Have you guys watched that movie? It's really good one, innit? However this is not about made up stuff but based on true story…  On this day, nothing was different: just finished the work and I had an appointment at the salon (Friday night).. It was my first time with this particular master.. Struggle is real.. (Girls understand me well..) so anyways this is completely different story, but this master made me wait like more than half an hour.. and by the time she's done it was all dark and late.. In the subway.. on my way back to home.. Suddenly someone calls me: “Sista..” in uzbek.. I look at back.. Young girl in her 20's… She asks me where P station is.. 🥷🏽: I can show you where it is, I'm going to the same direction.. We started a conservation.. She was slightly taller than me.. young pretty lady with a type jawline any model would desire, long dyed hair (damaged from bleach), light sport outwear (it reminded me of my outfits from 2000's) and some sorta pants? (I don't remember exactly why)..  She would act very confident but something was off about her.. Was she anxious? .. not sure.. She also mentioned that she has 2 kids and just came back from Russia.. and asked if I'm married.. (Of coz 🤓sodda bo'miy o'liy, I told her I'm divorced).. Our train comes.. we hop in.. she sat next to me.. 🤵🏼‍♀️: You know.. I'm going to one place.. (babir chirip ketadi ishlatish kere, which means it's gonna rot anyways you gotta use it).. 🥷🏽: (Whaat?!, at this point I'm doing my best to hide my shocked face..doesn't say a thing to her.. ) 🤵🏼‍♀️: He's very nice guy, he'll give us 400,000 sum (which is roughly $35), we're gonna split.. you get 200,000 for an hour.. He's not gonna torture you…don't worry.. 🥷🏽: (What the actual F*# is happening here… pretending I'm interested in this ‘deal' and letting her talk…) 🤵🏼‍♀️: I need to go back to Russia anyways, you're gonna stay, he has 2 houses, car.. he will provide you anything you want.. 🥷🏽:(My sweetheart.. if you only knew… I had better ‘deal' than this.. when I was 20, I had a potential being one of #topGeisha in Ginza lol, totally different story based on true events.. but we will talk about it later.. I actually didn't say this to her, it's only my inner thoughts..) 🤵🏼‍♀️:Yurin… yurin… she would try to convince me to go with her…She takes out a chocolate from her bag and tries to give it to me.. 🥷🏽:No thanks.. (luckily my grandpa taught me not to drink and take anything edible from strangers since I was a kid) You need to take off in this station..now.. 🤵🏼‍♀️:Yurin…yurin (Let's go)… 🥷🏽: Next time.. She walks away..   I was thinking who was she? What was her story? Did she had someone who cared about her? What made her to choose this lifestyle? Why didn't I stop her? What could I have done differently to prevent her going there? $20? Why didn't I give it to her? Of coz, I'm not rich and etc.. but Why didn't I try to change her mind?  And most importantly why these thoughts didn't come to me at that moment when I had a chance to change something? I know maybe I couldn't able to change anything.. at least I could've tried.. But what was omens telling me? Why did I need to meet her that night? According to my classmate, I needed to ‘experience' this in order not to go out after shom.. I can clearly remember her face.. I think she was high.. she didn't had that inner peace.. would talk from ‘bog'dan.. tog'dan..) But the most saddest part is her 2 kids.. I don't wanna judge anyone.. but where are they now? Which kinda individuals they would become without mothers love? I felt bad for not being Sandra Bullock's character from “The Blind side”.. I hope I'll get to that point one day.. ✨ And to that stranger girl, who I've met that night.. I hope you'll find your inner peace soon.. until than.. I'll see you next time…

Who is the famous Slim Danger? Slim Danger is an american Model/Pornstar, & she's also the mother of American rapper Chief Keef's child. Slim Danger is a well known face in today's industry. She's known for her famous modeling & numerous relationships with today's biggest rap star's like Chief Keef, 6IX 9INE, & even some NBA players.

