ESSAYS ON
LEADERSHIP FRONTIERS OF AFRICAN LITERATURE
By
Alexander   k   Opicho




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

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Contents                                                                                                                Page
TABAN MAKITIYONG RENEKET LO LIYONG AND PREFECTURE OF AFRICAN LITERATURE 4
THE CURRENT EAST AFRICA IS NOT A LITERARY DESERT 27
AFRICAN WRITERS HAVE CULTURAL RIGHTS TO FORMULATE AND CREATE ENGLISH WORDS 31
LIKE PUSHKIN, AFRICAN WRITERS MUST CREATE THEIR OWN PROFFESSION OF LITERATURE 35
THERE IS POWER IN THE NAME ‘ALEXANDER’ 40
KENYAN COURTS AND PARLIAMENT ARE BETRAYERS OF HUMANE GOVERNANCE 47
AFRO-CHRISTIAN RESPONSE TO RADICAL LITERATURE IS GOOD AND SWAGGERISH 50
YUNUS’S SOCIAL BANKING IS A GOOD BENCHCMARK FOR THIRD WORLD ENTREPRENEURS 54
HEROISM IS NOT GREATNESS BUT HUMILITY IN SERVICE TO HUMANITY 57
KENYAN STUDENTS; YOUR MOBILE INTERNET CULTURE IS ANTI- ACADEMICS 61
WHAT IS THE MAGIC IN THE WORD ‘DRINKARD’ OF AMOS TUTUOLA 63
SOCIETIES IN AFRICA HAVE TO MENTOR BUT NOT CONDEMN THE LIKES OF JULIUS MALEMA 66
AMERICA WILL NOT WIN THE WAR ON GLOBAL TERRORISM 69
AFRICA CAN OVERCOME A MENACE OF **** IN EVERY 30 MINUTES 71
COMPARATIVE ROLES OF AFRICAN-BRAZILIAN LITERATURE IN THE POLITICS OF RACIAL AND GENDER DEMOCRACY 76
NEO-COLONIALISM IS NOT THE MAIN VICE TO THE GAMBIAN POLITICS 85
RELATIVE MEDIA OBJECTIVITY IS ACHIEVEABLE IN AFRICA AGAINST POWER CULTURE AND TYRANNIES OF TASTE 89
READING CULTURE IS GOOD FOR BOTH THE POOR AND THE RICH 96
VIOLENT DEATH IS THE BANE OF AFRICAN WRITERS AND ARTISTS 100
AFRICAN WRITTERS AND ARTISTS MUST ASPIRE BEYOND A NOBEL PRIZE 104
WHAT ARE CULTURAL RIGHTS OF AFRICAN ENGLISH SPEAKERS? 109
WHY IMPRISONMENT OF WRITERS CONTRIBUTED MOST TO AFRICAN LITERATURE 113
DORIS LESSING: A FEMINIST, POET, NOVELIST, WHITE-AFRICANIST AND NOBELITE UN-TIMELY PASSES ON 121
Amilcar Cabral: Beacon of revolutionary literature and social democracy 127
How the State of Israel is brutally dealing with African refugees 131
Historical glimpses of language dilemma in Afro-Arabic literature 146
THIS YEAR 2013; IS THE YEAR OF GREAT DEATHS 153
AFRICAN LITERATURE WITHOUT POETRY IS LIKE LOVE WITHOUT VAGINAL *** 156



















PROLOGOMENA
BARRACK OBAMA READS MOBY ****
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
American president is reading Moby ****
Ja-kogello is reading Moby ****
Ja-siaya is reading Moby ****
Ja-merica is reading Moby ****
Jadello is reading Moby ****
Ja-buonji is reading Moby ****
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took his father
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took his mother
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death to his brother
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took the grannies
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman  
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Baba Michelle is reading Moby ****
Baba Sasha is reading Moby ****
Baba Malia is reading Moby ****
Baba nya-dhin is reading Moby ****
Sarah’s sire is reading Moby ****
Ja-sharia is reading Moby ****
The ****** is reading Moby ****
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes audacity of hope
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes dreams of fathers
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes yes we can
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes American dream
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you readings?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because American president is like whale hunting
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Obama is a money making animal
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because hunting Osama is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because hunting Gaddaffi is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because coming to Kenya is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Guantanamo prison is a bay of whales
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Snowden is a Russian whale
Because launching drones is whale riding
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading, Moby ****?














