I decided I will distract them and save that girl's life. I saw a  stone on the sand as I am good at throwing things. I threw it to the soldier in front then he was hurt and started bleeding. It stopped the rape and saved the girl then the soldier looked in the back and saw me I had to run. Lucky me, I was not sure of what I was doing but I have a gut and I started running fast. They took a car to catch me. I ran as I can and it was not easy then I started having a blurred vision which incremented as they were approaching and I felt unconscious because I didn't eat. I woke up in a cage with a lot of people. I saw that girl next to me greeting me and saying thank you for saving my life. She told me to rest but I was feeling not good I decided to know people and asked them questions then I discovered there were a war in my country where the tribe in power sold land to our enemies without respecting the country agreement law. So this led to a tribal war killing 1 million people. I discovered my parents were trying to run away in a car and we had an accident. They saved me and they couldn't save themselves. Directly, the leader of troops came. She was a female soldier. She asked me what's my name? i said "jo as I remember my name in the dream". "She said come with me" . "I refused but the guard brought me there and she said took off your clothes I refused, she put a gun in my head and unclothed me then she raped me. I was confused, it felt good but I didn't want it. I didn't like, I am crying and shouting leave me alone but it feels good. This changed my life. I fell asleep while sleeping, I saw my father telling me it is not your fault what happened to you stop crying. you are a born leader. Follow your dreams. Be a leader. I woke up and prayed to ask God to forgive her. I didn't want to tell anyone about it. I decided to help people like me and change the world. As i was looking for a way to run, I heard and saw a helicopter then it becomes 2 then it was like more than ten. It is the American soldiers coming to save us. Gun started popping from everywhere. I was afraid I saw innocent people getting shot and dying. I was panicking when I said I am a leader. I heard a girl voice screaming. I went down on some never seen underground escalator which holds a lot of prisoners. Nobody knew they were people underground as they were a small number of people in the cage in the rebel camp. So I didn't know what to do or where I was going again. I followed my heart and the echo of the girl I saved then found them. The front of camp exploded. Lucky me, I was almost 6 7 inch as I saw a light then i jumped. I saw a door with a dead soldier who was trying to get in and hide but was killed and his body covered the way in. I pushed that body I saw the sun then it was quiet. I screamed help me then a big and tall soldier. Shouted "we found you" . You are safe. I explained to him what happened he told me I am a born leader. Directly, I thought about my dad and mom. Let me make this long story short. I have moved to South Africa as refugees. I am still following my dreams. I am studying currently online at an American university. I am looking for money to pay for my school fees.   Despite what happened to me, I want to help people around the world who had an experience like me and change the world. One of my biggest dreams is the American dream. the dream always wins if you have the gut to follow it.

RHYTHM OF ANCIENT SONGS AND BEAT OF AFRICAN PRAISE POETRY My birth is a metaphor of bullet-traces and the ironic verse of Leninist style-songs for black liberation that reverberated the grey-mist clad red-mountains of home – Zimbabwe. My birthing was a stitch between the thud of war-time guns and a heave of pungwe jives. Young women of my mother's age were volunteer maids during the traumatic but zeal-oiled Chimurenga times, cooking and washing for the cadres of liberation. Chimurenga songs sung by these war-ironed peasant mothers and bullet-toughened collaborators in the red-hills of Wedza. These Mother-guerrillas endured the hard throbs of grenades and the thrash of midnight-rains in those village hills alongside bushy male combatants. They learnt the soprano of the gun and the tenor of death.These were heaven-echoing struggle hymns. On the day of my birth, heavy rains rattled the winter-crusted red-earth. Rivers sobbed with heaven's tears and sorrows of war. That grueling night, swarms of collaborators were moved from one base to another, my earthly goddess was among those pilgrims of war. …her heartbeat thrilled my tender ears and her blood-ripples lulled my faint soul to sleep. And somy foetus spirit rode along with waves of echo and beat of verse. Ingenuity. I am the blessing of the trip, the child of war song and rain. A mystery. I am a child of song. I was birthed during the exodus. That rebel's war was characterized by death, wailing, stampede, bravery, shallow-graves, song and continuous walking. A trailblazing Africa reality show. My earthly goddess was a dedicated collaborator, volunteer and songstress. She carried freedom in the sacred cave of her womb. After their strange overnight long walk to freedom base of Mbirashava – rains ceased fire, war-drums paused and their echoes got trapped into the blankets of early day mist. Then came my birth cry they say like an exclamation engraved on the yellow-disc of the smoke-bruised African sun. Claws of dawn caressed the sorrow-soaked red-hills. My goddess wriggled in a thick volcano of red-clay mud, ochre-red blood and dead grass. Her womb groaned from labor pangs and suddenly the wind was cold. June dared the earth and