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Recent postings...

Africa

For many, it portends a premonition of doom especially if you had an incorrigible boss you had to hide from, a spouse whose trust you had betrayed or someone you could not stop lying to. After the excitement of the night before, the deep dreamless sleep, it was mortifying to wake up on a work day to the sound of rain drops hammering away on zinc roofs, the characteristic sound like the quick march of a hundred tin soldiers.

Immediately after my final year in campus, I made up my mind not to face the hard sun of shags. As I was earlier advised by the lots in the prime, seeking refuge at home especially in the upcountry was the most awful attempt a university graduate can commit. The ivory tower is a home of its own.... Comradeship is very much acclaimed internally and in the external bases of the campus. It is in their walk, talk, and also in the chew and the clad that acts as evidences. In addition, you will have to meet the extreme limits of researchers with all sorts of degrees and as usual, all are in grey hair or no hair on their head. It is a place that counts to have the ‘highest number of intellectuals per square meter’.

US/Canada

The foremost of the factors that led to the genocide would be the imbalance in terms of power and lack of enough resources for the two major ethnic groups: Hutus vs. Tutsis. Regardless the origin and reasons of Hutu and Tutsi ethnic label, the fact that there was imbalance between Tutsi elites vs. Hutus before 1959, it was clear that without any change there was conflict and related violence escalation on the horizon in one way or another.

Red flashes of light ate through the darkness as a line of sparks started faintly in the distance, quickly winding closer, snaking up the roadway with increasing anger turning into the scream of a thousand red tail lights yelling in mother’s voice….. Stop!

Europe

“Come on let’s hurry up.” I said as I grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the elevator. She hurried along behind me into the street as I flagged down a taxi. One of the few benefits of living on such a busy street in Rio is that there is always a constant supply of empty taxis passing by. We jumped in the back of the first one to stop and I told the taxi driver where to go, and which route to take.

Latin America

This article exposes some points of reflexion about the right to abortion as part of a human’s rights question. Therefore, it is important a deep understanding about the ways that this question have been thought in Brazil, where there are restricted laws and a high maternal mortality rate decurrent of unsafe abortions. The discussion that is intended focuses on these consequences of unsafe abortion. Furthermore, is present in this discussion the idea of sanctification of women as mothers in Brazil, and how this social construction influences the debate about (un)safe abortion.

Asia

Managing the Boss is like managing one’s wife: one must give more than what one wants to get, but ironically, the wife afterwards thinks she has gotten less than she gave. “Then why the hell do I ever need to manage him?” you might be asking the author. Well, it is because he wants to be managed.

Middle East

She sat in front of her room. The roof was made of plates of metal. She was in the camp waiting for her boy – one of her pearls - to come and appear before her, coming from the school. Counting on her life not her death, her children always await her, expect her, long for her and that which she counts on. The view of life is different from other places; the camp is a terribly poor place, full of poverty. She does not expect much from the others but she does what she must do. There was a stream of dirty polluted water in front of her; the polluted water crossed the camp between its sides. That water came from what one can hardly describe as houses. Insects fill the place in summer and usually a hot summer comes in Jordan. There was a piece of every person in that stream. It was not covered.

The following is adapted from the novel Let the Right One In by John A. Linqvist, and the film bearing the same name. The characters in this work are those of Mr. Linqvist and no copyright protection is asserted to this work.

In my book – Darkest Europe and Africa’s Nightmare: A Critical Observation of Neighbouring Continents, I mentioned, rather apocalyptically, that if we Africans don’t take care then the outside world will turn our continent into “a timber plantation.” This is now happening, but on a worst-case scenario. Africans are being colonised again and this time not with the power of weapons but through Africans themselves selling their continent willingly.

The kids tumbled into the kitchen, demanding breakfast. I hushed them, fed them and readied them for school, remembering this time to tie up Lucille’s shoe with binding twine so the sole won’t flap around, and sent them out to wait for the buckboard to the one room school for grades up to eighth. We’re the last district to have a horse drawn wagon instead of one of those new school buses. Maybe next year, the school board said.

