Silence… A woman sleeps soundly peacefully in her dream house. She loved her life: she lived happily with her beloved husband and raised wonderful children. Suddenly, the tranquility shattered. A phone call. Half asleep, the woman stood up. For a second her heart skipped a beat, as if it sensed something was wrong. But she brushed aside her doubts. Silence… The surprisingly calm and peaceful atmosphere is broken by a loud cry. Her husband and son run up to her in bewilderment. Silence. Again. But this silence is different: there is no peace in it. Soon there will be crying again, and it will remain in this house for many years. Who would have thought that this end is actually a new beginning, that this crying is the first step towards stopping other people's mourning? Silence… The world has lost another young beautiful girl, and the parents have lost their only daughter that day. 128 mothers felt the same pain as that woman that day. Another 128 families were stabbed in the back by their loved ones. Time has stopped. Happy moments with her daughter kept flying in front of mother's eyes. She felt deep sadness, rage towards her son-in-law, and guilt for letting her daughter die; emotions were eating her up. Silence… Everyone fell asleep from powerlessness. And even sleep did not bring peace. Now, the woman was thinking about her future. But this time, she looked at it with an empty, hopeless gaze. Funeral… A cry was heard in the dead silence. Everyone immediately understood what kind of crying it was. The mother was in disbelief. “It wasn't supposed to be like this,” she repeated. It is the daughter who should bury her parents, and not the other way around. It wasn't supposed to happen. Gathering her emotions, she went to honor her mercilessly killed daughter. Silence… Court. Sadness still filled the mother's heart. The family waited for this trial for more than 4 months. The trial was already a victory. The trial was a ray of hope that justice would prevail and the killer would be punished as he deserved. An influential rich man could not hush up the matter with bribes. “It is indeed a victory,” she thought. Thanks to the wide publicity of the case, the mother felt not only the support of the public, but also an obligation to remain strong for the sake of her daughter and other women subjected to domestic violence. The judge asked the court to stand up. Silence… Court. It has already lasted 20 days. Looking at the imperturbable face of her daughter's husband and her killer, the woman felt a surge of rage. She wanted to bring him the same pain that he brought to her daughter and the whole family. The rage turned into despondency. It seemed that all the jurors and the judge had already received their bribes, so the killer sat smugly. But looking into the eyes of one of the jurors, the woman realized that the efforts made to conduct this trial were not in vain. On the same day, the president signed the law, popularly named after her daughter. It is designed to protect women and children from domestic violence. For a second the woman thought about the absurdity of the situation. A person had to die painfully for a law to be passed to criminalize beatings, for support centers against domestic violence to operate, for inducement to suicide to be criminally punished, and even for the introduction of criminal liability for sexual harassment of children. The woman felt anger towards the tyrants and sympathy for the victims. But these feelings quickly gave way to mental pain. Only one question was in her head: “Why my daughter?” The woman became pensive and there was silence… Silence was only in her head. A wave of hope swept across the country. The only thing that bothered people was that the trial was not over. Silence… Court… Jury… Judge… Killer… Media… Everything seemed too surreal. It seemed to the woman that she was not in that room. She wished this was a dream. For 2 months now, the whole country has been discussing the life of her daughter. Some even blamed her daughter for what happened. Tears welled up in her eyes. A couple of minutes later, the judge announced a 24-year sentence for the killer (there were cases when wife killers were given only 1.5 years). The country rejoiced. But a storm raged in the woman's heart. All emotions were mixed. This is a victory and a defeat at the same time. This is joy, but at the same time, sadness. Silence… There are different emotions hanging in the air. But most importantly, justice to some extent triumphed. A new era of the country's development has begun. The killers realized that they would be punished for what they had done, and the victims would stop keeping silent about it. People felt safe. However, the grief of the family of the deceased girl cannot be expressed in words. This time, the silence was interrupted by the carefree laughter of children and the silent smile of a woman, satisfied with her life without a tyrant.

