*** trafficking – the trafficking and debasement of souls; Drug trafficking – the trafficking of substances that debase the body.  Here compared you will find the prevalence, impact, and rehabilitation processes associated with *** and shrug trafficking.  Respective clientele, demographics, and locales that these types of trafficking touch will be revealed in order enlighten you to their world-wide prevalence. The physical, emotional, spiritual, and psychological impact of lifestyles that result from these two types of trafficking will be detailed to etch vividly an image of just how far-reaching the impact of these two activities is. Light will be shed upon the rehab processes that lead to recovery from each.
                 According to UnoDC.org, the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime, the use of illicit drugs has remained in a stable trend, with approximately the same number of people using illicit drugs each year. This trend has continued for a number of years. Upon examining the world drug report, written by UnoDC.org, production of several drugs exhibit particularly interesting trends. ***** production for example fell and spiked in a somewhat predictable patter from 1990 until 2010. When this data is graphed a reasonable medium appears for all the years, revealing that ***** production has stayed around an average production of roughly 200,000 hectares annually. Likewise, coca cultivation pictures an interesting trend. From 1990 to 2010 coca production appeared to be almost identical each year, and with little to no rise or fall in production, there is a similar trend in its being trafficked.  
Nefarious: Merchant of Souls is a documentary that was released in 2012 by Exodus Cry Its producers and researchers saw firsthand the atrocities of the *** trafficking industry. The film crew interviewed former pimps and prostitutes, spoke to traffickers, the families of the trafficked and to individuals still actively engaged in three sides of the *** trade referring to currently employed pimps and prostitutes as well as those who purchased ***. The researchers and producers interviewed eastern European gang members and took a trip to Amsterdam’s red-light district – home of legal prostitution. They journeyed to Los Angeles and saw the glamorized side of the dark issue of *** trade.
According to Nefarious, the number of humans trafficked for the purpose of providing ****** services is on a shockingly steep rise. In a matter of a few years, *** trafficking rose from the third largest criminal enterprise to the second. It is second only to drug trafficking and is vying for the position as top criminal enterprise in the world. It is encroaching upon that position far more speedily than any authority or decent human being would care to acknowledge.  A survey taken in 2010 by DART (the drug awareness resistance training program) revealed that 21.8 million people aged 12 and older had taken an illicit drug in the previous month. In 2010 it was estimated that between 153 and 300 million people had used an illicit drug at least once in the previous year. These statistics fail to take into account the impact that this usage has on the lives of the families of drug users. Neither do these statistics reveal the extent to which drug users lifestyles are impacted by drugs. However, nearly  every single human trafficked for ****** purposes is completely and utterly enveloped in the lifestyle of prostitution and the violent world of being prostituted. In Nefarious a shocking statistic is revealed. Approximately ten percent of the entire human population of earth has been trafficked. Both human and drug trafficking are prevalent across the globe. Human trafficking occurs in 161 of 192 countries. Illicit drugs are trafficked in every country that has laws that deem substances unlawful. There are little to no race, religion, ethnicity, or age restrictions on who can and is trafficked for use of ***, but drugs are far more limited by age and ethnicity in their use.
Drug trafficking, though similar to *** trafficking in many ways, is in no way as substantial a damaging force to the mind, soul, and spirit as the world of *** trafficking  is in terms of the critical and dangerous force it exhibits in the emotional, physical, psychological, and spiritual  impact it has on young girls. Both drugs and *** trafficking have some influence in all of these respective areas. The primary area in which people are affected by drug use is the physical. Drug users’ health declines, they become physically or psychologically dependent, and they may develop diseases from sharing of needles or lack of inhibitions that lead to *** with an infected individual. Drugs may, in some rare cases, lead to psychoses and mental disorders. They may cause brain damage, which is both physically and mentally damaging. Drugs may even set one’s heart and soul in a place that they are more susceptible to lies or truth. They alter spiritual state for some individuals, but only mildly. However, *** trafficking victims are impacted majorly and in their entirety as a person. In all aspects of the physical, mental, and spiritual, *** trafficking victims are consumed by *** trafficking. In Nefarious it is revealed that In order to “break” *** trafficking victims they are profusely beaten, and are psychologically toyed with to create a twisted trust and dependence on their various handlers. They are repeatedly *****, and are examined like cattle by those who wish to buy women. They are imprisoned in dark rooms and not allowed to leave unless told to do so. They are bedridden and forced to ******* themselves. After being broken in ways described above and sold to a ****, girls are forced every day to meet certain quotas of customers and cash flow. If they do not meet these they are beaten even more. They lay in bed sometimes a week at a time to recover physically enough to usefully return to their “job”.  Through this hellish ordeal, their soul, self-worth and identity are being attacked by circumstances that devalue them. They become like animals.
*** trafficking victims become dependent on their environment for normalcy. This is so true for some individuals that even though they have been rescued from the lifestyle, they return.  This is not because the *** trafficking victims enjoys the lifestyle of prostitution, and it is not because they want to. Instead, it is because they think they can be nothing more than a *******. The *** trafficking victim, in this case, believes that they need to settle into the numb and thoughtless mind state that they develop when broken. Returning to prostitution does not evidence an addiction. In contrast, it is the cry of a soul that is desperately trying to cope. They do this in order to feel as if they can survive.  
The rehab processes for *** and drug trafficking differ greatly in commitment and length, but are similar in that they both require physical and psychological rehabilitation.  Drug rehabilitation programs typically consist of twelve-step programs or something similar. They last a number of months, or occasionally a few years. They allow individuals counsel and encouragement, and they attempt to, by abstinence, exorcise an addicted individual’s addiction. *** trafficking rehabilitation requires the re-creation of an individual. Self-worth must be reconstructed. The spirit must be healed in order to allow for psychological healing. Prostitutes are not addicted to prostitution, but prostitution produces dependence in that the prostituted crave normalcy. This dependence must be killed. Successfully rehabilitating women from this forced lifestyle requires lifelong commitment and endless resources. It requires passionate fanatics, people who will pour their life into changing the lives of others, because only the incurable fanatic can wreak havoc on the tragedy of human trafficking. Any short-term effort to rehabilitate a *** trafficking victim is doomed to failure. The degree to which the brokenness of *** trafficking victims becomes ingrained in them is so extreme that it takes a lifetime to reshape their lives.
While researching *** trafficking in order to accurately produce Nefarious, the researchers and producers of Nefarious became convicted by facts that they collected. The evidence they collected speaks to the fact that *** trafficking does not just attack the body; it attacks the entire being, and in far worse ways than drugs ever could. Varied races and ages are prostituted and / or consume drugs. The impact of both of *** and drug trafficking is severe, but much more so severe in the case of human trafficking. The rehab process for human trafficking is much more in depth and is testament to the horror and degree of psychological, mental, and emotional disfigurement, as well as acclimation to a horrible situation to the point that horror becomes normal – a new definition of addiction. Human trafficking is an atrocity that is far more horrendous and prevalent than imaginable. It is far more destructive than drug trafficking. Drug trafficking is one of the most destructive forces in this generation.  Surely consuming drugs is one of the most horrid things we can do to our bodies, but what about consuming souls? *** trafficking consumes souls, hearts, minds and bodies. It splits, fragments, debases, brutalizes, obliterates, murders, rapes, molests, destroys, and dehumanizes the prostituted.  Drug trafficking attacks the body the soul, and sometimes the mind, but in much milder ways.