A stranger I did meet, Our world joined at my feet. Gifts he brought to bear, Although I did not care. He did not ask for pay Not on that dreary day Pass it on he said, Help someone instead. His kindness touched my heart, I placed the food in my cart. A blanket went in as well, Although I knew I'd sell. You can work for me, I understand you see. I was once l like you, Not knowing what to do. A hand reached out to help, I could only yelp. He pointed to the church, I rose, my feet did lurch. My soul fluttered in my chest, This man spoke not in jest. He left me there on the street, To think how chance did meet. A perfect gesture divine, Hope fluttered free, fine. Now I sing his praise, Each time a life I raise. A moment etched in time, Despite stench and grime. This stranger I did meet, He brought salvation to my feet. He gave my life back to me, I love him so you see. In awe I can relate, An ode which changed my fate.

Being an 11-year-old was sort of an unsung milestone. Caught between single digits and teen years, eleven is usually regarded as a bothersome transition period. But in school, 11-year-olds were in the 6th grade. Sixth graders had earned a degree of trust and responsibility: perhaps carrying housekeys or getting to and from school alone. And at some point, being put on notice that it was time to pay closer attention to the rest of the world. You'd gotten this message during a 6th grade class period devoted to the dangers of train tracks. The school chose a day for everyone to hear and read about a collection of young people close to your own age, who'd each found themselves in harm's way after making some extremely poor decisions around train tracks. But you already knew that subway tracks were not toys, and you had become an expert in not looking for trouble. Your walk home from school was usually peaceful, which is why the loud, insistent honking of a car horn caught you off-guard on this particular day. When you turned around to look, you saw a man sitting in a boxy little navy-blue car. He was on your side of the road, a little ways behind. The honking horn belonged to the car behind him. You had no idea why he was being honked at, but he was looking at you as if he knew you'd understood the situation completely. This guy, close to your parents' age, with pale skin, black curly hair stuffed under a newsboy cap, and pudgy face clean-shaven except for a bushy mustache, held your gaze for a moment. Then he raised his hands and shoulders together in an exaggerated shrug and quickly drove off. The sight of him with that mustache, shrugging off the honking motorist behind him, looked like some comedy you might have seen on tv, so you were certain it was supposed to be funny. Reflexively, you laughed out loud. It had been a joke and you were in on it, for once. It felt great, even though you weren't exactly sure what the joke was. A cluster of tiny bubbles was forming inside your chest – a feeling you couldn't describe. Was it the fact that the guy wasn't behaving like any other adult you'd known? He had looked you in the eye, hard. He shared his joke, as if you were equals. He wasn't being mean – that manner you could easily identify. But this was harder to figure out. You didn't know what to make of this strange behavior. But you were just a few minutes from home, at the foot of the very steep road you climbed each day; your house waited at the other end. After about 12 steps up the hill, you heard another horn honking. The boxy blue car was stopped several feet back, with the pudgy guy sitting inside. He motioned you toward the car. This was even farther outside the norm for you, but you complied. It's at this point when you're usually called upon to explain what you'd been thinking when you made the choice to move towards your own third rail. An 11-year-old girl walking to the car of a total stranger. You'd had lessons and warnings that bad things could happen. But like the kids on the tracks, you simply believed that they wouldn't. The guy invited you to get in his car; he was going to take you for an ice cream. When you asked him why he wanted to do this, he responded with another shrug. “I like you,” he offered with a smirk. That answer had been enough for you. In disgust, you turned away from the car and resumed your march up the hill, toward home. Once again, you'd misunderstood everything. He was not a hapless driver looking to you for understanding. He was just a creep. Finally at the top of the hill, you were surrounded by the 3-story homes that made up your neighborhood. Your hand had located the house-keys in your pocket before you'd even reached the front door of your home. Safely inside, you dropped your heavy bookbag on the dining room table and went to the living room to switch on the tv for company. Your older brother had not gotten home yet, and your parents were not due from work for another 4 hours. You returned to the living room with snacks and settled in front of the tv. Remote in hand, you began to flip through the channels for anything to erase the thought of the pudgy guy, and the uneasy feelings he'd left you with. You felt exposed, confused. It hadn't yet occurred to you to feel angry. That would come years later when you'd left childhood completely and understood that sometimes trouble didn't wait to be found. Sometimes it showed up uninvited and tied up traffic just to get your attention. You finally found something funny to watch and felt the tension in your shoulders begin to ease. On the screen was a program your brother liked to watch: an older show with three guys, friends or brothers, who always found reasons to hit each other. It wasn't your kind of humor, but you left it on anyway. It couldn't hurt to stare at these guys for a while. At least they did not stare back.

