A BEAUTIFUL LOVE STORY

A traveling party found itself catapulted from inside a long and dark tunnel of a magic forest. There they had a vague memory that when the trip started there were only smaller number of them, perhaps fewer than 10. now, looking around, they were 36, then 70, or perhaps 100, all packed together and looking all identical and rapidly increasing in number if by magic.
Then a sinister game began. Soon they realized they where that bunch landed wads kind of a protective circle inside a prison, that none of them could leave except under the penalty of death. Another problem was that each individual, even inside the delineated safety zone must stay connected with the group for, alone each individual would be immersed in toxic wastes that kill instantly (within second). Finally, and worse, the grace period afforded these involuntary pilgrim was very limited: in 280 days they were to be expelled to be on there own. What to do?
They discovered that, in the confine of strict laws, they have creative power; that they could be and do everything they wanted.
So, first they decided to stick together, live for one another, and use their power of creation always for the benefit of all not for anyone in particular. They cultivated special skills and talent that focus on the collectivity's need. Voluntarily diversifying, some took on the dangerous task of defense, some specialize themselves in looking for food and process it for everybody. Others took on the task of keeping the community clean. They built a most sophisticated portable flee market that moves like a river where everyone indiscriminately finds what they needed for survival. They even created a high tech administration topped by a leadership that cares, comforts, heals, and delegates and inspires. In the end, this small group that started the journey as an anonymous bunch had grown into a model of a most civilized and self-sufficient community. They conquered their present and even planned for the future. When they left the protective forest there was no sorrow but rejoice.

ANOTHER HOLIEST HYMN

I gazed at the morning sun coming from the east
it a very bright and warm morning I told myself ready to deep my feet
into the world.
It is not a joyous day to sing hymns and praises,
nor one of those holiest or the bravest days,
But a twist like a mirror that reflect you to your past.
A drum beat that skipped your heart each time
the clock ticks, for another body is been berried,
while you count your days with fear, tears,
when you see the faces of your loved one.

As we journey together into these unending race,
we are left with ourself to decoy the mysteries and wonders
of our nature, we are yet another dust from soul
of the our maker.
We are the rivers that flows in circle, that cannot be traced
of its beginning or ending.
We are the beast in the forest, the birds on the sky,
mammals and many other history that cannot revealed.

We are ANOTHER HOLIEST HYMNS........

Coconut Grove Grapevine: He energized everyone after a long day

Coconut Grove Grapevine: He energized everyone after a long day

They said he is a track/rap/cracker,
selling hits/shit in the hood, he was a dealer a hater.
Young boys and girls knew him Weller,
that old G hanging at the conner.
With time flying faster
his trade has became bigger.
A big fella named, BELLER
O yeah that what they used call him “BELEER”.
He is no gangster, nor a fighter,
but with passion, he is became a jack ass cracker.
A street rapper who rapper whose hits hit track cracker!



Vinc

"WAR CHILD"

“WAR CHILD”
Roaring sound elude the air, bullet flying everywhere. The street is deserted, women, children, brothers, sisters, everyone fleeing to an unknown destination, finding shelter to rescue their heads and the life's of their children and love ones. We had no where to go, no one to run to. Those who we think can help us, most of them have died, while others have fled to neighboring villages. The more we run the more the war keeps coming close. We never had a day or two to rest before the war reaches our tent. I lost his mother during one of the conflicts while we were trying to escape a terrible plot by gunmen who came in surprise in the middle of the night, both of us miss our way and couldn't find one another.
Story came that she is died. That she was shoot while trying to find her way towards a narrow path, some people say because she was pregnant she couldn't run, that she was in pain, maybe she wants to deliver, then died on the curse. Some say she is nowhere to be found. But to me, that was the last time I saw my mother. The only memory I have is the last time we held hands together, running for our life's. Maybe that is the way life has decided for both of them.
Or maybe, life has something ahead for this young boy to become a voice that will rebel against the oppressions and discrimination. Maybe he is the positive force that will one day stand up and redeem his people from pang they are.


Deep in my sleep I bellow,
light flashes deep into
the heavens cry, unveiling it garments of non
existence,
a tempest, a shrill wind,
a eye of eagle eroding through
the rivers. Thus; greed prevailed in thy
vineyard.

Deep sleep in my dream I quench,
the thirst of agony, lingered in
the borders of innocents soul.
“I listen to each word coming
from his mouth,
each vessels he puke
rebel the string he abide”.
A bitter junction like the sparrow
tide to its web.

“As we forgive those who wrongs us,
so shall the dowers who miss leads us
realize we are no seed for Hebrews”.

the street is crying deep,
lamenting as the scorn pierce deep,
its swords knows no justice with its struck.
The street is falling low,
innocent juveniles
wonder for better days
cos thy sanctuary is false before them.

deep in my dream I am cast away
my dreams, my hopes where blown astray,
my history,
my courage is hung,
killed by the same weapon
I
once admire.