It hurts me because my countries worries of ETHNICITY creates nation wide incompatibility. Which creates no mobility.
That gives us no capability of advancing our society.

I
There is a 3% chance I'll find you here. But if in each pair of eyes I dip, I find 1/8 of you; I'll be there soon.

II
I didn't crawl here; I took a plane. I spent six hours tracing the Atlantic from my window and you rose from the sea, dry and unsalted, twice each nautical mile. I would say it was my imagination, or the California wine, but I wear glasses now and never lie about what I see. It was you. And you and you and you.


III
Stealing is easier here. Maybe it's the crowds or the way the men smile at me like I'm harmless, but my hands move without question. They don't fumble or miss pockets, my heartbeat doesn't even protest. In prayer beads, silkworm cocoons, oils and sea rings, I am in debt to a city who doesn't know it.


IV
I have no ethnicity. Deep in bone coils the apathy and flight of someone's non-heritage. But I am forgiven; in a world of paranoia, brown eyes are always trusted and the way my hair falls reminds them that I'm on their side. Even my name curls within itself, folded flat and dead before it's over. It's better this way; no allegiance, no responsibility.

V
From a curb in district nine, I see your star. It's hanging where you said it would be but I can't see god in it the way you promised.

VI
On the other side of the world you told me about a quad of green. You waxed flowers of every color, the sky I've only ever painted and the people, beautiful and dark, who will save me. I found it. In broken French and broken sandals I found it and the sun was setting and you had just left. So now we both know you won't be the one to save me.

VII
With one foot in the slanting gutter I walk until the city circles and I'm back where I started. In a daydream I found you. I smiled and quoted your book, the part that said 'When we heard the guidance, we believed in it' and you looked at me in a way that scared me. A way that translated your face into thousands of alphabets, ancient and invented. And I knew none of them. Suddenly I'm illiterate to you. Suddenly I'm gone.

VIII
I'm with a man who's made of smoke and each strawberry ring that escapes my lips is dedicated to someone that I’ve laughed with.

IX
With the intensity of archives on fire, I withdraw. You are still a body; a few hundred bones calcified and aging, a mind of words streaming like spider webs, blood you never shed, and  muscles that cross in blinding precision, but you are not who you used to be. You bound to me in a way that's irreversible and now we're both stitching. Awkward and broken we pull at flesh to remove each other. We have scars now, like stickers ripped from wallpaper. The outline of a palm stains my shoulder, a thumb the size of yours in the crook of my elbow. Small, white fingerprints tattoo your neck.


X
I might be free. Over cobble stones with broken sandals I don't trip until I realize that a city where I loved is now part of me. I can get as far away from her as the modern map allows but the red and gold bangles that crowd my wrists are not to be taken off. They're a part of me too. Like blood spilled on a cobble stone, you will walk over us every day of your life.

racism and stereotypes
I’m not chief keef but that’s that **** I don’t like
especially when I’m judged like when people say that I don’t “look right”
cause I tell I’m samoan so I’m supposed to be big and strong
and playing some stereotypical sport like football
it’s just an ethnicity, like anyone else, relax
but on a more serious note, I feel bad for the blacks
tell me why a few weeks ago, my roommate is walkin’ down on mill ave.
and he sees some girl sittin’ alone so he comes over cause he just wants to chat
but as soon as he approaches her, she gets all tense and afraid
cause she’s over here fabricating some image that he’s some kind of troublemaker, like the dude from the movie crash, you know the one with the braids?
I find that **** ludicrous
that many people out there judge off the color of someone’s skin and think they knew all of it
all of who you are and all of how you act
so you supposed to be a gangsta on the streets cause you young and you black
or the only explanation for the brotha with the beemer is he be workin’ that corner sellin’ out dime sacks from his nike knapsack or maybe he’s just one of those cats that likes to rap and occasionally slangs crack
but no, he can’t be no college educated man
he’s wearing a nike outfit and his skin is all black
and don’t even get me started on all the idiots that judge Hispanics and call ‘em wetbacks
what the hell is wrong with this world?
latinos are arguably the hardest working people around
but jose and carlos must be illegal cause they’re holding a shovel and their skin is all brown
so let’s get a group of racist ******* to push sheriff joe arpaio to introduce sb1070
good job Arizona, you’re now the most hated state in the country
cause we don’t like Mexicans cause they’re taking all the jobs that we could have had
but let’s skip the fact that they’re willing to work twice as hard for half the pay with no insurance to cover their back
how do you disrespect anyone, who’s willing to do all that?
and as we go over these issues with all the minorities
racists begin to develop a sense of hate for those that make up the majority
the white people
this girl in class may have not have been paying attention or got an easy question wrong
so let’s just whisper under our breath that she’s just another “dumb blonde”
let’s just assume that she’s daddy’s spoiled little girl cause she has a coach bag
and that she has a lotta of money, no rhythm, and above all no ***
and her daddy’s daddy’s daddy must have owned slaves back in the day
so I’mma use that against her if she ever misbehaves
and act like the majority of her people haven’t matured past that stage
and since they seem like their living well, it must be safe to assume that they were born privileged
and that they’re completely oblivious to the sufferings of other races and completely ethnocentric
*******
all these stereotypes and racist assumptions, *******
why can’t we,
live in a colorblind society,
where all races can connect without the animosity?
well, the answer is, we can, but it starts from us
stop the racism, stop the stereotypes, stop the hate, and begin to trust
in people of all colors with different mothers
like the cliché goes, don’t judge a book by its cover
so just because he ain’t a brother
that don’t mean you gotta give him the cold shoulder
so, if everyone can, I need yall to do me a favor,
I need you to love you, love him, and even love me
love her, love them, love everyone equally
and as for me? I’mma just be me
regardless of what people assume, I have the right to act freely
cause I’m not trynna be the center of attention or the definition of perfection
I’m just strivin’ to be proud of what I see in my reflection…

Kashmir Delirium

Oh People Of Earth! Thankful are we,
For each act of benevolence shown to us.
Your gilded sweet words describing,
The beauty of Kasmir, land and people.

Mention in books and talks of it's riches,
Naming it the Sweet Paradise Of Earth.
The Lord has been bountiful to Kashmir,
Treasure of resources in every sphere.

To elevate each aspect, our wish for life,
As every acre of this land is worth millions.
Full of treasures and recreational value,
Forestry with grandeur and silvery rivers.

The outside world's view is so limited,
Simple folks living in the lap of rich bounty.
Mentioned in world forums and organizations,
But what of the goal of giving us freedom?

What has The UN established in our name?
To measure the pain and anguish we bear,
At the hands, of our supposed benefactors.
The saviours who has us fractured.

But in reality they train their enforcers,
In the art of creating oceans of tears.
The red blood now hidden in camouflage,
The spent shells now gathered and hidden.

