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May AuthorZine |
Spotlight on Author-me Editor |
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Author-me on the go! Try Author-me.mobi on your web-enabled cell phone. |
Articles on World peace |
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Register in Your Own Language Home Office Bruce L. Cook, Ph.D., Publisher Valerie Bradley-Holliday, Ph.D., Editor * Tena Green, Editor - Promoted Kenneth Mulholland, Sr. Editor Winona Rasheed, Managing Editor Adam Smith, Editorial Director Chika Onyenezi, Editor - New! Country Editors * Eyitemi Egwuenu, M.D., Nigeria Rais Neza Boneza, Congo, Uranda, Norway Tinashe Mushakavanhu, Zimbabwe Claude Shema Rutagengwa, Rwanda Maduabuchi Agbo, Nigeria - New
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Posted this week...
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. Novel: Victim of Greed - Chapter One, by Tony Chuks Modungwo (Nigeria) Posted 5/10/08 I was born into misery, bred in a ghetto called Ajegunle. Most of Ajegunle was unglamorous, noisy, crowded and dirty. We lived in the area that was an eyesore and could sicken any man of considerable decent standards to the point of regurgitation. Any person with a decent standard of living would shudder at our living conditions. In my early years I ran errands for all sorts of people in our area when I returned from school with the hope of tips. My clothes were always tattered and my shirts rarely had buttons. Scattered around our neighborhood were emaciated children with bulging stomachs, sunken eyes and big heads akin to what one would see in the famine-stricken Ethiopia due to inadequate intake of protein. Many children in the area died annually from malnutrition and related disorders. Many of them suffered from mental and physical retardation because eating a well-balanced diet was a luxury not many families could afford. Due to the environment I was brought up in, I grew up tough. Hardship characterized my youth. Many times, I went to school without breakfast and had no hope of having lunch on my return. The time was getting to twelve in the afternoon, when Madam Patricia ushered them into another office, later he went outside. The first inkling that John had that something was wrong was when the front door was widely opened, from the office they could see a boughless trees as it shook in the rushing wind. Having acquired a familiar anticipation of the news, the man found it impossible to concentrate on the little excitements that provided fuel for the nauseatingly numerous tribe of Nigerian pundits. This weariness came from having made the news for so long and having preempted editorials for decades. Colonel Dibarama lived in that settled sphere where nothing important to be read by him on the pages of a newspaper. “Five minutes ago a message came in from Russia, Victor has processed the files on Nelson Johnson, every bit about him,” Ekpo says, adjusting his tie and removing his coat. He hangs it at the back of his seat clears his throat for the run down. Scene III RENATE [within]: If you don’t know how your voice sounds, how do expect me to recognise it? Who are you? Don’t you have a name? BADERO: It’s I’ Prince of Betuda. Your authorised guest! RENATE: [within]: Authorised but not invited, so your visit is an invasion. Can you, please, turn back? As we have said already, when we pollute our own judgment by cherishing false notions, we start liking our own way of judging and thus become too blunt to be useful to ourselves. However, occasionally, especially when we find ourselves helpless, we start using our reasoning power to find the causes of our suffering in our own activities. 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. 'We are so pleased to have you back at school!' exclaimed Narenda Upaday, clapping her hands together as Priscilla arrived at Hopewell's iron gates and entered. It was Thursday morning, half an hour before Assembly in the Quad and she had made an effort to get in early. 'Gee thanks Narenda. I didn't expect a welcome. I've only been sick a few days.'
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 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). Painfully, Priscilla managed to open her eyes, squinting even in the dim light of her bedroom lamp. 'The doctor says that I've got a terrible, contagious, deadly disease transmitted by holding hands.' Monique bent closer, her black face beaming as she planted a big kiss on her friend's burning forehead. 'Your doctor tells lies, otherwise I should have been tackled and pulled down by Granny Black before I got upstairs. What do you have, really.' “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 t |
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