My story seeks to enclose my personal factual encounters in my life towards fulfilling the tenets of human beings integrated in our day to day activities.... Later, we can join hands together in trying to reduce some of the negative experience. There are elements that may make you have compassion, plea for unity and need for you to make an urgent abridgment or intervene as an institution or individual. ... “The cycle of lack” equally means the continuous scarcity level of almost all the basic needs hence promising no light at the end of the tunnel experienced from one generation to another. The cycle of lack can act as a source of pandemic strain. Isn’t the right time to end this extreme poverty? Africa is a beautiful and a well endowed continent and it is important to raise the downtrodden attitudes and morale of the generations towards enhancing independency.

John loved to spend his holiday with his uncle. Uncle George and his wife who teaches in Lekki high school. They had a daughter Josephine. John was especially fond of Josephine. Most of the time they would take Uncle George’s boat and sail along the beach in Lekki. Sometimes they went deeper into the sea and caught many fish.

Now I go back to our mother land, For my body and brains to be buried in a drain in our mother land,

When he got there, the place was crowded with people. A small crowd gathered in one corner of the junction looking at someone seated on the ground. From the look of it, the police had not arrived yet. It was curious onlookers who were crowding around. Lodule hurried on to see. Wani sat on the kerb, his head buried in his hands. Lodule moved the people aside and sat next to him. He put his arms around him. When Wani raised his eyes, they were swollen, reddish. He had been crying. “They took her to the Khartoum Hospital,” he said, between sobs. “I don’t have a driving license. What will I do? What will happen to me?”

Well at least it is Friday. Four hours at work, a nice long lunch with Carina, and then another fours hours work in the afternoon, before slinking off back home. I still had no solid plans for Friday night. Too much depended on other people, particularly Amaya. She had left Singapore some 10 days earlier in order to attend a conference in Buenos Aires. At the close of the conference she had gone on a five day excursion to Iguassu Falls, before flying up to Carthage, Columbia on Monday, where a second conference was to be held a week or so later. She had been trying to convince me to meet her in Iguassu Falls or Carthage and I had been trying to convince her to come and stay with me in Rio, rather that take the excursions.

The meeting was arranged and Karim was paid, And after toasting their success went on his way. Having carefully secreted the cheque in his pocket, Leaving Kennedy alone to relax for a minute, Enjoying once more the smooth taste of the stout, And idly glancing at the pedestrians without.

In the post 9/11 world USA and the rest of the Western hemisphere are at war with terrorism and terrorists. No terrorist threat, real or imagined, is taken lightly. Right now, Barack Obama is up to his ears with increasing American concerns about his ability to secure the U.S., and by extension, the rest of the West. What if Abdulmutallab's bomb had gone off? What was done about the father's alarms about his son? Airport loopholes? The Western security agencies will have their hands full for sometime to come. But my concern is the home front. It is no longer news that USA has included Nigeria in her terrorist watch list, in effect blacklisting her. And our government is busy protesting the inclusion to the high heavens. But I think the Nigerian authorities are missing the whole point. In fact they do not seem to understand what is at stake.

Onyeka knew what she was going to do. Her resolve was as constant as the northern star. Reason was prostrate on the floor of her love - steeled soul. But in the period called night - morning she cried silently. She quietly moved out of the arms of the snoring silhouette beside her on the bed, wondering if it was possible to have a head swimming simultaneously in both love and hate. Something extraordinary stopped her from puking on the chocolate - complexioned face that beamed with love and satiation even in repose. How she had allowed him into her a few hours ago was, to her, the eighth wonder of the world. There had been no way of fending him off: the igba nkwu had taken place; he fulfilled tradition’s requirements and thus was entitled to the fruits of his labour.

