women. An analysis of their experiences and the attendant legal implications requires an understanding of the ways in which their multiple identities situated them within the conflict. The man stared, looked away and stared again. His eyes widened. His face scrunched as if he smelt something foul. Then he looked away and did a quick sign of the cross. She noticed the rosary that dangled from his bony wrist. He got up and quickly scrambled away. She was left alone on the seat of the bus that would normally occupy four. She turned away and faced the window. She didn't look back as others entered and as the bus drove off, not until her bus stop. This time, she remembered. She raised her shawl over her head, covering part of her face. ... this crude wooden box was the last thing my father ever made. It and the belt I often wear are almost all that remain of the man who was my dad. Yes, there are still photos, but now after more than a quarter of a century since his death, there is little else. Nothing written. Nothing personal, with the exception of his silver and gold wrist watches which I still wear on special occasions, and yet the wooden box has much more significance. NEXT SCENE: bright sunny California day. The words "A few years later" appear. A convertible speeds down scenic Pacific Coast Highway. We see from the rear the driver’s short cropped blond hair being blown black by the wind. A siren blast spoils the tranquility of the day. A motorcycle officer pulls the vehicle over. As the cop approaches the vehicle we see the driver is wearing a priest collar as he goes for identification. “where’s the funeral Father, the cop intones and proceeds to write the driver a ticket. It was all I had left for my children; the story of how we made it through every hardship; indeed it was a bleak time I do wish anyone to taste. It’s a testament of suffering. Miriam Makeba.Makeba' s death left me short of words. As I went home from work on November 11 after reading about her death at a newspaper stand two of her chart-bursters kept on reverberating in my head: 'Patapata' and 'Malaika'. The hauntingly deep voice, resonating with the beautiful energy of Africa; the statesque raunchy figure that filled the stage even in old age; the bold eyes that invited lovers of music to have fun even as it defied all lovers of man' s inhumanity to man and damned all haters of the black race; all these and much more are no more. 4 NOVEMBER 2008: (Obama) A NEW BEGINNING? Yes, it is. The race barrier broken, the referendum on the 43d US president, George W. Bush won overwhelmingly, there will be a basic change in the image of the United States of America all over the world. People around the world love to love USA, warts and all. Bush made it impossible for most, Obama makes it easy, natural. The biggest win for a Democratic candidate in popular votes since 1964, a landslide in electoral votes, a one party country, President-Senate-House united. The road is open. Poets at War, by Rudolf Ogoo Okonkwo (Nigeria) Posted 11/8/08 The first time Obidike came to Tijani Wali’s house was to quell Tijani’s anger. As an adviser to the students’ literary society, Obidike had organized a well-received showing of an Indian film, Mother India, at their Government Girls’ School, Kano. The film offended Tijani. “Our girls should not be exposed to filth like that,” Tijani protested after the show. “Their young minds should be groomed with elements of our cultural heritage and not struck open to foreign cultural imperialism.” You may be wondering now who I am or what my name is. But I don’t think it matters. What matters is that tears course down my eyes each day, as agony that has taken my fellow citizens prisoner today, get to my hearing from the very lengthy distance that separates us. Very stubborn force of evil that became a black man, long captured my fatherland and has vowed to remain our Lord, filling my people’s mouth with sand in shameless impunity. There he parades his ignorance, distributing penury and playing God, while presiding over our nation’s economic demise. Tears of Immense Longing, by Kenechukwu Obi (Nigeria) Posted 11/1/08 Andrew, the Zimbabwean writer, stood at the balcony of his house, and threw glances, which fell on four children playing outside. They were children of his fellow Zimbabwean writer, who lived next door. Joy came to him as he watched the children run about, toddle, scream and call on their Daddy and Mummy. This made Andrew wish he could hasten the duration of his wife’s first pregnancy to have a child he would call his own. Rose, Andrew’s wife, soon joined him at the balcony. And Andrew placed his hands on her tummy and began to feel it, as his face broke into smiles. Community Development Volunteers for Technical Assistance, by Ndim Bernard Ngouche (Cameroon) Posted 11/1/08 This organisation was happily and devotedly founded by Mr.Njuakom Francis Njii, who has a vision aimed at curbing poverty and ending misery. Today those values cherished and loved by Africans have ceased being practised because money has become so scarce and in between these days. Relatives have taken the path of apathy than sympathy as was the case before the economic crunch that has dealt such a blow on most of the Continents' economies. Most families today can barely feed themselves not to talk of giving assistance to other family members like the most vulnerable of the society; the old and elderly. Part ii - Does Africa Really Need Financial AID from the International Financial Servicing Houses?, by Ndim Bernard Ngouche (Cameroon) Posted 11/1/08 When shall African Communities fully become independent so as to design their own economic policies and implement decisions that can usher in changes in the lives of a peaceful people reduced to look like paupers in the face of helplessness and despair? Matondo received the hard, deadly punch right on his face which threw his head back in a quick motion as he lost his balance and nearly fell to the ground. It was like a light wrapped in devastating blows. The crowd hailed in a thunderous uproar like the ancient Romans watching the condemned gladiators in a blood sport, the roar was heavy and it shook the arena to life. Thick blood of these valiant boxers spattered across the space and smeared the faces of the gyrating spectators. The village aristocrats were seated under a makeshift tent of plastic sheets and figs. They cheered louder and with great excitement at the astonishing impact of such blow while sipping the local brew in a white-wash calabash. I saw them; I was there but from afar, I could see them gathering in towards a big mango tree one by one while some were in pairs, these ravens. It's a species of bird that nests near the human habitat. One thing I did notice was their curiosity. I saw them gather and sort of in their own language, appeared to be as if they were exchanging pleasantries. Enjoy this video clip from Lisbon. The Paradox of Life, by Ndim Bernard Ngouche (Cameroon) Posted 10/11/08 Someone once told me wherever there is good, evil is never