The next best thing after Christmas, is Christmas.
This is what I want to remember every Christmas...a story I listened to starry eyed and blissfully savouring it with the innocence of the child that I was. I have since lost my innocence. I am a sinner with a host of sins; but I never lost the appetite for the story, nor did I forget its message: a reminder of what Christmas is all about. It is a time to glorify the Lord; and thank him for the best present he gave us on this day and the blessings thereafter, which most times we fail to notice and believe ourselves unlucky or cursed. It is a time for goodwill. This is the story as told to me by my grandmother and the priests and as Iread it in the Bible:

[ Jesus was born in the town of Bethlehem in Judaea during the time when Herod was king. Soon afterwards, some men who studied the stars came from the east to Jerusalem and asked, 'Where is the baby born to be the king of the Jews? We saw his star when it came up in the east, and we have come to worship him." 
When King Herod heard about this, he was very upset, and so was everyone else in Jerusalem. He called together all the chief priests and the teachers of the law and asked them, "Where will the Messiah be born?"
"In the town of Bethlehem is Judaea," they answered. "For this is what the prophet wrote:
""Bethlehem in the land of Judah, you are by no means the least of the leading cities of Judah; for from you will come a leader who will guide my people Israel."" 
So Herod called the visitors from the east to a secret meeting and found out from them the exact time the star had appeared. Then he sent them to Bethlehem with these instructions:
"Go and make a careful search for the child, and when you find him, let me know, so that I too may go and worship him."
And so they left, and on their way they saw the same star they had seen in the east. When they saw it, how happy they were, what joy was theirs! It went ahead of them until it stopped over the place where the child was. They went into the house, and when they saw the child with his mother Mary, they knelt down and worshipped him. They brought out their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh, and presented them to him.
Then they returned to their country by another road, since God had warned them in a dream not to go back to Herod....Joseph ...took the child and his mother, and left during the night for Egypt, where he stayed until Herod died, an angel of the Lord appeared in a dream to Joseph in Egypt and said, "Get up, take the child and his mother, and go back to the land of Israel, because those who tried to kill the child are dead." So Joseph got up, took the child and his mother, and went back to Israel.
But when Joseph heard that Archelaus had succeeded his father Herod as king of Judaea, he was afraid to go there. He was given more instructions in a dream, so he went to the province of Galilee and made his home in a town named Nazareth. And so what the prophets had said came true. "He will be called a Nazarene."]

This is the word of the Lord!
Thanks be to God!

AN EXTRACT FROM "CORRIDORS OF POWER" MY MANUSCRIPT YET TO BE PUBLISHED. A LOOK AT MY FIRST EUROPEAN TRIP WITH NEWLY APPOINTED PRESIDENT MASIRE IN 1980.

 "Despite his ardent role as a political activist, Quett Masire had basically been a simple man all his life. In many ways he was a difficult, if not complex character to judge. He could be jovial and exuberant at one moment, and placid to reserved in another. Despite these apparent mood swings, Quett Masire enjoyed company tremendously and could be generous with time for that. Notwithstanding this generosity with company, Sir Ketumile was a punctilious slave-driver and a stingy accountant of every second in a day. Enjoying the lassitude of conversation as he did, Quett Masire made up for lost time through a over-taxing work schedule that overwhelmed virtually every aide in his entourage. Few people in leadership, in my view were so driven by notions of duty and honour as Sir Ketumile was. During the 1980 trip to Europe all our days of the five-week tour began and ended in the Presidential Suite. Quett Masire was as punctilious as he was fastidious on matters of time and detail. His Permanent Secretary and Chief of Staff was a man inherited from the Seretse Khama days, Mr Phillip Steenkamp who accompanied him on the trip. This tall Afrikaner man was as resolute in his work and behaviour as he could be abrasive and uncouth. That was perhaps what his superiors appreciated in him; what mortified some Cabinet Members and Senior officials, mollified objective critics, enthralled interested observers and awed most subordinates. He was an astute officer who spoke his mind. That was what endeared him to Quett Masire.