Chancellor Merkel made history on 11th November as the first German leader to accept the invitation of the French for their national celebration in Paris. In her speech she talked about bridging gaps between the Franco-German friendship and keeping Europe out of warring again. On the same date since WW1, Great Britain also assembles at the Cenotaph in London to remember their “glorious dead” in impressive parades. African Commonwealth ambassadors join this celebration. But these same Africans honouring Britain’s “glorious dead” have never ever thought of honouring the African soldiers and askaris who fought in this same war for Europe.

Nothing gets my goat as a lawyer when I see a learned colleague at the Bar raising unnecessary objections when all he could do was to concede honourably. Must a lawyer always talk for the sake of talking by playing to the gallery? What is so special about the sound of his voice that he must always talk?

“Yeh!” Ubalu shouted in local dialect. Hurriedly, he let his dusty brown hoe drop from his weary shoulder. He unsheathed his cutlass. The evening sun streaked its blade. The weapon was hungry for good action. And action it would have!

Chapter 18 - Down the Garden Path- by Ken Mulholland (Australia) Last Chapter in Vol. 4 - Vol. 4 in Ken's Black Eagle Girls series Posted 8/17/09

'Osama Bin Laden. How did he actually escape?' Harry's question was not so much a question as an announcement of looming enlightenment. 'Not by chopper that's for sure, though he and his pals would like all those who want him dead to think so. That way, if those helicopters had been shot down it could have been assumed that he was dead or at least would have bought time to find out that he wasn't. But no.

They say that the crisis affected all corners of the globe, and I believed it since it particularly affected my already malnourished wallet. Until I visited Eastleigh, the first truly 24 hour suburb of Nairobi, the other day in search of the best rates to change a few dollars into Kenya Shillings (my very own version of a stimulus package) and it dawned on me that all the seriously educated analysts I have seen on television are wrong. The global financial crisis was not quite global. It missed Eastleigh by a wide mark.

Someone asked Albert Einstein at a party: "Oh, you are Albert Einstein, could you please explain me your relativity theory in three or four sentences?"

I stood at the door to my hut. The night was still early, but the town had already gone to sleep. There was no public electricity and the few privately owned diesel generators in the neighbourhood had gone silent. It was very quiet. The children who had been singing in the compound next door had retreated to their homes. The night had come. I knew they would come for me one day. And when they do that night, I would be ready for them. “They” and “them” have no faces, but I had a fair idea who they were.

The climb up the hill is very exhausting. My breathing increases and my heart beats faster and faster. I sit on the small, black, smooth-topped rock on the hill. I take gulps of air to soothe myself. The weather is fine and clear this morning as the sun rises from behind the far mountains. They are called the Lokikili Mountains, after the tribe living there. Mama told me stories about them once. Mama told me many stories about the Lokikili people. They are warriors, she said, just like our neighbouring tribe which also lives in the mountains close to us. When there is fighting, they are said to be fierce and agile on their feet. Now things have changed. No more spears and arrows, only guns.

Each time our souls awakened with the dawn of the day, they chorused the same sorrowful melody from the night’s sleep. When we heard the bell’s tolling, we made for the traditional churchyard where we humbly notified our creator of our burdens in constant genuflection. And what did we plead? Freedom! Its availability was determined by Chukwu’s (God’s) grace, which we incessantly called upon. The ground we now trod was called Alaosu, although theories of aboriginality had designated every one of our daughters and sons as Alaoman. Yes, we hail from that village of Alaoma, where cultures are born and nurtured to become solely African. Yet its current inhabitants have dissociated themselves from us.

Every morning I wake up the same way. The voice blaring from the speakers of the mosque three buildings away from ours calls adherents to Subh, the 5:30 a.m. prayer, and wakes me up from my sleep and dream too. The dream could be sweet and it could be terrible. There were mornings I was upset, wishing the mosque’s Tannoy developed an electrical fault. These were mornings the booming voice abruptly cut my sweet dream, like the morning I dreamt I was appointed the Managing Director of a conglomerate. There were mornings I also had reasons to thank the same voice for cutting me off from a terrible dream, like the morning I dreamt a half-human, half-goat creature was pursuing me in broad daylight, with no one to rescue me.

