Fimbo Publishing

There she stands
with her short dark hair
chocolate seas for eyes
soft light skin
delicate and warm to the touch

A smile from her means so much to me

The sound of her voice
The words of her mouth
sing in my heart still

A sigh from her
came clear
Nothing is unclear anymore

I stand ready to open
the door

But the knock is coming slow

Is she coming or not?
I cannot bear losing hope
Is she coming to my spot

I'll wait,
It won't kill my glow

November 2000

I loved those warm summer nights

They were always so deep and dark

And would easily engulf all

If not for the stars

So right and alive

So near…

Yet so far

Like fireflies trapped in the vast blue net

Of the dark summer sky

And yet

Tonight, as I watched those stars

They held no hope for me

They no longer winked down at me

As I waited for my love

But instead

They seemed cold, dark and distant

Even the moon

Hid herself from view

And somehow

I knew

That my love would not come

When I saw him

My heart skipped a beat

I had not expected it

I had not expected him

And his presence made my heart soar

But

To my dismay

He too had abandoned me

His eyes no longer had the spark and light

That I had come to know and love

And though he was with me, he was not

His body was there

But his heart was somewhere else

He

Like the stars

Was so close

Yet so far away

He said to me

In no uncertain terms

That he was mine no more.

The words he wrote

That I held close to my heart

And lay under my pillow when I slept

To endure that I dreamt of no other

Were to be writ no more

 His loving smile

His sensual caress

And his amber eyes

Were no longer only for me

And with that, he was gone

No sad smile,

No long goodbyes

I looked to the stars for comfort

But they offered none

Remaining aloof

Refusing to intervene, or interfere

I looked into the dark, peaceful waters at my feet

Yes, they were our waters

They held many memories

Of happy frolicking in the springtime

Of gay swimming and splashing

Of heated passion on hot summer nights…

Perhaps if I looked into the cool waters

If I searched deep within them

I would find my love

Perhaps, perhaps…

 The stars moved further and further away

Smiling sadly down at me

As I sank deeper and deeper into the abyss

Until they were gone

I felt my head grow light

And my eyes grow misty

Then

All was dark

The moon came out at last

In all her splendour

But she came too late

Sadly, she drifted away

For I

Like the stars

And like my love

Was gone.

My first love was an image

I loved all I thought he was

When the bubble burst,

The love died.

My second love was a ghost

He didn’t exist

I made love to him

And woke up with a corpse

My third love is a shadow

His shape is all I desire

I turn to the light

To find him real

And always, I smile.

I lost my lover

I will never get him back

He stole my innocence

Impaled on a shaft of brutal ‘truth’

I said truth is relative

He said relative never frees

I said that kind of naked truth

Is easier given than received

He said

‘Honesty’ begets freedom

In the loins of him that gives it

Untangling a knotted web of secrets

Granting relief on him that gives it

I said

But for the person who receives it

Untangling strings do bind

The stain falls off the giver

And bind the heart of her who takes

I said

I care not that I am hurting-

Only that you hurt me!

He said

Please forgive me

Please be my friend again

The sun is at full blast

And a sticky suffocating stench

Of sweat and feces

Is palpable even in the shade

Then God

Heaves and exhales

Blowing up

Plumes of dust

And soil and dirt

From a dry rocky patch

In the only open space

Between shanty shacks

Where bare feet

Kick around a home-made

Plastic-bag ball 

Stitched together with

Sisal strings

The wind intensifies

Collecting the rubbish into a heap

Large rain drops, warm to the skin,

Fall from heaven

Forming tiny rivers

That wash the rubbish heap down gullies

And trenches to the dammed lake

Leaving a clean fragrant freshness

And a clear sky as blue as

The ocean

A bell rings

And excited bare feet scatter

In all directions  

No more school today

The classrooms are too wet 

Walking home yesterday, I had to giggle. I walked past this group of five adults ranging in age from mid-thirties to at least sixty. They were arranged in a large black pajero, some inside, some outside, and all looking utterly frazzled. The car was parked right in front of a house with a large, impenetrable black gate, the kind with a tricircle keyhole. Gates like that lock themselves automatically from the outside, so you need a key to get back in.

From what I could gather, a lady had come to the gate to escort (or receive) her guests, and in the heat of conversation, had let the gate slip shut. And apparently, she had no keys.