Some of us in the delegation thought Quett Masire needed a little grooming here and there as President but we were all amazed at his quick adaptation to the big office. He impressed the European Government and business personalities with his pragmatism, economic repertoire and mastery of the English language.


A factor that kept on nagging me throughout the trip as I watched Quett Masire then was what I believed was his lack of presidential decorum; a close friend commented though that my apprehensions arose from the fact that we wanted to transplant Sir Seretse Khama’s anglophile type of character into Quett Masire’s Spartan characteristics. To be fair to Sir Ketumile, despite his rather capricious excursions of character, he was a man of reputable equanimity where astute officialdom was imperative.


My criticism of my president were triggered by instances in Europe in 1980, where he would for instance, drift away from the entourage of host escorts to look at something or the other; or race off to greet someone that he fancied speaking to. I also believed that he exhibited a callous disregard for his personal safety on many occasions, endangering in the process the safety of his host protectors and those of his bodyguards. One such occasion that I recall was when we viewed the city of Belgrade from atop a cliff and Quett Masire had to move towards the very end of the precipice, in order to look down. One of the Yugoslav security guards, a young fellow, stepped in between the Botswana president and the thin line of concrete separating him from his charge and a long drop to what would be the guard's inevitable death. Quett Masire turned around to face the rest of the delegation, almost knocking the guard off balance. I held my breath in suppressed horror. Such incidents were not representative of Quett Masire’s fatherly disposition but he was uncannily given to infantile physical exuberance at times.


Harsh as my judgment was of the supercilious attitude of Sir Ketumile towards his own personal safety, my apprehensions were corroborated by the Yugoslav security guard who astraddle the lofty zones of safety and a a possible plunge to death. I boldly but surreptitiously asked him how he felt. What he told me touched my heart. Yugoslavia was a communist state then. Disgrace to the nation came in many forms. Obeisance was an ubiquitous characteristic of service. The guard said to me:-


"I'd rather lose my life protecting your president because then my family would be spared and protected. But if I live and he plunges to his death, I may as well be dead for all that would happen to me and my family."


Quett Masire never heard this and apparently never quite discerned anything wrong. If he did, he kept it very much to himself. Nonetheless, the Quett Masire that I knew then and that I was to be privileged to know more later, would never have hurt a fly.






I used to observe that despite admitting to having "weak legs" Quett Masire was given to frenetic physical movements, including sharp turns often as rounded as 360 degree motions, with the speed and dexterity of a fox in its prime. He could dart around his surroundings until his delegation and security guards completely lost their bearings and constantly missed where the man was. In later years, I was to quietly interprete this behaviour as a desire to break free from his self-imposed prison. The man had been guarded since independence in 1966 as a Vice President. He was to remain under protective custody even in retirement. Sir Ketumile was born free and every idiosyncrasy of his was a cry for freedom.


On one occasion, we were visiting a snowy area of Norway called Little Hammer (English version) when Quett Masire alighted from the luxury bus we were using, soon after the bus had stopped. His charges did not see the man getting out of the bus although they were sitting next to him and even having constant conversation with the president. Quett Masire started moving towards the direction of a frozen lake. Fortunately, his Botswana tropical climate leather shoes with their slippery sole and heel deterred and slowed his movements. He nearly fell but instead of stopping, kept on wobbling until his charges caught up with him and diverted him from the lake.


Quett did not appear bothered by the little episode that could have plunged him into icy cold waters had he stepped on the thin snow covering the lake. The president was saved from the drama. There was to be a lesser but dramatic episode shortly thereafter. His Botswana security guards were destined for a less perilous but more hilarious snow experience when we got to our hotel. Despite advice from our hosts, few members of the Botswana delegation had bought or brought the rubber-soled shoes that had been recommended for the snowy area of Norway. As the vehicles stopped in front of the hotel, the alert and committed Botswana Security guards spilled out of their cars. One of them rushed forward towards the presidential limousine. The first guard slipped and fell on his back in the snow, legs up in the air, exhibiting well polished black shoes. We roared with laughter as the embarrassed security officer clawed the air in thwarted attempts to stand up. He looked like a capsized giant beetle. His immediate senior reprimanded him in Setswana and then sped towards the president. A few steps forward the second guard went down too. The most senior guard watched the goings on with hands on his hips, his head shaking disapprovingly and then angrily marched past his men to personally take over the supervision of the presidential security. As fate would have it, the most senior guard slipped and fell dramatically too.