far behind and vice versa. I must admit I did not pay too much attention to that statement and drifted off into my daily routines. It was not until some months later that the truth in that statement hit me like some inspiration from above. The more I thought about the statement the more profoundly its verity stood out. If you take a look at life in general, you’ll notice that every activity, event or phenomenon harbours within itself the seed of its very own opposite – the two always go hand-in-hand. Do something, and you instantly create the potential for its exact opposite. The two opposites are part of one and the same reality and one cannot exist without the other. This phenomenon is clearly stated in the following quotations: The Biafran war had ended; the voice of gun had died. Nwagugu loaded the last two bullets he had with him into his Mark-4 rifle. He released the bullets into the air. The sky tasted the bullets. Many died in the battlefield. Nduka, his closest friend was shot three times at the heart. Nwagugu had to dodge flying bullets, dispersed into the air and rocketing missiles exploding indiscriminately at all sides of the hill with Nduka on his back, til he got safely to the base. For the love of his friend, he risked his own life in the battlefield. It was on a Good Friday with a scorching sun shining on St Anthony parish. The day was characterized by various activities to usher Christ from his grave to heaven. Among these activities was a prolonged stations of the cross that started at three o’clock in the afternoon. The Catechist of St. Anthony stood beside the parish priest with a black coat in the hot blazing afternoon waiting to start the dogma of believers. He didn’t lose sight of his pretty daughter Mary and his beautiful wife Ugonma – who many men would like to have as a wife at her age of 47. She still looked young and pretty. It was a dying year of loss and gain, a counting of grains and sands of time. The earth stubbed out its ash on a dirty tray. The sea sang of pestilence. The air weaved like a cocoon. Who knew about death and his yellow coat? Who knew of his gentle smile and greasy grey mustache? He has stayed with us for several seasons; harvesting our pluming corn, morning roses, old cocoa and old seeds – leaving behind our chisels, guns, and mortar, and our tailoring materials for measuring our own coffin. He taught us to spend time dressing our coffin before we are laid into it. The sun was falling behind the horizon. The vultures kept flying over the huge dirt that littered Douglas Road in Owerri. The putrid smell hung on the air like hydrogen bonded with oxygen in water. The flashy Mercedes wheeled towards Rotobi Street. Prince couldn’t bear the smell of the dirt; he wound down the glass of his car and spat through the window. The commercial motorcycle man riding beside his car cursed him for doing that and even banged his fist on the bonnet of the car. Prince didn’t utter a word to him, which was unlike him; maybe he had learnt to control his anger. Or maybe he had lost his magic wands, those magic wands that helped him trample on any law and got away with it, those magic wands that controlled the police. The similitude of the life of the world is only as water which We send down from the sky, then the earth's growth of that which men and cattle eat mingles with it till, when the earth has taken on her ornaments and is embellished, and her people deem that they are masters of her, Our commandment comes by night or by day and We make it as reaped corn as if it had not flourished yesterday. Thus do we expound the revelations for people who reflect. He walked deep into the forest. He could feel the season; truly yuletide is on the way. The dull sun that never goes down, the strong wind that never stops turning dust, the gray grasses, the trees that are beginning to shed their leaves. He went straight to his usual resting place in the forest, made a seat with dry grass under the mango tree, and sat on it. Leaning on the tree, he brought out his flute carved out of a bamboo tree, placed it on his lips stuck his two hands expertly on the hole. He blew his song of sorrow into the forest heart. A group of birds joined in the song of sorrow, donating their voice. Gently, the breeze blew at the branches and combed its way through the pine trees a few yards from my window. It made a hissing sound, one common during the cold, dry season of the year, adding a soundtrack to the festivity of the time. But the rain had just come back, with all the leaves green and luscious. This was the time vegetable farmers of the tropics had less time to sleep, sowing and reaping their crop while other people stayed dry at home and planting the seeds of the annual baby boom. ...he gingerly climbed down from the bed with a little patter of his cherubic feet on the floor. Instinctively, I stretched my hand to touch my wife but met hers mid-way as if in telepathy, clasped together in a perfect understanding. So all along our child had been deceiving us that he couldn’t walk! Dearest Chinyere - You must forgive my belated reply to your last email. I believe you know how things work in our beloved country, don’t you? Please don’t tell me that your four-year sojourn in the US has made you forget the quagmire with which our fatherland wallows in. It’s always a tug of war to reply your mails online, what with the endless queue at the cyber café! This is not to mention the two taxi drops I have to take to get to the place. I understand that in the US over there, almost every house is linked to the Internet and one doesn’t have to go to any cyber café to check or send mails. How I envy you! Only God will help our country. Anyway, I trust you’ve forgiven me. Africa reigns forever; children shall still form our future. Our tales shall live in all odd times. It shall live from generation to generation; in the moonlight, beside the fire, on top of our bed, in the media, amidst whispers, with scoundrels, with moralists, and with all. Like anyone faced with tragedy or some other form of emotional shakeup, I too felt confused and somewhat lost among the complexities of my life. The specifics didn’t matter, they never do, nor the names and places of the people involved, all that need concern me now was my ability to recover and move on. Even as I thought this, I knew I remained a man very much out of focus, adrift, with no clear destination in sight. The leaves on the trees rustled as I walked past them. It was too dark to see what made them move, but I felt the cool night breeze wrap itself around me then float ahead. The lamp I held in front of me created an eerie yellowish halo that hovered around the narrow bush path which wound its way, twisting like a long headless snake through the forest. For a moment, I thought I heard footsteps coming behind me. I stopped and turned. I saw no one. Fear settled like a heavy cargo in the pit of my stomach and caused my heart to beat erratically – the sounds like the feverish climax of an atilogu dance. Yet I pressed on. There was no turning back now.