CHAPTER ONE
TABAN MAKITIYONG RENEKET LO LIYONG AND PREFECTURE OF AFRICAN LITERATURE

I am writing this article from Kenya on this day of 23 September 2013 when the Al shabab, an Arabo-Islamic arm of the global terrorist group the Al gaeda have lynched siege on the shopping mall in Nairobi known as the West Gate where an average of forty people have been killed and a hundreds are held hostage. The media is full of horrendous and terrifying images. They have made me to hate this day. I hate terrorism, I hate American foreign policy on Arabs, I hate philosophy behind formation of the state of Israel and I equally hate religious fundamentalism. Also on this date, all the media and public talks in Kenya are full of intellectual and literary tearing of one Kenyan by another plus a retort in the equal measure as a result of the ripples in the African literature pool whose epicenter is the Professor Taban Lo Liyong .He is an epicenter because he had initially decried literary mediocrity among the African scholars and University professors, Wherein under the same juncture he also quipped that Kenya’s doyen of literature Ngugi wa Thiong’o never deserved a Nobel prize. Liyong’s stand has provoked intellectual reasons and offalities to fly like fireworks in the East African literary atmosphere among which the most glittering is Chris Wanjala’s contrasting position that; who made Liyong the prefect and ombudsman of African literature? This calls for answers. Both good answers and controversial responses. Digging deeper into the flesh of literature as often displayed by Lo Liyong.
Liyong is not a fresher in the realm of literary witticism. He is a seasoned hand .Especially when contributions of Liyong to east African literary journal during his student days in the fifties of the last century during which he declared east Africa a literary desert. In addition to his fantastic titles; Another ****** Dead and The Un-even Rips of Frantz Fanon, Professor Taban Lo Liyong also humorously called Amos Tutuola the son of Zinjathropus, what a farcical literary joke? I also want to appreciate this Liyong’s artfulness of language in this capacity and identify him in a literary sense as Taban Matiyong Lo   Liyong the son of Eshu. He is an ideological and literature descended of the great West African Eshu. Eshu the god of trouble which was dramatized by Obutunde Ijimere in the imprisonment of Obadala and also recounted by Achebe in the classical essays; Morning Yet of Creation Day. I call him Eshu because of his intellectual and literary ability to trigger the East and West Africans into active altercation of literary, cultural and political exchanges every other time he visits these regions. Whether in Lagos, Accra or Nairobi.
Now, in relation to Ngugi and intellectual quality of Kenyan University literature professors was Liyong right or wrong?  Does Liyong’s stand-point on Ngugi’s incompetence for Nobel recognition and mediocrity in literary scholarship among Kenyan Universities hold water. Are Liyong’s accusations of East Africa in these perspectives factually watertight and devoid of a fallacy of self-aggrandizement to African literary prefecture as Professor Chris Wanjala laments. Active literary involvement by anyone would obviously uncover that ;It is not Liyong Alone who has this intellectual bent towards East Africa, any literary common sense can easily ask a question that; Does Ngugi’s literary work really deserve or merit for Nobel recognition or not ? The answers are both yes and no. There are very many of those in Kenya who will readily cow from the debate to say yes. Like especially the community of alumni of the University of Nairobi who were Ngugi’s students in the department of English in which Ngugi was a Faculty during the mid of the last century. Also the general Kenyan masses who have been conditioned by warped political culture which always and obviously confine the Kenyan poor into a cocoonery of chauvinistic thought that Ngugi should or must win because he is one of us or Obama must win because he is one of us or Kemboi must win because he is the son of the Kenyan soil. These must also be the emotional tid-bits upon which the Kenyan Media has been based to be catapulted into Publicity feat that Ngugi will win the Nobel Prize without reporting to the same Kenyan populace the actual truths about other likely winners in the quarters from the overseas. I am in that Kenyan school thought comprising of those who genuinely argue that Ngugi’s literary work does not befit, nor merit, nor deserve recognition of Nobel Prize for literature. This position is eked on global status of the Nobel Prize in relation to Ngugi’s Kikuyu literary and writing philosophy. It is a universal truth that any and all prizes are awarded on the basis of Particular efforts displayed with peculiarity. Nobel Prize for literature is similarly awarded in recognition of unique literary effort displayed by the winner. It is not an exception when it comes to the question of formidability in a particular effort. However, the most basic literary virtue to be displayed as an overture of the writer is conversion of theory into practice. This was called by Karl Marx, Hegel, Antonio Gramsci and Paulo Freire, especially in Freire’s  pedagogy of the oppressed as praxis.History of literature and politics in their respective homogenous and comparative capacities has it that ;There has been eminent level of praxis by previous Nobelites.Right away from Rabitranathe Tagore to Wole Soyinka, From Dorriss Lessing to Wangari Mathai.Similar to JM Coatze ,Gao Tziaping,Alexander Vasleyvitch Solzhenystisn and Baraka Obama.This ideological stand of praxis is the one that made Alfred Nobel himself to to stick to his gun of intellectual  values and deny Leo Tolstoy the prize in 1907 because there was no clear connection between rudimentary Tolstoy in the nihilism and Feasible Tolstoy in the possible manner  of the times .In a similar stretch Ngugi wa Thiongo’s literary works and his ideological choices are full of ideological theory but devoid of ideological praxis. Evidence for justification in relation to this position is found back in the 70’s and 80’s of the last century, When Ngugi was an active communist theoretician of Kenya. His stature as a Kenyan communist ideologue could only get a parallel in the likes of Leon Trotsky and Gramsci. This ideological stature was displayed in Ngugi’s adoration of the North Korean communism under the auspice of the Korean leader Kim Yun Sung. This is so bare when you read Ngugi’s writers in politics, a communist pamphlet he published with the African red family. By that time this pamphlet was treated equally as Mao tse Tung’s collected works by the Kenya government which means that they were both illegal publications and if in any case you were found with them you would obviously serve nine months in prison. And of course when the late Brigadier Augustine Odongo was found with them he was jailed for nine months at Kodhiak maximum prison in Kisumu ,Kenya .O.K, the story of Odongo is preserved for another day. But remember that, this was Ngugi only at his rudimentary stage. But when Ngugi got an opportunity to get an ideological asylum, he did not go to Russia, nor East Germany, Nor Tanzania, nor China but instead he went to the USA , a country whose ideological civilization is in sharp contradiction with communism; a religion which Ngugi proffessess.In relation to this choices of Ngugi one can easily share with me these reflections; is one intellectually  honest if he argues that he is a socialist revolutionary when his or her employer is an American institution like the university of California in Irvine ?
Ngugi was not the only endangered communist ideologue of the time. There were also several others. Both in Kenya and without Kenya. They were the likes of; Raila Odinga, George Moset Anyona, ***** Mutunga and very many others from Kenya. But in Africa some to be mentioned were Walter Rodney, Yoweri Museven,Isa Shivji,Jacob Tzuma ,Robert Mugabe and others. The difference between Ngugi and all of these socialist contemporaries of him is that; Ngugi went to America and began accumulating private property just like any other capitalist. But these others remained in Africa both in freedom and detention to ensure that powers of political darkness which had bedeviled Africa during the last century must go. And indeed the powers somehow went. Raila has  been in Kenya most of the times,Anyona died in Kenya while in the struggle for second liberation of Kenyan people from the devilish fangs of Moi’s dark reign of terror and tyrany.Walter Rodney worked in Tanzania at Dare salaam University where he wrote his land mark book; How Europe underdeveloped Africa. Later on he went back to his country of birth in Africa, Guyana where he was assassinated while in the revolutionary struggle for political good of the Guyanese people. Yoweri Museven practically implemented socialism by fighting politics of sham and nonsense out of Uganda of which as per today Uganda is somehow admirable. Isa Shivji has ever remained in Dare salaam University, inspite of poverty. He is now the chair of Mwalimu Julius Nyerere school of Pan African studies. Jacob Tsuma and Robert Mugabe they are current presidents of South Africa and Zimbabwe respectively. The gist of this reference to African socialist revolutionaries as contemporaries to Ngugi wa Thiong’o is that a socialist revolutionary must and should not run away from the oppressor in to a zone of comfort. But instead must remain and relentlessly fight, just like in the words of Fidel Castro; fight and die in the battle field as long as it is a struggle against the enemy of the revolution. This view by Castro is pertinent as it’s a Revolutionary praxis which actually is redolent of practice of an ideology that has to be held for ever above ideological cosmentics.Ngugi scores badly on this. So if the Nobel academy looks at Ngugi in terms of defending human rights then it must be reminded that Ngugi have no marks on the same because he only ran away from the practical struggle. Anyway, Politics and ideology has its own fate. But let us now come back to literature. Ngugi and his books. As at  this time of writing this essay  Ngugi has published the following works; Weep not Child, The River Between, A Grain of Wheat, Black Hermit, Petals of Blood, Devils on the Cross,Matigari,Homecoming,Decolonizing the Mind, Writers in Politics, Ngugi Detained, Pen Points and Gun Points, Wizard of the Crow,Globalectics,Remeembering Africa, Dreams in Times of War and I Will Marry When I Want as well as the Trial of Dedan Kimathi which he wrote along with Micere Githae Mugo.Out of this list the only works with literary depth that call for intellectualized attention are ;A Grain of wheat, Wizard of the crow and Globalectics. The Grain of wheat is simply a post colonial reflection of Kenyan politics. Its themes, plot, lessons and entire synechedoche is also found in Wole Soyinka’s Season of Anomie as well as Achebe’s Anthills of the savannah. My argument dove-tails with those of Liyong’s stand that rewarding Ngugi’s Grain of wheat and forgetting Achebe’s Anthills of the Savannah and A man of the people would be a literary ceremony devoid of literary justice. Wizard of the Crow is indeed a magnum opus. I am ready to call it Ngugi’s oeuv