Some of the Norwegian authorities took pictures but I confess that I could not take any pictures of these incidents because I was in tears. There was to be a poignant end to this episode.


The First Lady of Botswana Mrs Gladys Masire, later Lady Olebile Masire, who was emerging from her car slowly and carefully, not to mention circumspectedly, watched this whole episode in rapt attention. She stopped her movements and sitting back into the car, Mrs Masire brushed her hands together in a traditional symbol of despondency and said:-


"Jaanong banna ba security ba ole hela botlhe." (All our security guards have now fallen).


In Europe, Quett Masire adorned the cloak of a shrewd salesperson and sold SADC as if it were his very own invention. What you could rely on Quett Masire to do during those days and to do with near perfection, it was his ability and agility to present a concept, nurture it, defend and sustain it. The man had an incredible memory capacity, an ability to grasp issues quickly and an inexhaustible reservoir of vocabulary. Sir Ketumile’s maiden trip to Europe (as president) was highly successful, taking us as it did through the ethereal beauty of European landscape, the dulcet classical music of Ceausescu’s Romania and Tito’s Yugoslavia and right through the often sardonic expressions of Eurocentric sceptics."


……… …… …… ….. …… ….
AN EXTRACT FROM MY MANUSCRIPT "CORRIDORS OF POWER" WHICH IS YET TO BE PUBLISHED. HERE I REFLECT ON A TRIP TO EUROPE WITH FORMER PRESIDENT MASIRE SOON AFTER HE TOOK OVER AS PRESIDENT IN 1980.

CORRIDORS OF POWER

The following is an extract from my manuscript, Corridors of Power, a factual reflection of my experiences whilst working for political figures. The manuscript is under consideration for publication. I just felt like sharing this extract.

My first intimate contact with Sir Ketumile Masire, the man who was to become President of Botswana for 19 years, was in 1980 when as Vice President he abruptly cut his trip to the people's Republic of China due to the terminal illness of his predecessor Sir Seretse Khama. I was a senior journalist then with the Government Department of Information and Broadcasting working for Radio Botswana and the Daily News. Sir Seretse Khama had just returned from London where he had gone for treatment but was returned by his doctors so that he "could die peacefully among his people." The charismatic founder President of the former British colony was dying of cancer.



I first interviewed Vice President Masire when he was known then by his unique but popular first name of Quett, before he changed his title to Sir Ketumile Masire later when he was bestowed the British Knighthood by Queen Elizabeth II. Quett, as he was popularly known then, was regarded nationally as the moneyman, being the Minister of Finance and Development Planning. The man's trademark was his high pitched laughter which echoed around the corridors of every building he occupied and announced him at every occasion. It was an idiosyncrasy that was to become part and parcel of his personality and eventually a cherished sound among his supporters and compatriots.


The intention of the interview was to get answers to the burning questions in the minds of every concerned citizen of Botswana-, which was virtually every one. Now that the nation of this fledgling democracy, was about to lose the only president that they had known, what was going to happen to the leadership of the country? Would Vice President Masire take over automatically? It was common knowledge then that the rather reticent Quett Masire had not shown any ambitions to ascend to the presidency of the country. Masire was believed to be reluctant to become captain of this peaceful but politically and economically fragile southern African state. We posed the questions to Quett Masire. As was always the case, we quickly realised that what Quett Masire lacked in physical stature, he made up for in his remarkable gift of repartee. Admittedly, at first contact before and during his presidency, and even afterwards, one did not have to be Quett Masire’s puppet to discern his obvious superior intellect. His mastery of both the English language and the national language, Setswana, made him a versatile orator and slippery maestro of intellectual gymnastics.