I could see that the house was quite far from the gate, so yelling wasn’t doing much good. None of them was using a cell phone, so perhaps the house was empty. So the old man sat helplessly in the car, feigning disinterest, one guy tried to scale the wall [with much amusement and little success], one paced before the gate occasionally peeking in at the cracks for some divine solution. I don’t know how – or if – they got into the house, but they certainly made my day lighter.

In the past, the victors in this mess would be the smartest – the genius who could invent a bulldozer using nothing but a spare pajero wheel, a winch, and a match. Or perhaps the fittest, who could jump over the wall with ease. Or better yet, the strongest, who could ram headfirst into the gate, or throw someone over the wall. Of course in this last case, props would go to the lightest, since he is the one that actually got to the other side.

The sun is at full blast

And the suffocating stench

Of sweat and feces

Is palpable even in the shade

Then God

Heaves and exhales

Blowing up

Plumes of dust

And soil and dirt

From a dry rocky patch

In the only open space

Between shanty shacks

Where bare feet

Kick around a home-made

Plastic-bag ball 

Stitched together with

Sisal strings

The wind intensifies

Collecting the rubbish into a heap

Large rain drops, warm to the skin,

Fall from heaven

Forming tiny rivers

That wash the rubbish heap down gullies

And trenches to the dammed lake

Leaving a clean fragrant freshness

And a clean sky as blue as

The ocean

A bell rings

And excited bare feet scatter

In all directions  

No more school today

The classrooms are too wet 

THE JOMO KENYATTA PRIZE FOR LITERATURE 2009-ENTRY FORM

*All entries must reach the KPA Secretariat not later than 31^st March, 2009

The Jomo Kenyatta Prize for Literature is the brainchild of the Kenya Publishers Association. It was established in the early 1970’s and is open to Kenyan writers whose work is published in Kenya. The prize is given biennially to the author of the most outstanding new book in any of the following categories:

Adult Fiction: English and Kiswahili

Books for children: English and Kiswahili

Books for youth:  English and b. Kiswahili

PRESENTATION

The Prize will be presented during the 12^th Nairobi International Bookfair to be held in September 2009.

RULES GOVERNING THE AWARD

The following rules must be adhered to:

Eligible entries for the 2009 Prize are those books published in 2007 and 2008

Any original work of fiction written in English or Kiswahili will be eligible.

All entries can be submitted through a publisher

In order to qualify, all entries submitted must be published in Kenya

Generally, any book submitted should have a minimum of 48 pages. However, in certain categories of creative writing and children’s literature, books of shorter length may be considered.

Only published works are eligible.

The quality of content will be the overriding criterion. The following however must be taken into consideration when submitting a title: quality of binding, cover design, quality of paper, quality of illustrations where applicable, and general layout.

non-returnable copies of the submitted title(s), accompanied by an entry form and entry fee must be sent to the undersigned as soon as possible but not later than 31st March, 2009. A summary of the work and reasons for its suitability must be submitted together with the entry form.

The decision of the Committee for the Jomo Kenyatta Prize for Literature will be final. No further correspondence will be entered into in connection with the Award.

Mailing Address: The Executive Officer

Kenya Publishers Association

P.O. Box 42767, 00100

Nairobi

Physical Address: Kenya Publishers Association

Occidental Plaza 2^nd floor (formerly Muthithi House)

Muthithi Road, Westlands

...and I don't mean me :)

 “If my life is for rent, and I don’t learn to buy, then I deserve nothing more than I get, coz nothing I have is truly mine.” Dido

A lot of us live in rented houses. It’s easier. As long as you find a place within your means, and scrimp to pay it once a month, you can live your 29 days in relative ease and comfort.

But everyone longs to own a home, to buy their own piece of…heaven, if you can call it that. To know that no more angry landlords [or bankers] can bang on your door at midnight, demanding their dues. Peace, rest, and a leak-free roof.

Some documents are attached. Press release

Pre-Trial Chamber I of the International Criminal Court (ICC) issued a warrant for the arrest of Omar Hassan Ahmad Al Bashir, President of Sudan, for war crimes and crimes against humanity. He is suspected of being criminally responsible, as an indirect (co-)perpetrator, for intentionally directing attacks against an important part of the civilian population of Darfur, Sudan, murdering, exterminating, raping, torturing and forcibly transferring large numbers of civilians, and pillaging their property.the files

Treasury Releases Detailed Guidelines on Mortgage Modification Plan.

