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majestrosgh · 6 years
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are you gay?
no? how did you even find my tumblr? 
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majestrosgh · 6 years
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majestrosgh · 6 years
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Interesting stuff. 
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majestrosgh · 6 years
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This article marked a turning point in my mental life. 
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majestrosgh · 6 years
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I cannot with these two looool 
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majestrosgh · 6 years
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Kodak gets praise for being ‘real’ and ‘hard’ and whatnot, but his dexterity with words and imagery is mad underrated. Flames on flames 
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majestrosgh · 6 years
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It’s really hard sharing my poetry because a lot of it was written in moments of fear, darkness or weakness. But here you go anyway. Vulnerability and whatnot. 
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majestrosgh · 6 years
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Probably the only thing I’ve ever written that I don’t hate. 
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majestrosgh · 6 years
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Something about this song puts me at peace
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majestrosgh · 6 years
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Ozymandias
Ozymandias, by Horace Smith 
In Egypt's sandy silence, all alone, Stands a gigantic Leg, which far off throws The only shadow that the Desert knows:— "I am great OZYMANDIAS," saith the stone, "The King of Kings; this mighty City shows "The wonders of my hand."— The City's gone,— Nought but the Leg remaining to disclose The site of this forgotten Babylon. We wonder,—and some Hunter may express Wonder like ours, when thro' the wilderness Where London stood, holding the Wolf in chace, He meets some fragment huge, and stops to guess What powerful but unrecorded race Once dwelt in that annihilated place.
______________________
This poem was stuck in my head all morning.
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majestrosgh · 6 years
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The Not-So-Wicked Witch of the West
I had the privilege of attending Professor Kwame Anthony Appiah's fourth BBC Reith Lecture at New York University's law school (and I also took a neat selfie with him). A lot of what I'm going to talk about echoes what he has already said in his lecture, so I recommend giving it a listen. This post is more of a random smattering of my thoughts than a coherent argument, so forgive me if it zig-zags a little.
Professor Appiah argues that there is really no such thing as Western civilization (or rather, that the idea of civilization isn't contingent on geography). My perspective is that the important question about civilizational ideas isn't 'where did it come from?', but rather 'is it good?'
                                                                ***
Pick up any social studies text book and I bet you'll find a reference to "Western influences" corrupting the youth. It's quite odd that "Western influence" has become something of a pejorative, usually implying moral turpitude. Taking a broader look, the real oddity is how the geographical origin of an idea or cultural practice can give any indication of whether it's good or bad. It's one thing to assume that a Gucci belt is low quality because it says "Made in China", but can we do same for more abstract things like ideas?
We take it for granted that so-called Western influences such as tattoos, homosexuality, radical feminism (*gasp!*), rap music and skimpy clothing are treated as societal ills in conservative Ghanaian culture. But not too far back in Ghanaian history, Western culture was the summum bonum of the day. During colonial times, West Africans in general aspired to the cultural ideals of their European colonizers, especially the Francophone territories where Assimilation was the gold standard for upward social mobility.  Quite honestly, I can still feel the vestiges of Gold Coast-era europhilia in the Fante/Methodist community today.  Fast forward to present times, and conservative Ghanaians now think of Western cultural ideals as antithetical rather than superior to local ones. I suspect that part of this face-heel turn came about during the '60s, especially since Africa's founding presidents relied on nationalistic rhetoric to unify their newly-fledged nations. And rightfully so; the colonialists had associated Africanness with barbarism for so long that it was high time that Africans rejected that label and celebrated their own cultural heritage. Unsurprisingly, the narrative logic of pro-Africanness implied Anti-Europeanness, mainly because Europe was the villain in Africa's liberation story. In any case, European writers had long described the 'dark', heathen cultures of Africa in alterity to their own 'enlightened' culture - so one could say Africa's leaders were giving them a taste of their own medicine.