The leaders we are told to elect in electoral shams,
Run publicity kiosks and swell friend lists.
Joint conferences to address personal interests
Dialogues that never address the root issues.

Just the formalities and no sympathy,
For the ones burnt in cruel sadistic reprisals.
The hypocrisy continues deliriously unabated,
More augmentation of the security forces.

For a first hand view of deep hypocrisy,
Walk this land, you know as beautiful.
Religious leaders will teach you  political artistry,
Sermons full of ambiguity and guile.

Waywardness and narrow mindedness on display,
Political apologists give great lessons.
Religion and religious ethnicity are tools,
That keep minds and bodies in total check.

Gamesmanship by leaders is the rule of thumb,
As promises are forgotten once office is obtained.
When writing of this succulent beautiful land,
Write of the air, pregnant with sadistic practices.

This land is being stripped of worldly treasures,
And the greatest treasure is mistreated daily.
The best of nation is the inhabitants,
Ignored are the real gems of this beautiful paradise.

They began without notice, in the city of Mombasa
By the Al shabab shooting baby Osinya in the head,
Killed the mother, leaving a slug stuck in Osinya’s head
Killing and mauling many others macabrously,
Killing for no other reason, but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.

They had initially lynched the West Gate Mall
In Nairobi, killing the aged and seasoned darling
Of African poetry and true fountain of peace
The dearest Kofi Awonor, in full watch of his son,
Confirming a trail of the ghastly curse of fate and death
That totted him arduously from his home in the west
Of the tropical gulag that makes the land of Africa
From where the terror maestro ; Boko haram reign scot free
Mayheming, Killing, ******, and kidnapping harmless virgins
Killing For no other reason but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.

They have now killed fifty peasants in Mpeketon town,
****** them in circles to puncture their virginity
and brutally kidnapping those that are not *****,
Using the AK 47 and the Ak 74 to shoot and ****,
Without reason nor course but failure of mind
Botched down by authenticity of holy diversity
Heavenly packaged in God’s idea of tribe,
Uhm! An African man with a gun is a brute of brutes,
Giving an African a gun is simple mess of the world
In to helter-skelter poise tilting peace higgledy-piggledy,
Killing one another like animals premised by Charles Darwin
As overtly seen in the warring Congo and CAR,
Where Africans **** one another in a stupid dint,
To ape Rwanda or no! To outshine the Jewish Massacre
In the Ammonium chambers of fuehrer Adolf ******,
This stupid Africans baser than wild beasts,
Who told you that your greatness will come
from killing your neighbours; the fellow peasants?
These African men are the modern homoguerrillus,
Which one call cheap war making man
They and **** ! ****! ****! ****! ****! ****! ****,
For no other reason but faith and tribe,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.

Gunshots of the gunmen in Africa are not
A song of the caged bird, no whatsoever,
They are cowardly maneuvers of the weak
As the weak and cowards rarely forgive,
They arm themselves to the teeth
With deadly weapons from Russia or wherever
Only to shoot and **** the old and malnourished
Peasant women, killing the likes of baby Osinya
Shooting a suckling baby to prove your heroism,
These African men are really a Whiteman’s burden,
They **** their fellows from cockcrow to chick roost
For no other reason but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.

At age 27 I ask myself what the hell I am so afraid of
I was born in Central America and my family
Tree reveals that I am from Belize City
This means that I’m Belizean
I’m mixed with white & black  
But I’m not African American since I don’t have any history
Or evidence of my family living in America generations after generations
I’m not even sure if my ancestors were owned by slaves or not
But I won’t assume that we weren’t


Today I ask myself why I love this country so much
That I desperately strive to become American legally
And I want to feel like an American
I know more about African & U.S. History than Central America
I feel like a disgrace to my culture
Yet I haven’t tried to google, ask my family questions
Or even pick up a book to find out more about my ancestors

Whether they’re foreigners or Americans
They tell me that I speak perfect English
And I look like I’m African American
And they can’t even hear my accent
But I think to myself,
Well it’s still there my accent just isn’t as strong and it’s not difficult for me to pronounce English after living here for 15 years
And as for my skin complexion, hey I acknowledge that fact that I’m half black
I didn’t get this skin color from sitting in the New Mexico sun for too long

From what I’ve learned the languages that exist in Belize are:
1. Creole,
2. Garifuna,
3. Spanish,
4. Maya Mopan,
5. Maya Yucateco,
6. Maya Ketchi,
7. Hindi,
8. And German.

We eat:
1. Tamales,
2. Rice &beans;,
3. Craw-fish,
4. Pig-tail, meat-pie,
5. Mango, craboo which is fruit with milk and sugar,
6. Fried plantains.
7. Rompopo is Belizean eggnog mixed with brandy or ***

My favorite food was garnaches which:
Is corn tortilla, refried beans, and shredded cheese  
Fried cake which is bread dough that is shaped
Like a moon that was cut in half and then fried in a skillet

Belize has a variety of ethnicity
Chinese, white, black, Mexican, Native American, etc
So you might look at one of us and assume
They’re Mexican because their skin color is brown
Or think they’re Jamaican, African, and African American because
Of their dark skin or their foreign accent
But that person might be Belizean

We celebrate Independence Day on September 21
They listen to reggae music called *****
My family’s dialect is creole
Da we de gon on
Means hows it going

One day I hope that I’m confident enough to embrace everything:
The culture/country that I was born in,
The American life style that I live now and
Accepting the fact that I’m still black
Even though I’m also Belizean
I don’t want to continue to be bound to my shame of my ethnicity
Or this society that manipulates you
Into believing that surviving and
Making money should be your main focus

"What are you?" he asks. "I mean what are you mixed with?"

He does not mean for the question to be rude. He has never seen someone quite like me, and the question has been bouncing around in his head for at least 2 minutes. So he blurts it out.

"Jamaican, Chinese, and White," I tell the stranger. I smile politely and attempt to mask my discomfort.

He only looks more intrigued. He thinks I am odd, oddly beautiful. Like a rare bird he has found. Not a bird one would ever keep. Just something to look at in awe.

"What are you?" the test paper asks, though in a more formal way. "Please bubble your ethnicity." I hesitate. I think about bubbling 3 different races, but I just end up filling in the bubble that says "other".

"What are you?" I ask my mirror. "Are you a freak? Why don't you look like everyone else? Why do they stare at you?"

"You are not pretty," i tell my reflection. "You are just different. The kind of different that no one likes. The kind of different that scares and intimidates people."

My reflection pauses for a moment. She smiles with kind eyes, forgiving my insult.

"You are everything," she tells me. "You are the sun, the moon and everything in between. You are a scorching hot fire, yet you are cold spring water. You are good and bad. You are you and I am, too. But most of all, you are human. Just like anyone else.

I feel like I have the right
to cuss like a sailor
because I am the descendant of one.
I can remember the stories my mother used to tell,
of the man who made perfect pancakes.
It was all I knew about him besides the other story
about their first kiss in the rain,
then she married him.
And when I braid my hair
I am Pocahontas,
because if my great-grandfather whom I've never known.
I wish I'd been there
when my family lived in Morocco or Puerto Rico,
I wish I was foreign.
Even though,
it takes forever for my mother's files to go through anything
because she is not U.S. born.
I think I just want to know what box to check
in the race section of applications.

