Chapter 61

Patterns of thought

At Least your heart beats

That is what they advised,  ‘get to know yourself.” Well he had gotten to know himself pretty well. Yet he continued to wonder, how one could get to know themselves completely, when man did not fully comprehend things like freewill and and no will. Just the single thought on that, made his brain halt certain chemical production, which in turn depressed his mind. Ironic. No! because that is not what ironic means.

They advised him, that he appreciate the things he has in life, but that turned out to be in terms of economic consumption of goods. The very question of what people want out of life, is changed when you look at life in terms of pain. Example; Davidian and Adriana are taking a stroll in the forest, giving their hearts and minds the peace of the great out doors, when they were attached by a gang of thugs.

Davidian was kicked and punched to within and inch of his life, Adriana was only punched to within a meter of her. Can we really reconcile Adriana pains by saying, think of poor Dave and his battling for life.

He grabbed some chalk and drew a line altering the course of the story, thinking to himself, that is the jest of poverty. The agents are not concerned with scarcity of product, they are dealing with pain alleviation. Poverty was the side of life where the goal was to end pain(No wonder the poor engage in vices to temporary ease their pain). The answer on this side life 42= pain, vices =pain relief. On the other side of the poverty where the normal people lived, 42 = Stuff. Room is empty, put some furniture. Furniture has no purpose, point it towards a screen. Connect the screen to a million channels. Get a screen to the world wide web. Open a Facebook account, find a thousand people and call them friends. Put together a collection of pictures, that show how much stuff, you doing with your life.

Blah blah blah, at least your heart it beating.

The Bad Samaritan

This story is about car accidents and the people who arrive to steal from the injured.

The Tithe Collector

This story is about, how the ‘Man of God”, gives your tithes to the Lord.
It deals with why God wants your money, and only blesses you when you give him money.
It tells of Gods fascination with man made money, and what God uses the money on.
It explains why the tithe collector never has to account to tithe givers how much is collected.
It goes on to explore, how the man of God takes advantage of the Placebo effect.

It examines the life of the tithe collector and how they are able to sleep at night. And importantly
it ask important questions, like why do tithe collectors call themselves men of God?
Why do tithe collectors have more money then you. Why are tithe collectors so wealthy?
Why don’t the Jews tithe.

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Chapter 60

10 Rules for the African American

Rule 1
Play the Race Card
He started off his story, with a thought on how great it was to be black; And by that he meant having the ability to always fling the race card in the face of every white person. How flinging gave him a power to be the best black man he could be. Yes in 2014, black was not just beautiful but the linking weave to greatness.
Know your story!

Rule 2
Dont step to a another level, getting kind close to, dancing naked with the technium.
Avoid copying and pasteing a personality from one of your screens on to your life.

Rule 3
Dont outsource your emotions to the machine.

Rule 4
Be the better human. The best revenge is educating yourself well.

Rule 5
Stop holding on to a history of pain, the more stuff you hold in your mind about the past, the less room you have in the present to create a good future for yourself.

Rule 6
Play the race card

Rule 7
Dont play the blame game. Your problems are not created because you were not breast fed as child. Maybe your Mama had a bad Mama, and your Great Mama had a bad Mama, where do you stop the blame.

Rule 8
Dont call women beeeeeeeeeeches

Rule 9
Play the race card

Rule 10
God does not see people in terms of color and neither should you

Chapter 59

The Doctor Witch

Our healer is a man of many herbs and spices. The power of his plants, find the root of your ailment, and vacuum it out the system. The healer is also, the master of the mind, and knows what mental tools can guide it back to healthy thought. He tends our minds, like we tend our fields, carefully and thoroughly rooting out weeds, and planting seeds of good thought.

They came with their holy book, and in exchange for the book they took the land, minerals, cows plus etc. The book preached about brotherhood, they practiced segregation. The book preached above love, they practiced hatred. The book was the word of their ancestors, they told us not to communicate with ours.

Kaguma our healer, who had eyes on the past present and future at the same time, told us, let their will be done, for our kingdom will return, and our time will come. We gave them our sweat and toil, working with our eyes facing the sun.

Life is full of twist and turns, and now comes our time, we return to the land, to live by the land. The doctor witch tells us to forget about the white time, and focus on the present moment, be in the joy of  the here and the now.

We take one last look at our past, the days of city, of car, of house. We see how selfish our nature had become, as we blinded ourselves to the natural balance, of land, mother nature and man, and chased the money instead. We drove nice cars as our brothers and sisters starved. We traveled to distant land, to return without presents, instead suitcases filled with profit in mind.

We lost respect for our elders, and looked for respect in our bling. We sat 4 by 4 in taxis, breathing in each others personal space, heading to towns, to search pavements for shops, with items we can sell to friends and family. We marked up everything, and sold on for healthy profits, instead of just telling friends where the product was available. Instead of waiting with eyes to the sky’s, dreaming of rain, we queued and queued, with eyes to the paper.

We lived  intolerant, we lived selfish, we lived with hate, we lived with death. We lived with greed. We lived with Gluttony. We lived with anger.

Now we hold the red soil in our hands, we smear it on our faces, brothers are now one. The past travels to the pages of a history of our choice.

Chapter 58

Reaping the dream

We arise to the vibration of dawn, stirring awake, through the vocal cords of the birds. We look out into the distance, beyond the horizon, and beckon the Sun. Gently it climbs, with its orange hue spreading across the land, penetrating and removing the dusk. We turn our backs to the majestic light and walk out, to our fields, to give mother earth, its morning meal of seed.