The Homeowner Affordability and Stability Plan is part of the President's broad, comprehensive strategy to get the economy back on track.  The plan will help up to 7 to 9 million families restructure or refinance their mortgages to avoid foreclosure. In doing so, the plan not only helps responsible homeowners on the verge of defaulting, but prevents neighborhoods and communities from being pulled over the edge too, as defaults and foreclosures contribute to falling home values, failing local businesses, and lost jobs.

The Kenya National Commission on Human Rights (KNCHR) recognizes the existence of the culture of impunity in Kenya and the need to remove this shield. In the preceding chapters of this report, the KNCHRhas made key recommendations including calling upon the Attorney General of the Republic of Kenya and/or the Kenya Police Force to undertake further investigations on various issues that the Report raises.

Sometimes I think I have a beautiful soul, but it's really just the heart of a child. I shut out what I can't undertstand, I pretend it doesn't exist. I can't comprehend the depth of human evil, I can't see why people do the screwed up stuff they do. It's not real. It's not human. I bleed when I think of it, and I cry, so I try not to think, read on it, see it. I don't like dark histories, or black movies.

In my world, bad things happen, but not awful things, not wicked things. I read about people breeding slaves, and forcing children to be whores, and gang rapes during war, and I tell myself it's exaggerated, some story cooked by hollywood and UN to bring in more funding, make more money. No one can be that cruel. I don't want a world where these things happen.

The third world today is what the ‘first world’ was centuries ago. Back then the Angles fought the Saxons fought the Romans fought the Gauls in the same way that Kenyan tribes do. People had the same mistrust, the same biases, the same misconceptions that we have. And they have taken hundreds of years to work through their misguidance and become Europeans.

Yet even now, there are still light and not-so-light jokes about the Irish and the Germans and the English and the French. America is like the UK in teenage – wild, loud and rebellious. The very concept of America is a conscious revolt against everything British, from language, to political systems, to geographical names. Yet the teen, with his Mohawk and piercings and crazy hair, has many elements of the adult. Old American policies of slavery, Native Indian land-use and immigration are an uncanny mirror of the colonist systems of The Empire.

The grammar in these words suggests a five year old, but the strength behind them probably derives from the frustrated adult that first said them. A question that plagues every human over 12 is this: Who’s my boss?

The core issue is careers. What will I do with my life? Where will I spend 8 hours of my day? How will I pay for that new car? Where will I get the money for those Prada shoes or Gameboy or Chidi Benz CD?

A career counselor once told me that people my age are lucky – we get to choose our jobs. She said that people her age stumbled into their careers. They just woke up one morning, found themselves in some office, and stayed there for life. She didn’t seem happy about the office life had thrown her into, despite being a reknowned radio announcer and instructor.

People of her era didn’t know much about career options. Their parents decided what they should be, and did everything possible to get them there. Or they simply filled the first job vacancy they came across. Poaching [and Quarter Life Crisis] hadn’t been invented yet, so you generally kept your job for life.

They say speech is silver but silence is golden. I’m into precious stones myself, so I’d prefer turquoise or topaz. And besides, I’m allergic to metals. They also say silence means consent, though I’m not sure why, because refusal to speak usually means the exact opposite. I think it’s called passive aggression.

While neo-wisdom claims that ‘bricks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me,’ sages warn against the power of the tongue. Broken bones can mend, and wounds can heal, but words are remembered forever, and they cut where no doctor or balm can reach.

So we can agree on the power of words. But there’s one weapon that’s even stronger ...and that’s the lack of them. Sulky silence has drawn confessions from unfaithful lovers. Isolation has broken some of the toughest criminals. Most sugar-high hyper-sanguine children [and some adults] can be tamed by the silent treatment.

Quietness does have its positives. People think you’re a lot smarter when you stay quiet. It makes you look deep and contemplative, and hides the less-than-intelligent thoughts that are lurking in your mind. For monks and nuns, silence is salvation itself. And even for the noisy ones among us, a few hours of quiet are necessary for sleep.