Another possible explanation for why Ghanaian attitudes towards Western culture have soured is that Western culture has become more and more liberalized over the years whilst African culture has maintained the fairly conservative status quo ante. Entire books have been written on how the West is experiencing a declension in religiosity at the same time that religion is on the upswing in the developing world.  In light of this, if you took a diachronous look at cultural change in the West vs. Africa, you'd notice an funny see-saw arc over the past few centuries:
Circa 1500s: Bible-thumping European missionaries arrive in  West Africa to find an exceedingly libertine people — irreligious, promiscuous, skin-baring savages, with no apparent understanding of civilized behavior. "Look at this godless, upside-down society!", the missionaries said, making the sign of the cross.
Circa mid-1800s to mid-1900s: European culture is fairly uniformly diffused throughout most of Sub-Saharan Africa, so things look similar in both places.
Today: Bible-thumping African aunties watch MTV to see an exceedingly libertine American people — irreligious, promiscuous, skin-baring  savages, with no apparent understanding of home training. "Look at this godless, upside-down society!", Auntie Beatrice says, making the sign of the cross.
The  irony here is that when conservative Ghanaians/Africans criticize the West for not being more like Africa, they are really criticizing the West for not being more like, well, the good old West (of colonial memory).
Now to complicate things. You might notice that conservative Ghanaians cherry-pick the examples of Ghanaian and Western cultural practices that fit their narrative. In their minds, things like 'respecting elders' and 'hospitality' are epitomic of Ghanaian culture, while fornication and drug use all came from the West. I ask: what about trokosi, Female Genital Mutilation, human sacrifice, twin killing, albino killing, child marriage and witch camps? These inhumane practices, which are still extant in some rural parts of the country and/or the continent, all originated locally.  If anything, the ones leading the charge against such practices are Western NGOs, just as the missionaries did centuries before them. How do you draw the Africa-is-Good/West-is-Bad battle line once you throw these facts into the calculus?
Furthermore, a lot of the things that conservative Ghanaians think are foreign influences already existed in the country from time immemorial. We had tribal marks and ceremonial body painting before we ever saw rappers with tattoos on MTV.  We had dipo before the first crop-top was sewn. We had powerful female leaders like Yaa Asantewaa before 'radical' feminism had a name.  Asante chiefs were decked out with gold ornaments before we heard rappers talking about 'bling bling'. The list goes on and on. Does the fact that the indigineity of such things now make them acceptable in the eyes of conservative Ghanaians? If not, then they have to admit that they are shifting the goal post.
I think a more useful way to think about ideas and cultural practices isn't 'where does it come from?' but rather 'is it good?'. To go back to my Gucci belt analogy, we should be more concerned about the quality of the belt than where it was manufactured. A quick scan of history will show that much of the world has already gotten the memo. Show me any two nations or factions that have been at loggerheads in the past, and I will show you two cultures that are borrowing from each other today. E.g., during WWII, the U.K. and the U.S. were trading bombs and gunfire with Germany and Japan. Today, Americans are studying German philosophers in college, and Japanese students are scrambling to apply to Oxford and Cambridge. The ability to absorb good ideas from many different cultures is a catalyst of progress; a good recent example is the meteoric rise of China over the last two or three decades, having opened up to the entrepreneurial and capitalist spirit of the West. Luckily, Ghana isn't as insular as hardcore Communist China back in the day, but it would do us a lot of good to be more open to good foreign ideas.
I'm aware this new mental model leads to a whole new ethical debate about what should be considered 'good'. But my aim here isn't to resolve that debate, but to make sure that it takes place in the first place when evaluating so-called foreign ideas. I wager that we'd have much more productive debates about issues like feminism and LGBTQ rights etc. if we thought of them in a vacuum rather than as "Western" infiltrations.
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majestrosgh · 6 years
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Dreams of Home
The village hidden in darkness and dust The wheelbarrow creaking from wear and rust The flickering lights that I cannot trust I call this home.
The sweaty bustle of Accra by day The firefly mosaic of Accra by night The mud-stained beggars that block the way The mud-stained leaders that block my right Welcome me home.
The sound of traders peddling wares The sound of rain and children's cheers The sound of 'big men' pouring beers And motor-riding buccaneers The sounds of home.
The noisome roar of all-night prayers The bets we place on soccer players On quack-doctors and on sooth-sayers They make this home.
The marketwoman and the porter The kente-wearing news reporter The cadence of pestle and mortar Behold, our home.