Quett Masire ensured that the bulk of the interview concentrated on his trip to China. The Chinese culture and their work ethic, in particular, had visibly impressed him. I was with colleagues Moreri Gabakgore and Monty Letshwiti when he told us:-






"If I had my way, I would take the entire nation of Botswana to China for them to see how hard working the Chinese are. They have ploughed every where, even on mountain tops."


But would he become President?


As I was to later realise, among Quett Masire’s best personal traits were loyalty to colleagues, friends, the common cause, staunch loyalty to the country, unshakeable belief in free exchange of views and sensitivity. In later years though, the sensitivity trait was to be eroded significantly, most probably due to the apparent invincibility of his political party at the polls and the resultant complaisance of the ruling party.


It was a well known fact that Quett Masire loved Sir Seretse Khama as a friend and colleague as much as he respected the man as president and leader of their political party. Although Quett Masire knew very well that Sir Seretse was dying, he felt it unpalatable to go public with that acceptance. He did not want to play God. Masire's sensitivity also allowed him to perceive how the conservative Botswana nation would regard his statements at the deathbed of their president. He would not speculate on the leadership of the country but he put it in such a way that the journalists who interviewed him left with a story about a hardworking China that could be a model for the nascent workforce of Botswana. As far as Quett was concerned, there was a president in Office. He might have been lying terminally ill at State House but the man was still in Office.


Would he Quett Masire take over as President in the event that Sir Seretse died? I have never forgotten the glint in Masire's eyes when I posed that question to him. Although I was shaken to the core, it was not a malevolent look and neither was it a look of anger. He had the look of a wounded lion. He obviously disapproved of what he probably regarded as my intransigence and lack of sensitivity. One of his other good traits, was the ability to restrain his anger in the presence of subordinates, or in his cultural perspective, children. I do not recall exactly what Quett Masire said but young and obstinate as we were then, we left his office feeling guilty that we had asked the questions that our journalistic training allowed us to ask. The second most powerful man in the land had not subjected us to official harassment and yet we felt remorseful. We went to our newsrooms and wrote the story about China.


A few days later, Sir Seretse Khama died peacefully at his official residence. We learnt that he had called his best friend and right hand man, Quett Masire, just before he died, and told him:-


"I have done my part. The rest is left to you."


It was not until years later after retirement as President that Quett Masire wrote in his book entitled: “VERY BRAVE OR VERY FOOLISH? Memoirs of an African Democrat.” :


“I was a reluctant politician. If I had my way, I would not have become a politician in the 1960s, but I felt I had to do it because there was a need. In 1980, if people had felt someone else should be president, I would have given him, or her, my full support…when I arrived at the airport in Gaborone , having been recalled from a visit to China, two officials told me that he [Sir Seretse Khama] was dying. They pleaded that if I was asked to succeed him, I shouldn’t say no. Many people, including members of the opposition parties, began coming to me to urge me to accept the role if I were asked.”


I have been to the State House on several occasions during the tenure of the presidency of Sir Ketumile Masire, and even during the service of his successors. It had emblazoned itself in my mind as a tribute to the democratic sanity of Botswana that successors to Sir Seretse Khama, though belonging to the generation of ardent traditionalists, showed no effort to obliterate the symbolic presence of the former tenant. I had noticed that pictures of Sir Seretse Khama still graced the walls of State House, together with those of the incumbent president. When I saw these retained symbols of continuum, I postulated that Africans were generally superstitious and would had hence tended to nurture deeply morbid fears of death, particularly in residences of power and esteem where former beneficiaries would have ailed and died. Discarding these unrealistic fears, and portrayal of the vivid examples of untainted regard for official residence as a place of service devoid of personal patronage symbolized to me true attributes of political maturity. In this connection, Quett Masire singled himself out for this political maturity award as the first succeeding tenant of a deceased predecessor. Coupled with the fact that Sir Ketumile had been close, life-long friends with Sir Seretse Khama, President Masire appeared to me to have set an excellent tone for future tenancy of the State House and assumption of powers of state.