As a parent, I know it’s pretty easy to love your kids. Not always. It can get tricky to summon that warm fuzzy feeling when they wake you at 3.00 a.m. with colic, or when the toddler breaks your prized trophy, or when your six-year-old craves attention in the loud, inexhaustible way of six-year-olds, or when your teenager gets high on cheap weed and crashes your bosses’ new car. But for the most part, it’s easy to love your children. They share your genes. You see pieces of yourself in them. You carried them inside you for nine months and felt them kick, you saw their tiny eyes the first time they smiled, you know that they belong to you. For adoptive parents, you made a conscious choice to own this little person and love them and raise them. So it’s easy to love your kids.

But what makes our kids love us? When they’re all grown up, they can see themselves in us as they raise their own families, and they finally comprehend the sacrifices we made for them, and they love us for it – mostly they do. But what about when they’re little? They are only vaguely aware that they share our last names, and that our first names are Mum and Dad, but they can’t know what that means. They just accept it as normal, no question, but they have no idea what they ‘own’.

Question

This is a trick questions of course, Herr Paulson and Helicopter Ben have already made the decision for us.

Still it would be interesting to get "Mr and Mrs Joseph and Jane Sixpack's" opinions on the issue.

Enough with the experts, infact whole chunks of  economics text books are being rewritten in the wake of the Bush debacle. From role of government, deficit spending, stimulus packages, bailouts, unemployment.

February '04 (Isaiah 65; 1-2)

Remember when it was beautiful

When my name was your breath

When you knew was wonderful

When my word was your health?

What happened since then?

Why did you suddenly change?

How did you fall and when

Why did you choose to be so strange?

What are you crying about?

Tell me I want to know

Where did you pick up all this doubt?

Come back now; redeem your glow

Go back to where you left me

Just try and I'll find you first

I want lo set you free,

I want to quench your thirst.

They say speech is silver but silence is golden. I’m into precious metals myself, so I’d prefer turquoise or topaz. And besides, I’m allergic to metals. They also say silence means consent, though I’m not sure why, because refusal to speak usually means the exact opposite. I think it’s called passive aggression.

While neo-wisdom claims that ‘bricks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me,’ sages warn against the power of the tongue. Broken bones can mend, and wounds can heal, but words are remembered forever, and they cut where no doctor or balm can reach.

So we can agree on the power of words. But there’s one weapon that’s even stronger ...and that’s the lack of them. Sulky silence has drawn confessions from unfaithful lovers. Isolation has broken some of the toughest criminals. Most sugar-high hyper-sanguine children [and some adults] can be tamed by the silent treatment.

Quietness does have its positives. People think you’re a lot smarter when you stay quiet. It makes you look deep and contemplative, and hides the less-than-intelligent thoughts that are lurking in your mind. For monks and nuns, silence is salvation itself. And even for the noisy ones among us, a few hours of quiet are necessary for sleep.

CHAPTER 19

It was cheeseburgers that started it all. I had gone to the city on holiday – we must have been about twelve. I was so excited – not so much to see the city, but to see my sister. My twin sister! How I loved my sister Nala. That was her name. My own is Kwata.

Ever since the beginning of science, people have been fascinated with time travel. No one [that I know of] has achieved it, but the theories are similar. They all seem to agree on parallel time and the butterfly effect.

The concept is that while I am here, today, on 4^th December 2008, there is another me living her life in another space, on 4^th December, 2007, and that somewhere in the space of December 4^th, 1981, my mother is sitting somewhere, waiting for me to be born.

Think of space as a giant harp, or a massive guitar. Every year is a string on that guitar. So 2008 is one string, and 1981 is one string. Different dates are different positions on that string. That’s why if I jump from here to the December 2007 string, I will see myself. And of course the 2007 version of me will be shocked beyond repair, and could possibly go mad. Therefore, the first rule of time travel is never see yourself.

As a believer, my explanation for these things is simple: familiar spirits. My faith tells me that there are good angels and bad angels. The bad angels work for the devil, and their goal in life is to discredit faith in God. They do that any way they can, but mostly by encouraging faith in other things like undead spirits [Henry], and superhero magical powers [telekinesis, time travel, flying], UFOs, white magic and so on.

The familiar spirits rebelled against God and were kicked out of heaven. So they have nothing better to do than hover around eavesdropping on people’s conversations and preying on their beliefs to reinforce the false ones. A familiar spirit probably heard the argument Henry had with his father, and came back years later to cause the funeral day mischief. A familiar spirit convinces someone that they have telekinetic powers so that they no longer believe in God or miracles. Instead, they believe in Heroes, that they have somehow evolved and tapped into the 90% of the brain that other humans don’t use.