We dance and sing to mother rain, to quench mother earths thirst. The seeds give birth, to plants, the latter reach up and out, spreading their winged leaves to eat of the sun. We air the soil, working out the body and mind, and laugh at the past, our driving 2 hours to the gym, to work the machine. We are one, with our mothers of nature, as we give to them they give to us. In the distance cattle herders, whistle sweet notes to our stock of life, who graze with pride, fearing neither man nor predator. Our hoes strike the ground putting beat to our work song, as we all day long, tend our fields.

The earth moves the sun slowly and gently from east to west. The birds begin their homeward flight, the sun has moved from our backs to our eyes, so we turn after one last salute to the fire in the sky, and turn our backs to it, as we follow the birds home. The aroma of food flavored smoke greets our tired and stress free bodies as we, edge closer to our home, sweet home village. We smile, a full hearted smile, cause we know as we work our fields, they also work us.

Chapter 57

Oral Messaging


We gather around the gold-colored fire, our faces silhouetted against, the backdrop, of a starry night. We tell the same story, over and over again, enjoying it until it is cemented in our minds, never-fading like ball point ink. The oral off our tongue, flows, painting picture of story’s past, nothing added, events engrained deep in real-time. Our lives drama, carbon copied from mind to mind, generation to generation, molded by the heat of the fire into a stone scroll of truth.

The night weaves its invisible body out deep into the sky, bringing sparkle star disco to the heavens, and the women get up to dance, singing and calling for a story-teller, to take us back to the words of ancient ancestor. They stomp their feet upon the earth and shake the ground, sending vibrations deep into, we men our hearts. Palpitating, we take our hands and translate the sound to goat skin covered drums. Far and wide our sound travels, calling on neighbors, friends and foes. This our message, the story-teller time has come.

Our mother earth shaken and awaken by our call back to the past, brings a single cloud above and smiles a small drizzle of rain on us. The cooling beads of rain, touch one, and the story-teller is named. His voice brings silence to the night, and gently and gradually fills our minds, and the peace, of the word, of our ancestors, delivers us to our dreams.

Chapter 56

Reset Return to Roots

We lived on the land, by the law of the land. Then they came. They came and took it all. Before their arrival Kaguma warned us, that we would lose our land. He then paved the way with bread crumbs in our oral tradition on how we would get it all back. We allowed them time in our land, to settle, perchance to dream. We learn their ways, their books and culture, and found our fight, rising and uprising, with hopes and dreams, of a return to the old ways.

These here, their buildings, we return to dust. These here, their roads we return to paths, pot hole by pot hole, we remove their structures. The old ways sing to us, calling us back to the land, back to the time, of equilibrium with the mother nature. When we won the war, they gave us power to govern, suits to wear in parliament, but refused to let go of their created economy. Our fight continued, and we took their economy, now we tear and break it, so it is no more, and we return to the soil. To the old ways, with no carbon foot prints, no connection to machine, looking to the sky in endless time, for the promise of rain.

At night we light fires to cook crushed maize seed, avoiding the electric grid which we are slowly bringing down. We don’t need their electric power, our light comes from the above. Early morning we rise and wake up the sun, walk out into our fields, and work our land, till the sun tires, and falls from the sky.

Chapter 55

The Goffal Raps: Mixed race systems of ideas for prolonging life






No one dare say it aloud, but it splintered our slang speaking minds; we had to get out, the new majority rule, left no economic space for us to plant our seeds. While the conversation behind the brown beer bottle seemed to focus on, the positive aspects of the exodus, like you can work two jobs and earn the strong pound and return with enough to buy houses called cabins, or cars called gees, the truth was we all knew survival depended on it. We were the bees looking for a new hive, seeking freedom and continuance in the land of the Queen.


When Lionel arrived in the United Kingdom called London by our British created race, he was surprised to find that he had to work two jobs just to survive, but the conversation behind the British beers, told him it was still better, than having no job in Zimbabwe, cause his skin was wrongly colored, by the mixing of black and white blood.


At the end of white rule, our mixed race group, classified as race coloured, numbered

20 thousand, within 30 years of majority rule that number would be down to 2 thousand, with the identity double zero. Zero being nothing, and double zero being less than nothing.


Some would argue that we deserved, this great betrayal, by the sons of our motherland, for being nothing more, than house slaves to the British settlers. As always Lionel would argue that a human must do what they must do to keep life moving forward. For Lionel there was something special in the mixing of blood, it created an adaptable human, who could be more than just black or white. The mixing was like Gods final solution to end the war between black and whites.


Like most of his blood, he originated and did time in the trenches of the suburb called Arbennie before promotion to the newly built suburb of Sunningdale. For mixed raced families willing to work hard, and avoid the illusions of the brown bottle, a natural progression was allowed to live in better areas, like the Saint Martins, or Braeside

And finally reaching the top in Hillside.


Lionel’s guardians had a good and severely entrapment to the brown bottle thus avoiding the expected rise of out of the lowly ghetto. His uncles had went to war to protect British interest; they in luck did not lose their lives, but inevitably lost their marbles. A Google search of Lionel’s mind would show young images of him as a kid running on the ghetto streets next to his uncle holding an FN rifle: Neighbors’ screaming.


Mostly Lionel avoid thoughts on the past, one had to look forward, be positive, imagine castles in the sky, and set out to build them.


Like most of us Lionel learned to love the new land and have a ready answer to the English Question.

“Are you black?”