That was, however, until I read In his memoirs Sir Ketumile expresses sentiments that undermine my sentiments about retaining footprints of the late Sir Seretse Khama. Quett Masire depicts himself as a victim of a slow and cumbersome bureaucracy that made him tolerate pictures of his late friend and predecessor, even though he would have preferred otherwise. Sir Ketumile writes:


“As president, Seretse Khama’s picture had hung on the wall in every government office and most business establishments. Civil servants took it as given that after I became president, my picture should be on the wall.


But in the workings of government bureaucracy, it took many months before Seretse’s picture was taken down and exchanged for mine. When the pictures were exchanged, some people, especially some Bangwato, were resentful.”


My observations were correct, however, about Sir Ketumile’s reluctant to comment in detail to us during the interview we had with him when he returned from China. To us, the journalists, it appeared straight forward that the Vice President would assume the presidency upon the demise of the incumbent. We assumed the government recognized the fact and presumed the public felt the same way. Apart from the man’s renowned reticence, why was he reluctant to answer our questions on the succession plan? It took 26 years for Sir Ketumile to answer the question. He writes about his feelings when Sir Seretse Khama died and he had to adorn the cloak of state:


“The transition after Seretse’s death was very difficult for me for many reasons. First, I had lost a very close friend and a colleague whom I greatly admired. Second, there was the grief we all felt on losing the man who was the father of the nation. Then there was a feeling among the public that government was in too great a hurry to select a new president. Further, both the natural grief that everyone felt, and the public’s concern that we were acting too hastily in choosing a successor, were focussed on government; and it was especially directed to me as the interim leader of the government. It was a very trying time.”

Lock up let up and look up the lonely lost last mile of the road
On that road rides a rider riddled with the rot of

MARVELLOUS MAZE

Once he had a song composed that was his and he owned

The lyrics were his and so were the cords so well tuned

Then he thought himself unfit to play the flute and sing

That song that he used to sing was left tunelessly unsung

But he kept the flute and the soulful notes

The musical lyrics remained in his bones



Soon he realised he ought to have played his hearty tunes

That he never sought less than singing in such fine tones

He lamented the lost notes and the drifting away lyrics

Hardest as he concentrated he felt he had lost the histrionics

Was the music all gone with his unsung song?

Or would he ever again compose melody so strong?



Recollecting he gathered his garments of life and readied for strife

No stone would be unturned and no moment spared of his life

Because hardest as the shell of struggle to reclaim remained

He would have sufficient stores of pursuit for reclaim retained

To go after the tune and tones and lyrics

And rebuild his song on new musical bricks





By THE POET IN ME

Andrew Onalenna Sesinyi

DECEIPTFUL DICTATES OF AFRICAN DICTATORS

The African politician is a con artist par excellence

When winds of change blow dictators feign reticence

All autocrats suddenly swear oath to sound democracy

Speeches of freedom and goodwill displace autocracy.


Yet just yesterday the African demagogue spewed evil

Only yesterday he ranted and chanted songs of the devil

Cursing dissident voices and muzzling liberties and freedom

He was at variance with the Bill of Rights and its wisdom.


The African dictator is a solidly moulded mimic of minds

When world standards dictate he pretends to meet demands

Knowing well that just yesterday he laid an infrastructure of repression

He uttered rules and regulations that spelled his autocratic intention.


Yet this wolf in sheep skin with his full bag of laws against humane laws

Cues in the parrot cry of those that desire a democracy without flaws

This is the man whose wanna-be-a-god ambitions were thwarted

The man whose creative path to authoritarian rule was aborted.