Abraham's Youth


I'm white,
and Jewish,
and American,
but I,
refuse to,
be scared again,

let's let the truth be our teacher,
for I don't want war either,

and they say Jews and Arabs,
have been fighting each other,
for thousands of years,
but we are all brothers,
we bleed the same blood,
share the same father,
we both want a future of peace,
for our daughters,

I doubt Abraham,
would've wanted it this way,
for his children,
to fight instead of play,

our Father,
would surely be upset,
if he was looking,
down from up there,
so I don't buy,
the propaganda they're selling,
for if true,
history is to be telling,
Jews and Arabs,
lived in harmony,
underneath,
the shade of olive trees,
In Jerusalem,
kids studied together,
good books,
academic endeavors,
for,
hundreds of years,
without,
hate or fear,
only,
love in our hearts,
until,
politics tore us apart…

In 1948,
the U.N. stepped in,
with their laws,
imperial rule and nuclear weapons,
divide and conquer,
Western Machiavellian,
tactics,
let me ask this,
is Damascas the axis,
where Abraham's *******,
practice black magic withcraft?

The fact is,
the Baptist,
the false profit priest,
praying to the beast,
left the light,
then mixed up the good book,
to make wrong seem right,
left to right,
they rewrote the Bible backwards,
they subtracted good,
and added bad words,
they say it's prayer,
but it's really evil practice,
fkcn sorcerer magicians,
rabbit in a hat tricks,
but instead of a rabbit,
they pull out a dove,
"Look,
we've capitalized off love!",
or at least,
the thought of it,
"here, buy lots of it!"
"Don't worry you'll be fine!"

I don't feel fine,
I feel like I'm,
losing touch,
with divine…

So I shout with my heart, W
here Is The LOVE!
Come here my Brothers,
give me a hug!
Put down the guns,
let us embrace,
let us pray together,
let us have some faith,

Isaac,
Ishmael,
we are one family,
let us,
bless us,
all of us actually,
let us,
break bread,
and have peace,
from the,
West Coast,
to The Middle East,
this is,
a New World,
in The Old City,
We've had,
enough war,
we need some peace,

As-Salaam Alaikum,
Wa-Alaikum Salaam,
Words of the Torah,
and the Koran,
Shalom,
Salaam,
open heart,
open palms,
from out of the dark ages,
we are the New Dawn,
rising above,
with hope,
and with love,
let there,
be peace,
let there,
be peace...

∆aron L∆ Lux ∆

Dear Friends. My poem Hussain has considered one of the best poems by the critics and is appearing in many poetry magazines in America and Europe.  It has been considered   fit to be included on Global poetry page by The Heart of the Global Poets. I am receiving lots of comments from western intellectuals ,asking me to write more and   tell more about Hussain. I am happy that many western scholars even atheists are appreciating this true spirit of Islam. One of my friend rightly said while  commenting  on the poem that  RELIGION WITHOUT SACRIFICE IS LIP SERVICE.


HUSSAIN
Matloob Bokhari

Spiritual struggle continued against despots;
Declaring all humanity one source, one God,
Abrahamic prophets rose against tyrants.
Father of Islam jumped into furnace of ******,
And wielded his mace to destroy his idols.
Moses with staff stormed Pharaoh's palace,
And brought down the powerful Croesus.
The prophet of Islam was friend of paupers;
Friend of those nobody greeted with salaam.
A slave stood in front of nobles in Ghoba,
But ignorance, soon, replaced revolution.
Under black ashes of defeat, smoldered
Red threat of a potential explosion.
Those who sold their souls ,used religion
As an instrument to suppress humanity.
Ideas were paralyzed and beliefs destroyed.
Man started suppressing in the name of God.
Man started killing in the name of religion.
Power of the tyrant with sword, deception,
Brought a pall of stifled silence upon everyone.
Income from taxes from Rome, Iran and Arabs,
Spent on Green Palace fairer than in fairy tales;
On Iranian musicians with Roman dancers.
The great revolutionary had died in Rabazeh.
Remaining brought under lashes of dominance.
In this age of suppression and black dictatorship,
Some crawled off into the niche of the mosque,
No hoot of an owl was heard in the ruins of faith.
Hussein emerged from sorrowful home of Fatima,
And rebelled against the  most dissolute oppression.
Struggling through glorious power of faith,
Inheritor of the movement, launched by prophets.
With no army, no weapons, no wealth, no force
Left Makkah to meet death - ornament for mankind.
Death as beautiful as necklace around neck of a girl.
Quran his arms, Prophets’ customs shield, faith defense.
Hussain, heir of Adam, sacrificed his friends and his sons
On the threshold of temple of freedom and altar of love.
Holding blood , flowing from throat of his son in  hands
Requested his Lord to accept this sacrifice .
This innocent death protected great Revolution.
On evening before Ashura, Hussain- a lonely man
Washed himself, put on best clothes, used perfumes.
Requested his sister to remember him in prayers.
Inheritor of patience from Prophets; valour from Ali
Finally embarked on voyage to meet his Lord.
Hussain, victim of revival of 'Neo-ignorance' age,
Has been concealed by the greatness of Hussain.
Logic paralyses, mind perplexes to read the sacrifice.
In flow of river, flowing on is movement of Hussain
Yazid died, his rule ended, Hussain died, his rule began.

What a year was 570 AD
A person was born, a prophet to be
Muhammed (saws) that was his name
People were misguided and thats when he came
He would go on to leave all the idols behind
He is an example to all of mankind

Rabbi al Awwal the 12th, that was the day
He came to this world to show us the way
He was born in Mecca, the holiest place
A life full of challenges he was to face
Abdullah (ra) his father, had by then passed away
Leaving Amina (ra) his mother, in her arms he lay

Haalima Sadia, took over his care
Until he was six, our prophet was there
His mother then died, he was left all alone
Abdul Muttalib (ra) his grand-dad then made him his own
When our prophet was nine, his grandfather died
Abu Talib, his uncle, became his new guide

In his 20's, a merchant Muhammed (saws) became by trade
Al-Amin, (the trustworthy) became his grade
Hazrat Khadija (ra) aged 40, became his bride
He was 25, with her by his side
To the poor,she gave away all her wealth
A dedicated wife in sickness and health

360 idols in the Kaaba, they were at that time
Our prophet realised that this was a crime
He would go to mount Hira,leaving behind his wife
Reflecting and wondering about the meaning of life

While thinking there in the midst of the night
He heard a loud voice which filled him with fright
It was the angel Gibrail(as) who asked him to read
Our prophet couldn't and didnt take heed
The angel embraced him and then asked him later
Read, Read in the name of the Creator
Who created man from a drop of blood