The grammar in these words suggests a five year old, but the strength behind them probably derives from the frustrated adult that first said them. A question that plagues every human over 12 is this: Who’s my boss?

The core issue is careers. What will I do with my life? Where will I spend 8 hours of my day? How will I pay for that new car? Where will I get the money for those Prada shoes or Gameboy or Chidi Benz CD?

A career counselor once told me that people my age are lucky – we get to choose our jobs. She said that people her age stumbled into their careers. They just woke up one morning, found themselves in some office, and stayed there for life. She didn’t seem happy about the office life had thrown her into, despite being a reknowned radio announcer and instructor.

People of her era didn’t know much about career options. Their parents decided what they should be, and did everything possible to get them there. Or they simply filled the first job vacancy they came across. Poaching [and Quarter Life Crisis] hadn’t been invented yet, so you generally kept your job for life.

When you

Unravel

Do it real-time

Online

Worldwide

If you

Burn out

Make yourself

Dry intrepid fuel

Inflame evil

Then explode

In a fatal

Blaze of glory

If you have to

Fall

First rise high

And touch the sky

Make yourself

A Callous ball

Drop down

Crashing

Systematic Graft

When you

Collapse…

xx

I just told off some twelve year old child for doing something perfectly logical – and all because he made my child cry. For that, I came pretty close to making him cry.

Here’s the scenario. My daughter saves up for two weeks to buy her favourite candy bar. For some reason, she goes to the shop and buys milk instead. Then she changes her mind – as women do – and returns the milk, asking for her money back. The child minding the shop tells her it’s against policy to accept goods once sold, and my child comes home crying.

I then go to the shop and chew the child’s ears off before eventually leaving extremely pissed with neither the milk nor the money.

As it turns, the shop owed her 100 tsh in change, so I did get that.

The situation was resolved when I refunded my child’s money and made her promise not to go to that shop again. But the whole mess got me thinking.

Calmly

Drifting

Away from reality

Succumbing to

Inertia

Half asleep

Through eight hour

Days

Half awake

Through fourteen hour

Nights

Around me

Carols are sang to

A faith-based Santa

Friends 

Congregates at

Festivities

And Parties

Where gifts are

Sacrificially laid

Under an evergreen

Lighted

Tree

 …knowing something is wrong with your child, knowing they are ‘not themselves’, knowing something is bothering them, hearing them say ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ when they are only five, knowing they couldn’t explain even if they wanted to, because they can’t comprehend it themselves, and begging to make it all better…fear is being a parent.

About a year ago. My child asked me a frightening question. ‘Mummy, what happens to me if you die?” I was shocked. It came out of the blue. I tried to find out what prompted it, but got nowhere. Then I tried to brush her off, telling her I wasn’t going to die anytime soon. But she insisted, “I know, but what happens to me when you die?”

I then went round in circles and dropped some red herrings about burial and cremation, and carrying around ashes in handbags filled with chocolate scented envelopes. She giggled, and seemed to like the envelopes. Hours later, when I thought the topic was forgotten, she came and sat beside me, placed her head in my lap and said “Mummy, I don’t want you to be dead.”

That was a year ago.

A lot happened in that one year. I met someone whom I loved, and whom I thought loved me, and who my child was fond of. But then I realized they were not what they seemed, and I bailed. That’s when I got scared.

Ever since then, there’s something I’ve been meaning to do. But somehow I never got round to it. Stuff kept coming up. Excuses maybe, or maybe chicken, but I just never got round to doing it, until today.

A very gifted crew of enterprising Kenyans have made a movie. Coming soon to a DVD near you, watch this space for updates and exclusive sneak previews. The movie is entitled Unseen, Unsung: Unforgotten. It's a full feature film - 2 hours long. It is about people suffering from HIV/AIDs and how it affects them and their families and friends. The movie hopes to show people that HIV is a disease and not a judgement call on those who have it.

Fimbo publishing project reached a major milestone today. The first, hopefully of many, titles is now available in print

at Amazon.com. The book is a novel titled " Against the Gods: Wendy's War " by Crystal Ading'.

The narrative recounts the struggles of Wendy Bakari in her journey to womanhood. After a successful stay in the city to obtain her education, a jilted Wendy returns to a fictional African village called Lufinga where she is forced to confront misogyny, evil spirits, female circumcision and other strange customs. Yet as the granddaughter of the village witch, she must walk a fine line lest she be consumed by her own desires.