“Don't talk to strangers,” is a sentence that echoes in my head every time I break this golden rule. Quarantine brings out the worst in people. “Don't give out personal information,” is another phrase that bombards my mind whenever I hint at something too close to reality. But now is a time without rules, in which boredom hunts our repeated days and sucks us into a parallel reality. Life in Mexico looks like a faraway dream that was once my life, but after closing some friendship cycles and pouring my feelings onto paper, I realised that there is much more than this bubble-wrapped society. There is a world out there. So. Back to strangers. It all began as a joke. My sister and I found a trending website on TikTok in which you could speak with anyone in the world. England, Australia, Brazil, Spain now all seemed just around the corner, as we spoke to countless people doing the same thing as us: nothing. Some of the friendships we made on this website were as simple as five-minute conversations. Others lasted a few hours. And a tiny bit of conversations lasted a few days. That is where the Stranger comes in. In one of our many adventures surfing on this website, we met them. The Stranger is nineteen years old and lives in Kent, United Kingdom. But that is not even half of why our lives are so different. The Stranger is truly the one that popped my bubble, ripped it apart. The Stranger claims they left school at age sixteen and does not plan on going back. The reason? Drugs. In the enclosed society I live in, in Mexico, it is rare to hear about drug dealers or even about junkies, but for the Stranger, selling drugs is the only thing that keeps their life afloat. To be honest, I was taken aback, I even thought about blocking the Stranger as I saw them write the word Xanax on my screen. I had to re-read the message a couple of times. I knew the next step was to stop talking to someone who had any connection to a drug like that. But I gave the Stranger a chance. I was intrigued to know what went on in the world of drug dealing so unknown to me. Turns out the Stranger's family is a low-income family. Divorced parents. A brother who steals his money. A troubled kid kicked out of High School for selling drugs. What are they doing now? Working a minimum wage job at a mattress factory near their house with a dealing business on the side, to afford living in an expensive country like England. After countless texts, I learned to look past that and get to know the Stranger. They are nerdy and passionate about learning history and reading. Their favorite animal is the black panther and they're obsessed with watching the worst British TV shows ever. They're funny, caring, and also intrigued to know more about a different kind of lifestyle—mine. Of course, there were tense moments. Our worlds collided more than what we imagined. The Stranger sent me a picture of them smoking weed. I looked at it in their hand, so casual, so normal for them, yet so shocking for me. I got these waves of fear, a reality check. I started to look at their image again. Bluntly. Thoughts of blocking them again tortured my mind. Questioning voices traveled through every corner of my head echoing, “What are you doing?” That question still haunts me: “What am I doing?” Why am I talking to someone I don't even know across the globe who's life is nothing like mine? Would they bring positivity to my life? Probably not. But we can't be blind to reality. And that is why I texted back that one time. I see the person the Stranger is, their background does not define them. So, strangers. We are about the same age. In completely different parts of the world, with different cultures and incomes, and yet there we were. Texting with some force, filled with curiosity and of course the fact that for once in a long time, we are all united by something unwanted: quarantine. Might not be as bad to break the golden rule, right?