Our prophet couldn't read but at that time he could
Our prophet rushed to the path straight ahead
He heard a voice from the heavens which said
Muhammed (saws) truly you are the messenger of God
Muhammed (saws) was scared and thought this quite odd
'Praise be to God' his wife said instead
''I know you've been chosen as God's messenger' she said
And thus Khadija (ra) became the first woman of islam

And over the next 23 years came the revelation, the Quran
He preached to all people, every creed every race
Yet so many hardships he had to face
There were fears for his life, then the Hijrat took place
He then entered Medina, all by Allah's grace
He was greeted by the Ansaris who gave their salaam
To him and his companians,the Sahaba ikram

Then came the battles, which were fought face to face
Then the conquest of Mecca, Muhammed (saws)'s birthplace
An Nasr was revealed, it's message was clear
Muhammed (saws) knew that his time was near
Everyone gathered to hear his last speech
little did they know how far Allah's message would reach

Muhammed (saws) gave us the miracle the Quran
And now a 1/4 of the world follow Islam
He is our role-model, the best of mankind
And has left the Quran and his Sunnah behind

Read the Quran as much as you can
The words of Allah (swt) for the guidance of man
And follow our prophet's sunnah, when eating and dressing
And send him salutations and many a blessing
He came to mankind to show us the way
And Insha-Allah, we'll meet him, we'll meet him one day

Homage to the late poet; Kofi Owonor


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


In one Sunday Nation article, Professor Ali A Mazrui analyzed the inter-politicality of The Jaramogi Odinga family and The Kennedy family by arriving at a difference that the Odinga’s have curse of long life but the Kennedy’s have a curse of early death through violent and untimely  mode of death .Mazrui made these analogies in reference to violent death of John F. Kennedy and the subsenguent Chappaquiddick bridge tragedy.Similarly,the salient difference between a European and American or a Japanese and African writer or African artist is that most of African writers die early in the mid of their lives through violent death but in contrast American and some European writers die peacefully and comfortably in their old age. Early and violent death is the dominant bane, fate and misfortune that now and then besmirch an African writer. This position is in recognition of a fact that my child-hood American popular literature writers in the name of Mario Puzzo author of the God Father and Robert Ludlum an author of several anti soviet spy series like; Borne dentity, Borne Ultimatum and Icarus Agenda plus very many others like The Matlock Paper had just to die recently in their late eighties. The most surprising of all is Phillip Roth whom I read at the age of twelve years while in my primary four.  Now I am forty years and this year 2013 Phillip Roth is still alive and active to the American literary civilization that he has been touted by the Ladbrokes as a probable candidate for Nobel Prize in literature. But sadly enough on 22 September 2013 in Nairobi the black angel of early  death has carried ahead its  foul duty by claiming the life of Africa’s most honorable literary scholar Professor Kofi Owonor during the helter-skelter of Alshabab terrorist lynch of the upscale West Gate Mall in Nairobi.
Actually this essay is meant to be a deep felt homage to the late Kofi Owonor, Killed by Islamic terrorists in Nairobi. However, the essay also goes ahead to decry the violent and early deaths of several other African writers. The deaths which have almost turned Africa into a literary dwarf if not a continent of artistic bovarism. Kofi Owonor, who peacefully and honorably came to attend Story Moja Literary festival to be held in Nairobi, was violently shot by the Islamic fundamentalist terror group known as Al shabab. Whose gunmen lynched the Mall in which was Kofi Owonor and his son. The terrorist were sending out the Muslim catchword on which if one fails to respond then he was known not to be a non- Muslim on to which he is shot or held hostage for ransom.Fatefull enough, Kofi Owonor was not muslim.He was an elder, an Africanist, a scholar, a poet, a realist, a rationalist, a Christian, a religious non-fundamentalist and a literary liberalist. He could not respond with any tincture of religious irrationalism to the question of the terrorist. He was shot dead and his son injured. Too sad. This is actually the time when Christian positivism goes beyond rigidity of other religious affectations in its classic assertiveness that the devil kills the flesh but not the soul. And indeed it is true the devilish terrorist killed Owonor’s flesh but not his literary soul. They are such and similar situations that made Amilcar Cabral to observe in his Unity and Struggle, in a section on Homage to Kwameh Nkrumah to rationalize that the sky is too enormous to be covered by the palm of a sadist nor to be vilified by the spitting of the filthy ones; Truly, like Nkrumah, Kofi Owonor was the sky of African intellect never to be covered by the brute of the cannon from the parrel of a Muslim terrorist.
Kofi Owonor is not alone neither are we alone. You, my dear reader and I  we are not in any historical nor literary solititude. In Africa God has blessed us with the opportunity of the dead relatives in the name of the living dead. We are not the first and the last to grief. Owonor is not the first and the last to dance with fate. Even Ali A. Mazrui in his literary expositions of 1974 otherwise published as the trial of Christopher Okigbo.A  novella in which Mazrui cursed ideology as an open window into the moving vehicle that let in  a very bad political accident to Nigeria in the name of Biafra war which claimed life of  Christopher Okigbo at the Nzukka battle front. This was one other sad moment at which Africa lost its young literary talent through violent death.
Reading of African literary biographies in all perspectives will not miss to make you attest to this testimony. Both in situ and in diaspora.Admirable African American writers like Malcolm X, and Dr Luther King all died through violent death. Even if in the recent past, the Daughter of Malcolm X revealed to Sahara Reporters, Nigerian Daily, that Louis Farrakhan was behind the assassination of her father, wisdom of the time commands us to know that it was evil politics of that time that made Malcolm X to die the way international politics of today in relation to crookedness which was entertained during the formation of the state of Israel that have made the son of Africa professor Kofi Owonor to die.
An in-depth analysis into the life and times of African writers and artists will show that the number of African cultural masters who die violently is more than the number of those who died normally in their old age. Some bit of listology will show help to adduce the pertinent facts; Patrice Lumumba, Steve Biko, Lucky Dube, Walter Rodney, Tom Mboya, J M Kariuki, Che que Vara, Ken Saro Wiwa, Anjella Chibalonza, and Jacob Luseno all but died through violent death. Lumumba died in a plane crash along with Darg Hammarskjöld only after penning some socialism guidelines. After writing I write what I want, a manifesto for black consciousness Steve Biko was arrested and tortured in the police cells during those days of apartheid in south Africa.Biko died violently while undergoing torture in police cells. Lucky Dube was fatefully shot by a confused ****. Walter Rodney who was persuaded by his student who is now the professor Isa Shivji at Dare salaam University not to go back to his country of Guyana, desisted this voice and went back only to be assassinated in the mid of the rabbles that domineered Guyanese politics those days of 1970’s. This happened when Rodney had written only two major books. How Europe Underdeveloped Africa, being one of them. Tom Mboya was shot by a hired gunman in down-town Nairobi, some one kilometer away from the West Gate Mall, at which Kofi Owonor has been shot. Mboya could have written a lot. Even more than Rudyard Kipling and Quisling. But fate or bad luck had him violently die after he had only written two books; Challenges to Nationhood as well as Freedom and After. Both of them are classically nice reads until today. He had also submitted sessional paper no. 10 to the Kenya government which was a classical thesis on Africanization of scientific socialism.
J M Kariuki, Che and Saro Wiwa are all known for how they violently died. Powers that be and terrorists that be, expedited violent death against these writers. Thus, brothers and sisters in the literary community of Africa and the world as we mourn Kofi Owonor we must also let Africa to unite in spiritual effort to rebuke away the evil spirit that often perpetrate terror of violent death which  especially  claim away lives of African writers.