Nonviolent Communication, by Dr. Rutagengwa Claude Shema (Norway) Posted 9/6/08 Psychologist Marshall Rosenberg (born 1934) was invited to speak at a meeting of a group of young Palestinians in a refugee camp on the West Bank. The Israeli police had recently entered the camp to quell protests. The ground was strewn with tear gas shells labeled "Made in USA". When the organizer introduced him as an American citizen, one of the young men shouted, "Murderer!" Stephen Agboratang Makes his Dream, Final Chapter, by Ndim Bernard Ngouche (Cameroon) Posted 9/6/08 In the University, where Stephen read medicine, his best friend and brother, John Peters read Engineering Sciences, hoping to graduate as a Plant Engineer. These two guys have walked all along and understood each other like the teeth understand the tongue. Life in the University is sweet and much fun and not as charged as in the Secondary school or high school. It is so warm and exiting for each month’s expenses are born by the State coffer and the students only owe hard work and discipline. What Does it Mean to Love God?, by S.M. Zakir Hussain (Bangladesh) Posted 8/31/08 There is no human being who has no love. Everybody loves. The question is: who loves whom or what? What is Love?, by S.M. Zakir Hussain (Bangladesh) Posted 8/31/08 WHAT IS LOVE? - it is a small wound which will not be cured even if the entire reservoir of ointment of the world is applied. Only what can cure is a glimpse of the Beloved. Novel: Victim of Greed - Final Chapter, by Tony Chuks Modungwo (Nigeria) Posted 8/30/08 I’ve realized that a greater influx of money doesn’t necessarily bring about happiness. “What is the use of money without love?” Biola once asked. It took her tragic death for the full meaning of the statement to dawn on me. When she was killed, I lost interest in life despite my wealth. I’d found out the hard way that happiness and joy came only when one was doing something for the progress of humanity not the reverse. When my father told me: “My son, it’s not wise to measure one’s success in life by one’s worldly possessions,” I waved him off as a religious fanatic and a man gone senile. Groom from America, by Emmanuel Onyedi Wingate (Nigeria) Posted 8/23/08 It is time to leave for America through the Calabar International Airport. I am perplexed that our boarding ticket reads Libreville instead of America. There must be a mistake. I hurriedly notify my husband, Obiora. Caduceus, by Phillip Ghee (USA) Posted 8/16/08 "Damn!” He spat, frozen in mid stride, he glared at the headline. He then continued to walk down the street, muttering to himself and God as he chewed more than smoked the butt end of a camel non filtered cigarette. The murder rate for the city was up, way up and it wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Why should it even concern him what these fools do. Anyway, he was on his way, to the library to pound out the latest revision his much hyped and much late theater play. Every single day we are experiencing the molestation of kids, killing those small angels, in the deadly beating of tomorrow’s generation, mutilation of their parts, of sex, and more many other untold and horrific acts on the children. This has been seen and reported on in different scenes from USA-Africa-Europe-Asia and Australia - in other words, there is no refuge for kids. A Boy's Tale: A Stitch in Time Saves Nine, by Joseph Wanshe (Nigeria) Posted 8/16/08 I have been privileged to witness what smoking and drinking can cost a man from a neighbor that lived just opposite our house. Mr. Jay was a heavy drinker and a chain smoker. He had a beautiful wife, two children, an expensive car and a well furnished home. Everybody living around admired Mr. Jay when he came newly from England. If only Mr. Jay would realize that a stitch in time saves nine… The Barbarians are in Town: The Kano Assault on Intelectualism, by Henry Chukwuemeka Onyema (Nigeria) Posted 8/10/08 There are those who see nothing wrong in the recent directive by the Kano State Censors Board to all literary associations, movie producers, actors and actresses in the state to register their works with the Board or else lose the right to operate in Kano. All works that do not comply with this order will be confiscated. These people will proclaim the Kano State Government as the custodian of morality, culture and religion. To them the course of all that is good is served by the actions of Governor Ibrahim Shekarau and his minion, Abubakar Rabo, the Director-General of the Kano State Censors Board.Maybe they will affirm that these men' s actions will push back the assault of decadent Western civilization. Alhadji Garga Innusa and his Nasty Habit of Ritual Money by Ndim Bernard Ngouche (Cameroon) Posted 8/10/08 Alhadji Garga Innusa born into an influential family; was born on the 30th of March 1956 to the family of Mallam Garba Musa, an Ardo of the Fulani community in Allat. His mother Hadjia Maimuna Debbo Musa being the first wife had three mates whose names are Rajia Yakubo Musa, Amina Mamadou Musa and Fadamatou Rabiatu Musa. These four wives are so cooperative and worked as if they are sisters. Each is blessed with eight children and life is hazard free. Their dad being an Ardo and very rich with herds of cattle and sheep plus gifts received from settling of disputes in his community developed a desire to have all his children attend good Christian Colleges so as to fit in the new dispensation. The Nestbury Tree, by Ayodele Morocco-Clarke (Nigeria) Posted 8/2/08 It all started when the Shepherd of the church that was located at the far side of the compound behind the house pronounced that the Nestbury tree in the yard was a haven for witches and had to come down. Fast Food Robbery Etiquette, by Merrill Guide (USA) Posted 8/2/08 It has come to our attention that employees in Valdosta have committed a number of faux pas during the recent spate of Fast Food restaurant robberies. In the interests of social decorum, we have compiled an Etiquette Guide to help these employees to navigate this tricky social situation with ease. UN Security Council Reform: Making a Case for Africa’s Giant, Nigeria, by Mac-Edwin Obi (Nigeria) Posted 8/2/08 Other parts of the world and indeed Africa deserve a permanent place in the Security Council. Moreso, Nigeria must have a seat if due process is followed despite opposition from South Africa and Egypt. Both nations want to cash in on their superior economies to sideline Nigeria. This article will explain why Nigeria should have one of the two permanent seats allotted to Africa. Sometimes you do get what you ask for, by Phillip Ghee (USA) Posted 8/2/08 Some would think I was crazy to conclude that I needed a break. At the time I occupied a wonderful little apartment overlooking the roaring waves of Venice Beach. Every morning I would wake up to view an endless expanse of ocean disturbed only by the majestic Santa Monica Mountains as they slowly materialized out from the early morning ocean fog. However even a good thing can get old especially when you have endowed with the spirit of a gypsy embedded in your very soul. A few years ago, the West African nation of Mali received US$37.7mn in aid from the West. This would have been good news if it ended that way. But, in the same year, the same Mali lost US $43mn to western businesses due to unequal trading opportunities (BBC Focus on Africa: Jan.