“children should be going to
schools,
not fighting in battles, because
they will lose their
life
even if they survive.”

for Emmanuel Jal and many other children who were taking away by military men to train to become a weapon of destruction to mankind. who have fought in Sudan's war. To those who lost their love ones and still mourning as we speak. The war in Sudan, Zimbabwe, Liberia, Kenya and all over Africa continent.

“We need peace and justice”.
Vincent

war child

"WAR CHILD"

"Children should be going to school, not fighting in battles, because they will still lose their life even if they survive."
From the book of "war child" by Emmanuel Jal
Emmanuel's charity Gua Africa (Gua meaning power in Arabic and peace in his native tongue Nuer) supports survivors of war from Sudan and Rwanda who are in high schools and universities. These are the people who will rebuild their countries in the future. Gua Africa also sponsors children at primary school in Nairobi slum and hope to find support for more pupils. Emmanuel's dream is to build a school in Leer in honor of the woman who rescued him, Wmma Mccune.
There he will be able to give the children from his home what he was given. "education and freedom"

www.guaafrica.org or www.warchildmovie.com

A Young Man On A Mission

"Left home at the age of seven/one year later I'm carryin' an Ak-47." For hip hop artist Emmanuel Jal, a former child soldier in Sudan's brutal civil war, these lyrics are hardly empty posturing. They are the bitter reality of a young man who was "forced to sin" but determined to "never give up and never give in." Today, wounded but still hopeful, he fights a new battle: bringing peace to his beloved Sudan and building schools in Africa. This time, his weapon is a microphone. See why audiences from New York to Berlin to London rave about the award-winning film, War Child, and have embraced the hip-hop artist with a terrifying past and a gentle soul. Interspersing original interviews, live concerts, and rare footage of Jal as a seven year-old boy, War Child will make viewers cry, laugh, dance, and celebrate the power of hope.

I want out!

the dancer is you in the Savanna rains
When you ask the bus to go on forever
and
the looking glass is you when
definitely
Yu ask my buttocks of images in paraffin
roaring burning black in haephestus' furnace
the days are calabashes of dead palm wine
that blossom into red blood in the black ambulance
yu say your life is my presence
turned into destitute vocabulary

but I forget
Joan of Arc was White
Very White the paper of hell's menus blistered
and scalded my Steve Biko fingertips
When I looked back
the wayward bus was right in front of me
Its single tyre Cyclop's smarting eye

When they began talking of digris

She looked at me at my empty silence
but you write write poems
how come you got no degrees?

the stamps in this detention mind
turn livid like a charon capsizing in Urine
the smudges on my face is debating faeces
the wormz these my fingers are typewriter keys
the Cry in the raining nyt trying
trying
to mangle the english language

I
forget
my dreadline is close
I have taken my poems
I'll get the books when I
bring your money
the typewriter was neva mine

When the becomes so real
and the poem refuses to end
enslaving to write all hours
I
know longer have tears to cry
remember
when I insisted on paying the bill
and yu knew I had no monies
and stared as I ate piles and miles of
spaghetti bread yu didnt know
that was my first meal in 4 days I
never said fasting was voluntary
Out the Savanna music kinged
for appearance's sake
lets hold hands

between pages of blazing gasps
your thighs when they crush me are delirium bantustans
and the flags
words from Senghor silences the Wind!

The Winter moon imprisons girls
poetessez with thighs like akhmatova
and
!
blood red blobs drop on this poem

Im not trying to emphaSIZE!
the blooddrops in my plate
Scarlet a red soup of gritty tears
gravel of brain sawdust
on the drill of time(s)
answer
What race was scipio africanus

the rains in the Savanna dance you
definitely.


Phillip Zhuwao

this morning nigger

The days have been like this
these past 4 days

I've been trying to sell
my 2 copies of New Coin for few coins
Veldfire ravage evicts
mice hares locusts and her beauty to the hunter
to believe
I've walked to town and back
to try and secure that University scholarship

It's vain and vulnerable
achille's heel my roofs crush me
over the hills the beautiful Vumba mountains
the grassy drakensberg the sand-particled kalahari
my biological homeland Barotseland
Lewanika's eye and my true identity

My heart is now a bomb
the dish of water that pilate washed hands

Indians smoke peace pipe
When I'm reading Oom Smut's autobiography

We can sit in this sun
or beneath it

God's footstools
So long as
I have a single beer

When she crossed her legs on Farewell
She mentioned Upsaala Heidelberg
Then british airways, She was gone.

Baring the wolf's ivory fangs
trying to blaspheme if God slept at all
Wondering why poetry is personal
Why I'm not yet dead the cat's whisker twitched
SHIT!
Again the blood and snot clotted in my nostrils
to the shouting outside

this dark little room where
the unmattressed bed
the tens and tens of books
the oversized jacket behind the door
the holed shoes
are POETRY themselves.