References
Ali A. Mazrui; Trial of Christopher Okigbo
Amilcar Cabral; Unity and Struggle

I bow to Life

I prostrate full body at the sacred feet of Nature

Willowy branches of trees swaying, bending
in the spring breeze
their hearts overflowing with sweet sap
I am so grateful
You gladly share the boughs of fruit
abounding on my oak wood kitchen table

Wild forest daisies don their
vivacious, yellow Easter bonnets
dancing with rays of sunlight
nod Namaste
Salaam, Salaam, Salaam

I bow to my furry friend Rama,
to the red and black poka dot lady bug
seated by happenchance
on my folded palms

I bow to you dear reader and lover of poetry

I bow to the Light within You

my name is
written
on the hand of
my God

This is the story of the Central Park 5

Background.
5 young black boys who were picked up in Central Park 1989, after a white female jogger was ***** and left for dead. They were among over 30 youths in the park that night, they were also the youngest.

Antron McCray, Kevin Richardson, Yusef Salaam and Raymond Santana - All under the age of 16
And Korey Wise who was 16 at the time and who only went to the police station to keep his friend Yusef company.
Other than Corey and Yusef, they boys had never even seen each other before the night of their arrests.

The boys were coaxed into signing a Miranda card that waives their right to representation,
They were bullied and coerced during interrogation, into signing false statements, without their parents or any guardian present,
Corey, who remained in the station for Yusef, was later pulled in by detectives who needed someone to make the story fit. Suffering with both hearing and learning difficulties he was the perfect patsy for the police to force into a false confession.
The boys were all found guilty despite the lack of any DNA or physical evidence placing them at the scene, All but Corey were detained as juveniles for 5-10 years, whilst Corey was tried as an adult and sentenced to 15 years in an adult prison.
he spent the majority of his sentence in isolation to escape the beatings and abuse for a crime he didn’t commit.

Injustice -
When every bone in your body is screaming out your innocence,
yet the world has you on mute.
The hope that tortures you everyday, waiting for someone to hear you, believe you and
set you free.
How long before that hope fades, how long before the last glimmers of light extinguish , how long before you sink into the dark places that you can never fully come back from.

“Their story - My words”
Written with love and respect.

It’s the narrative that leads the pack,
Change that - and watch them stutter,
A verdict is more addictive than crack,
Whilst the truth melts away like butter.
The lies and scheming  - leading us screaming,
To a sentence we didn’t  deserve,
An innocent teen can ever be seen,
If justice has lost its nerve.

Politics reign over the rules of the game,
The scales have lost their balance,
Democracy has taken flight,
With  innocence in its talons,
It’s never about only us  in chains,
Not of prejudice and pride,
Our fathers and mothers,
Sisters and brothers,
Are imprisoned on the outside,

What have they created,
Other than hatred,
The voice of what’s right sounds so wrong
Our downfall is imminent,
They lock up the innocent,
The resistance to change is too strong.

There’s no adverts for convicted,
Our fate was predicted,
No Vacancies found for the lost,
They created us guilty,
It’s their hands that are filthy,
But they’ll never know the true cost.

So what are we supposed to do,
We’re free for sure - but free for who,
We can’t escape the stares or guilty whispers,
No matter where we’re always seen,
As guilty kids from that tragic scene,
We’re a haunted story played out in tainted pictures.

we can never be like you
We’ll always be last in the queue
We’ll never get to leave this social prison,
Victims of forced circumstance,
A twisted chance  of happenstance .
They took our chance away so none would listen,

What’s done is done - they’d made up their mind,
Irrelevant of what they’d find,
Once started they never turn back,
So our story is thus -
That when they see us,
It’s the narrative that leads the pack,
—————————-
Corey went up for parole several times, but part of the process is the verbal acceptance of your guilt for 5e sentenced being served. Corey wouldn’t confess to the crime he didn’t commit. After several rejected hearings Corey stopped going.
In 2002 Corey and the 4 boys were exonerated after the confession of a fellow inmate ‘Matias Reyes’ stated that he acted alone. DNA backed this up.
Corey was released and the 5 eventually won $41million in damages,
To this day the 5 men acknowledge that money can never give them what they lost.
Justice took them from themselves, now they must spend the rest of their lives being who they are.

Almost like a mirror to
Look at you. A sort of Alice on the other side
Of the looking glass.
You are a reflection I never thought might exist.
But there are flaws spiderwebbing cracks into the glass,
The picture so minutely cracked here and
There that it might all just
Fall out of the frame.

Words, picked like highhanging fruit,
Stack and
Form the
Edges of your
Mind--
brilliant walls of Buckingham but also the boxes of fruit
(high hanging like the words) floating down congolese waters
and into the heart

--of Darkness? only kurtz knows
but does it matter? still Grand as ever--

They're words I see in myself on my side
And music from Mechanicsburg Anchorage Dar es Salaam
sings down the same Congo we share

But the only cracks I see are with me.
Your words and wit are the envoys,
Celebrated diplomats from the Heart that lies
downriver.
eyes flash and the Fruit is bountiful and
Hail the heart (wherever whatever it is down the River).

The words are strong as the man who sent them
(somewhere in the Heart)
Such strength to speak and shout
Respect commandeddemanded in the fruit

I often wonder if I have it.
And each time I know I don't
Another crack is born.

the tally man sends his beautiful fruit--
strong as everforever
To the world, smileonface and gleamineye--

and you're him
on the other side
at the Heart.

The White Egret has just landed
Poised it strikes a handsome pose
Enchanting calming

Of course it has no concepts
And does not feel enchanted
It sees us when it does
Through its own different eyes
And partially different needs

This is just a picture
Not the living thing

It is a kind of half-way place
A rest-stop on the road
Between this being classified
As bird and labeled as White Egret
And us

A minor homage to the world
Of living beings
A salve or balm to sooth
Our souls or hearts or minds

Whatever’s deepest in us
That feels delight and fear
Promise

And says to another living being
Namaste peace to us all
Salaam Shalom

The Brits were twits in '29,
I reckon mandates were not their cup of tea.
I suppose silence speaks louder than a noose,
And that as long as one is civilized, we may agree to disagree.

Enemies share common grounds-
Blood to be spilled, one pair apiece of shoes,
Salaam, shalom, auf wiedersein, tootleoo.