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majestrosgh · 6 years
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Unblessed Are The Poor
Poverty, with her withered hands
Keeps men up at night
Drumming her fingers impatiently on their skulls
A gentle, mocking rut-tut-tut
As if saying in morse code
“What will your children eat tomorrow?”
Poverty, with her ashen nails
Deepens the furrows on once-beautiful women’s brows
Stiffening the muscles in their necks with the weight of a splashing waterpot
Those necks, once adorned with beads and the scent of aloe,
Now stand like a pestle askew
In a mortar made of their own collarbones.
Poverty, like a persistent gnat,
Causes gentle spirits to flail about
Beating at the air in futile desperation
Knowing that though they fight, they lose
Yet if they surrender, they shall be bitten.
Poverty, Draco’s gavel,
Passes judgment on those who were too carefree to see it come,
And those who, by birth, had no choice in the matter
But worst of all
It judges those who struggle to break free
Like flies entangled in a web of trans-generational doom
Like a python’s cold but infallible embrace
Which only grows tighter
If its victim is a fighter
Bones cracking in a muffled symphony
Breath fleeing the body in an inaudible whisper
“God, why me?”
Poverty, the tree from which avarice is carved,
Will make a bandit out of a soldier
A Shylock out of an old and trusted friend
It will take youngsters in their prime
And cast them into the bowels of the earth
As they scrape in the ignoble mud
For fragments of ignoble gold
Promises that once stood as true as the girthy baobab
Will be broken like a thread
When Hunger raises his rusty cutlass.
Poverty will grease the hands of our sturdiest flagbearers
And widen the spaces between their fingers
To let injustice slip through
Half-mast, then! You have become our mourning
You pauper, not in pocket, but in soul.
Yet, if I charged into their conference rooms,
Ready to purify the temple with my pen, my trusty scourge,
Will I find villains wringing their hands in selfish glee,
Or will I find a murky sea of defeated stares
Reflecting the dying light of smoldering coal?
The beggar and the chieftain
May never eat the same bread
But they dance in flawless unison
When they hear the same tune.
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majestrosgh · 6 years
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Flow Red, River Gambia
"O Conspiracy, shamest thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, when evils are most free? O, then by day where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough to mask thy monstrous visage?"
- Brutus, in Julius Caesar.
7:30 pm. January 20, 2017. Cambridge, Massachusetts.
Momodou had been a bus driver in Boston for close to twenty years, and had recently started driving for Uber in the late nights. The bus company paid him quite well, so he didn't really need the Uber gig. But the truth was, he liked the late-night drives because they gave him time and space to clear his head. His quiet nights were often punctuated by drunken college students who needed a ride home after partying, which made Friday nights as lucrative as they were loud. But every once in a while, he'd pick up a writer or a tourist or a nurse; someone who could hold a meaningful, sober conversation. He liked those passengers because they saw him as a human being rather than a faceless chauffeur. It's not that he had no one to talk to at home; his wife and four children would be happy to hear him ramble about his military escapades from his days in Bakau. But for some reason, he never felt comfortable talking about the Gambia with them. When he did feel the urge to reminisce out loud, he preferred to talk with his passenger-friends for the thirty-odd minutes that their Uber ride lasted. He found it easier to trust people he knew he wouldn't see again. That's how it had been since 1994.
The phone beeped and he saw a young man peering at him through the window. "Hi, I’m the one who called an Uber. Are you Momodou?"
"That's me. You mentioned my name very well — are you also from Africa?"
"Ghana! I'm just in town for a conference though. I'll be spending the night at 44 Dunross Street. Wish I could give you better directions, but it's my first time here."
Momodou smiled, feeling that he had found a fleeting friend for the night.
"I have been to Ghana once, Accra is a very nice city. But not nearly as nice as Bakau or Banjul! And don't worry, I know these roads like the back of my hand."
7:44 pm. January 20, 2017. Cambridge, Massachusetts.