The African despot now swaps his sword for a pretentious flag of truce

His packs of lies overflow the ship of belief as it floats on a deceitful cruise

His gullible flock like children tricked with candy sweeten his deceipt

As they cheer him on and clap empty hands that never experienced receipt.


Oh you fickle, cheap and degradable African addicts of political decoys!

Oh you insatiable canivores of untruths and ever willing political toys!

When will dawn come to African nations to know when to cry foul?

When will Africa learn to unveil carriers of pain before nations howl?


Nations have risen against dictatorships but Africa remains nonchalant

Self righteous smirks depict Africans to whom repression is their penchant

Yesterday they planned to voice themselves against perceived lunatics

Today the lunatics make them gyrate to manipulative political gymnastics.


The African needs memory transplant from his wildlife pride, the elephant

Whereas the pachyderm boasts of memory, that of the African is of an infant

A leader who yesterday revised democracy minimizing its core principles

Today he only has to open volume to full blast for them to stay docile disciples.



By Andrew Onalenna Sesinyi

March 5th, 2011.

WHY EVIL IS A BETTER SURVIVOR THAN GOOD

Evil thrives better than good because it's a loner
Unlike good the network of evil expends no toner
Evil is uglier in creation but better built for survival
Good is a flimsy apparition wasting away at interval

Evil broods no good moods and plans no tortuous deeds
Good is a shameless stalker addicted to endless needs
Evil thrives on degeneration and road networks to peril
Good is an imbecile of creation ever in pursuit of the devil

Evil looks for  no good and would not be be bothered
Good seeks evil but its good that gets smothered.
Evil is without pretext with its chapters of destruction
Good is a make-up artist with layers of self obstruction

I saw evil walking down the path on a sunset lit day
Good was lurking in the background but at bay
Evil paraded the horizon with colossal arrogance
Good though ubiquitous lacked the same elegance

Evil never stalls or blush in musks of reticence
Good is the shy performer so ever in abstinence
Evil hesitates to no viral dangers or pause to reflect
Good is the conservative psychosomatic of real fact

Andrew Sesinyi in reflections on life......

CULTURE PHONIES

Culture is a cult politicians cultivate to con

Culture casts aside caution to create costs

It boasts of bouts of brainwashing bubbles

Where pride presides in pristine promises


Lying leaders lead lost losers lavishly

Preaching progress in porous parades

Chanting culture in chiselled casts of care

Hoodwinking in hidden holds of haughty heists


Political phonies ply people with fantasies

Calling culture a cure to causes of complex

That they thickly thought of to thwart true thoughts

So that nations note notions with naught needs


Bands of bandits brandish banners of blasphemy

Clamming as they claim to clone culture correctly

Cutting chasms cased in coffins of coated charisma

While whittling at the whimsical wants of whiny wishers


Leaders lost in lust for lasting leases of lording

Sell sneaky styles for sane sense to simple souls

Calling culture a care for collective calm

While restraining with raptured robes of rusty realms.


By Andrew Onalenna Sesinyi

Written in the dark of night: 00:15hrs 10th March, 2011.

THE ANTI CO BIOTICS STORY OF BO

Once upon a time, in the strife torn continent of Africa, there was born a baby boy called Bechu. He was born of loving parents bearing the family name of Analand, which name originated from the tribes from Angola and the then Nyasaland, now Malawi. The family was not well endowed materially and as a result Bechu grew up sparsely provided for surviving mainly on what the family could gather from the milieu of the savannah land they lived in. Nonetheless, the boy grew, thanks to his scrounging skills acquired through years of foraging in the forest chasing after sheep, goats and cows. Soon the boy was of school going age and the parents registered him.


It was a proud Bechu Analand who carried his clay slate to school on his first day and spent quality time drawing beetles and learning the alphabet. Time passed with the swiftness of wind and with each passage of time Bechu Analand became more and more assertive, desiring independence of mind. Observing the remarkable transformation of their son, the Analand family agreed that Bechu could expand his horizons and get to see the world. They were committed parents, not only well versed in survival skills but also astute when it came to profiling their son for the bigger world outside. The boy needed a name that was not only easy to remember but would also be attractive to the scented pronunciations of the new world order.