60,3913  N, 5,3221 E, Bergen, 22.05.17

The Germans wear you down spiritually. They look through you with eyes of ice. It hurts when you see your friends turn their back on you. When you see the girl you loved, kissed in the canteen by a *****.  Your heart burns. What has he got that I haven’t? Apart from the muscle that pads out his boiler suit. No-one wants an intelligent man. I sit here sipping coffee in a fishing village café in Bergen. The coffee is hot and my heart aches. Soon we will be making our way up through the fjords to Geiranger. The beautiful fjords that embrace you. There is not so much to bear witness to here. The Gravlax is poor and overrated. Everything is shut. The dreary rain comes down on * A colleague drove me all the way to Hardanger Bridge. The bridge that connects Oslo and Bergen is truly breath-taking. I have seen the Milau Bridge in the South of France, the Somerset Bridge, Clifton Suspension Bridge. However, this is really the highlight of Bergen; unless you are drunk.
17.00 - we leave for G.
62,1008 N, 72059, E, Geiranger, 23.05.17

I wrote to Nan last night. I asked for her guidance. I want everything to be okay with Aline. 05.00 hours I got up to see the Geiranger fjords. They were breathtaking; we passed the Rock God in the cliff face. Or rather; he let us pass. Norway is really a paradise. I think how people only think with their bellies. Helen the nurse abandons us half way up the waterfall. I turn back. The Germans have an acute interest only in themselves. One wonders where love lies. I have found Ole’s café – at the base camp of the waterfall. It is here I feel at home. At this coffee shop I must remember everything properly. I must also forget Helen and how angry she makes me feel.  Mr. Edin said: “It’s the system that makes them so. Everyone is born the same.”

62,0861, N, 6,8687 E, Hellesylt, 23.05.17

I hate my life. I hate my inability to fall in love with anyone and anyone to fall in love with me. These days I can’t stand to look at the face that I see in the mirror. Parts of me crumble away to dust. I feel more and more bitterness, in port, towards couples that have found love – to the point of absurdity. Ice-skating; I drift slowly around the rink. It is the only real time I feel complete when I am alone. I see a couple kissing and happy in love. I feel anger and a bitterness burning up within me.  Why can’t I find someone that loves me simply? Why do I have to do all this **** – the garbage of personal relationships. Hellesylt is truly beautiful. At least I feel at one with nature; even if I don’t fit in anywhere else.

59,4136 N, 5,2680, E, Haugesund, 24.05.17

The war against fat, like finding love, is ongoing. I always feel I am the loser. I am a loser. I am sat in a coffee shop overlooking the red and yellow houses. I try and chat up the waitress;  a beautiful Norwegian blonde. I try and embody the image of a sailor. It works to some extent, but actually only reflects back on myself as a person. The aching has grown less. The coffee helps to balm the dissatisfaction I feel with life; as does the view across the river. There is an English couple opposite. How can you complain with that view out across the river? Twenty-five degrees, surely we must be able to leave our pain behind? I feel myself become more and more alive; back to life. The wounds are healing again. The pain passes.

5,89700 N, 57331, E, Stavanger, 25.05.17
We are going to sit and hammer this out. This book, this journal, bears witness to life. That is its meaning.  Why is it so hard to find love and to be loved? I am only an anatomical structure – corruptible, breakable flesh. Stavanger is quite simply a boring town. You can walk from one end to the other in thirty minutes. There is a church; a freedom monument and slated, wooden houses. Yuliana the Belarusian pushes her body onto mine, beneath the Northern Lights like a teddy bear; she hugs me again and again, never letting me go. I kiss her delicately on the ear. She giggles. I can still hear her voice now and the smell of her sweet perfume. Oh, how I burn inside. How many thoughts and feelings wheel in an instant. How capricious this heart is. I must drink another coffee.

59,9139 N, 10,7522,E, Oslo, 26.05.17
I am on the hunt for a Durian fruit in Oslo. My hunt for Hardanger Beer with the appropriate label also continues. We dock right in the centre of Oslo. The sun warms me. Trust me to fall in love with the only lesbian on board. In Oslo’s most popular café, Kaffebereint,  I think how I get myself into such situations. Maybe it’s because I love long nails on a woman. She has forgotten her scarf. I should really do more sit up and visit the gym. My feet are too busy wandering. Sauna Night takes place onboard – a reward for all those who helped out at the party below the mooring deck. I serve punch and party the night away. For a while I forget the disappointment of people and the strangeness of my body. Oslo is beautifully serene. I walk in the footsteps of Ibsen. I try and make my writing smaller and smaller so that it is almost like Chinese ideograms. I close the gap. I try to be neater; to be better. I walk along the boulevards of coffee shops, wondering how I can be better.
53,35 N, 8,35 E, Bremerhaven, 28.05.17
I am back home (in home port) from the Nordic Voyage. I need to rest up in Hamburg before embarking on the next adventure to the Northern Cape. 21.06.17 at 1700 hours – Bergen. What else is there to report on as we approach the quaint fishing port of Bremerhaven? Home. Only that my ex-girlfriend from Algiers has given birth to a baby girl; she wrote to me. Two years old. Name: Eline. Letters are wonderful. The waves lap gently at the boat. If you ever thinking about writing a letter, you should; we haven’t spoken for two years and she writes to me, out of the blue, because of a Christmas card she picked up in Dar Es Salaam. That is life; life on a boat; life at sea; life on the breadline. A sailor’s life is a funny thing; full of unpredictability.  Even as an enthusiastic merchant sailor I can see the draw of this life. – as tough as I am, what else is there to say? Only that another adventure waits me in Hamburg –

The rest of this transcript, as subsequent potential voyages is lost.

A theorem:

any map of the world
contained on a plane
of contiguous regions

needs only four colors
to prevent the bleeding
of borders.

No matter the shape,
nor how many times
a nation state

splits itself up
with all the fight
of man splitting the atom,

nor how many splinter
groups stick themselves
into the skin

of the innocent. Any four
colors, take blue for the oceans
or black for the bruise,

it’s not the borders bleeding
but the insides,
you seeking refuge

in worlds that blame you
for the men that hold the atoms
that split you.

Odds are you’ve never
seen an atlas of only four colors
because Atlas picks more,

how else to contain it all,
to keep from shouting fine
and letting the whole globe

fall.

Oh, poor atlas.