Be open-minded and admit the possibility
That some things are objectively wrong
We all live in a constant state of gray area

I see you pretty often, maybe once every week or so
For a moment our bubbles come very close to overlapping
But they so far have always held firm
Which is, in one respect, kind of amazing
Yet in another, to be expected

Our bubbles are made of rubber and concrete
Our lives are so different - we’re separated by
Class, gender, age, ethnicity and health history
Different in almost every way you could imagine
Save for location, which again is amazing

If we ever step out of our bubbles one day
And I actually hope we do
It will be uncomfortable, I imagine, and also
Potentially dangerous for both of us
But it could turn out great

Most people ask themselves I guess
Whether it’s worth the risk
And say no and they probably make assumptions
And I so far haven’t made too many about you
Although to make none is impossible and so of that I am proud

Some things might be wrong even if
Everyone does them and even if
You or I do them constantly
Without an ounce of guilt
It’s possible anyway

To the niqab girl whom I met in Cagaya De Oro City
You were in front of me as we waited in line for hours
We smiled first politely and then we began to talk,
We Shared different insights in almost everything:
Your face veiling practice in Islam fascinated me
My headcovering as Christian piqued your curiosity
Conversations turned to fashion, extremism, and Filipinos,
You saw my face and I saw your beautiful eyes
Yet we never asked each other's names or Facebook accounts,
We were different yet somehow we mirrored each other;
Different religions yet linked by passion to serve God
Different ethnicity and language yet tied by nationality.

It's been weeks since the Marawi siege and I think of you
Hoping that every niqab girl I see in Iligan is you
We were strangers that rainy afternoon of June 2016
Yet I grieve for your loss - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Words are not enough to comfort you sister of the stars but
May your Allah guide and protect you in these times
May my Jesus cover you with His precious Holy blood,
To the niqab girl whom I met in Cagayan De Oro City
Perhaps we'll never see each other again in the future but
Thank you for letting me see the beauty of cultural diversity
And that coexistence is possible if we have open minds
And living in harmony is attainable if we open our hearts.

they say you'll never forget
where you were on 9/11
i was nine
i sat in the kitchen
and watched the television
play out the violence hour after hour
my child-like mind conflated the Two Towers
in Tolkien's literary fantasy
with these acts of misanthropy  
and i was taught at the dinner table
that very evening
that all of life could be reduced
to capital letters defining a
cosmic struggle of Good vs. Evil

and yet
regardless of their affiliation
on this defunct
political spectrum of
left left
left right left
politicians canonize a legacy of
injustice and oppression and
in order to suppress
democratic expression
they propagate the notion
that dissent is treason

because the wars we wage are blessed
by the sagely insight of rich old men
who sit safely in mansions protected by
picket fences as white as their skin
while they play off our emotions and
turn us into thoughtless sheep
content to stomach the whims of
politicians propagating vengeance

i will speak this out even
when my voice shakes
because i have seen the hypocrisy
of this war on terror
that relies on terror
to cultivate more terrorists
in order to perpetuate the notion
that Orwell posited

war is peace
freedom is slavery
ignorance is bliss
isn't it

in my naïveté
i rejected the reality of
torture and murdered children for
i nursed a secret hope that
despite the pictures and videos
that served as empirical evidence
we were still somehow
the good guys and
they were the bad guys

but Americans rained white
phosphorous on Fallujah
dropped the world's first
and hopefully last
atom bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki
we toppled democratically elected socialists
whose interests betrayed our self-serving agendas
cultivating a policy of extra-judicial assassination
regime change is the name of the game
just ask the CIA
they'd tell you
business is booming but
then they'd have to **** you

so i switched off my TV screen
and picked up books
i read Slaughterhouse-V
and treasured the way Vonnegut
looks at the lives of even
bees and butterflies as valuable
intoning "so it goes"
every time a living thing dies

i read O'Brien's
recollections
of Vietnam
a month later
he said that
like white lies
tall tales and
fishermen’s yarns
every war story
has a bit of truth

and i've seen the proof
in the photographs of
Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo Bay
in the aftermath of drone strikes
that left pieces of kids scattered
across the desert sands of foreign lands

i see the toxic side-effects of
systemic violence in the eyes
of homeless veterans suffering
on the streets with PTSD
a flicker of fear livens a
deadened gaze at the sound of
every backfiring engine
as if they're a thousand miles away
on some distant shore

betrayed by their own
government once again
a Purple Heart is
a death sentence
when there are 22
military suicides a day
thanks for your service
now die in silence

like bad religion the phrase
war crime is rather redundant
and i testify not because i
aim to disrespect the
men and women in uniform
on the contrary

when i say
**** war
it is because i
cherish every brother
and every sister
who has perished in the
churning gears of conflict

they shoved tall tales of hope
for a collegiate education
and far-flung travel
down our throats
just sign here
right along the dotted line

we want you
to march into hellfire
we want you
to send missiles into
tiny huts and villages
tracking cell phone signals
we want you
to sit down
shut up and
just do as you're told

to every fallen human who
has been sent off to fight on
behalf of this
or any other
corrupt nation
i sincerely apologize
for not taking to the streets to protest
a vitriolic ideology

i regret filing my taxes
when 54% or more of our budget goes to
military expenditures so they could
stick an M-16 in your hands
and ship you off to die for abstract
and so often arbitrary phrases like
freedom and justice for all

you were robbed of your liberty
by a capitalist system that seeks profit
like a false prophet for
bank accounts soar in times of war  
and in my apathy i hammered
nails into your coffin

and i pride myself on  
being an anti-militaristic
non-violent anarchist because
i don't hate soldiers
if i did i would remain
silent and apathetic
and let the government
abuse its youth

i celebrate humanity
regardless of ethnicity and creed
which is precisely why i despise
this system that sacrifices
generation after generation for
conquest and imperial notions

pray tell
will we turn from the
error of our ways
wake up from
this terrorist daze
before it's too late
and say

the State can try to
whitewash history but
i refuse to let them
brainwash me

Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)