They renamed him Bo! It was a catchy name. Then the parents thought and thought until they concluded that Analand not only sounded foreign but was also a tongue twister. It would work against the worldly interests of their son. The Analands decided to pick an ethnic name from somewhere down their genealogy. Eureka! They found the right name. ‘Tswana’, sounded truly indigenous. The boy, Bo, was hence named for the new world, Bo Tswana. He completed his studies, left the village for the city and a life full of promise.


Bo graduated from university by obtaining a degree and started work. Soon he was working and earning good money. He shared his newly found wealth with his parents and still had enough left to save. Bo became a disciplined saver. Soon his bank account was impressive but Bo continued putting more money in the bank than he took out, which was good. He ate well and grew to be a tall, strong lad. With a two syllable name, it was a striking coincidence that Bo soon met a beautiful young lady simply called Co. Bo and Co loved each other very much and decided to get married. Co was the daughter of a mixed marriage between a former District Commissioner from Europe and an indigenous citizen. Her family were the Rruptions, a name that amused Bo to no end and he teased his newly found wife, saying the name was a perfect reproduction of a sound made by a tractor engine. ‘Rrrrruption!’ Co paid him no mind because she loved him very much and knew he meant no harm.


After a blissful honeymoon followed by growing wealth, Co and Bo, started feeling cracks in their marriage. They fought long and hard for months with no reconciliation in sight. It soon became clear that the two had very little in common. Being both determined, strong personalities, Bo and Co held on to the tottering marriage. The tension led to them being afraid to be home together. They started seeing other people behind each other’s back. One of them contracted a terminal disease from the promiscuous lifestyle and it was Bo who caught the deadly virus. He may not have caught it from Co, although it was Co who bore the brunt of the wrath of Bo’s family and friends. Bo became sickly. Doctors could not cure him completely but they kept him stable hoping that he would live long enough for the medical profession to discover a cure for his rare type of ailment. There were promising studies into the type of condition Bo had. Co did not grant Bo divorce although he begged her for it, hoping that his only pain ought to be from the disease and not the irreparably damaged relationship with his wife. As Bo delved more and more into his coffers to pay his huge medical bills, Co did her part to spend his money. She had the virus, but she was not sick.


Meanwhile, Bo’s parents were continuously praying for their son’s recovery. As luck would have it, Bo’s doctors broke the good news to him one day. A new drug, an antibiotic, had been discovered and although not yet available on the market, they would perform trials on him. Bo received the medication and the drug worked. He recovered fully and was soon the strong, strapping young man that he used to be. He built enough courage to confront his wife and demand a divorce. She refused and their case went to the highest court in the land. The High Court granted them a separation but not a divorce. The two gained mutual court rulings, restricting access to each other. Their marriage was on parole.


The medical profession named the new drug after one of them and soon it was available on the market and many lives were saved. The drug was called ‘Anti Co Rruption’.






*** *** ***


By Andrew Sesinyi


12th February, 2010.


Readers of this short story are asked to make own interpretations and conclusions. This is an unending story because we don’t know if the divorce will ever be granted. Readers will no doubt see the name references and what they mean to what land!!!

EGYPTIAN LESSONS

Hark now hear the vociferous egoism of an embattled deluded dictator
Hear how the havoc voice of  Hosni spews as a human violence escalator
Oh, Africa, how shame sounds so loud when false prophets preside!
Hosni has it in him that only him and none else in millions can decide
Aged in dyed hairs of desperate clings to foregone youth he stands
Claiming rights to might and raving to rule against miles of mightier hands
Transfixed by power fixation he stands like a sphinx bereft of its magnificence
As he decrees himself indispensable when multitudes decry his malfeasance