Call me Eliana, a medium height, and smart woman. My flawless dark skin has always been a center of attraction wherever I go. Moreover, my smile is radiant, often painting a ray of sunshine all over my face. My character is, however, unpredictable, mostly dependent on the weather or my schedule. Many from my school would say I am a no-nonsense lady. I do not disagree, I mean work is work, and I don't take anything that concerns my future lightly. My close friends would probably describe me as funny and easy-going. My family would go with hardworking and determined, and lastly, my neighbors might be tempted to use the word lazy and unbothered. Again, the impression you get from me will depend on the Eliana you meet. My confidence makes me outstanding. Everyone at school knows the girl who ‘catwalks' to class, speaks up and is ‘perhaps feared by most men,' Some like her and have nicknamed her ‘the Queen'' others have opposing names for her. Nonetheless, she carries all those titles with pride. Many people look up to her, and now she has the sense of ‘entitlement' of getting whatever she wants. She can be polite, but mostly, her straightforwardness makes her appear commanding. Behind all this ‘strength', however, is a normal human being, who cries when hurt or disappointed, and gets depressed over small issues. Being a Kenyan in Rwanda, COVID-19 has introduced myself to me. Okay, I am an ambivert, and I have a long contact list with only three friends. Four months indoors for me was marked with self-discovery and discipline. Because of the language barrier and trust issues, I am rarely friends with random locals though we talk. Somehow after lockdown eases, I realize I might need a ‘close friend' to talk to, perhaps about my unpaid internships, or the uncomfort that comes with wearing masks or maybe social media and how draining it can get. Sunday 5th July 2020, my birthday month! Well, I have just summarized my thorough cleaning, and now it's time to buy some supper. I stay on my phone when I find a group of people having conversations in a language I do not understand. A girl, probably my age enters the shop, goes straight to the shopkeeper, and speaks English. From her accent, I can already tell she is from my country. You might relate if you were ever in a foreign country and met someone from your country. Me: Are you Kenyan? Her: Silence followed by a smirk Me: (Thinking to myself, maybe she hasn't heard me) Are you Kenyan? Her: A smirk followed by silence She is not deaf, I am sure, and I have never been ignored my entire life, at least not in an obvious way. Someone told me to trust my instincts, and sure they have never failed me. Moments after she walks away, I turn to the shopkeeper, and he confirms my claims,' she is a serious Kenyan.' he says. I am kind of disappointed that she did not answer me, yet we share the same Nationality. For a moment, I forget the ordeal and focus on my purchase. Coincidentally, I see her in the next shop and somehow wait for her to come out so that I can introduce myself, something that I am not used to doing. Me: I asked if you were Kenyan and you ignored me Her: Silence (walking towards the opposite direction) Me: Hello, are you Kenyan? Her: Silence ( continues walking) Me: Well, I was just asking because I am Kenyan too Her: (Walking towards me while smiling) Oh, sorry you could have said that as your first statement, can I have your number? At this moment, I try to re-examine my communication skills. I have learned how to communicate, but then how can I do it effectively when not given a chance? Anyway, we talk a little about school, work and being in a foreign country. My last statement to her is,'be nice' while walking laughing. I understand where she is coming from, only four months old in the country, perhaps still struggling with trust issues. While preparing my supper, I think about the pain I felt while being ignored, then I think of the numerous people I have ignored in my life, perhaps having nothing but pure intentions. Not a good feeling, trust me. Now I decide it is time to descend my throne and get to learn and understand people more. What about her? I wonder how many good people she has turned off with her ignorant nature, which is perhaps understandable, at least for now. But we can be better human beings, can't we? There's a message notification on my phone, and she has invited me over to her house. Moreover, there is an apology for the ‘wrong first impression.'' Wow, I have mixed feelings, and I am still figuring out whether ‘it is worth it.''My ego has been crashed because, usually,' I do not beg anyone' I am independent and always survives. I was okay without any close friends during the quarantine anyway, and now I have to sleep and think things over. The energy I put, the effort and time to get to know someone who had ignored me at first, is it really worth it?