In response to the United States versus European Union  deliberations on Ukrainian- Russian stalemate  that were concluded on 25th may  2014 at Brussels , in which President Barrack Obama looked at the Putin’s political  behaviour in global set up of the postmodern era as a weakness, I beg to take my position within my capacity as global citizen, to go contrary to this stand of Barrack Obama by positing that President Vladimir Putin is a fact of global urgency , but instead it is Obama who suffers from universal class intellectual deficiency often  observed as insensitive rhetoric but branded as unmatched eloquence.
Firstly, let me give the sequential enumerations of facts which validate my position and hence this discourse. Barely the facts are; Ethnicity, Islam, terrorism, Guantanamo prison, Sino-African relations,Arab-springs,politics and human psychology and American political culture as state and an international citizen.
President Obama has always refused and rejected his ethnic connexion with Africa, he always refer to Africa as the land of ancestors. This is a stand that has most irritated Africans. Both in Africa and in the diaspora. Obama never learned a simple pre-industrial wisdom that every man needs ethnic identity for positive reasons. Because as per now Obama still stands as a Kenyan and as well as an American. This connotes a political fact that he is neither a complete Kenyan nor an absolute American in terms of political emotionalism. The empirical position of all these abode in the fact that there are a thousand and one Americans who feel politically belittled to be led by a first generation African American. Thus, a leadership fact has to be indentified in this juncture by inferring that, their voter consciousness as Americans is not fit to be crystallized as emotional resource to be enjoyed by Obama politics. In a sharp contrast Vladimir Putin has acquired substantial political strengths from positive recognition of Russian ethnicity. Putin recognizes Estonia, Crimea, Georgia, Serbia, Moldova and all small and poor lands around Russia in terms of ethnic connection to Russia. He calls these lands as the dear burial grounds in which Russian military heroes were buried. In a comparison, America has a lot of racial connection with Africa, but president Obama has earnestly worn blinkers on this. He only looks at Africa skeptically as a land of injured civilization in which terrorists abode. He has been wrong. African folk wisdom has a lesson that, you may not need your tribe in peace, only to need it in war.
Why did president Obama masquerade as a Muslim when he was vying for his first term? Moslems feel that he duped them only to turn around and **** their leaders. In Islam it is a heinous sin to pose as a Muslim when you are not one. President Obama mobilized the plotting which had to occasion the killings of Muammar Gadaffi and Osama Bin Laden. These two incidents fuelled high strength in anti-American feelings among the societies of the Arab world. Reasons are that both Gadaffi and Bin Laden deserved fair trial the same way Henry Kissinger was not tried when he perpetrated macabarous mass killing in Vietnamcong war. Muslim community least expected financial and ideological funding of the political hullabaloo known as the Arab Spring, through which heroic Moslem leaders were killed, to come from Obama government. But the contrary was surprisingly a fact. The meaning of this is that , in this tussle of show of mental mighty between Putin and Obama, All African and Arab states are behind Putin, China is behind Putin. Maybe it is Tanzanian and Ghanaian presidents who are in Obama camp, but not the Moslems in Tanzanians and Intellectuals in Ghana. The perceived rationale for this positioning inter alias is that the Number of North African Moslems in Guantanamo prison is the highest of all the detained terrorist suspects.
China is all over Africa today; African schools are teaching Chinese languages with passion more than they do with English language. The University of Nairobi in Kenya, has established the most prestigious Kungu Fu tze institute. Students in this institute are more self-confident and hopeful than those in schools of English and literature. China has designed a special business city for Africans, known as the chocolate city. Africans are more dignified in this city than their counterparts in Chicago.Negroes in Chicago of today still taste a vestigial pepper of negative racism on daily basis. All these conditions have graduated into appalling status from George Bush high school to Barrack Obama state University. These at times confirm the Russian Joke that Barrack Obama is an avatar of George Bush without a Nobel Prize. A political condition not evident during the Reagan and Clinton administration. Obama did not benchmark the shrewd equation of Vladimir Putin; good politics is equal to putting people at center stage.
Psychology of politics has a theory that being eloquent is not a connotation of political effectiveness. It may be sheer rhetoric. This is not a necessary variable for effective policy formulation and implementation. History of politics also has a testimony in confirmation of the same. The French society goofed when it fell victim of Napoleon eloquence, same to the Germans when they became emotional captives of Adolf ****** due to the razor sharp garrulousness of Adolf ******, which he adopted when selling **** values to German voters. In Africa Tanzania is the poorest country without hope of initiating any development this century. And all this is a preposterous protégé of utopian communalism planted through eloquent tools of prosaic socialism wielded by the articulate Julius Nyerere. The American society has also gone into annals of history to have collectively failed in its political choices as a national society by succumbing to rhetorical but policy insensitive conference management knack of the one Barrack Obama. These have happened in a capitalist conduit in which capitalism is killed by its success, just the same way which ignorance is never murdered but at most commits suicide.


Alexander K Opicho, is a social researcher at Sanctuary Research agencies ltd., in Eldoret, Kenya.  He is also a lecturer for Governance Research Methods.

The clouds slowly conceal sunlight at night,
Who then slowly reveal moonlight at night.

In this city roams the Moon of New-York,
Who's face reflects the city's light at night.

All kinds of people walk around up here,
In lit streets who're full with delight at night.

When this city is seen, it looks like an
Huge ocean of lights by eyesight at night.

Every time I look at this adorned place,
I fail to forget that bright sight at night.

At sunset this city becomes one square,
A place where people can unite at night.

From miles away you can see this city's
Presence and signs by it's skylight at night.

Every second someone gets Pleasure's kiss,
While another feels Despair's bite at night.

In here roam hedonistic people,
And people who are strict and tight at night.

In this city who never sleeps at night,
I hear singing in highs and deeps at night.

The breeze of the summer stays at night,
Witnesses the turning to days at night.

I can't fail to remember this city,
Since I've seen that luminous face at night.

Because of the countless sighs of lovers,
You can feel in the air Love's haze at night.

The city's melody is determined,
By what each individual plays at night.

The strangest of all and mundane of all;
Each one has occurred in this place at night.

The rich, the poor, the mad, women and men
All walk along light-adorned ways at night.

The lights reach every soul in this city,
Coming from hotels and cafes at night.

Wherever that Moon goes, it leaves it's mark,
At each place you'll find that Moon's trace at night.

It takes miles for pilgrims from far away,
To enter this place trough highways at night.

In this city who never sleeps at night,
I hear singing in highs and deeps at night.

The neon lights cover the street at night,
Who are set in places who fleet at night.

Traces of drama, tragedy and more,
Is felt in every hotel suite at night.

The homeless and party-goers here,
Both walk on tired and sore feet at night.

Meals on wheels at sight at every corner,
To serve people who want to eat at night.

Both the old and youth are called to places,
With pleasures who are bittersweet at night.

Streets who reflect neon lights in puddles,
Are places for lovers to meet at night.

So many people walk along themselves,
Yet there's no time to greet at night.

This awake city who is always breathing,
Always blows to me a conceit at night.

I can't seem to stop to describe this place!
About this jungle of concrete at night!

In this city who never sleeps at night,
I hear singing in highs and deeps at night.

This place witnesses misery at night,
And also witnesses beauty at night.

Millions of fishes are swimming around,
Trough streets in this luminous sea at night.

The gates stay open without any rest,
All people come and go freely at night.

Trough happiness and even ill horror,
This places stays silent and steady at night.

Those who're in love in this city see with
Little eyes, who perceive blurry at night.

Lovers are tangled up in each other,
While raindrops fall in an alley at night.

No one is an exception in this place,
Darkness veils your ethnicity at night.

Many have acquired shine up here,
And lost, in that shining city at night.

Ideas are hoisted out of my well!
Gihon will end his poetry, at night.

*In this city who never sleeps at night,
I hear singing in highs and deeps at night.

I have no sense of pride
when I wake up each morning
to get ready for school.
I do not wish to be here;
not because
I just don’t want to go to school
like most kids,
It’s because I myself
and so many others
have felt what it feels
to be victims here inside these schools.