Salaam, shalom,
what we want
is all the same,
but paix,
it sounds so different.

immature and childish  just look older cause of
the weight I've put on never held a job longer than three months
never had real True Love got mixed up in the dualities
and wanted to sort this **** out mixed holy water and whiskey
and had that shot :)
In my mystical ways i have become god
but that's ok cause mums the Boss!
I've played Jesus, Muhammad and Moses
and Adams the Boss
Right back to the top
this is more personal , the deeper meaning of things
somewhere in history or just in wisdom and knowledge lost
wake up in the middle of the night jumping out of Bed
saying I'm God
the all seeing eye follows me everywhere I go
now my profile pic is the eye of Ra on facebook
serpents are the wisdom symbol
matrix and reality no more confused but
cant fight a design that you cant control
what i desire is that sacred pearl
someone posted a poem on it here a few days a ago
ancient knowledge a hidden treasure i got my eye set on the
biggest prize
i am but dust of the earth but love makes me divine
and who you love and how much plays on your soul
cause if you love Jesus you want to be like him but what if
you love the mystery like crazy then what role do you play?
if you stare into the abyss long it stares back at you
that's some scary ****!!!
I've been staring the abyss in the eye ball for 7 years
now i have become the abyss
i don't think **** through i just say it as it is
the doc says I've had Adhd since i was a kid
but in reality there are no loose ends
been single so long i think I've forgotten how to kiss
calculating how long i have to live 30-35 years of more ****
loneliness and solitude are both crap
now you can understand why Adam was ******* in the
Gardens of Bliss
Eve like the New Year's is a wait
but unlike new years eve, she never comes
35 more years of single man this is crazy and guess what
Muslims there are no Virgins. Like Heaven/Paradise i have heard
is very selective women enter free ..... men have to pass the test.
So Mr. Man's world not so lucky are we
Be good Be good
Might be an eternity of love waiting after a short life
like 60-70 years a spec in time
and maybe sleep forever after a lifetime of misery
that's going to be the worst like seriously
hell on earth and then just go to sleep
what about huggies and kissies ??? :)
too much feminine spirit mixed with the masculine
but still like girls , still like girls .
Poetry is nice short and sweet like unless its like really amazing
unlike my ranting :) this will be the only time the only one
Apologies in Advance Peace and Salaam
And Namaste too if you're into THAT ****
mY Soul bows down to the soul in you
like the Japanese do it when they greet
when love comes I worship her she worships me
Penny Royal Tea

The storms of our life
strikes the earth
They blow away anything
Just anything
But not as strong to  anchor solidly
not too strong to stand against the wind
Find shelter in him
Do we not?
Flooded with thoughts and emotions
and we can drown in them
Do find shelter and bow down to His decree,
We are cleaner than before
Storms expose our vulnerabilities and weaknesses,
giving us a chance for redemption
Storms so often attack our pride the greatest
The storm gives us a chance
to humble ourselves before our Creator
There is a way to have peace during and after the storm
That peace lies in submitting to As-Salaam.
Just as storms change the landscape of the earth,
our hardships change the landscape of the heart.

SALAAM

Left you, your all, your families and friends;

Left you your sweet heart, parents n kids;

Just to your country serve and protect.

You always rose above religion, caste and sect

For You, Motherland always came before Mother;

Your life you laid down for our nation, dear brother.

I salute you for protecting us n guarding us, always

Jai Hind, jai Hind ki sena, is all every Indian says;

But what you sacrifice is beyond comprehension.

And we can't even offer you and your family a good pension.

Pains me a lot n hope I some rich people forward come;

Form a corpus big to help your families to extent some.

Armin Dutia Motashaw

Main Hoon Kahan?
Are kitni kaatil hai yeh duniya
Iski adayein anginat samajh na aate!
Phir bhi duniya
** tum Mera pehla ishq
Hai tujhe salaam!

The Souls of Grenfell Tower

1 Grieve not, dear families, of the souls  of Grenfell Tower, for their souls did not depart in vain.

2 Grieve not, dear families, of the souls of Grenfell Tower, for their souls have been chosen from amongst other souls

3 Grieve not, dear families, of the souls of Grenfell Tower, for their souls have been returned in the best of months, Ramadan

4 Grieve not, dear families, of the souls of Grenfell Tower, for God descended to listen to their final utters of prayer

5 Grieve not, dear families, of the souls of Grenfell Tower, for their blissful souls reiterated the peacefulness of 2 billion others

6 Grieve not, dear families, of the souls of Grenfell Tower, for they proved, pried upon practicing pupils, prevent further terror and tragedy

7 Grieve not, dear families, of the souls of Grenfell Tower, for in June, they indeed sealed the end of May

8 Grieve not, dear families, of the souls of Grenfell Tower, for their souls showed the tweeting real duck, Londoners Khan all break fast together

9 Grieve not, dear families, of the souls of Grenfell Tower, for they led Britain's conversation and distanced Hatie and her fallen solutions

10 Grieve not, dear families of the souls of Grenfell Tower, for their souls invited pleasant lilies, with beautiful oras, and the most famous of hellos - Salaam

11 Grieve not, dear families, of the souls of Grenfell Tower, for they ignited the indigestion of cladding, in lowly aristocrats and their tory toys

12 Grieve not, dear families, of the souls of Grenfell Tower, for Martyrdom was their end to a new beginning

13 Grieve not, dear families, of the souls of Grenfell Tower, for God has granted them Gardens of Eden.

Two boats float on the horizon,
as I watch the setting sun.
They put the picture in perspective,
how deep and far the water runs.
It makes my concerns seem awfully small now.
The vastness hits me like a bomb.
The burden of my ghosts lifts from my shoulders
and I think "Alayhim as-salaam"

The Challenge
(Day 8)
Family
To me is everything, bloodline, friends who stick closer than brothers, my nieces and nephews I cant help myself but gush about particularly Gracie, Maran Khimwa.
Gracie came to us not only as a blessing but also an answered prayer to her eldest brothers only birthday wish/prayer request the year before.
She arrived the year after exactly two months after his birthday, I guess even “I AM” gives belated birthday gifts.
She came and changed our perception about a lot of things, she strengthen our faith and taught us deep gratitude and love that transcended all the levels we had reached before  her arrival.
Born with some congenital disorders, some of which included;
Holes in her heart, upturned feet, a cleft palate and a tongue tie, still we had no reason to complain and refused to despair because we knew THE ONE whose blessings were incapable of causing pain  how much more adding sorrow.
Through it all, you’d never miss a smile across Gracie’s face, the almost constant ins and out of hospitals for surgeries and treatments resulting from complications and developments arising as she grew, though I write this from her hospital bed, she still smiles through the pain and happily says cheese when she sees me trying to take a selfie with her.

This post isn’t seeking for sympathy but to encourage someone out there who might be broken, struggling with a burden he/she thinks is too heavy to bear or has been overcome by fear of the cares he/she can’t seem to cast.

Please know that hard as it seems, “THE ONE” who has brought you thus far will see you through it all to a beautiful finish if only you’d let Go and let Him for He is God over everything.

With Gracie we had our fears and doubts,
Will she be ever walk?
Will the holes ever close?
Will she ever speak?
These were some of our fears amongst others and we feared to even share them but we never were afraid to tell The greatest Physician.
Now Gracie not walks but runs as her legs keep getting stronger and her gait better with each stride she takes
The holes in her heart? Miraculously closed just before she was getting ready to go for surgery.
Because of the cleft palate she couldn’t be breastfed and anytime she had to be spoon-fed it had to be done with great care so she doesn’t choke or suffocate but now she can not only eat but by herself.
Her speech keeps improving with each passing day and she’s even started school!

Gracie isn’t only an epitome of God’s unending grace but a daily reminder of His unfailing and unending love for us and towards us.
She reminds me to be thankful with that smile she wears like her skin in-spite of all the pain she’s gone through and at the moment is still experiencing.