As I sat in our school with the ending of the poem gone from my mind, I saw Mum coming to take me home. She had a basket in her hand, her beautiful face lighted with a smile as she approached me. All I could do at this time was to fumble into tears. Then my mother would drop her basket and run to me; she held me tight and asked me the reason of my tears. I would soberly say, "I forgot the ending of the poem our teacher taught us . . . she will flog me if I don’t recite it tomorrow."

They came again; the three of them. Nneka opened her eyes abruptly the minute she sensed that they were in the room. Her senses had been attuned to their presence since they started visiting three weeks ago. Nothing helped. Not the drugs Doctor Folusho had prescribed or the daily injections she abhorred or the Bible she tucked safely underneath her pillow. Nothing.

Twenty five years I have lived here. That is a quarter century, by the abacus. I know nothing about those electronic calculators the new comers talk about. Sure I have seen them used in offices in our institution. But in my time outside they did not exist. They are detestable. Abaci are much more real. The calculators perform cyber math and virtual calculations.

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.”

The soil is sticky red from innocent blood. Black tanned corpses are sweltering and puffed-up like balloons. I am scared, oh no! We are scared. All of us in this room, taking turns to peep through the window, see for ourselves. Some are too shaken to dare look out. The stench of rotten bodies, roast flesh and spilt drying blood is enough to jolt them from the sight. ”Nyamchom” has never been this plenty but now I swear I’d rather be a vegetarian. We are all in a state of vacillation between survival and fate. We saw it in movies and heard of it in stories. But now we live it.

Dad descended on me with a heavy whip. I cried, hoping for help from Mama. She had intervened at times in the past. My voice penetrated the evening skies. Nyekese my dog barked as I wailed. Unable to save me, it fled outside our home, badly confused. (See John's recent release!)

He chuckled and gunned the engine. We swerved around the corner onto McElmo Road. The kids huddled in the back, slammed against the side of the pickup bed. “Why do you do stuff like that?”
“Aw, Emmy, don’t get your bowels in an uproar. I know what I’m doing.”

The outsiders should play a positive role in region, not fueling the conflict. The presence and emergence of China in the region should bring more positive change as an economic partner, and the West should not see China as a challenge in any way. Further, the competition between China and the West should not victimize local people as well.

Jane, I know you are bitter for being deported but I feel it is the Lord ( I am a believer by the way ) who saved you from this life of shame. The business is now hard for us old women. As you know this malaya business is only good for young women.

And so it came to be that on 10th August 1904, Sir Donald William Stewart, the British Commissioner for Kenya Protectorate (yes, someone did require protection, they felt) assembled a number of Maasai chiefs in Naivasha, about 100 kilometers west of Nairobi .His intention was to acquire part of their land for colonial development. In that agreement, the Maasai were requested to cede all the 86,000 square kilometers of the lake, and some 227,000 square kilometers of acreage of the catchments around it – for a total of 999 years! In consideration, the Maasai would get paid in a currency called pittance.

He had seen all kinds of patients in his 5 years of practice. There were the inquisitive and the psychotic; the silent and the talkative; the sick and those just malingering. It was always a task to differentiate one from the other. The fear had always been to make the wrong choices and he had his portion too. And today wasn’t an exception either. He was still bothered by the last patient he saw, an elderly woman who had a rather vague complaint. He couldn’t make head or tail out of it. When all investigations are normal, convincing patients, that there is nothing wrong with them is always the hardest part. How could he tell an elderly woman that medicine had not yet found correct tools for diagnosis for all the ailments in the world?

She slipped into my house again that night, popping sweet gum as if she was chewing an old buffalo's meat. Alice would gather the exhausted elastic gum from her decaying jaw, throwing the over-chewed stuff with the might of her head's muscles at the surface of her tongue; to hang loosely on her front teeth that covered and whitened her mouth. Alice was already violently knocking at the frame of my window when I opened it. Looking at her face, faded out by 'Fair & lovely' cream, I whispered to my troubled soul, "sweet-gum producers will never, ever, produce it again if it is being abused this way!"