When you're a victim
you face a fear of similar acts
repeating again,
it's like waking up
and expecting someone to punch you
and knowing you can avoid it.
school is like the punch,
and we show up each day,
waiting for the punch
to strike us down,

we could avoid it
by not showing up,
but we have to show up,
so there's no way out
of the fear.
When you're a victim
of verbal abuse
you never know when it's going to strike,

when someone speaks to you
you're left on edge all the time,
when it happens due to
staff and students
nothing seems safe anymore.
You lose your trust,
you lose your friends
you lose your freedom of safety.

Sadly, most of the time
when someone becomes a victim
of verbal abuse,
the teachers causes it to occur
for two reason;
the first,
because they allow it to happen
and second
the worst
they do it themselves
to the students.

In the classroom
you're there to learn.
No wonder students
have picked-up it's allowed
to put down someone
for being different in any way.
If we learn from our teachers,
and they have taught their students
it's okay to put others down,
how do you blame the students then?

How can you blame students
for learning how to harass a kid
if a teacher single handedly
gave them permission?
When they were being mentored in
the act of putting down,  
instead of raising someone
who was a little weaker up?

How can you undo the damage
put onto the victims
who no longer want to walk into school
but still do each and everyday
because
they have to?
How can you deny a kid
their right to sit in guidance
instead of go to that class
when they are being mistreated
and harassed?

How can you Punish these kids
with detentions
when they have been through worse punishment
than you have the power to give out
with a yellow slip?
When they all say
“it's my word against an adults”
when I’ve heard
the same cries and tears
poor out of girls and boys
who hate it here
because they feel their voices
are unheard,

there issue has never been handled right.
“I reported the teacher
and it's like nothing happened
and only made my time
in that class worse”
“They told me I can't
report the teacher
and I have to report
the students,
How do I report
almost all my class?
someone or probably everyone
will give me a problem
when they get back?”
How do you honestly solve that?

You can’t fix the damage that has been done.
The faculty here
has put students
against students
while they sit back for their amusement,
its sickening
that we allow schools
to partake into such crimes,
To allow Faculty
to insult individual students,
based on their biased opinions
on their Ethnicity,
Religion,
Gender,
and Disabilities.
This is considered a Hate Crime.

Schools Supporting Hate Crimes
and doing absolutely nothing
but skating around the issue
as if that will stop
the appalling act
from happening.
Fooling Around,
to Teasing,
to Playful Jokes,
to Hurtful Ones,
To Insulting Ones considering to be bullying,
Than lead to the start of Harassment,
and Verbal abuse of an individual,
That Can From there,
only move forward
unless the victim is removed
from the environment,
to becoming a Hate Crime.

I have this friend
          (it's really me)
Who has this girlfriend
          (who's really she)
Who has this quirk
          (really several)
Which she'd deny
          (which is another)
She's not anti-gay,
Sees right past color, creed and ethnicity;
Sees women for being women,
Men for men,
And any combination thereof,
And vice versa.
No, she can see right past bigotry,
Is blind to prejudice,
But has an innate drive that goes straight for wardrobe.
From the gowns of celebs,
To the color of Alex Trebek's tie.
A sartorist, that's what she is.
          
          I heard that.
          And I am not.

          (contrary too)

It may not be too surprising, maybe it is
But the question I field the most in high school
Has nothing to do with calculus, nothing to do with biology
Hell, it doesn’t even have anything to do with colleges
People most want to know if I’m Chinese, Japanese, or Korean

Sometimes, when they think they’re funny
They like to pull their skin back to thin their eyes into slits
And their friends erupt into prepubescent sidekick laughter
And I’d laugh right along
Not because I was a prepubescent sidekick
But because those jokes didn’t bother me
That much

The first person to ask me that was a black kid who maybe stood 6 foot
As a freshman
Wearing his new LeBron jersey with the Miami Heat logo plastered in front
Complete with Air Jordan’s and official NBA socks
He asked me politely with his head bowed
Maybe a bit too low
I think I saw him snicker, but I was too naïve to be sure

Well honestly bro, I know which one I am
But I can’t tell you the difference between the Chinese, the Japanese, or the Koreans
Or in some of your cases, the Chinks, the Japos, and the *****
Cause’ even if I could, it wouldn’t matter
I’ve seen some of you ignorant ******* taste Sushi
and widely proclaim it as the weirdest Chinese **** you have ever tasted
Sushi comes from the Land of The Rising Sun, fyi
And one would think that you Americans would know more about the country
You guys basically nuked 65 years ago

But let me tell you about being Asian
Let me tell you about the ridiculous Asian accents done by ignorant classmates and even friends
Let me tell you about teaching simple words to the curious
Only to discover they’re really just interested in learning foreign swear words
C’mon kids, there’s Google translate for that garbage

Let me express the frustrations and embarrassment when you’re young
and only good at counting thus far
Yet you already speak the English language better than your parents
I used to always insist on leaning over my mother’s lap
So I could holler into the speaker at McDonald’s drive-thru

You guys want to rip me on my own driving too
Well I got styles yo, just like my hair
I got my Tokyo Drift, my Jeremy Lin, my Mario Kart
Or my turn signal on for the last five miles
And once you step into that high school everyone,
and I mean everyone, thinks you’re good at math and
expects you to give out answers in bulk like fortune cookies
You all think that I know the clever tricks
that Asians use for their grade-point-averages
Well, I have a C in AP calc
They say A stands for Asian
Well, does my C stand for, Caucasian?

Did ya’ll know that every year, my Swim team would travel upstate to Pekin High for a meet
And until 1980, they were known as the Chinks
And every time their football team scored a TD, a white kid dressed in Asian gear
Would bang on a gong while some players and fans would bow solemnly?

And when my boy Jeremy was dubbed by your boy LeBron
You guys all laughed and jeered when ESPN was headlined the next day with the phrase
“***** In The Armor”

For a while, I felt a shame for being Asian
I would express my private desires to be White or Black if I had the choice
Drawing the patient lectures from my parents that were admittedly, in poorly spoken English

Even now these so-called friends would still rib me about my ethnicity
This is where colleges come in kids
And yes, I got into a great school
But it is not the purpose of my life to get good grades, good colleges, or
satisfaction from my dad
I only strive to do what you all strive to do
and that makes me as American as you all
So it would be fitting for me to address the jury the way I am about to
Therefore to all you calc cheaters and arrogant good drivers,
to all of the fake friends and prepubescent sidekicks
*******

Mixed girl
Being mixed, I’ve never quite fallen into a category.
No I’m all not black,
No I’m all not white,
But a sweet mix.
Problem is in most situations I am forced into a slot,
Told what I am and what I am not
Don’t hold me to stereotypes
You don’t know me
Don’t take me and shove me into a cluster of a single ethnicity
Don’t judge me based on the color of my skin
How I’m too light or not light enough
Too dark or not dark enough
The fact of the matter remains
I will never be a single race, a single ethnicity
I am African American, Irish, Polish, and Native American
“Mixed girl”