I used to see anger like rolling thunder—precluded with curling, spitting skies, and a rumble so deafening your heart would quiver. A warning, a war cry, a natural effect of collision. A countdown to the final blow. I've been a bag of emotions lately. The predominant feeling I'm longing to tackle is this anger, but I have found that it's something of a nine-headed beast that isn't always easily identifiable—namely, it's been my method of coping and dealing with everything, no matter the true emotion lurking meekly beneath the fury. I have come to find that it's quieter counterpart to thunder. It's splitting strokes of lightning, young threads pulsing through my own currents. My actions are an attempt to discharge it, and I only cause more collisions, more bolts swirling in my dark matter. I yell, say words that sting, unhinge my jaw and sink my teeth unto the helpless—and I create more friction, therein, I never feel better. This isn't a pity party, although I am apt to throw one of those a little too often. In my existential quest to attempt self-discovery and find my ultimate purpose as a microbial being living on a dust mote in this expansive, never-ending universe—I've found a little something at the crescendo of these furious storms. A birds eye view of my past, my present, and even a smudge of my future. Is it indulgent to say that this all started with my own parents? A little, because I would like to think that it's not my fault. Yet, so would they—nothing was ever their fault, they don't remember, it was out of their control, and if they did mean it, you deserved it. In my childhood, you obeyed anger, but you were never allowed to be angry. If something bad happened, you forgave and never held a grudge. My present has been a hallowing and humbling look at cause and effect. There are twenty-seven known human emotions and I am still so angry. I am angry... When I am marginally inconvenienced. When I am anxious and don't feel safe. When I am failing and frustrated. When I am not feeling heard. When I am in pain. When my boundaries are crossed. When something is wrong. That's when I've realized that maybe I'm not actually feeling angry all the time, but rather, reacting angrily when I am on red alert. It's not bad to be angry, although it can be a mistake to react in anger. Anger tells you that something isn't right, it jumpstarts the fight or flight instincts in you and forces you to make a choice. We can't always see through the storm, though. Sometimes, we have to make a plan and wait it out. Intuitively, I know that I need to move myself out of the path of destruction. This means realizing that I need to take responsibility for my actions, for my feelings, and for the way I treat others. The time has passed for a relationship with my parents, but I can draw from our interactions as a guideline on how not to treat others. I can learn that forgiveness and boundaries happily co-exist. That being angry can drive change, but reacting angrily drives people away. I'm deciding to replace my hostile words and reactions with grit. When I am failing, frustrated, or inconvenienced, I will persevere. When I am anxious, not feeling heard, in pain, I will have courage. When boundaries are crossed, when something is wrong, when it's not safe, I will follow through and do the right thing. When I eventually find all of these things to be difficult to do, I will be resilient. And maybe—just maybe, I'll discover shimmering pearls swirling underneath.

Having Anger to Tea Hey there, Good Morning! You! Yes, You! I See You Lurking. Ha,Ha! But there is no need, Dear One. I would like to invite you in for a cup of tea. I See the shock and mistrust on Your Face. I don't blame You. I've treated You like a “Redheaded Stepchild”, As the Country Folk like to say. Really, though, thanks for giving me some Time Alone. You do wear a person out. Now don't get riled up! JK! I'll stop. I thought humor might Lighten things up a bit. But we will leave the Dawn to that task Here, I will come Outside in the Shadows with You. Aaah, what a Gorgeous Morning! That Breeze is Delightful. It was the Tree Frog in my Garden that Woke Me. I wasn't even irritated upon waking. Just curious as I woke up Light and Mellow And I wondered what it was that caused this Delicious Awakening. So Anger, You are an Intense Girl. But I Love You. Yes, You. You are Real. You Exist. You Exist for a reason. I just wanted that said, Straight Out. Now I would like to Give You a Chance to say something. How about I meditate, Go Head, Heart, Hara, then come back. Was that Roar on the Breeze a Sign of your discontent? I am staying Outside with You. I meant “back” as in back from within myself. So where have you been, my Friend? I asked my mind and it said “She's been here all along. She can snap at any minute.” Well, my Monkey Mind didn't even get a Banana, As that wasn't very nice. My Heart. My Heart said That I am addicted to You. Chemical responses emitted due to Your Presence. Affecting my Dopamine Receptors. Kind of Heavy for Heart. More of a Mind response… And then I went to Hara. Where of course it all made sense. The Hara allowed Your Voice to come through. And I heard Your Response. “I am Love.” Which at first I didn't get. But after a Moment's Reflection I realized all three, Mind, Heart and Hara, were correct. You have been here all