" -- l'ancien président du pays --- El Hadj Yahya Jammeh, s'est récemment rendu en exil --après avoir regné la Gambie pour 22 ans ---- cela met fin aux tensions politiques entre lui et --- Adama Barrow après les élections du mois dernier --- on raconte que Jammeh a volé au moins 11,4 millions dollars et plusieurs voitures de luxe en sortant--- "
Momodou changed the channel in frustration. Only then did he notice that he had been clenching the steering wheel, with deep furrows in his brow and tears of anger welling up in the corner of his eyes.
"I’m not used to the Gambian French accent, but I think the radio presenter said that Yahya Jammeh has finally stepped down. Your country is finally free," the young Ghanaian in the backseat said, breaking the awkward silence that the radio had left.
"Stepped down? No. Escaped. After everything he has taken from us, Captain Jammeh should be escorted into a prison cell, not a private jet. You are Ghanaian; your people always talk about ‘freedom and justice’. What is freedom without justice?”
“It’s half a loaf," the Ghanaian replied. "A glass half full. Enough to save a person from starvation and thirst. Maybe this new administration can bring justice to everyone who suffered under Yahya Jammeh. Maybe they can change everything.”
Momodou smiled, “You are an idealist, I see. You remind me of an old friend of mine.”
10:01 pm. August 19, 1994. Bakau, the Gambia
Momodou opened a second bottle of beer and joined Boubacar and Faal at the open-air bar near the beach. Drinking was frowned upon in that part of town, but they were young soldiers and nobody dared cross them. The trio leaned in closer to the staticky radio on the table, tweaking the antenna and slapping the side repeatedly as if that would somehow make it sound clearer. The low roar of crashing waves made hearing even harder; but at least the breeze was cool and it carried a pleasant whiff of brine.
Everybody at the bar was talking about the 'bloodless coup' from a month ago, and those who had radios strained to hear the news. To the children playing in the sand, the coup d'état was just a foggy memory of their parents not going to work for a few days. To the adult civilians in the bar, the coup was much needed jolt of electricity to a country that had languished for thirty years under the bookish coward, Dawda Jawara, and his cronies. To Momodou and his brothers-in-arms, the coup was the most dangerous decision they had ever made. And they were starting to believe that it was also the worst.
The three musketeers, as Momodou, Boubacar and Faal were called in the army, had been enthralled by Yahya Jammeh's bravura and his talk of “setting the country straight”. They had joined him in the revolt against Dawda Jawara with little hesitation. Luckily, they hadn't needed to fire a single bullet in the process, because Jawara had caved in and fled like a frightened dog. But the musketeers knew that had Jawara put up any resistance, Jammeh and his mutineers would have been ready for a bloodbath. Now styling themselves as the 'AFPRC', Jammeh and his faction were working on solidifying their control over the nation.  In the beginning, the musketeers had tagged along, gleefully forcing all of Jawara's corrupt ministers into house arrest. But soon, the AFPRC's blacklist started to include innocent people — journalists, professors and even fellow soldiers — that Jammeh suspected were trying to undermine his government. Momodou had heard the horror stories of Uganda and Zaïre, and he was dismayed to think that he had helped to create another dictator right here at home.
"My brothers," Boubacar whispered, "How can we let that foolish 30-year-old soldier become a god in this land? We who used to eat the same food with him in the mess hall? We have to do something about Jammeh and his goons before they win over the whole country!"
Faal laughed nervously. “Boubacar the ever-passionate! You talk as if you weren’t the first one to follow Captain Jammeh! Anyway, what can we do? Only Jammeh’s inner circle knows what he is up to. No one can trace him, and it's impossible to stage two coups d’état in a row!”
“The Nigerian did that. I think Sani Abacha is his name,” Momodou said, opening his third beer, “The same thing happened in Ghana, with Flight Lt. J.J. Ronson. I hear Ghana even wants to do an election now.”
“Well we won't have such luxuries if Jammeh has his way,” Boubacar said, suddenly very serious. “Look, this thing I am about to tell you…I am trusting with my life. Sadibou Hydara, one of Captain Jammeh’s advisers, has started gathering a few boys to take down the fool. Even the Captain's own inner circle can see that he has been stricken by madness! If we succeed…if we can kill this snake before he turns into Idi Amin or Samuel Doe or that madman in Zaïre…we can change everything. We can finally fix this country up."