PLANET NAIROBI (When the sun goes down)
Nur…
They were on the verge of losing this battle… it was only a matter of time, and he knew that. Through the window, he saw them advance, with a fierce swiftness that would have put anyone opposed to them at unease. Trembling uncontrollably, he reached for his weapon and held it firmly, ready to martyr himself for his family’s honour and legacy if need be. For they were not, and never would be known as a family of cowards, they were royalty... and he would rather go down fighting than cowering, that was the bottom line. But he knew that his sword, as well forged as it was, would be no match for Rath and his five hundred man strong battalion. So, biting his lower lip he waited for the pounding footsteps to reach the top of the stairs where he stood, the one solitary guardian to the throne. Martyrdom was his destiny.
“Let he that stands between Rath and the throne fall like the city walls!” Rath’s dominant voice bellowed as it got closer, too close for comfort.
He braced himself.
Suddenly, the doors burst open. And Nur... Prince Nur, finally got to come face to face with the scourge that had terrorised the lands of the sea for so long. A man of whom he had heard about from stories as a child growing up. A man that had haunted his dreams for as long as he could remember. Nur realised that he had always been afraid of Rath, long before this moment, how was he supposed to fight this man when he was clearly at a disadvantage? For it was common knowledge that to go into battle afraid, was to go into battle prepared to lose.
Rath was a gigantic figure, and exuded the air of one who was accustomed to crushing his opponents and hadn’t experienced defeat in a while... if not ever. This man stood at almost eight feet tall, with rock hard muscles that seemed to pile on top of more muscle, threatening to tear through his dark skin. His long locks of unkempt hair fell over a face that could only be described as menacing. He had a permanent scowl that was complimented by his black, soulless eyes. And as they stared each other down, Nur couldn’t ignore the presence of sheer evil he saw in those eyes, a shiver of dread ran down his spine. He raised his blade.
“A child?” Rath barked, “A petulant child? Is that what this Kingdom’s defences have come down to? An infant?” He waved a dismissive hand at Nur.
“A prince!” Nur responded defiantly, raising his blade even higher and more confidently. This man may have been the epitome of terror, but Nur would be ****** if he was going to be talked down to in this manner, this was his palace.
“A prince huh? Prince Nur I presume? Your father was a brave man, I respected him. Even if I met his acquaintance only for a couple of minutes, before I slaughtered him. But I do respect a king that fights alongside his men, as opposed to other cowards I’ve had the pleasure of killing that had barricaded themselves in their chambers and let others fight their battles for them. King Thur was a rare breed... but a dead one all the same.” He laughed remorselessly as he said this. “And soon you will get to join your warrior father foolish one.”
Nur lost all sense of fear. Infuriated, his nostrils flared as he swung the blade with all the ferocity he could muster, slicing deep into Rath’s right forearm. Time slowed to syrup as he saw his adversary’s blood stain the sword, but realising that it wasn’t a fatal strike, he turned around swiftly, switching his stance just in time to see Rath’s massive blade come down on his head. Then there was a deathly silence.
The afterlife was nothing like he had pictured. It smelt of... he couldn’t quite place that peculiar smell. It wasn’t pleasant, but neither was it unpleasant, just unfamiliar. Then he turned around and saw her. He deduced that she was probably the source of the smell. He noticed that smoke came out of her nostrils and mouth every few seconds after lifting a sticklike object to her lips. Nur mused at how wrong the high priest in their kingdom had been when he spoke about the place in the sun... the afterlife. It wasn’t anything like he had described.
But wait a minute! He realised that the sun was still above him, in the sky. He could see it. He could feel it on his skin. So WHERE WAS HE? He felt dizzy, unable to comprehend. Only a minute ago he was in the royal palace, facing certain death. And now he was... he didn’t know where he was, or even what he was. Was he dead? Transcended? Was this just his soul? If so, then how come he still had his senses? All these questions raced through his mind at the same time. He turned toward the lady, who seemed unaware of his presence. She was tall and very light skinned compared to him and her hair was tied in ponytail at the back of her head. He couldn’t make sense of her attire though, she seemed to wear a lot of clothing, garment over garment that covered her arms and legs. She was also extremely beautiful and had a slim womanly body most warriors would **** for, he noted, and felt himself flush. He tried to see what she was squinting so intently at and concluded that she was just staring into space as she drew, he realised now, on the tiny stick and blew out more smoke. That was when he noticed how high up they were, this palace stood almost five times as high as theirs. It was overwhelming to say the least.  He got up and walked over to her, deciding to leave his blade behind so as not to come off as a threat.
“Greetings?” He said politely. She jumped as if she had just seen a ghost, dropping the stick she was holding. He had clearly startled her, so he took a step back lifting his hands in the air to signify that he meant her no harm. She breathed rapidly and began to speak just as rapidly in a foreign tongue. Nur couldn’t understand what she was saying, but the hostility in her tone and her demeanour was hard to miss. He took another step back, ready to defend himself from an attack if need be. He had heard tales of an island with warrior women who could match, and beat, even the strongest male adversary in combat. He decided to tread cautiously.


Nasim...
Nasim Naikuni was beyond peeved. Who was this ******?  He had scared her half to death and almost made her fall off the roof, not to mention burn her favourite grey, three thousand shilling trouser suite when she dropped the cigarette. And what annoyed her even more was that he didn’t seem to register how ******* she was. He just stood there with a blank expression on his face, like a schoolboy waiting for his mistake to be explained to him. Nasim couldn’t stand slow people, they got under her skin. She was yelling at the top of her lungs, which was taxing to say the least, seeing as she had been smoking just seconds ago.
“Are you slow?” She shouted, tapping at her temple repeatedly. “What makes you think you can sneak up on me like that you fool? You almost killed me. Do you realise that?” Then she stopped and studied him, out of breath. She noticed that he seemed unable to understand English and so she switched to Swahili, “Nini mbaya na wewe?” What’s wrong with you? Still there was no response.
She gave him a once over. He dressed strangely. His large, golden brown pants that fluttered in the wind seemed to have been made from an expensive material, though it was like no material she’d laid eyes on before. It bordered somewhere between silk and suede. His shirt was also made of a similar material, but leather brown in colour, matching his leather boots that were laced and reached just under the knee. He stood an inch or two shorter than she did, but she guessed that was probably because she was in heels. He had long hair that seemed to fall halfway down his back in one long braid. He looked almost exotic as he tried to communicate, but she couldn’t place the language or his ethnicity, for his skin-tone was chocolate brown but his hair looked almost like an Asian’s, dark and straight. He spoke in a tongue she had never heard before. There was also something really classy about this boy, whom she guessed to be around eighteen years of age or so. It was like looking at a darker, more pampered version of Sinbad the sailor.
Nasim relaxed a little and decided to give the fellow a chance to introduce himself, in whatever way he intended to do so. He seemed to pick up on this and started explaining something to her, making a couple of gestures, and at some point she thought she saw him mimic a fight, and then  point to the sky. Nasim still didn’t know what he was talking about, but felt a semblance of communication begin to take form. He directed her attention to another part of the roof, probably where he had approached her from. And she saw the blade! With catlike agility she swung her purse at him, the blow caught him square on the jaw with a thud! The bottle of perfume she religiously carried around in it serving a different purpose on this day. He hadn’t seen it coming and so had no chance of stopping it. He staggered backwards as she made a run for it toward the staircase but felt a hand grab her ankle causing her to tumble onto the hot cement floor. At that moment her heart sank, for she knew that she was done for.