along. And You certainly could snap at any time. But I don't think You will. I know You are born from Fear and Hurt. And that I fed You what We thought You Needed. And You became an addict Yourself. But I am Softening You back into Love. Back to Source. I am allowing the Power that is in You to come to Light. Yes, You are Light. You are a Powerful Goddess of Truth, Agnus. If I may call You by Your given Name. I Love Your Power. I can use Your Power for Good. To Create and Communicate all that is Wrong with the World, But more Importantly, how to Fix it. Excuse Me for Hating and Fearing You. That I wouldn't Acknowledge or talk about You. How Lonely and Sad You must up have Felt! What's that? Oh, Sweetie, I Know You were only trying to Help. Oh! I just heard the Roar upon the Wind! Not a Sound of Your distaste, but an Affirmation! How misunderstood You must always Feel! Like Gollum. Like Grendel. Let's have a Fun Nickname to go with Agnus. Because We aren't trying to Change who You are, But how You are Perceived, And My reactions to these Perceptions. Clementine? Well, that might be kind of long for a Nickname. How about Clemmie for short? I think this is the Beginning of something Beautiful, Clemmie. I'm going to check in with You throughout the day. I want to get to Know each other. Learn how to Communicate. Learn how to Understand one another. Because I am You, Kid. And I am Beginning to Love Me. And I guess that means Every Part of Me. Thank You for Being There from the Beginning, Agnus. Oh, You do like Clemmie? So it is. Thank You, Clemmie. For Helping me Survive. And Maintaining the Desire to Thrive. You can take a backseat Now, though. We can be in the midst of this Hurting World And Know that We are Loved Unconditionally. Do You want to Know a Secret? Between New Pals? We Always have been. P.S. Did You Notice it is getting Brighter already? Love You, Clemmie. XXX OOO

Here is the beautiful book cover that Friesen press created for Viktor. Isn't it awesome?! I love it! I hope you like it too!

From the years 2018-2019, adults might think we kids are being spoiled by things such as rap music, gangsters, drugs, and people who influence bad things. Now, this is purposely to view the case of the children and teens getting affected by other bad choices are age group do. When parents see a group of kids getting arrest or killed for an act or deed they had or was involved in, That type of news leaves an effect on not parents but their children. Parents always say, “I'm doing it to protect you,” and there is no fault in that, but when parents take it to the point where their teen can't be a teen, it's not protection it is IMPRISONMENT. The last thing a teen wanted to feel is like their being held in captivity by their blood. As soon as they think that way, they get mad, angry, sad, lonely, and like they did something wrong. That's the worst feeling a teen can feel. When a teen always wants to go out to have fun with his/her friends but can't because their parents feel as if they still need protection. The best thing parents can do is trust and let their children protect themselves for once. Then watch them grow into becoming strong men or women in the future. So with parents who like to keep their child safe, I assure you their always going to be protected. You just got to let them find it by themselves. Don't make your child angry by trying to do what's best for them or because you're scared. Try an leave space for the teens and kids that they are. IMPRISONMENT will get a teen into trouble instead of out of it. IN WHICH THEN THE CAPTIVITY OF A YOUNG SOUL IS LOST.

He stood alone in the outhouse, his back to the door held open by his girlfriend. If not for the twelve-gauge shotgun in his hands, he would have appeared to be doing what normal people do in an outhouse. But his plans were not normal. His companions' cheered and dared in the secluded, pristine northern California campsite. The friends were alone along the banks of the riverside campsite. In the offseason, few people braved the cold conditions, unless partying. The remote area provided privacy, a nice beach along the bank, enough wilderness to do some target practice, and a convenient outhouse. This site suited the needs of Danny and younger brothers Sam and Frank who planned the weekend outing to get back to nature, with their girlfriends. Older, more experienced, Danny ruled the group. Stronger than his size suggested, a true outdoorsman, he was the kind of guy people followed. The kind who'd been kicked out of community college when the admissions staff discovered he hadn't bothered to graduate from high school. “Wasted four months of my life,” Danny would say. Danny seemed to draw the company of attractive women with ease. His companion this trip was Amy. Wilder than most, with no fear in her soul, she stood ready for any adventure. An adrenaline junkie, she proclaimed life was too short to live it bored. Middle brother, Sam, more of a thinker the studious sort who, at age ten, calculated the trajectory and ricochet of a BB fired at a telephone pole, bounced it off and struck Frank in the head. The shot was legend in their family. Sam reveled in solving puzzles of all varieties; the more difficult, the greater the sense of accomplishment. Sam brought his girlfriend Kathy to the campsite. A wonderful girl, her heart wide-open