He had been missing for four days. In that time we had gone to the police station and checked to see if they were holding him, then we’d been to the hospital to check if any unidentified accident victim had been brought in, and finally to the morgue where we’d pored through the unidentified bodies. We’d come up empty. Finally, on the fifth day, the police had fished him out of a ditch running through a seedy section of Kariokor. The area generally stank due to poor sewage drainage, so it had taken some time for the residents to notice the additional foul odor. They had found him, face down, in the filthy and slow moving water, and called the police.

Her earliest memories were of the times spent riding high on her father’s shoulders. It was from up there that she learnt that if she stretched out her hand far enough, she could almost touch the dark blue sky littered with the brilliant winking stars. It was from up there that she learnt that the igbo name for the moon was onwa, the sun was anwu. It was from up there she watched squirrels chase each other up the giant mango trees, their bushy tails swinging daintily from left to right. It was from up there she watched Dede climb up the steep graceful body of the palm tree with the rope tied securely around his back and it was from up there that she nibbled on pieces of smoked fish her mother had tied up in a cocoyam leaf while she chatted incessantly with her father.

Let us face some harsh realities.Today,Nigeria's biggest threat is religion. An overwhelming number of Nigerians have imbibed brands of Islam and Christianity characterised by fanaticism, sheer mindlessness and aberrant thoughtlessness. In an interview, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie described the religious fundamentalism in Nigeria as 'troublingly overt' and highlighted some of the features of our practice of religion: 'insular, self-indulgent, self absorbed and self-congratulatory.' True, extremist Islam and fundamentalist Christianity are not unique to Nigeria. (Responses welcome!)

As usual, the children fled the school as quickly as their bare feet could take them. The teachers preferred a more dignified, but brisk pace, which allowed for the polite exchange of niceties and bits of gossip as we made towards the village centre, and beyond that, our respective abodes. It was just after we crossed the river and turned the corner; from whence one could see right up the hill, beyond which stood the chief’s camp, and further on, the village centre, that we saw the crowd. The villagers were there in the hundreds; they had congregated at the top of the hill, and barricaded the road with branches, stones and tires.

The swine influenza or swine flu, also known as H1 N1, is a new strain of influenza A virus, of the subtype H1 N1, which has never before circulated among humans. Note that the pandemic of 1918 that killed more than 20 million people worldwide was caused by Influenza A virus, subtype H1 N1, but a different and an unusually virulent and deadly strain.

Knock, Knock, Knock . . . “Come in!” roared the thunderous voice. Cautiously and slowly opening the door, I stepped into this enormous office. Rising from the center of the plush carpet was a huge, highly polished desk the size of an old Army jeep. Behind that desk loomed my nemesis, The Entity, beaming with military confidence in its high-back, leather swivel chair. With muscular arms the size of tree trunks folded across its massive chest, The Entity stared at me through those charming, thick, black-rimmed Army-issued glasses.

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.
Washing the last dish, I sighed slightly and ignored his comment.
“Mom, come here...it's a rat.”...A different voice from a different child, a bit more urgent.
“No, Jenny, we have no rats.”
“Mom, come here!” Julia, our third and eldest offered her whispered support and I heard chairs moving.

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.

Bishop John Baptist Odama ... 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.

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
Hoodlums, by Sumaila Isah Umaisha (Nigeria) Posted 12/30/2008

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
You, A Blind Beggar, and Something to Drink, by David L. Lukudu (Sudan) Posted 12/30/08

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
Whiteman's Blood, by Chika Onyenezi (Nigeria), Posted 12/30/08

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
Silent Night, Bloody Night, by Ayodele Morocco-Clarke (Nigeria), Posted 12/30/08

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

Mor e

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.

Mor e

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.

Mor e

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.

The Qur‘an Against Islamic Extremism, by S.M. Zakir Hussain (Bangladesh) Posted 3/22/08

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.

Cover Art - Secrets Knowledge of the Qu'ran

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.

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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.

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.

More.