Wayne started beating me five months into our marriage. Initially, it was simply an unexpected slap or a punch to the kidney. It was so unpredictable and out of character that I deemed it my fault. I reasoned that I must have brought it on myself, and that I deserved it. That naïve perspective changed when the abuse became far more regular and intense. After two further months of humiliating, soul-wrecking beatings, I finally walked out. I left with only the clothes on my back and firm resolve burning in my heart. I moved in with a friend, but I knew I needed help. “Speak to Mr. Eden,” Sinead advised me. “You know he's always been kind-hearted to us and helps everybody without hesitation,” she added persuasively. And that's how I ended up outside his office the next morning, clutching my college bag and courage firmly to my breast. Mr. Eden was the College Counselor, and one of the most unselfish men I had ever met. Not a single student had ever been turned away by this gentle, unassuming man. And I was about to ask him to not just go the extra mile, but to also go out on a limb for me. How classically clichéd. “Marina, come inside,” Mr. Eden invited me the minute he saw me. “Have a seat. How's life been treating you?” he asked innocently, but his tone and the innocuous question triggered a flood of sobs. I was embarrassed; I chastised myself for making such a spectacle of myself. Mr. Eden instantly took charge, soothing me with encouraging words and a soft tone. He offered me a bottle of water, which I gratefully accepted. I confided completely in him. I was surprised by the first words he said, but I shouldn't have been. “We need to get you into a women's shelter today. I know a place near the college. I will take you there after I've called them to give them a heads up, all right?” As if that wasn't enough, this amazing man then spread the word – with my permission – on the college WhatsApp group that a student needed donations of clothes, toiletries, food; the works. The response was overwhelming! Mr. Eden took me to the Saartje Baartman Women's Shelter, and they agreed to house me as well as try to resolve the problems Wayne and I were having by giving us marriage counselling. All absolutely free of charge! I received so many donations of barely-worn clothes, brand new underwear, toiletries and even money that I could give some of the things to Sinead to thank her for having granted me a safe haven when I had needed it. And the best thing of all? Wayne is a changed man. The couples therapy had opened his eyes, even bringing him to the point where he apologized tearfully to me for ever having lifted a hand to me. “You are a treasure, Marina,” Wayne said to me on the first night I returned home. He was holding me gently in his arms while he spoke in a voice shaking with emotion. “I nearly lost the most precious gift I had ever received, but I will never again be this careless.” “If not for Mr. Eden, both of us would have lost each other,” I said and smiled, feeling the heavy burdens lift off my shoulders like fog burned off by the warmth of a rising sun.

The man and the woman, a union ordained for bliss Bliss ethereal yet tangible, like the honeyed taste of a kiss But this bliss is sent to hell, when the man says he is a beast Of course not with his mouth, but when his pride becomes his fist. Iya Bisi said "For my children I will stay". "I need to be around to get the daily bread in place". Really, she had hidden fears about what people would say If she fled for her safety, away from Baba Bisi the Great Should we wait until her eyes are swollen and black? Before we see that our vision is blurry and dark Mandela's hands in the air spoke of a freedom age Why do the hands of our brothers speak of bondage? Zainab swore she would go to the university But Hassan came with naira for his bride Thus scissors went into her private princess parts Another child has become wife. Bolanle's oranges were neither ripe nor exposed And her thighs were warmed by a baggy pair of clothes She was three days in as the latest teenager on the street Then three rounds of rape sent her hanging on a rope. The pandemic strolled into our world Then quarantine drove us into our homes But Ogechi's home was a prison, and she was a detainee She lived in a ring with a stronger opponent and no referee In fact if their common name was Floyd, He would be Mayweather and she would be George. She was one woman with one thousand responsibilities. Everyday came with reasons to stretch her abilities. But even elastic strings have their limits Maybe hers would be the day her heartbeat is quiet. This message to our society must go viral. We must wake up to cherish our women. We are blessed to have these living, breathing temples Who are we to desecrate deity?!

My mother clung to my small palm as if her life depended on it while staring up at my father, who was screaming furiously, shaking his clenched fists in front of him. “You never do anything right!” he yelled. As my mother backed up shakily, she ran right into the dining table, bringing me along with her in a fierce crash. I stared doe-eyed at my father then back at my mother. Why is daddy so mad at mommy? His screams became louder and his movements more forceful as he thrust his hand forward towards my mother's throat. Terrified, I let go of my mother's hand, running towards the bedroom. I pulled the covers over my head and wrapped my arms over my shaking legs, rocking myself back and forth. Tears began streaming down my face, but I was too afraid to make any noise. “Please stop!” I heard my mother's frail voice yell out. Slap! The crack of skin against skin echoed through the walls. That was when I heard my mother call out for me. I froze, my body still shielded under the blanket. “Help me!” I heard her scream again. I started to cry even harder, yet my body remained paralyzed at the corner of the bed. Her incessant cries for my help could be heard through the breaking glass and clinking furniture. After what seemed several hours, the chaos in the other room subsided. I stayed put even though it started to feel humid under the blanket and I was breathing in hot air. I knew my mother entered the room when I felt the bed dip. Whimpers racketed from her body. I peeked out of the covers and crawled over to her side, obediently. She looked down at me, a tear spilling from her eye. “Why didn't you do anything,” she says in her mother tongue. I cast my eyes downward and shrug. I had nothing to say to her. It was true: why hadn't I done anything? I could hear my father still yelling. He was crying along with his violent outbursts. That always confused me. He never apologized. It was never his wrongdoing. He was the one inflicting the bruises that painted my mother's body, yet he cried. It made me wonder if it was because he was hurting too. That was the day I felt true powerlessness. As a young child I didn't know what that meant, but fear controlled me when my body refused to move from its place. I was distraught over the daunting question my mother had asked me. I could have yelled for him to stop. I could have called someone for help. I could have stopped him. The last thought haunted me. And it made me wonder if it was my fault. Surely, my mother wouldn't ask me that if there was truly nothing I could've done. My father should've been the bad guy. But I was the biggest let down— to myself. I was a bystander in my own home. I wanted more than anything to protect my mother. But I was still afraid, which meant I was useless. I was angry. Not only with my father, but with myself the most. Reflecting back on this day as a young adult, I realize that so much was out of my control. The systemic, abusive struggle between my parents was not something I could have alleviated or fixed. Yet, to this day, I still seek the answer to a question I fully understand provides me with no refuge, no reward: was there anything I could've done?