everything in it. Cold-winds whined ferociously to disobedient flora and delinquent vultures. Winter, fast clicking a pause button to the jungle's daily festivals. I was born. Cadres and collaborators dribbled a liberation jive for my homecoming. They called me Gandanga. I was initiated into this earth by the alto of howling winter-winds, baritones of barking-baboons and the ease soprano of hooting-owls. A child of song. I was introduced to the festival of sounds, loud and low, good and bad, discordant and beautiful. Upon arriving at the village homestead, the earth trembled, the air got electric with ululations. My paternal grandmother fervently recited a traditional totemic praise poem. “Chirasha, Chikandamina, Weshanu uri pauta, Mavsingo a Govere, Vari Zimuto, Mukwasha waMambo, Vakafura bwe rikabuda ropa” A lone drum thrilled them into the audience into another dancing routine. The echo of the tinkling drum resonated with the beat of my grandmother's recitations. They said that my eyes winked in response to their merriment. Even up to this day, I beat my chest with pride to that ceremonial reception performed by an elder qualified to be my ancestor. My old singer-grandmother usually bundled me behind her old but steely back. Lullabies caressed me into dreamland until my goddess returned from her daily errands. I was raised by extraordinary songs, sweet and mellow to every infant's senses. I enjoyed the ear-tickling ancient poetry. They say I slept to the rhythm of that beautiful lullaby. My grandmother was Gogo in African – she would fall asleep too. Mother returned from the red-clay fields to find us under the watch of spirits and snores. After some weeks my umbilical cord wilted and fell. They buried it under the hearth near the main fireplace. Thus how we are bonded by our departed clan spirits. And so I grew up in a highly strict African traditional clan. My father and fellow clansmen brewed ceremonial beer for traditional rites. They supplicated to ancestral gods to end life-tormenting ailments, ravaging hunger, abject poverty and bad omen. Their usual incarnations, totemic praise's performances cultivated the griot in me. Praise and protest poetry became my official language. After my umbilical cord rites, my father gave me a name. He named me after the most powerful battalion of Tshaka Zulu, a battalion that never lost even a single battle – Imbizo.

My wife and I had had a great night at the Rad Madison Hotel. Head office announced my new role as regional manager and chief of operations across Sub-Saharan Africa and some part of the Middle East.\n\nRegina was beaming, with a permanent smile stuck to her face. I'd never seen her that happy.\n\nThe Cadillac Escalade crawled into the driveway of our Gregorian type home; sturdy columns, vintage carvings by the prominent Italian wood sculptor and friend El Giovanna.\n\nI stepped out and helped Regina onto the Porch, the light came on but there was no Dare. My Valet and Chef also doubled as the family Nanny and would always watch the kids while we went on outings.\n\nThe day we met, it was at an African day function, he was there cooking up some grilled meat popularly called \\"Suya.\\" We laughed and talked about our homes; how I missed Kumasi and he Lagos. We shared an uncommon bond which seemed to be a result of our West-African heritage.\n\n\\"Why's the house so quiet?\\" Regina asked me. I turned to shush her.\n\nThe eerie silence told me there was something out of place.\n\nEven Kgomotso, our live-in gardener was not at the gate as usual of him. We had made sure our home was colored with African nationals. John, our first son could speak a little of the Zulu he had learned from Kgomotso. Our daughter had taken a liking to Dare who told some of the most beautiful Ijapa and Yanibo stories.\n\nRemembering where we had been from, I always felt like my home was too perfect to remain forever.\n\nI could feel my heart starting to race as I pushed open the front door.\n\nThe lights were out. We stepped into the living room and I flicked on the light. Regina let out a scream.\n\nThe seats and shattered center table were covered in blood. Regina had started to run up the stairs and I followed suit, grabbing a baseball bat along the way.\n\nWe rushed into the children's room, Regina ran straight at the pile of bodies.\n\nFirst, she pulled off Kgomotso whose back was riddled with knife cuts, his body rolled off the pile.\n\nMy hands fumbled through my jacket, grabbing my phone, I dialed 911.\n\n\\"Help me pull his leg!\\" Regina screamed at me, pointing at Dare whose eyes stared into space unblinking.\n\nI could see the tiny arms of my daughter, so I grabbed Regina and held her as she kicked and thrashed about.\n\n\\"My babies, My babies!\\" she wailed on and on in my arms.\n\nThen we heard the sound that shut her up \\"Mommy...\\" John called out almost inaudibly.\n\nWe both rushed to pull Dare's body off. John had a small cut above his eyebrow, a scar that would forever remind us of that day. Kisi cried for months anytime she saw or heard someone speak Yoruba.\n\nThe reports from the New York Police Department (NYPD) led to the conclusion that the homicide attack was politically motivated, there was a letter. Someone had wanted me dead after the deal for DRC oil exploration had pissed off the government.\n\nThey thought I was the key to making sure insurgents were not given the fat payoff they had always had in the region.\n\nThe attacker had kicked open the door smack into John's face. The boy had quickly regained composure and run up the stairs to grab his sister.