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......

Strange Fruit by Monica Arac de Nyeko (Uganda) (Submitted for the prize by AuthorMe Feb. 2004 - shortlisted in 2004 by Caine Prize) (Congratulations to Monica for winning the 2007 Caine Prize with her new story, Jambula Tree from‘African Love Stories’, Ayebia Clarke Publishing 2006)

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."

More.

Photo of Darfur Darfur: Between the Camera lenses and Scribe's Pen, by John Oryem Posted 7/1/07

I once read how an American marine serving in one of the African Union bases in Darfur captured a dying child in his camera. It detailed that child's painful moments until her premature death in the desert region of Darfur.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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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Politucs of Managing your Boss, by SM Zakir Hussain

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God Created You, by Dr. Rick Martin

Dr. Rick wrote God Created You: A Guide To Temperament Therapy to provide information in a fun, easy to understand, non-clinical format so people could understand who God created them to be, how God created others and how to have happy, healthy relationships with the rest of God’s creatures (people; yes, God created them the way they are also, just as He did you). He is convinced this book will help anyone who has any relationship (at work or home or play) to be the person God intended them to be and to enjoy happier, healthier relationships.

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Call for Author-me Caine Prize 2010 Submission Selection

Wole Soyinka Prize for Literature in Africa (Laumina Foundation)
One World Project

Moraa Gitaa - Daily Nation Feature

The Write Place

African Writers - Call for Submissions

Canadian Writers - Call for Submissions

Montreal Public Poetry Festival

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February Author-Me Newsletter

Securing a Literary Agent – Bruce Copok
The Southern Sudanese Creative Writers - Abdalla Keri Wani

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Cover - The Bond that Crumbled Tradition

Just Released - from Kenechukwu Obi

100 Steps in Faith Cover

Each thought, each breath….each step is an act of faith. I live out my faith in my writing. I talk to God in my poetry. I pray to God in my poetry. I laugh, I cry, I rant, I rave. Everything I do in life I do first with pen and paper. “100 Steps In Faith” is the result.

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When Authors Bite the Hand That Teaches Them - Patricia Fry

Special Issue - April 15

Marsha Friedman Interview with Lee Habeeb (Part 1)

Impartial review of your book

Current Reviews...

The Oerken Leaves
Places to be Blessed
Black Belt Patriotism
Kural
Three Cups of Tea
Ponder Awhile
50 Years, 100 Peace & Conflict Perspectives
Dark thrpugh the Delta
Burma Boy
Mapping Human History
Roads Have Come to an End Now
In this House
The Forgotten 500
The Author's Workbook
Unlikely Heroes
The Slave Ship
Fatherland
Escape from Empire
Inside Delta Force
Banners of Liberty
The Wand in the Word
Saudi Match Point
You Don't Have to be Famous
Gandhi Today
How to Love Your Child
Creation/Evolution Controversy

New - Author's Workbook

Patricia Fry offers a prepublication discount on her new Author’s Workbook and the newly revised 366-page companion book, The Right Way to Write Publish and Sell Your Book. Discount offer good through September 20, 2007. www.matilijapress.com/rightway.html

Surge vs. Lulu, Publishing , etc.

Have you had a good (or bad) experience with self-publishing, book promotions, or literary agenting? Please share your experience in our Self-Pub-Watch. - AuthorBoard.com.

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Peace of Mind - from Dr. Claude