-Mar.2007;Ngugi`s article).The nation’s exports, mainly agricultural commodities, fetched next to nothing near their market value because of subsidies given to farmers in the West and the trammeled access to lucrative European and American markets. Strange Party, by Phillip Ghee (USA) Posted 7/26/08 What's so strange about a strange party? Things are supposed to get strange at a party. That's what makes a party worth having. A good party is exactly: a part-ing of the normal. Anything other than that is just merely a social gathering. However, there are times when weirdness at some parties becomes little too strange; or even otherworldly. When they got to the hospital, the receptionist took them to Ikem’s room. Ikem’s leg was tied with bandages and the policeman sat beside him, telling more exciting stories about his adventures with even more dangerous criminals. Mrs. Oduka ran to her son’s bed and held him so tight, tears rolled down her eyes. Only praises for god was in her mouth, When the continent Africa is mentioned, people visualise poverty-stricken people, war-torn homes, and a dirty environment due to the constant images and view the western media has chosen to portray to the world. Most of the time when they show Africa on FOX, CNN or SKY news, it is about war, poverty, fraudster, corruption etc, and even in the mini series LAW AND ORDER, many times they have portrayed Africa in a negative way. There is more to Africa than what is being said and shown to the western world. Teen Jaywalker, by Juliet Maruru (Kenya) Posted 7/19/08 I turned 16 sitting in the backseat of a battered Navy Blue Double Cab Isuzu pick-up truck that smelled of hay, horse, sea and fish. I was smoking a tobacco and marijuana cigarette, studying for my high school Physics finals, hoping that my mum would make it through the second surgery that week and trying to ignore my scruffy 26 year-old boyfriend's horny groping. Six days before, I called him in the middle of the night, because my mum was running a cold fever and complaining of intense stomach pains and vomiting blood. He came racing and rushed my mother to the hospital. She had to undergo emergency surgery on an ulcerated duodenum to stem the bleeding. Surprisingly, the day she was to be discharged from the hospital, she started began bleeding again and a second surgery was needed. The Monkey Files, by Phillip Ghee (USA) Posted 7/19/08 “Even through the ramble of construction equipment, the ruckus and, the general busyness of assorted workmen and contractors; he was able to discern the delightful sunny pitch of her voice. Surprisingly her voice was still much as he remembered it, full sparkle and naivety of uncorrupted bliss. He halfway had expected her to have forcibly lowered her voice a few octaves or so, much in the manner that many upwardly mobile women do, when they find themselves competing in the professional, business and, science worlds. He thought her either un-indoctrinated to this point or totally self assured in her abilities to not have done so. He was however pleased that she had not. The musical qualities of her voice always struck him in a fanciful way and induced in him pleasant thoughts. Beauty in the Dark (a romantic joke), by S.M. Zakir Hussain (Bangladesh) Posted 7/19/08 It all happened only in a moment – within a few seconds. She didn’t do anything. The only allegation that could be made against her was that she was exceptionally beautiful. Well, let me tell you what really happened. The Hitchhiking Chronicles, a blockbuster by Phillip Ghee (USA) Posted 7/13/08 The plan was as simple as it was idiotic; make it through Texas on fifty dollars. Sure one could certainly write volumes on what flighty condition of mind, or what lapses in mental programming would move a person to do such a thing. But that wouldn't be very interesting, now would it? So let's go right to the action. The Romantic Thief, by S.M. Zakir Hussain (Bangladesh) Posted 7/13/08 Here is a short drama. I wrote it to show new writers how they can write funny dramas. Background: Mr. and Mrs. Choudhuri reported to the police that somebody stole a very precious necklace of theirs while they were in Cox’s Bazaar, enjoying the time on holidays. They have mentioned a person called Milan as the suspect and have also provided some facts in support of their claim. The police have appointed Mr. Sherlock Holmes as detective. Now he’s going to interrogate Mr. Suspect. Many options can be thought of in order to prevent or to halt sexual violence in DRC, but the important and ultimate thing to do is to create a short-cut for a common ground for talks with all concerns and ignite the willingness on both sides for mutual acceptance so that the stakeholders shall be able to help in strategizing and strengthening the needs for adequate responses for the victims, and give a chance to the citizens for rehabilitation and reconciliation, the only pathway towards a sustainable development and a bright future of Democratic Republic of Congo. Conflict issues and wars made by ourselves as humane are more disastrous than any natural disaster. The reason is that natural catastrophe can be handled jointly by humane efforts, without anyone to blame, while conflicts – normally – born and caused from humane being hearts, and fueled by parties and mutual blaming, one side to another, are in a battle over interest. Wonderful Life - Not, by Ayodele Morocco-Clarke (Scotland) Posted 7/4/08 Who would have thought that a poor little girl from Lagos State in Nigeria could achieve so much in such a short period? Who would have thought that the whole of the fashion industry in the western world would be queuing up to have her endorse their products? She was highly sought after by the major designers as well as by the big fashion magazines who all wanted her to grace their covers. Murphy, Nonfiction Memoir by Robin Timpanaro (USA) Posted 7/4/08 When I was 5, my step- cousin Murphy cut out an engagement ring from the newspaper and gave it to me. He said," I'm going to marry you someday, Robin." He was 6. I still remember that big goofy grin and his crew cut. I remember my mother and my aunt looking at me and Murphy and laughing. My mother said, "Murphy loves you Robin!" Murphy blushed and so did I. Lost in a Dream, by Kitty Rose (Nigeria) Posted 7/4/08 Dante grabbed Marina's hand and led her across the street. He told her the church would stop burning in a few minutes. They started walking to a part of town where Dante said he lived. They stopped in front of a dilapidated building that looked like it had once been apartments. Marina thought it would crumble to the ground at any moment. One night I found myself relaxing to some sugar coated jazz