\n\nDare and Kgomotso had paid the ultimate price to defend our babies. They wouldn't budge until the attacker fled the house.\n\nThey must have made themselves into a body shield covering John and Kisi with their battered bodies.\n\n***\n\nThis fictional story is the result of my thoughts today about Ghana, South Africa, and Nigeria. We have been a major part of African liberation but yet are still full of hate for each other.\n\nNigerians must forgive South Africans in advance for what they might or will do to us. This is the only way to break the cycle of hate in Africa. The same must apply to South Africa and Ghana and every African country.\n\nOur fathers bled for the development of other countries of which today most of us have no stake in. We will always be presented with a choice, to bleed for Africa or to make others bleed.\n\nNo African has had it easy. Whether rich, poor or privileged. We all are products of centuries of bloodshed, slavery, colonialism, and struggle. It's our duty to honour their memories by defending Africa with our lives. This might cost us our pride, our feelings of entitlement, our memories of killings across tribes and countries. It will cost us a lot but we must be willing to forgive ourselves in advance for the evil planted in our hearts by decades of oppression and separatist politics.

I consider it an ordeal to travel in Africa. My parents traveled a lot when I was younger and I have always wanted to travel too. The way they talked about living in Northern Nigeria, it feels like a different world from now. They never felt like strangers whenever they left home, but Africa is changing. It's meant to be the height of experiences; for young people to pack a bag and travel to see the continent but present day Africa could be as hostile as it is beautiful. Being a stranger is not just about changing GPS location, it's about being where you are not expected to be. I am Nigerian and I am skinny. One would think identity and body size are just what they are but along with identity comes the burden of stereotypes. After a few months of arriving South Africa from Nigeria, I visited an Indian Doctor in Hatfield, Pretoria. The first thing he said was "You are Nigerian, so you gonna pay me with drugs? Ahh! I am joking!" Very inconvenient joke I must say, but that was my reward for being Nigerian in South Africa. In moments like those you almost feel as if you are not welcome, that you are a stranger. South Africa is a good place but when it comes to making jokes, it sucks some times. Some locals tell you how they actually think about you -probably something bad- and then they add that it's just a joke. What better way to peddle stereotypes than to make jokes about them? Now every Nigerian who leaves home is a drug peddler? The moment we step out of our borders we are labelled. I have also heard that Indians are rapists and drug abusers too. Should I have said so to that doctor and probably added "I am joking?" The student medical aid is compulsory for all foreign students including Nigerians who are just a little different from South Africans. The medical aid is crap from what I hear and I am sure they also know I am Nigerian and think "probably he is a drug peddler." What happens when I need to use this aid? What if someone does not attend to me just because they think I am a criminal. The day I visited the GP at Hatfield, I had to pay the Indian Doctor with cash that I don't have and he told me it might take another century to get my claim back. It actually took a century to get the claims department and they never paid. *sigh* That day after telling me what was wrong with me, the Doctor gave me some drugs and warned that I must eat before taking the drugs. He said "You look skinny, either because you don't have food or you are just skinny." After worrying about my citizenship, now I had to worry about my body size. There are fat humans, average sized humans, skinny humans and so on and so forth. How long would it take for us to accept these differences? The whole idea of racism and apartheid thrived on the idea that skin colour is a definitive element of your humanity. Skin colour, body type, hair or any other body feature are things no one chooses. Yet a lot of us are made to feel like we don't fit in, just because of these things. People avoid you for as little as the fact that how you look or talk or walk is strange or new to them. I am skinny not by a fault of my own, my body structure is far from perfect for those who have seen me. I limp slightly, and it's not from an accident. I was born with a birthmark on my forehead and for years I felt different. There are so many funny things that are not "right" about my looks but everyone has their own weird features. If you looked around you, there are at least a hundred people who don't look exactly like you just because they eat different or live in a different environment. But these people are just as human as you are. Holding a Nigerian passport or walking with a limp doesn't make one human better than another. The value of life is one and the same all over the world. Being a stranger in Africa stems from the dying culture of inclusiveness, community and hospitality that Africans used to be known for. There is a hate culture eating deep into the fabric of our lives, we have been hunted, haunted and broken by strangers. Understandably, suspicion and fear becomes a defence but must we lose the beauty of Africa to fear and hate? We need to embrace universal citizenship, to travel, to love, to eat with and walk with people who seem different from us. There's no need for us to be strangers in our own world.