to everyone she met. Her thick black hair stationed almost a head taller than everyone else in the group, her intellect hovered well below the dimmest. Youngest brother, Frank would rather play than work, viewed school as an excuse to play sports and date girls. Athletic, affable, with a smile that beamed likability, he slid through his youth on cruise-control, and did only as much as necessary to get by. Bore him with the mundane, and he would be lost to the lure of pretty girls or any other equipment that bounced. Frank's girlfriend Cheryl, a quiet introspect, preferred dancing or reading good books to trapesing around in the wilderness. Athletic, carefree, and nimble, she lied to her parents to go on the weekend outing. Just the type of girl Frank admired. During an afternoon target shoot, Sam wanted to experience the kick of Danny's ten-gauge shotgun. Kathy warned him to be careful. Afraid of the recoil, he held the shotgun away from his body, pulled the trigger. The gun flew out of his hands and landed behind him in the rocks. Sam stood frozen, his hands still clutched the now imaginary shotgun. Danny barked, “Go pick it up and clean it. Next time think about what you're doing!” That night they sat around the campfire, the only respite from the chill of the autumn air. Frank snuggled close with Cheryl. Sam offered well-chilled beers retrieved from the near-freezing river. Danny, his personality bolder than studious, pondered the effect of firing a ten-gauge shotgun into the outhouse hole. Cheryl cautioned him, stating she thought it a bad idea. Rather than dissuading his doomed-to-fail experiment, the rest of the group's shared inebriation resulted in rousing support. He decided it was a good idea, grabbed his weapon and strode to the outhouse. While Amy held the door open, he stood facing the open hole, shotgun at his waist, ready to fire. The others gathered nearby to witness. Danny pulled the trigger. The report boomed a concussive shock that stunned everyone. In an instant, the scene became surreal, played out in slow motion like a WWII movie. Danny stood frozen in place, as if unable to comprehend the need for retreat. His eyes followed a large column of thick, brackish muck as it rushed up to the outhouse ceiling and exploded in every direction. The group cheered and laughed. Danny stepped out of the outhouse; they laughed without control. Splotches of fecal matter in various states of liquid and solid forms covered his blue jeans and white t-shirt. His face showed the depths of his humiliation in the smears left from wiping the sludge from his eyes. His embarrassment highlighted by bits of toilet paper that clung to the splatter from his head to his feet. He stood there resigned to his misery and announced, “I'm going for a swim; anyone want to join me?” Most declined the invitation and left him alone to brave the frigid water. As everyone watched, Amy and Danny stripped naked and dove in. Kathy said, “That was great.” Sam agreed, adding, “But not smart.” Cheryl looked at Frank and said, “We warned him. When will guys listen to girls when we say what you're doing is dumb or dangerous?” “I'm guessing never,” replied Frank. “We're not that smart.”

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.

We've all experienced some sort of heartbreak. Some loss. Whether we felt it from the guilt of leaving our partners, or the pain we felt when our partners had left us. Truly caring for someone only to part with them later is more emotionally harmful than anything else on this earth. Mere days ago, I was informed by my dearest friend that my partner wanted to leave me. "You're single now," he told me. "He's upset with you, and he's tired of what you're doing." I felt my world come crumbling down from those few words. I would have understood if I had betrayed him in some way, such as cheating or lying about something, but all I had done was keep to myself in troubling times. I refused to rely on him emotionally in the case of him one day disappearing from my life, and thus did not burden him with my problems. Then I was told this. I can only faintly remember the last time I felt this way. "Okay," I simply replied with a deadpan expression. Yet deep down inside I was crying--screaming--and wondering why he'd leave for such a reason. Even before I began to write this I laid in bed and nearly bursted into tears at the mere thought of being without him. It hurts. After all we have been through together. It truly pains me inside. Now I pass by him in the halls, not daring to take a single glance in the fear that I may just break down once again, and ignore his very existence. On my way home I start feeling that emotion bubble inside of me, and it takes everything in my being not to explode right there in the middle of the street. If I must be honest, I feel very much at fault for this. If I just wasn't so stubborn and was more open. If I had just gave a more clear explanation to him on why I choose to spend time with only a select few people rather than him. If I had just told him upfront "I feel depressed, and I need some time away from us so I can collect myself again" or "This is just something that happens occasionally. I promise it'll go away soon. Just please be patient with me, I beg of you" or anything along those lines. Then maybe none of this would have happened. I