Momodou paused before adding, “That’s what all military regimes say.”
“Momodou, you are deeper than a griot!” Faal quipped, trying to lighten the mood “It seems this beer is giving all of us fanciful ideas, but I like it! This calls for a toast. Any enemies?" He raised his bottle for the special army greeting that the three of them had made up during the last war.
“The coast is clear!” they cheered, clinking bottles one last time. Momodou noticed Faal’s bottle was still full.
5:11 am. November 2, 1994. Abuko, the Gambia.
“Brother Momodou, where are the guns? How can you be called a musketeer without a gun?”
Momodou ignored the over-eager teenager and continued peering through one of the storehouse windows. He was stationed on a ledge near the highest window in the building, and had been monitoring the town for any suspicious movement.
The teenager, nicknamed P.T. or ‘petit tirailleur’, was the latest member of Sadibou Hydara’s small rebel faction. They were a motley crew of about twenty who were now cooped up in the Old Abuko Grenier, an abandoned grain mill in the outskirts of Serrekunda. The millhouse smelled of dank moss and fermenting grain. Except for the few rays of eoan light filtering through the high window where Momodou was stationed, the place was completely dark. It was the perfect hiding place.  Today, the rebels were disguised as farm hands and trying to avoid the attention of the Abuko townsfolk while they focused on the day's mission. Since Sadibou Hydara himself could not risk being seen with them, he had been providing them with with intel, funding and matériel from afar. Today, he was sending them a special present.
According to the plan, a truck was supposed to arrive at the mill at 5:45 am and the rebels would then offload the shipment of grain that Sadibou Hydara had imported from Mali. Of course, there was already enough grain in Abuko to feed the town;  the incoming boxes were actually filled with assault rifles, hand grenades, ammunition and other military gear. Once the rebels had everything they needed, they would wait for an official government vehicle (commandeered by one of Sadibou Hydara's allies), drive straight down the highway into Banjul and storm the AFPRC headquarters. After they got rid of Captain Jammeh and his henchmen, Sadibou Hydara would immediately lay the groundwork for a transition to democracy. This was a noble coup, Momodou convinced himself. The good kind of coup…
“Hey P.T.! Foolish boy! Remember, we are using the guns to scare the AFPRC swine, not to kill them!” Boubacar chided in his abrasive but cheery tone. He was the de facto leader of the rebellion, since Sadibou Hydara was only guiding them from the shadows. Boubacar's deep sense of conviction had kept all of them motivated over the course of the harrowing coup planning process. P.T. and young boys had joined the movement for the thrill; they really couldn't care less about politics. Momodou was doing it because he didn't want the Gambia to end up in the ash heap of history. But for Boubacar, this rebellion was what he was born to do.
"The trucks are here!"
Over the horizon, two elongated dust clouds were making their way towards the millhouse. Momodou calculated how many guns that the two trucks would be bringing them. He had sat in on the logistics meeting and he remembered that all the guns were supposed to fit on one truck. Perhaps Faal, who was in charge of smuggling the boxes in from Mali, had gotten a good deal on the weapons. Sincerely, Momodou hoped they wouldn’t have to use them — this was a coup, not a war. But he knew in his heart of hearts that Jammeh wouldn’t go down without a bitter fight.
Boubacar rallied the young rebels, now dressed as farmers, to go out and receive the first truck. Faal had parked further away than they expected, so the boys had to file back and forth with the boxes like worker ants. Momodou stayed on his perch in the storehouse and kept an eye on the waking villagers to make sure no one came near the truck to investigate. It was worrisome enough that the second truck was a few minutes late; it was probably manned by some Bambara mercenaries that Faal had coaxed along the way.
Momodou and Boubacar inspected the crates, and noticed that the two boxes which had been specially marked for bullets were filled with millet, fonio and other grains. Boubacar yanked open the last crate and tallied the weapons. "So we have 20 AK-47s and two boxes of grist! P.T., make sure you bring spoons and forks with us to Banjul; maybe Sadibou Hydara wants us to feed the AFPRC fools until they burst!" The young boys erupted with laughter. Momodou chuckled to himself, noticing how Faal's sense of humor had rubbed off on Boubacar. Wait...where was Faal? He climbed  back up to his vantage point near the high window to see whether Faal had stayed in the truck. That's when he saw the second one rolling in. It didn't look like a cargo truck; it had at least a dozen passengers in the back. Passengers who were wearing AFPRC uniforms, arming their rifles and pointing them towards the millhouse...