Phillip Zhuwao

Nigeria baby poison deaths rise


The death toll from a contaminated baby medicine sold in Nigeria has risen from 34 - recorded in early December - to 84, the health ministry has said.
There have been 111 reported cases of children who have fallen ill after being given teething syrup "My Pikin".
The poisonous syrup was discovered last November when babies began dying of organ failure across the country.
Authorities have called on private pharmacies to turn over stocks of the paracetamol-based syrup to regulators.
The Nigerian-made mixture was found to contain engine coolant.

Government will leave no stone unturned to.. ensure that such unfortunate incidents do not occur again
Babatunde Osotimehin
Nigeria's health minister
The National Agency for Food, Drug Administration and Control (Nafdac) shut down the Lagos-based manufacturer and the main supplier of the medicine last year.
Nafdac has also appealed to parents to not treat their children with any type of teething syrup until it can find all the remaining stocks.
The dead children are aged between two and seven, Health Minister Babatunde Osotimehin said.
"Government will leave no stone unturned to find answers to the many questions being asked by Nigerians and also ensure that such unfortunate incidents do not occur again," he said.
The name My Pikin means my baby in Nigerian pidgin.

Gunmen free Nigerian boy of nine

Gangs of jobless youth make money from kidnapping and extortion
A nine-year-old boy kidnapped by a gang in Nigeria's oil-producing Niger Delta has been released.
His 11-year-old sister was shot dead trying to protect him as they walked to school in Port Harcourt, Rivers State, last week.
It is understood no ransom was paid to the kidnappers even though his father is an employee of Royal Dutch Shell.
Kidnapping of oil company employees by gangs of armed men is on the increase in the Niger Delta.
Emmanuel Awonusi is reported to have been released unharmed.

Militant groups have been kidnapping oil workers and their families for many years in the Niger Delta.
They say they are trying to force a fairer distribution of wealth from Nigeria's oil, but jobless young men make money from extortion, kidnapping and oil theft.
The lucrative kidnapping business has attracted copy-cat gangs, analysts say.
Oil companies always deny paying ransoms but it is believed to be a common practice.

cos you listen

THERE WOULD BE A DAY
OR THAT DAY
I WOULD BE IN
FOR ALL OF YOUR WRITES
FOR ALL OF YOUR HEARTS

THAT DAY FOR SURE
I WOULD BE THAT ONE
THAT ONE
Of....
"GLI GLI"

Don't forget in those bad news my proud poet
my proud dancer of life

Dancer of words
Dancer in this world
With all bodies
Whose could listen
the litlle song of the HEART BIT


by
agnes dru

Three deny SA reggae icon murder

Lucky Dube
Lucky Dube was an internationally recognised reggae star
Three men have denied at the high court in Johannesburg murdering the internationally-acclaimed South African reggae star Lucky Dube.

Julius Xowa, Sfiso Mhlanga and Thabiso Maroping also deny unlawful possession of firearms and attempted hijacking.

The shooting of the 43-year-old musician outside his brother's house in Johannesburg in October 2007 shocked the country.

Lucky Dube's family and friends were in court for the opening of the trial.
The accused - all in their early 30s - were denied bail when they appeared in court in November last year.

It emerged at the time that one of the suspects had been out on bail on a separate charge when he allegedly took part in the murder of the reggae star.

This angered opposition parties and members of the public who questioned the country's judicial system.

But police were praised for making quick arrests.

Death penalty calls

Four suspects were initially taken into custody, but one was later released under the instruction of the directorate of public prosecutions.

Lucky Dube was shot dead in front of his son and daughter in Rosettenville, a southern suburb of downtown Johannesburg.

The killing led to renewed domestic calls for the restoration of the death penalty in a bid to stem one of the world's highest murder rates.

The BBC's Mpho Lakaje in Johannesburg says South Africa's international image has been tarnished by its alarming crime levels.

Nearly 19,000 people were murdered last year, according to official statistics.

Millions of visitors are expected for next year's football world cup.

Lucky Dube, who recorded in Zulu, English and Afrikaans, began his career by singing mbaqanga (traditional Zulu) music and recorded his first album with the Super Soul band in 1982.

He later moved into reggae, producing Rastas Never Die, which was banned by the apartheid government.

His albums Slave, Prisoner and Together As One won him global recognition.

The trial is expected to last about a month.

LAGOS

upon two and three, eight and twenty
we converge inside the vehicle
we hustle and huddle inside
all mingling like baked cake
inside the oven
“enter quick before the bus leave us here joo”

I remember that chant from the door man
calling bus stops, at the same time
attends to passengers aboard
“abeg owe yur change o”
but sometimes some passengers want to
be tuff with the conductor,
“madam I go join you wit dis boy, bcos yu ear me
day shout owe yur change before yu enter”

MOLUWE I will not forget
yellow and black stripe on the body
talking about body, AGBERO boys standing at every
bus stop for their daily payment
“oya, owo chairman, owo boys, owo ile,
owo morning, owo afternoon, owo evening”
but that is not only the payment for the day
what about oga olopa salary.

Under the hot sun little children
pass by with their tray
“omo elepa please sell five niara grand nut for me
and please make it well o, let me test it first”
Lagos city, I hail thee
I am proud to be one of your soul entity.

Vincent