Crystal Ading' is a single mother living in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. She won joint third prize in the African Performance Playwriting Competition 2007 for her radio play, The Game Plan. The play was produced and aired on BBC Radio. Against the Gods is her first novel.

Order your copy today at Amazon.com

Fimbo Publishing is running a new campaign based on the historic election of Barack Obama as president of the United States this past Tuesday.

"There are those who will continue to tell us that we can't do this, that we can't have what we're looking  for, that we can't have what we want, that we're peddling false hopes. But here is what I know....Yes,  we can. Yes, we can change. Yes, we can." Sen. Barack Obama's remarks after he won the  Democratic presidential primary in South Carolina.

Please read the Entry rules carefully before submitting

The goal of Fimbo Publishing is to capture a written narrative of African cultural identity, both non-fiction (how things really are) and fiction (how we
see ourselves in the mind's eye)

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Information Circulars and Factsheets (US Copyright law)

FL-104, Revised June 2008

If you have written an article, column, or short story that has been published in a magazine, newspaper, or other periodical, you may make a separate registration for your work. This kind of work is called a “contribution to a collective work.”

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If you anticipate publication of a series of contributions during a 12-month period, you may be interested in special provisions that provide for registration of a group of contributions to a periodical. (See adjunct application Form GR?CP and note applicable instructions.)

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For further information on registration, see SL-35. For further information on copyright, deposit requirements, and registration procedures, see Circular 1, Copyright Basics.

Contribution to Collective Work

They say speech is silver but silence is golden. I’m into precious metals myself, so I’d prefer turquoise or topaz. And besides, I’m allergic to metals. They also say silence means consent, though I’m not sure why, because refusal to speak usually means the exact opposite. I think it’s called passive aggression.

While neo-wisdom claims that ‘bricks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me,’ sages warn against the power of the tongue. Broken bones can mend, and wounds can heal, but words are remembered forever, and they cut where no doctor or balm can reach.

So we can agree on the power of words. But there’s one weapon that’s even stronger – and that’s the lack of them. Sulky silence has drawn confessions from unfaithful lovers. Isolation has broken some of the toughest criminals. Most sugar-high hyper-sanguine children [and some adults] can be tamed by the silent treatment.

Quietness does have its positives. People think you’re a lot smarter when you stay quiet. It makes you look deep and contemplative, and hides the less-than-intelligent thoughts that are lurking in your mind. For monks and nuns, silence is salvation itself. And even for the noisy ones among us, a few hours of quiet are necessary for sleep.

 The grammar in these words suggests a five year old, but the strength behind them probably derives from the frustrated adult that first said them. A question that plagues every human over 12 is this: Who’s my boss?

The core issue is careers. What will I do with my life? Where will I spend 8 hours of my day? How will I pay for that new car? Where will I get the money for those Prada shoes or Gameboy or Chidi Benz CD?

A career counselor once told me that people my age are lucky – we get to choose our jobs. She said that people her age stumbled into their careers. They just woke up one morning, found themselves in some office, and stayed there for life. She didn’t seem happy about the office life had thrown her into, despite being a reknowned radio announcer and instructor.

People of her era didn’t know much about career options. Their parents decided what they should be, and did everything possible to get them there. Or they simply filled the first job vacancy they came across. Poaching [and Quarter Life Crisis] hadn’t been invented yet, so you generally kept your job for life.

Colleagues

TGIFing

Traffic snails to the 

Watershed

Where lethargic throats

are washed back to boisterous

carefree and merry life

If the weekend was a president

they have Obama

I’m stuck with Mugabe

my day off was Thursday

Procrastinating on

emails, meetings, conference calls

high level and low level design plans

sales targets and time sheets

Weak weekend

weaker still

my effort to join in

the celebrations

worrying over

the lousy economy and job security

shrinking savings and retirement plans

taxes and bills and overdrafts

and who will be

in this Sundays’

Government bailout

They have forecasted

subzero temperatures

and light snow tomorrow

sunrise at 8:00 am

I report to work at 7:00 am

I only hope the motion sensing

light switch is working

and the coffee machine wasn't locked-in

and my milk wasn’t thrown-out

when they cleaned up the refrigerator

and the AC is set high enough

and that I am not alone

in that big empty office

Copyright © 2008 Cashlink {joscommentenable}

Ever since the beginning of science, people have been fascinated with time travel. No one [that I know of] has achieved it, but the theories are similar. They all seem to agree on parallel time and the butterfly effect.