Nur...
Nur was perplexed, he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve the assault. The lady had seemed to be calming down, but all of a sudden she had lunged at him with a weapon he had first assumed to be a bag. Though, she didn’t strike with the strength that a warrior would have, and also had made an attempt to flee. This told him two things. One, she wasn’t accustomed to combat... and two, she had attacked more out of fear than strife. Which meant that she posed no immediate threat to him. Also, she was the only person he had met so far and his only hope of figuring out where he was. He couldn’t afford to lose her, not just yet, so he decided to try something he was ashamed he hadn’t thought of sooner. Nur spoke into her head.
‘I mean you no harm.’  He said, and waited. No response. He tried again, concentrating harder this time. ‘Can you hear me? I mean you no harm’
‘LET ME GOOO!’  Her thoughts screamed.
He could understand her, they had made a connection. Progress...

One year later. Nasim...
“Good afternoon people? You’re hangin’ out with me Nasim Naikuni on your favourite show Voices, where you can throw any question you have regarding life... and living it, at me and the voices in my head will answer them for you... yeah, you heard right, the voices in my head. I’ll be takin’ your calls for the next hour. Let’s begin shall we?” Nasim spoke into the microphone just before a voice-over added...
“NASIM NAIKUNI, THE ONLY RADIO PRESENTER THAT’S LITERALLY GONE BONKERS!” And then was followed by some rock music. ‘So what?... I’m still a rock star... ’ Pink’s lyrics belted out as Nasim removed her headphones to take a breather before she talked to her first caller. A breather... and also to have a bit of a chat with the voice in her head. She walked out of the studio into a corridor where she was out of sight, and concentrated, her eyes crinkling from the effort.
‘Hey, are you there?’
‘Uh huh.’ The prince replied.
‘Okay, we’re on in roughly three minutes. Make me look good babes’
‘Don’t I always?’
‘True dat. What are you doing?’
‘Breakfast.’
‘It’s one in the afternoon... ’
‘This is not my planet, therefore I’m not obliged to follow its rules. I can have a one o’clock breakfast if I want to.’
‘Brunch.’
‘What?’
‘Brunch, what your having would be brunch. Breakfast... aaand lunch?’
‘You see? You get all high and mighty on me about this and you even have a name for it? If it is so wrong to have breakfast at this time, then why would your people give the meal a name? I’m just saying.’ Nur said mockingly.
‘I give up’ She replied with a sigh.
‘Nas... Nas?’
Silence.
She walked back into the studio.
“Caller... you’re on air. Shoot.” Nasim said softly, leaning into the microphone.
“Hey Nasim, lovely job you’re doing by the way.”
“Why thank you dear, but I don’t deserve all the credit you know?”
“Yeah I know... you and the voices in your head... ha-ha! Anyway my name is George, and I’m kinda’ in a predicament at the moment. You see, I have a wife and a family... two kids, but I kinda’ got into this relationship outta’... obligation as opposed to real love...”
“Obligation?”
“Yes. I met my wife five years ago in uni’ and we dated. But looking back, I only got into the relationship because I felt I’d led her on and she loved me soo much, I just couldn’t disappoint her. So I got stuck in a phony relationship, at least on my part. Next thing I know, we are pregnant and... It’s been we ever since.”
“So you want to what? Get out of your marriage?”
“I want to be with the person I truly love...”
“Hooo... **! Scoreboard! Now we have lift off. And how long have you known this person that you truly love George?” She said this with a tinge of amusement in her voice.
“Six years... and we’ve been going out for the past two.” He sounded ashamed.
‘He sounds ashamed.’ She heard Nur say observationally.
‘No kidding.’ She retorted.
(In the past year or so, Nasim and Nur had come to an understanding somewhat. After she had struck him with her purse and the little scuffle they’d had on the rooftop, and after convincing herself that she wasn’t going crazy... or that the cigarette she had been smoking wasn’t laced with marijuana or some other hallucinogen, she finally gave in and listened to the voice speaking to her in her thoughts.
‘Please, just give me a chance to explain. I need your help lady!’ He sounded desperate.
She felt sorry for him, but still suspected she could be going nuts.
He continued. ‘I don’t know where I am. My father is dead and I don’t know where I am or how I arrived here, and you’re the only one that can help me right now...’
Nasim, touched now, replied. “How am I supposed to do that? And how are you doing this telepathy thing? Are you really doing this?” She shook her head violently, like a wet dog trying to dry itself, “I’m very confused right now.”
He looked even more confused. ‘Talk to me in my head, I think it is the only way we can communicate with each other.’
She didn’t know how to.
‘It’s simple, concentrate.’ He said reassuringly.
She tried. Still nothing.
‘I could hear you a moment ago, I don’t understand. Let’s try this slowly, repeat after me... Nur.’ He told her.
She heard him, and was thinking what?
He repeated, ‘Nur.’
She tried thinking the word he’d asked her to repeat as hard as she could but he didn’t seem to be getting anything. She decided that the cigarette must have been laced with something. Here she was, on the roof top of her work building trying to master telepathy, with a stranger who just happened to own a sword. This had to be a dream, a nightmare.
‘I must be high.’
‘Yes! Yes! You’re high!’ She heard the excited reply.
‘What?’
‘You did it!’ Nur said happily, ‘you figured it out. And yes, I was also meaning to ask you about how high we are.’
She had done it. Nasim could hear him and answer back, she felt oddly proud of this accomplishment. Then she asked puzzled. ‘High? You get high?’
‘I am high.’ Came the naive reply.
‘Oh...’
‘Why are we so high up? The palaces on our island are half the size of yours, are you that many in your palace that you need to build it so tall?’
Then she understood. And laughed... ‘Who are you? And how did you get here?’
‘My name is Nur... Prince Nur... how I got here? That’s what I’m trying to find out.’ He was being honest.
And thus begun an adventurous relationship between the two. Nasim took him to her apartment that day, passing curious and disapproving looks all the way. The most difficult part being trying to explain to her boss why she was coming from the roof in the company of someone who dressed like a ******, as he put it. She made up something. And he gave her one of those I’ll accept your story just because... looks. Nasim found that hilarious. But she was glad she had asked Nur to leave the sword behind to be recovered later. That would have been a tad difficult to explain. They got to her apartment block and were met by more disapproving looks from a group of nosey old women, the type that love to mind everyone else’s business but their own, as they walked to the lift. And when they got into apartment F6 on the second floor, she introduced Nu

Listen to the minority’s burden
There are more than you may see
Your idea of equality
Is quite different from what I believe
The facts are alive and well
And terribly ignored
By many common folk who can not tell
What all we’ve been fighting for
Listen to our burdens
They’ve been here all along
Since the pale folks came for us
And decided they knew where we belong
Listen to my burden
I am more than my ethnicity
But no one pays attention to my character
Thank you, oh dear society
I’m not here to do your math homework
Or be the punch line of your joke
Or be the one who is categorized
As a yellow, squinty-eyed bloke
We have countless burdens
So listen to what we say
Please stop your patterns of racist jokes and ignorance
And realize that change must begin today