wouldn't have the need to cry myself to sleep late at night. I wouldn't have the need to nearly collapse into tears each time I see his face. I wouldn't have the need to fake my hatred towards him, and mask my pain with fury. I wouldn't have the need to forcefully collect my being and throw myself onto another person just to forget him. This whole situation could have been avoided if I just said something more explicit and obvious to him. Then at times I also blame him. He understood, knowing me for about two years or more, that I prefer to stay away from most and hang out with very few when I am in these little moods. Yet he whined and chose to leave me over this. In fact, it was he in the beginning who would leave me to my own devices. It was he who would abandon me when I needed him most. It was he who would tell others "They're fine. Just leave them alone for a little while. They'll get out of this funk eventually." So why is it now, out of all times, that he is so furious for me simply understanding that it's better for me to deal with this on my own? Why is it that now, when I am the one who decides who I am with when I have these feelings, he gets upset? Who have given him these unspoken rights to control who I do and don't hang around when I am in no mood to deal with people including him? These emotions of mine conflict, and it hurts both my heart and my head to think of this. I know not of the future, but I do hope that someday all of this will be mended. I shall either join with him to figure this all out, or cut him from my life in its entirety and move on. Only time can tell what my choice will be.

We've all experienced some sort of heartbreak. Some loss. Whether we felt it from the guilt of leaving our partners, or the pain we felt when our partners had left us. Truly caring for someone only to part with them later is more emotionally harmful than anything else on this earth. Mere days ago, I was informed by my dearest friend that my partner wanted to leave me. "You're single now," he told me. "He's upset with you, and he's tired of what you're doing." I felt my world come crumbling down from those few words. I would have understood if I had betrayed him in some way, such as cheating or lying about something, but all I had done was keep to myself in troubling times. I refused to rely on him emotionally in the case of him one day disappearing from my life, and thus did not burden him with my problems. Then I was told this. I can only faintly remember the last time I felt this way. "Okay," I simply replied with a deadpan expression. Yet deep down inside I was crying--screaming--and wondering why he'd leave for such a reason. Even before I began to write this I laid in bed and nearly bursted into tears at the mere thought of being without him. It hurts. After all we have been through together. It truly pains me inside. Now I pass by him in the halls, not daring to take a single glance in the fear that I may just break down once again, and ignore his very existence. On my way home I start feeling that emotion bubble inside of me, and it takes everything in my being not to explode right there in the middle of the street. If I must be honest, I feel very much at fault for this. If I just wasn't so stubborn and was more open. If I had just gave a more clear explanation to him on why I choose to spend time with only a select few people rather than him. If I had just told him upfront "I feel depressed, and I need some time away from us so I can collect myself again" or "This is just something that happens occasionally. I promise it'll go away soon. Just please be patient with me, I beg of you" or anything along those lines. Then maybe none of this would have happened. I wouldn't have the need to cry myself to sleep late at night. I wouldn't have the need to nearly collapse into tears each time I see his face. I wouldn't have the need to fake my hatred towards him, and mask my pain with fury. I wouldn't have the need to forcefully collect my being and throw myself onto another person just to forget him. This whole situation could have been avoided if I just said something more explicit and obvious to him. Then at times I also blame him. He understood, knowing me for about two years or more, that I prefer to stay away from most and hang out with very few when I am in these little moods. Yet he whined and chose to leave me over this. In fact, it was he in the beginning who would leave me to my own devices. It was he who would abandon me when I needed him most. It was he who would tell others "They're fine. Just leave them alone for a little while. They'll get out of this funk eventually." So why is it now, out of all times, that he is so furious for me simply understanding that it's better for me to deal with this on my own? Why is it that now, when I am the one who decides who I am with when I have these feelings, he gets upset? Who have given him these unspoken rights to control who I do and don't hang around when I am in no mood to deal with people including him? These emotions of mine conflict, and it hurts both my heart and my head to think of this. I know not of the future, but I do hope that someday all of this will be mended. I shall either join with him to figure this all out, or cut him from my life in its entirety and move on. Only time can tell what my choice will be.