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- Small Man - Wife's Stalker New!
Albert Einstein on Relativity - at a Party - New!
Stress, Tension, Panic
Hardest Time for George W
Drunk Mouse/Hungry Cat
Hat Sellers & Monkeys
Patience
Public Servant
Who's Cat? Who's Mouse?
German Workers & Green Ink
Battle Between Wolves
Mouse Plan for Christmas
The Queen Turned Back
Intellectual Student vs. Teacher
A Woman & a Medical Doctor
French, US presidents get Confused
Cultivating Meat
Nonviolent Communication
First Day in the Office
Elderly Woman in a Thunderstorm
The King & the Cow Troupe
85 year-old marries 25 year-old
Where Did We Eat Last Night?
Forgetful Elderly Couple
I Forgot Where I Live
65 Year-old woman had a Baby
Tough War
Interested in Death News
White people, Black People
Crossing the Atlantic
Hunting in Nebraska - New
Tricky Blonde
Judge Hits the Gavel
Mysterious Cigar & Famous Lawyer
Young Lawyer & the Devil
Seed of Honesty
Hidden Gems
A Confused Lawyer
Psychotic Man, Wife & Catapult
Criminal Lawyer in Chicago
United Way & Tricky Lawyer
Andropov & KGB Officer
Snowflake
Water
Camel and Diplomat
Zimbabwe: Monkeys & Teachers
Philosopher Diogenes
American Indians & the Weatherman
Shivkof said "Yes"!
The Raft
Pravda & Izvestia
A Pope & a Lawyer
Only a Fire
Last Wish before Death
Philosopical Mathematics
Chief Beira of KGB
3 Hungry Crocodiles
Pervez Musharaf and the Barber Shop
Some Jokes
My Father was a Female
Funny Son and his Father
Put the Glass Down
Young Attorney in the City
Swallowed by a Shark
The Gate of Heaven
Rufus Jones
The Brick
Starfish
The Art of Listening
Kindness Rewarded

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Word Fitly Spoken

URBAN CHRISTIAN SUBMISSIONS

Urban Books presents its new Christian Fiction imprint, Urban Christian. Urban Books is an African American publishing company that has a distribution deal with a major publishing house, Kensington Publishing. With over 50 authors published under “Urban Books” (street meets drama) and its newest imprint, “Urban Soul” (women’s fiction), Urban Books is now adding Christian fiction to its repertoire. Through this divine journey of moving stories, Urban Christian is the voice that will take the Urban Books readers to another level; the spiritual side of the craft.

URBAN CHRISTIAN Writing Guidelines:

Genre: Christian/Inspirational fiction
Fiction Manuscript word length: Range of approximately 65,000 - 85,000 words
Manuscript pages: Range of approximately 260-300 pages

Mazwi Edu Writer’s Project

Stanley Makuwe, a Zimbabwean writer living in Auckland, New Zealand together with Tinashe Mushakavanhu a writer living in Zimbabwe have organised a writing competition titled Mazwi Edu (Our Voices) to try and assist disadvantaged unpublished writers living in Zimbabwe.
There is little new coming out of Zimbabwe and one way to encourage people to write is by introducing a competition. The ethos of the competition is less about winning but more about creating space for a new generation of Zimbabwean writers. Mazwi Edu Writers Competition is committed to supporting the development of Zimbabwean Literature. Write Tinashe

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Tiger Marketing: Are you a pre-published novelist and serious about improving your
craft? Are you a published novelist and intent on marketing your book? Award-winning novelist Randy Ingermanson invites you to receive his free Advanced Fiction Writing E-zine, a monthly newsletter packed with info on the craft and marketing of your fiction. Randy is the inventor of the famous Snowflake method. Click here

Interested in Communication?

Don't miss the special Communication feature in Forbes.com

Read AuthorMe Writers in...

Africa Report - Raïs Neza Boneza
Transcend Africa Report	Ghettoization of African Literature
International Migration	Development of Africa vs. Others
Burundi	War and The HIV/AIDS Epidemic
Rwanda: Conflict, Genocide	Sudanese Internal Displaced People
Rwanda: Child Rights Associations & Youth Movements	Rwanda : Gacaca Jurisdictions

Action	Fantasy	Historical	Humor	Literary
Love	Religion	Satire	Sci-Fi	Sports
Suspense

The Legend of Taarna, adapted by Adam W. Smith

Revised 1/31/06

They were almost to the rim when the earth shook violently beneath them. Their eyes widened in terror as enormous founts of steaming, sulfurous green lava were suddenly ejected from the crater above them and swept down the mountainside in inescapable waves.

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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....

More..

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