The concept is that while I am here, today, on 4^th December 2008, there is another me living her life in another space, on 4^th December, 2007, and that somewhere in the space of December 4^th, 1981, my mother is sitting somewhere, waiting for me to be born.

Think of space as a giant harp, or a massive guitar. Every year is a string on that guitar. So 2008 is one string, and 1981 is one string. Different dates are different positions on that string. That’s why if I jump from here to the December 2007 string, I will see myself. And of course the 2007 version of me will be shocked beyond repair, and could possibly go mad. Therefore, the first rule of time travel is never see yourself.

As a believer, my explanation for these things is simple: familiar spirits. My faith tells me that there are good angels and bad angels. The bad angels work for the devil, and their goal in life is to discredit faith in God. They do that any way they can, but mostly by encouraging faith in other things like undead spirits [Henry], and superhero magical powers [telekinesis, time travel, flying], UFOs, white magic and so on.

The familiar spirits rebelled against God and were kicked out of heaven. So they have nothing better to do than hover around eavesdropping on people’s conversations and preying on their beliefs to reinforce the false ones. A familiar spirit probably heard the argument Henry had with his father, and came back years later to cause the funeral day mischief. A familiar spirit convinces someone that they have telekinetic powers so that they no longer believe in God or miracles. Instead, they believe in Heroes, that they have somehow evolved and tapped into the 90% of the brain that other humans don’t use.

What does this have to do with the secrets DVD? Well, time travel is just theory, no proven facts. But all humans believe in some external forces at work in the world. Whether they are aliens or deities or fairies or our inner selves or migrating brainwaves, or even just the power of positive thinking, we believe in forces that affect life.

Religious people believe in God or angels or demons. Indigenous cultures call them ogres or genies or the undead. These forces are used to explain phenomena like telekinesis, precognition [prophesy, fortune telling] or loss of memory, or coincidence.

Fimbo publishing project reached a major milestone today. The first, hopefully of many, titles is now available in print

at Amazon.com. The book is a novel titled " Against the Gods: Wendy's War " by Crystal Ading'.

The narrative recounts the struggles of Wendy Bakari in her journey to womanhood. After a successful stay in the city to obtain her education, a jilted Wendy returns to a fictional African village called Lufinga where she is forced to confront misogyny, evil spirits, female circumcision and other strange customs. Yet as the granddaughter of the village witch, she must walk a fine line lest she be consumed by her own desires.

Crystal Ading' is a single mother living in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. She won joint third prize in the African Performance Playwriting Competition 2007 for her radio play, The Game Plan. The play was produced and aired on BBC Radio. Against the Gods is her first novel.

Order your copy today at Amazon.com

It was cheeseburgers that started it all. I had gone to the city on holiday – we must have been about twelve. I was so excited – not so much to see the city, but to see my sister. My twin sister! How I loved my sister Nala. That was her name. My own is Kwata.

Damn it!

CHAPTER 19

Ndaro raised his head as Leila approached, then nudged a rwaka next to him, and soon the handful of rwaka were staring at Leila. All those eyes made Leila nervous, but she stood her ground. She held her head high, searching the mass of young men. She spotted Tila scrubbing his feet with a pumice stone, and approached him.

He sneered. “Well, well, well,” he said loudly. “What have we here?”

“I need to talk to you,” Leila said softly.

“So talk,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Not here – in private.”

Fimbo Publishing is running a new campaign based on the historic election of Barack Obama as president of the United States this past Tuesday.

"There are those who will continue to tell us that we can't do this, that we can't have what we're looking  for, that we can't have what we want, that we're peddling false hopes. But here is what I know....Yes,  we can. Yes, we can change. Yes, we can." Sen. Barack Obama's remarks after he won the  Democratic presidential primary in South Carolina.

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The goal of Fimbo Publishing is to capture a written narrative of African cultural identity, both non-fiction (how things really are) and fiction (how we
see ourselves in the mind's eye)

The information apprearing Fimbo.org has been compiled meticulously and is to the best of our knowledge, however, the we can in no way guarantee the accuracy or completeness of the information. The publisher and authors therefore do not accept any liability for any damage resulting from actions or decisions based on the information in question.