saxophone music when like the character in the Edgar Allen Poe poem, there came a tapping, a gentle rapping but at my window (instead of at my chamber door). Tap, tap, tap, I turned my head to the large bedroom window which was adorned with Venetian blinds. I had not fully closed the blinds and was startled to see a figure standing on my roof and apparently looking through my window. I slowly turned my head away from the figure and ever so gingerly moved my hand towards the phone. Naturally, I called the police and because I lived in an affluent part of the city, the response was quick and intense. As Johnny Slept, by Kenechukwu Obi (Nigeria) Posted 6/15/08 “I say no to poverty”, were the words of Johnny, an American boy determined to be very rich. He wanted to do business with the moon. He figured out that with millionaires available in Hollywood, selling a bit of the moon to each of them at three million dollars would make him richer than Bill Gates. Who wouldn’t love to have a bit of the moon, thought Johnny. Twenty-four years after he had first left Bolewa had twenty months after the coup, Faruk Ibrahim found himself amidst the very familiar urban sparkle of central Abuja. This time, however, he did not feel out of place because he was not alone and felt communion with the gentle breeze blowing through the wide avenue in the middle of the city; and he knew he would never be alone again. Dark Horizon, by Catherine Wanjiku.N (Kenya) Posted 6/7/08 I hardly remember Somali in peace, I was young, very young I could not differentiate peace and war nor water and blood. My God probably needs to be woken up and sort out this insanity, what has begotten my beloved country? Did the sunrise from the wrong direction or did the moon come instead of the adored sun? I wanted to cry but I could not, my heart was heavy, heavy in tears, solid tears. The Money Maker, by Catherine Wanjiku.N (Kenya) Posted 5/31/08 Inside, the cave was dark and now the sun burns my skin, I try to protect myself from the scorching sun with my miniscule palms and they defy my order. I fear my skin will pill from the hot sun. And the Money Maker I have planted has shed leaves like the baobab tree in summer. I know poverty has fallen on me like rain. John stayed awake all night, in the night; he was able to devise a plan. He tapped Alli gently and told him the plan, Alli was frightened, and they spoke in a sotto voce. The first strike is penetrating deep into our bones. This dreaded man is determined to make us suffer. Our barns are under attack. Even the president is beginning to feel the beat of the drum. Review of Burma Boy (Biyi Bandele): The Rat's Tale and its Winding Ways, by Henry Chukwuemeka Onyema (Nigeria) Posted on ResereBooks.com, 5/25/08 Maybe I am more personally involved in this novel than some readers. As a professional historian who teaches the subject (where there are students) and allied subjects like Government and Social Studies to a generation who see the world through Western especially American spectacles, talking about the brave Africans who bore the British Empire on their shoulders between 1939 – 1945 when Hitler, Hirohito and Mussolini kidnapped the cosmos sounds antediluvian. Screenplay: I Married a Terminator, by Phillip Ghee (USA) Posted 5/10/08 The concept for this series stems from the Terminator movies directed by James Cameron. In this presentation the characters are moved out of the Sci-Fi Action format and put into a Situational Comedy format. As in the Cameron films, the Intro-Narration informs the audience of the dire state of future Earth. The Celestial Lover, by Nandini Sen (India) Posted 5/18/08 Ecstasy overcame Bhoomi every time she looked at the image of her Lord. Dolefulness would give way to delight and petulance to pleasure each time she allowed her eyes to feast upon the image of her Lord and master. Nothing seemed to matter anymore and everything, including her own existence, ceased to matter when she joined her palms in reverence before her Lord. His perpetual smile was all the reassurance that Bhoomi needed to continue the devotion and worship. A Patriot's Song, by Chika Onyenezi (Nigeria) Posted 5/18/08 You came back one day after rusty days of struggling to tell me that you have gained admission into Abia State University, to study Industrial Physics. Almost the whole Akwari Ohakwe Street rejoiced with you. The only thing I saw in you was the burning zeal to change the world. Then from the pit of hell came this strange illness that visited, you carried this burden for years like a wounded soldier who would not lie down, for fear of dieing you kept on marching, not ready to forfeit your education to anything – even through death you kept dreaming of healing. How Information Technology (IT) Has Transformed the Operations of the Nigerian Stock Exchange, by Mac-edwin Obi (Nigeria) Posted 4/27/08 Just recently, the news media in the country were awash with the announcement sponsored by a leading petroleum marketing company asking its shareholders to subscribe to the e-dividend programme of the company. Official sources have it that the industry’s regulatory body – Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC) has made e-dividend mandatory. The romance between the NSE community (Management, Staff, Stockbrokers & the Investing Public) and Information and Communication Technology may just be starting. The Fun of Aging, by Cora Ann Metz (USA) Posted 5/3/08 Now that I've reached 39...well, OK, a bit on the other side of 39, I don't actually think I'm over the hill yet. Though I resigned myself to altering my diet with healthier foods and accepting the inevitable wrinkles and the accompanying graying hair, I had been going through phases of denial. I tuned out anyone touting the benefits of “aging gracefully.” Truth be told, I didn’t want to age gracefully. Hell, I just didn't want to age at all. The candle that was burning in the otherwise dark room cast an eerie shadow of us, huddled in the corner of the room. I moved closer to the woman who was seated next to me to protect myself from the impact of the night’s cold. None of us spoke. We stared on—at nothing. Our gazes were fixed in the empty space; our thoughts occupied with what lay ahead. Big Fishing, by Phillip Ghee (USA) Posted 4/19/08 Big Fishing is a fiery tale or exaggerated proportions. It should not be read while under the influence of alcohol The character Qfwfq is dedicated to Italo Calvino a genius of the highest magnitude and one of my literary heroes. In the days of Steve Garvey three wise scouting agents did witness upon the heavens a star. Etched upon the face of the star was clearly visible the stitched seams of a baseball. The wise scouts followed the star to a blue collar town south of Bethlehem Steel. Whether the Qur’an is the Truth or not does really does not matter when one uses it to judge the activities of those who say that they believe it to be true. If, however, one attempts to use it to judge those who do not believe it to be a true revelation from the true God (if, again, a God is believed to be true), he has to consider the judgment to be his own, and cannot, as long as he claims to be fair in judgment, demand that the other party accept the judgment to be fair. We will shortly see that this judgment is also supported by the Qur’an. Now we are going to show that the Qur’an not only does not certify Islamic extremism, but it also declares it to be against the Qur’anic views of religion. Thus the Qur’an speaks against those who speak in favor of it in an extreme way.