“EVERYBODY GET DOWN!!!”
The first spray of bullets burst through the wooden doors of the Old Abuko Grenier, and the boys standing guard collapsed in pools of blood. The AFPRC soldiers stormed the building, shooting down the rebels before they had time to react. Momodou had never shrunk from a battle in his life, but for the first time ever he was completely petrified by fear and disbelief. Outside, the villagers had been thrown into a frenzy by the sound of gunfire. Momodou turned his gaze back down to the floor of the millhouse, realizing that the soldiers hadn't noticed he was up there. He remained frozen as they tied up the remaining rebels and kicked them around on the ground.
A tall, stern-looking soldier swaggered casually into the millhouse, his bandolier jangling menacingly. "So you monkeys are the ones Sadibou chose to betray our great country? Ah ah, I could have finished you off myself!” He knocked P.T. down with the butt of his gun and placed his heavy boot on the terrified boy's throat. "Now tell me where to find Boubacar Cissoko and Momodou Hassoum, or I will break your neck."
"I am here, Commandant. I am the one you want. Leave the boy alone," Boubacar said, emerging from the darkness.
"Boubacar Boubacar Boubacar," the Captain smirked. "To think one of Captain Jammeh's own musketeers would turn against him. Did Sadibou Hydara promise to make you president once your little scheme was over? In that case, let me show you how to kill a president!" He put the barrel of his gun between Boubacar's eyes. "Do you have any final words, President Cissoko?"
With sweat pouring down his face, Boubacar said to P.T. "...Can you see it?"
"Yessir," PT whimpered from underneath the Commandant's foot.
"Is it empty?"
P.T. nodded feebly.
Boubacar smiled and raised his voice slightly "Then the coast is clear, Brother."
Suddenly realizing what was going on, Momodou leapt through the window in a spray of shattering glass. He landed roughly and ran like a maniac towards the second truck, which P.T. had just confirmed was unoccupied. He heard shouting and gunshots as the remaining rebels wrestled with the AFPRC soldiers to prevent them from getting a clear shot at him. With a few bullets whizzing by his ears, he dove into the truck, slammed the accelerator and drove like he had never driven before. Veins bulging, head pounding and lungs aching, Momodou charged down the dust road, with the frightened Abuko townspeople scurrying out of his way. It was worse than any nightmare he had ever had, and even if he managed to escape from Abuko, he would never be able to escape this moment. He knew full well that every single rebel would be killed; and they would have died because of him. He drove faster and faster, trying to get far away from the madness and carnage. He would never go back to military life, he swore. He would leave this godforsaken country and never look back.
Several miles away, he parked to catch his breath, sweat still pouring out of his body, teeth still chattering. Far ahead of him, he caught a glimpse of the first truck disappearing over the horizon.
8:08 pm. January 20, 2017. Cambridge, Massachusetts.
“Look out man!!”
Momodou slammed the brakes, frightening the life out of a gaggle of college students who were crossing the road. He was breathing raspily and tears were streaming down his face. The Ghanaian passenger, realizing he had just prevented a bad accident, was equally shaken. He regained his composure first "Well, the upside is, this is 44 Dunross Street. It's been a quite a wild ride, Momodou, in more ways than one. I'll be sleeping on a couch for the next few nights, but I think you should go to your real home. To the Gambia. Your body may be driving an Uber here in Boston, but it seems your spirit still yearns for Bakau. Which, by the way, is not nicer than Accra."
Momodou sat quietly, staring vacantly into the night.
"Well...have a good night man, and don't stress yourself out!" the Ghanaian called out as he dragged his suitcase away and disappeared from view.
"Sleep well, Boubacar," Momodou whispered. "The coast is finally clear."
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majestrosgh · 6 years
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This actually made me fucking cry.
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