Every November reminds me of how the Heaven’s deemed it fit to bless us unfit as we are with the unfathomed miracle called “Gracie” & I with another Miracle in my life (I’d save this story for the appointed time).
How our faith was tested, our love strengthened and our bond as a family has fortified.
We learned to join our faith with my sister’s and that’s how we defied gravity as we pulled heaven to earth.
I hope someone has been encouraged & has her/his faith renewed.
If you wanna give up, please know that God will never give up on you.
I hope this story will remind someone that
“GOD IS NOT DEAD”
Salaam!
r3d
11117
13:45

#roadtorecovery
#everythingipreten­dtobe
#realrawandaimple
#welearnasweteach
#writingright
#firesofr­3d

You can sing in a tune of psalm
And make up your qualms
Even after my  moments of salaam
This connection is what you'll embalm.

Farrokh Bulsara was his earthy birth name,
From the exotic sultanate of Zanzibar he hailed,

He crossed continents fleeing unrest and violence,
A refugee boy seeking sanctuary to Britain he came,  

His talent and passion was to unite one and all,
Bismillah! He rhapsodised in the name of God,

The world came to know him by another name,
Freddie Mercury written all over records and stages,

Remember him too as the lad who arrived here,
An outsider, a traveller, a refugee, a human being.

Ma salaam a habibi
As I hope that
Allah can believe you
More then mortal me
Or my mortal
Ma salaama habibi
I wished
That our love became
A reality

Good by my love
Fate is cruel

in love we disappear
Montreal's Leonard Cohen

late along in London
singin', ringin', knowin'

I've seen London too
stayed the Stansted Inn

Medieval women Muslim mystics
I discuss with my new friend

                   Nadia
Mohammed, Khadija and the poets
         Peace be unto them.

He had tied the brown thread on the pole
relieving the spirits from trees for the start
of belly dance of death on sand dunes,
whispering, gyrating to the tune of an
invisible snake charmer. Salaam
ambrosia, you had pledged to unhole
the milk bath, black waves will crash on the
windows, that I dream was true, god will
have the nativity for mankind and planet
earth will redeem peace.

Let us first accept the defeat of eternity,
and wounds will leap on, pouring upwardly,
aimlessly to defy the diktat of gravity,
contents you will know one day, watching
the birds fly away to warm lakes, that needs
a precision, geometry and courage
to glide over the tallest peaks.

I think the Propher Mohammed was bipolar.

The suras of the Koran are like poems, he experienced terror when the Koranic voice first came to him and believed he was being spoken to by the angel Gabriel.  He also tried to resist it but could not (his wife Khadija was of great comfort to him).  He was also tempted to commit suicide because of the anguish and terror of the experience.
As a Turkish psychiatrist once told me:  bipolar disorder is good for society but bad for the person who has it.

The Prophet Mohammed:  Peace be Upon him.

The Challenge
(Day 12)

When you pour the liquid content of a 35cl soda into a 50cl bottle it will never fill it up
If you pour it into a 15cl bottle it will fill it up and overflow.
Same thing with when you pour your love, energies, vibes or share your space, sanctuary and essence with the wrong people.
You’d either end up being too much or never enough.
If this is the case with you please find a way to detach yourself from this person before the damage becomes irreparable.
No matter how much you give someone who doesn’t value you or holds you in contempt it will never be enough.
Save yourself before you start to second guess your worth and shatter your esteem.
The only way to help a toxic person is not to shield such a person but be firm and ensure the person seeks the help he/she needs.
This is a show of love.
Love will always want you to be the best and have the best you can get and not let you plunge into troubled waters while it watches you drown without lending a helping hand.
We cannot give what we don’t have which is why we must always check ourselves and be accountable for and to ourselves before daring to do  same for others.
May the week ahead bring us all peace and fulfilment.
Salaam!

r3d
12:35

#museyilnen  
#yararewa  
#northernstar  
#roadtorecovery #everythingipretendtobe #realrawandsimple #welearnasweteach
#writingright
#firesofr3d

These days it's easier to take a minute to load and view contacts status
Than to spare 15sec to say "Salaam! I hope you are good?"
So, if you take that minute to view this, to you I say "Salaam! I hope you are OK? And life's treating you better?"

"Sah'b! Sah'b! Baksheesh! Salaam!
"Sah'b, bakshi?"
Apparently vacant, perfectly calm
I deign to see
naught - hear nothing of her drool.
The train will start;
then, for a space of time some cool
air may dart
(with dust and ****) across my brow.
It is so hot!

Next stop, on oath, again I vow
more beggars trot.
"Sah'b," she whines at me. No notice
do I take,
but wisdom tells me mental note is
sure to make
impression clear upon my mind
in this heat.
I cannot for so long be blind.
It is defeat.

For, can I, deafened, be unkind,
ignore the bleat?
"Sah'b," she whimpers at my window.
So I turn.
She wins - I lose and glance below.
Inside I burn,
but give no outward sign.  I spy
a legless *******
slobbering. Worse still, clung to by
a babe at ******.

in sunshine meeting Ram
    still I miss my mom
        alaikum salaam ...

              waiting.

Amani, Shalom, Salaam, peace
Humanities' goal is to release original sin
Meat grinder ball spins and we still fightin'
Warrin', not-rightin', iron sighting
birds in flight'n
Amani ani nawae 94b, for helping me
Made it clear with a shot glass of Halidol and pretty pills
It spills out this morning, doing laps to pass time
Apparently being Muslim is a crime
Do some **** and do a dime flat
Put you on your back with a gat goin' ack ack
Once again you got the short stack, short straw
Psych ward thaw, I want peace with them all
But they want to hurt me for praying to loud
Just another in the crowd, I need help too
I served this country just like you
Borders and flags are the symbols of fools
This species can come together given the right tools

PULWAMA SHAHEED DIVAS

Prem karte the vo vatan ko,

Uske liye shaheed ** gay-e jo

Salaam aapki nishthako, laajawab tha aapka dhradpan.

Ashru bhari shraddhanjali aap ko arpan.

Armin Dutia Motashaw

Jeene ke laayak bana mujhe ae khuda
Teri kayanaat ko mein dekh sakoon
Tere karishmon ko kar sakoon nihar
Mere haath hamesha tujhe kar sake salaam
Mere honth hamesh tujhse kar sake duwa
Iss Kaabil mein rahoo ae khudha

Jeene laayak bana mujhe ae khudha
Narm baton se apno ko mein sehlaa sakoon
Andhere mein shamaa banker raah dikha sakoon
Mere aanchal ko banaa iss laayak tu
Mere dilbar ko wo banjaye ibaadat ka makaam

Jeene ke laayak bana mujhe ae khudha
Ki le sakkon teri khush mausamon ka mazaa
Saawan ki ghataa se jab ubharne lage fizaa
Tho daudke usse lipat sakoon Zara
Mere dil ki galiyaan khuli rahe hamesha
Muhabbat ka raahi ban, rehjaau mein sada...