Details on Secret Knowledge... Secret Knowledge of the Qur‘an, by S.M. Zakir Hussain (Bangladesh) Posted 3/22/08 Allah has sent a personal letter from His presence in the form of the Qur‘an. But the human mind demanded that the prophet (Peace Be Upon Him) show it the legerdemain of magic in the form of the so-called miracle. So the prophet (PBUH) awaited Allah’s response. However, Allah did not wise to show such magic in support of the truth of the Qur‘an. Rather, He clearly articulated to mankind that the Qur‘an itself is the greatest miracle of all times. If one is able to see the real beauty of it and the treasure hidden in it, one wonder would consider any miracle inferior to it. National Infrastructure & Architecture for Peacebuilding and Peacemaking - The Case of Burundi , by Dr. Claude Shema-Rutagengwa (Norway) Posted 3/8/08 In the ... case of Burundi (one of the countries of so called the Great lakes region of Africa where ethnic conflict has ravaged the country), it would be wise and so fundamental to build a national infrastructure for peacebuilding and peacemaking, based on traditional and modern justice and reconciliation for immediate solution, with emphasis on sustainable/durable peace and development plus equal rights for a better future of Burundi and Barundi (citizens of Burundi). “This is Owerri divisional police. It’s about the case you reported. We think we have your kid. Could you come over to the police headquarters immediately?” Officer said, and dropped the receiver. He opened his drawer, brought out a bottle of hot drink and drank. He looked at the children and smiled.
It was in the year 1997. My son Isimbi (which means pearl in Kinyarwanda, the native language of Rwanda) was 3 years old. He was a very clever boy. Then one afternoon time, he and I were just walking around to get some fresh air after a long sunny day. At that time, some chickens were around as well, getting some meals on the ground. One of them had some little chicks, and were seriously taken care of by their mom, an adult chicken. It was morning, and the police station was gradually revving up to life. It was getting ready for the different shades of trouble that came its way everyday. The station never lacked in population as scores of people moved like a steady stream all day, through its battered gate. I pulled a chair close to the coffin and leaning my head against the hard flag covered metal, I began to tell my Billy, one more time, just how much I loved him and how much I would always love him. Whispering, I laughed for a final time about our various misadventures and silliness, and for some odd reason, our tradition of eating pineapple sandwiches whenever we moved came to mind, and I thanked him for sharing this with me. D.C. Shifted into high gear. It was pass-the-buck time within the Beltway. Committees were convened. Fact-finding forums were formulated. Task forces were fabricated. Everyone was “going to get to the bottom.” Most everyone had newer and better ways of getting there. The Black Hole, by Dr. Claude Shema-Rutagengwa (Norway) Posted 1/12/08 When Johan Galtung, who is widely recognized as the founder of the academic discipline of peace studies, founded the first International Peace Research Institute in Oslo in 1959, he and his colleagues sent copies of their working papers regularly to about 400 social science institutes around the world, including the Institute for World Economy and International Relations (IMEMO) in Moscow. There was an infectious excitement spreading about No 112 Ojukwu Avenue Bungalow of Chief Agu Okoro. From the moment Ukala, Chief’s driver, blared the horns of Chief’s Honda Jeep, the house became a flurry of activity. Musa, the gateman, swung the heavy gates open. Etim, the houseboy rushed out, his bathroom slippers slapping the pavement. The Call, by Mercy Adhiambo (Kenya) Posted 1/12/08 The shrieking of my cell phone stirred me from sleep. I sighed. The ringing persisted. I stared wide-eyed into the blackness of my bedroom hoping that the ringing would stop. It did not. Room to Let, by Keith Chiponda (Zimbabwe) Posted 1/12/08 I couldn’t believe my luck! After a month of searching the papers, there it was, advertised in an old newspaper I found cleaning out the garage. A local place not far from here to rent for a fraction of the extortionate rent I was currently paying! I recall thinking that there must be some mistake. Now that I think about it I didn’t even check the date on that newspaper or finish cleaning. That’s how eager I was for the bargain. Sure, it probably needed a little attention, but that much of a saving at least justified an enquiry about it. Maestro, by Nathan Boese (USA) Posted 12/30/07 Yoshimi Kantata floats her long, slender fingers gracefully over the twinkling ivory of the piano as Beethoven’s “Pathétique” adagio melts into the atmosphere. She has spent many a cold night worshipping at the alter of her teacher, hoping for the slightest acknowledgement or praise. As the delicate flesh launches into a beautifully improvised cadenza she glances up from the keyboard, deep eyes seeking out the figure she knows will be there. Perhaps he will finally listen tonight, Yoshimi thinks to herself. How Haiti Abolished its Military, by Dr. Claude Shema-Rutagengwa (Norway) Posted 12/23/07 It is impressive how much difference the efforts of individuals can make. Not even the U.S. Navy was able to abolish Haiti's army. When President Clinton sent the navy in 1994 to land in Port-au- Prince and help restore the democratically elected government, it turned around in the face of a violent demonstration on the landing pier by a small group of backers of the military dictatorship. Who would have thought that two individuals, without power or wealth, would succeed in helping abolish the Haitian military, simply by talking to the right people and taking the right action at the right time? The history of any kind of bomb shows that the bomb can explode any time with or without human intention. So, then what would happen in case a nuclear bomb would explode in that way? How many bombs will explode in country in terms of spontaneous explosions? What impact this can cause to the bombs’ owners? And what wold the scenario be in case the so called “enemies of our country” with the same bombs will react and respond by using the same power? The answer is very simple: “the end of the world”. Mutatedi didn’t know why this verse kept ricocheting in his already clouded mind when all around him men chatted merrily as they drank what the tappers had brought in with