Last night, I felt impressed to write a letter to the President of the United States of America to share with him three points I needed to get off of my chest. The first point was to thank him and his family for putting our country first. Regardless of political beliefs, President Trump has convinced me that he and his family really do want America to be the greatest country in the world, which is something I can support. The second point was to ask why are there reports stating dead people received COVID-19 stimulus money? How come there is not some sort of regulation in place with the government that cross references social security numbers of those just written on a death certificate to the government agencies that send money? Obviously grieving families do not always tell the IRS or Social Security Administration that their loved one just died. And, let's face it, there are a lot of crooks in the world who do not want these agencies to know a person is dead. The third point I felt like I needed to share with the President of the United States was to ask for his prayers. He and his family appear to be the kind of people who pray to the Christian God, and since that is the same type of faith that I share, I hope he will take the time and utter a quick prayer asking for God's favor to finally shine on my life, so that I, too, will recover from this pandemic. I honestly do not know what else I am going to do if I do not find a job. I know people think that "white privilege" is a real thing. And maybe it is for some, but not for me. Reputable jobs want to check credit. Okay, fine. Just only use my recent North Carolina credit history and ignore everything in Georgia. I barely escaped my home state with my life and the clothes on my back. My former husband knows my social security number and when I left, he made sure to ruin my credit in hopes of forcing me to stay with him. When that did not work and I left anyway, he tried killing me by making it look like an accident (See photo. That story will be told at a later time). If I do not get a job, I do not know what I am going to do. I have worked everyday since I was fifteen years old. I do not know anything but working. I have never even filed for unemployment before now. All of my life, the people in it have told me that I would never amount to anything and would accomplish nothing...I do not want to think that they are right. That the decisions I have made in my short forty-four years on this planet were all for naught, especially on that first day when I wake up with zero dollars in my bank account, has made them be able to say, "I told you so". With a future so uncertain, where does one go from here? How does one recover? Hopefully, I will get a job before I need the unemployment benefits. If I cannot finally establish a career because I am discriminated against due to my lack of color, disability, or credit report, then, my back-up plan is that maybe I will receive unemployment benefits which will help supplement my income until I begin the local community college in August and find a part time job on campus. Even though I have over twenty years of experience in the office administrative and legal assistance industry, apparently employers are looking for education as well, which is why I will be getting my degree in Paralegal Technology so that I can pass the State and Federal exams. In the meantime, I plan on writing to help pass my time and keep my mind occupied. And maybe, just maybe, something else will come out of this experience and I will wake up one morning in the near future to realize that I am finally living my America Dream.

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!