the rain that morning. It was half past five from the flock of parrots heading westwards back home for the night from the tall bush behind St. Augustine Catholic Mission. He was pleased to see that Mukunda was alive again after the rain that had kept the entire village indoors since dawn had finally ceased. She wakes with a start from a cruel dream. Mphoentle is running across a thornless field, dotted with yellow pansies and purple wood violets. The bottoms of her bare feet and her stick-thin legs are spotted with dirt and her hair flies wild in all directions, decorated with leaves and broken twigs. She is laughing under the sky- blue sky of a world far away from the one she was born into. A world where the sun holds Mphoentle in its warm, kind hands and the wind caresses her smooth cheek with a gentle touch; she is in a place where she is adored. The six elders of the Wameh family in Babessi sat in a semi circle under a mango tree at the centre of a three-house-compound; as they looked forward to witnessing the arrival of their son Tiove, from Nigeria where he had been for more than a year. It was a sunny- day, and the elders dressed in Cameroon traditional grassland regalia of elders; they all had carved staffs with human and tiger faces on them. There was a twenty litre jug of palm wine at the centre from which all the elders drank as they conversed. Time was fast dying down, when they started to lose patience. The Baobab, by Shadreck Chikoti (Malawi) Posted 12/1/07 One evening, Namawoda came running to her home. Her son was sitting on theKhondeof their two roomed hut, however, Namawoda did not see him. She bumped into the reed door and pushed it open. The door broke from the wooden hooks and fell inside. Her son, Chotseni, followed her into the hut. He found her leaning against the pole that held the grass-thatched roof of their small hut. She was panting and sweating profusely. It was morning, and the police station was gradually revving up to life. It was getting ready for the different shades of trouble that came its way everyday. The station was a large arena, housing three decrepit buildings. Scores of people moved like a steady stream through the battered gate. Nearby, a small activity was brewing. An anti-crime patrol unit had driven into the station bearing the corpses of three armed robbers. At Tobin Bridge, across the Mystic River of Massachusetts, the spirits of those who could not bear heavy loads like this besieged you. They said, “Stop the car. Climb out. Take a jump off the bridge. Submerge your tired body into this cold water. It will cool your soul.” There were many voices. They were loud, cluttered and making eerie noise across the cantilever truss. You heard a voice like that of Charles Stuart. His murdered pregnant wife sobbed quietly in the background. You heard a splash as his body made the 115 ft plunge into the river, causing receding ripples just as Boston police circled his home. But no quote beats my Papa’s mantra as we grew up: “Kila mtu atabeba msalaba wake.” “Every person will carry their own cross…” It was his favorite when lecturing on dangers of premarital sex. He’d never come out with it in so many words, but like talking drums going ‘kabum, kadun, kabum…’ he would always repeat himself. Like the instance when he declared (via mum, of course) my favorite garlic a banned substance in our home saying that the onion fueled sexual libidos. Not in so many words when I pushed him, but true to tradition he would say in Swahili “Kila mtu atabeba msalaba wake…” The words stuck with me and I would always remember them later in life when in catch 22 situations. But it has not always been like this. The earliest I know of home is of a very warm and united family with mother always cheerful and telling us stories – stories of tortoise and the spirit world; and I have grown up with these stories as real – and father, whose stern visage is mellowed down by a smile now and then as he returns from his daily rounds, hugging us and retiring with mother in the sitting room. We do not see much of father, because he works onshore with a multinational company. But the days he is with us are an admixture of joy and love. He buys us all manner of gifts. And I remember that we – my siblings and I - use to quarrel over whose is the better. God Talks to Abraham, by Jenny Wren (USA) Reviaed 11/25/07 I can just imagine God looking down from the Heavens upon His creation in the 2000's as He talks with Abraham of Old Testament days. Abraham stands beside God while He ponders His once-great creation, earth; the creation which had thrilled His heart. Now He sees what it has become. The muscled FBI operative removed my blindfold. I was in the custody of Kenyan ATPU (Anti-Terrorism Police Unit) and American FBI. I opened my eyes and took a minute or so to adjust to the sudden sunshine. Petrified I swooned and almost fainted when I realized that I was atop a skyscraper. On the roof actually. Mist and fog despite the sunshine floated hazily over our heads. We seemed to be almost twenty storeys up. Goose bumps riddled my arms and I trembled when I espied the KICC (Kenyatta International Conference Centre) the Times Tower and the I & M Tower in the distance. To kill some time before heading to Goya, Jose met me at my hotel and from there we walked to the downtown area a short distance away. Though it was 8:30 at night, the slowly setting sun resisted being put away for the night by casting a vibrant orange glow over the city and cloaking it in a stifling heat. The heavy mugginess aroused our thirst and prompted us to have a drink at one of the numerous chic bistros. Now, Mandy was going to be a senior, and she was determined to get a boyfriend before the homecoming dance. During the summer, Mandy had been talking nonstop about how she was going to get a boyfriend. “Mandy, will you please shut up!” Susan would say, on more then one occasion. Mandy’s boy-craziness was getting on Susan’s nerve I saw them; I was there but from afar, I could see them gathering in towards a big mango tree one by one while some were in pairs, these ravens. It’s a species of bird that nests near the human habitat. One thing I did notice was their curiosity. I saw them gather and sort of in their own language, appeared to be as if they were exchanging pleasantries. This particular day was a Thursday and exactly was six in the morning in a forest adjacent to my school. Therefore we are going to investigate the issue with an unbiased attitude. If love is what is usually meant by the cliché “I love you,” then why does the reality take a U-turn after marriage or even after some illegal dating? Does the word “love” have any special meaning or significance in the male-female nexus? Is the love of a mother for her child different from the love of a wife for her husband? We must look into the matter from a fresh angle of view. Nwagugu loaded the last two bullets he had with him into his Mark-4 rifle. He released the bullets into the air. The sky tasted the bullets. Many died in the battlefield. Nduka his closest friend was shot three times at the heart. Nwagugu had to dodge flying bullets dispersed into the air and rocketing missiles exploding indiscriminately at all side of the hill with Nduka on his back, till he got safely to the base. For the love of his friend, he risked his own life in the battlefield. Living in Kaiserslautern, Germany allowed me to carve out weekend jaunts to nearby countries for shopping or to quaint towns for traditional festivities or other forms of entertainment. One of my favorite getaways was my monthly drive to Aschaffenburg, a small town an hour and a half away and about 20 minutes east of Frankfurt. After arriving and checking into my hotel, I would contact my friend, Jose, to set a time to meet him at Goya, a hot, local salsa club. My opinion on that is that online relationships really are possible and credible. But it depends on how you search and how careful you are in terms of progressing step-by-step in online love matters. For some people, it can be very intimidating to enter the world of online dating. We constantly hear stories of people who met some nerdy, geeky guy in a chat room or on an adult dating site, or even stories of people who crossed with some psycho, crazy girl. But what about the stories of online relationships which did work out? The Chronicler's Tale, by Dan Akinlolu (S. Africa) Posted 9/11/07 That morning, our camp commandant- Captain Frida, delivered a message that was addressed to Colonel Françoise from Allied Military Base in Libya that the non-combatants in our camp should be ready to undergo certain elementary trainings, to as well blur the line between the soldiers and non-soldiers thus the next platoon to be dispatched would be more of militant indigenes. Anaesthesia, by Dan Akinlolu (S. Africa) Posted 9/10/07 In the beginning when there was no time, our land was in total ruin and desolated for full disobedience and condemnation. For the line between the living and the spirit was thing and transparent, but soon rivalry emerged and the contest was bent on destroying man- the most visible, the most articulate. Then we needed the wise one to heal our land that has refused to yield seeds and our flat-breasted women with no milk for the new borns and our lazy warriors with blunt daggers and assegai. But who will go and bring the wise one? Angst - Part II, by C.N. Wanjiku (Kenya) Posted 9/9/07 But I know one thing: I am here for a mission that I have to accomplish. Vaginismus gave me restless nights. Now unemployment has taken the helm. Are these the devils’ assistants changing duties? Where has my angel of wealth gone? Or am I being followed by the spirits of poverty of my ancestors? Terrorism: When a Healer Becomes a Killer, by Dr. Claude Shema-Rutagengwa (Norway) Posted 9/1/07 The intensification of mass recruiting for terrorist groups has emerged dramatically recently, and a number of intellectuasl seem very interested in joining those groups for different reasons.Amoung these are engeneers,medical doctors,etc… Let’s look at some concrete cases like the recent UK terror case.An Indian doctor was detained in Australia for questioning in connection with a suspected Al Qaeda plot to detonate car bombs in London and Scotland as he tried to leave the country. Voxdei scanned the room with new eyes. His synthetic lenses flickered, a scintillating pair of red rubies on two silver coins. It was nighttime. The ceiling lights were off. A ghostly moonlight bathed every corner with ethereal shadows. Shortlisted for the 2004 Caine Prize for African Writing...... From Strage Fruit (2004)... "It’s evening in my dream. The Kitgum sun has disappeared behind the hills. Dry leaves crash under my bare feet as I race among the yaa trees at the foot of Kidi Guu hills, looking for Mwaka. Burnt tree stumps and thorn bushes let me through their sheltered trunks with a few scratches and cuts. The looming night falls upon the lush and short shrubs inch by inch. I am alone and frightened. I need to find my husband. I need to sniff that familiar fruity scent in his breath. I need to touch his unblemished face."
Europe Rwanda - France: Ill Diplomatic Relations, by Dr.Claude Shema Rutagengwa (Norway) Bio Posted 1/20/07 The year 2006 ended up with cutting ties between Rwanda and France. This is a result of an unsolved conflict of more than a decade. No doubt, there my have some victims who suffered in one way or another because of this broken relationship. Faith and Crime in an Old and Civilised World, by Dr.Claude Shema Rutagengwa (Norway) Bio Posted 1/14/07 Before the arrival of western religion to many African and Asian countries, those countries had their own manor of faith. The influence of western faith as a new culture has made many positive and negative changes in traditions/cultures in many countries, especially poor ones. Africa Nandi's Grief, by Jane Musoke-Nteyafas (Uganda) Posted 1/6/07 Namusoke was gorgeous. She was God’s African masterpiece. Her skin was a beautiful combination of dusky black skies and golden kisses. Her large almond-shaped brown eyes, were so dark, they looked like black jewels. They were eyes that always seemed to be laughing. Reaching An Loc, by Alfredo G. Herrera (an author-me paperback) - excerpt of Chapter 1 Posted 1/1/07 In basic training, our Drill Sergeant was, what I thought, a large black Staff Sgt E5. I remember him because he had a long scar on his left cheek. We were very scared of him and thought he was the biggest guy we had ever seen. |
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"Highly Commended" in the Caine Prize for African Writing... Remember Atita, by Jackee Budesta Batanda (Uganda) (Submitted for the prize by AuthorMe Feb. 2004) 2003. The photo of my past lies in my hands with the edges torn. It’s brown with age. It doesn’t shine under the fluorescent light above the fading ‘Divine Mercy’ shop signpost. We are quite a number seated on tattered mats along the shop veranda. Further down the veranda, music is blaring from a transistor radio. I pass the photo to Okema who sits cross-legged. I’m trying to explain to him the reason I’ve travelled back to Gulu town to search for the girls in the photo. We sit on the veranda because it’s safer to spend the night in the town. The LRA rebels don’t cross to Gulu town. They restrict their activities to the villages....
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... it is disheartening; it is very painful to see people for 22 years in a situation of consistent violence and the effect of this war with over 1 million IDPs,taking my area of Acholi alone. If we take the areas of Lango, Teso and Madi we have a population of more than 2 million people who have been living in state of displacement all these years. They are reduced to dependency, living on handouts either by the WFP or by other organizations that give humanitarian aid. More so, they are in a situation where they cannot move out of the area freely at any time they wish to do so. We have problem of education, health and malnourishment. There is dire poverty in the area.