With the National outrage in India over the rape and murder of a 27 years old Veterinarian and another 23 years old rape victim being set on fire on her way to testify in court, I can't help but recall an incident that happened years ago. I got to thinking about the way our society perceive rape and how more often than not , the victims are the ones who get punished. We tend to blame the victim rather than the perpetrators. This incident happened years ago, I was a teenager and living in Aba with my family. Our neighbors had a daughter named 'Chinyere' whom everyone termed ' Promiscuous'. Opposite our house is a two storey building owned by a rich Merchant who has 3 sons. One of this sons is a well known trouble maker called 'Osy'. On the day the incident happened, Osy pretended to be sick and so was left alone at home . He then called Chinyere to come and prepare spaghetti for him. Unknown to her he had 5 of his friends waiting and when she got there, they raped her one after the other . After the crime, they seized her clothes and pushed her out on the street stark naked. You would think people will condemn Osy and his friends but the reverse was the case. Chinyere was severely beaten by her parents and that was it. For months, Osy and his friends boasted openly about how they flogged her with belts when she refused to open her legs and other details of the rape. The girl couldn't walk through the street without one of them taunting and mocking her, she was about 19 years old then. Last I checked, both perpetrators and victim are still alive, all married with kids. Looking at the incident now from the perspective of an adult, I can't help but wonder! Why the parents thought their child deserved to be beaten and the Criminals spared? Why no one spoke out for that innocent girl? Why the perpetrators were the ones mocking the victim and not the other way round? Why the victim had to bow her head in shame while the perpetrators walk with their shoulders straight and their heads high? Could it be that deep inside, our society doesn't really see rape as a serious crime? Could it be that deep inside, we tend to think that anyone who gets raped had it coming? Why is it that judges in court are quick to tell victims to dress the way they were dressed the day they were raped? Why are there more excuses for the perpetrators than sympathy for the victims. I can't even begin to imagine the trauma, that girl had to go through , first in the hands of her torturers and then in the hands of her parents or the shame she had to face afterwards. Our society has to start looking at rape, not with the eyes of the rapist but with the eyes of the victim. We need to first chase away the Wolf before we blame the hen for being careless with her chicks. Women and girls please be careful, who you trust and where you go. It isn't safe out there and at the end of the day the only person that can truly take care of you, is you. Like the songwriter wrote' No one else can feel the rain on your skin'. Be safe this season.

you can still treat other children like yours, they need love, we are all humans.

When I was kid I was always amazed by the beauty of the sky, by the depth of the ocean, and by the properties of the earth. I hate walking in the dark but its delightful at night, with the beauty of the sky in the navy blue background. I came to wonder: how come there is no war between the stars. All I see in the sky is pacifism. I ask my mother once a time, is this earth very small? before she leers at me, “why you ask this nonsense question?” “I don't know, but maybe because I want to know why people fight by the border. If this earth is enough for all of us why we need weapons, hate, violence?” I responded. My mother was not ready to give me the answer what I was looking for, instead, she told me that I was a child and only allowed to know how to play a games with other children. When the war started my mom decided to run and hide in the cave. She asked me to carry my four year old sister so I carried her on my back. My mom carried my two year old brother on her back and my one year old sister on her front. My ten year old brother carried the metal stove we used to cook bread and the flour. The worst thing was that my grandmother could not walk fast but we could not carry her. My mom asked me to run to the cave near me and wait there for her. I told her I'm scared of caring for my sister and myself. She said full of tears I don't want you to die here so please take your brother and I will follow you with your grandmother. I didn't have any choice so me, my sister and my brother went to the mountain where the cave was. We saw almost all of the people from the village concealed in the cave. One of mom's friends who was in the cave had us to sit with her. I was worried about my mom, my grandmother, and my other siblings. The jets made the sky look busy while they turned the beautiful land to dust. I started to cry, all I was thinking is that my family didn't survive. Then I heard a man from the cave help a woman who was carrying a child. I knew that that woman had to be my mom. I was relieved that my family made it to the cave. We stayed one week at the cave. All the woman were praying while the noise from the jets and the weapons made the children cry. I couldn't bear the noise and just hoped that everything would be quiet so that our last few moments alive would be peaceful. At that point I wasn't sure if we were going to survive. I was sure that a jet would find us in the cave and all I could think about was that I wanted our last few moments alive to be peaceful. The flour we brought was not enough, so I remember after four days my mom and other women went to the village in the middle of night to bring some food from the houses. While in the village the women saw corpses strewn about in the streets. They couldn't even identify some of the bodies because of the destruction that the jets caused. My mom could not bury any of the bodies or bring any of them back to the cave because it was too dangerous and they didn't have time. When my mom got back to the cave I saw in her face that she was full of sadness. The cave was the worst place - I couldn't sleep on the hard rock. I had a pain in my back and all I wanted was to go to my home and sleep well. After eight days of staying in the cave the noise of the weapons was disappeared and all of the people decided to go back to the village. The women and older men had to care for the children because all of the younger men were in the war fighting. When we returned to the village we saw many houses burned to the ground . My family was one of the lucky ones because our house was not in danger. I've heard that after a war you can't ask who won it, but the question is just who is left alive after it. All the woman of my village including my mom went to help those that were injured. They found many people who had died, and most of the people who died were the elderly or those who couldn't run due to a disability. Some children were killed as well. All the women with the help of the older men brought the corpses to the church. My village grieved. I vividly remember sitting under a the big tree that I found outside of my house, I closed my eyes, so I can pretend that there was no war and people are alive. My eyes became my enemy. when I opened my eyes all I saw was people in deep grief.