As millions mount on millions in a moving millieu of monumental protestations
Mubarak rakes in revolting remains of his past glory in enraging manifestations
To say only him born him can be the power and might of the groaning masses
Ignoring piles of plundered grain storages spelling abject poverty and stagnation
Hosni huffs and puffs as he expectorates porous piety in pitiful indignation
That only him Mubarak broke the camel that carried the enemy of mighty Egypt
Uttering stuttering tales of how the hungry hands of protests make him feel gypped


Oh Africa, this is the lowest of the low in the ladders of your history of fake heroes
A tortuous testimony of a continent that is a factory of frauds worse than the pharaohs
That one man matches his sole ego against the torrential tides of the enraged multitude
Mimicks the colossal strides of legendary gods masquerading as virtue over servile servitude
And sees himself as his own best choice for the destiny of all in a travesty of patriotism
Oh Africa, the freakish font of fortunes written in hieroglyphic deception and pessimism
Painful it is that such poverty of passion persists to violate the voices of dissent pittifully
Everywhere in Africa, everyday, the clone of Mubarak mutates to dissect liberties willfully


Down the base of Africa lies my land in mirages of indifference and indolent nonchalance
That Egypt is gypped by an ogre of ego is seemingly unregistered in its postulation of chance
All believe their sun rises in Botswana and their sun sets in their prestine virginal horizons
Yet the mutants of Hosni breed and multiply sending others to and never themselves to prisons
Will they soon sap the resources of  over cultivated zones and descend on the ripe and prime?
Tyranny like a virus travels on carriers of various forms and flight paths of undefined, unknown time
That explains the thirst to retain my starry eyed watch over my ruddy but untainted sunrise
Hoping that not ever shall the colour of sunset match the blood of those that object and rise




By Andrew Sesinyi
Written at 23:45hrs, Thursday, 10th February, 2011, after watching the unlovely images of fury and disappointment in the land of Egypt.

Democracy and the Media in Botswana

http://www.national-flags.com/flags/Botswana_Flag.html

EGYPT OF THE PHARAOS

Proud pyramids bear testimony to the pride of origins
History repeats itself because it lies not about beginnings
Today that ancient seat of civilisation bleeds in torment
Torched by irrationality and a greed that flows in a torrent
Making the Nile miles away from its tranquil temperament
Far from flowing with milk and honey the Nile carries bereavement

The waters of the Nile quench not the thirst but reflect the blood
Ruddy is the flow that witnessed the hand that precipitated the flood
The banks of Egypt and not just the Nile burst forth in fiery passions
One more prophet of falsehood has sat the throne beyond his sessions
Fear stalks the halls of history freaking the ghostly tombs into terror
Even the silent residents stir in sleep as one man breeds bold horror

Ancient Egypt stirs like a sleeping giant casting off his bed apparel
Soon he shall be up resplendent in armor fighting off forces of peril
For it was in Egypt that it began and it is in Egypt that it begins
For the might of Africa to overwhelm as it did the foreign legions
Cry not the weepers and weep not the bereaved over this moment
The cradle of history is now the pioneering pen to write off torment

By Andrew Sesinyi
(23:59hrs 2nd December, 2010). [ To be posted after midnight]

BLINDED PREDICTIONS

Blinded Predictions


January 2011:
 lightning tongues in formations of number eleven
Thunder and precipitated showers pouring endlessly in elevation
Streams eroded roads and toads goaded frolicking frogs to croak
Prayers answered, citizens placated, hopes grew solid as a rock




February 2011:
 Flooded flat lands lay surface for sweet flowing waters
Shelter becomes shelves of roofless bodies shivering in semi winters
Governance braces with bruised bravado as coffers curse rescue actions
Darker clouds gather and garner support creating havoc in weather factions


March 2011:
 Closer to frosty morning winds and chilly wintry nights
Rain clouds build up more menacing as the roofless strain their sights
Gazing up into the skies so high and wishing for the blue to expand
But nature lashed, battered and bruised is giving mother earth no refund


April 2011:
 Is the aftermath of national purse reading multiplied by problems
To do or not to do what ought to be done with rocky problems without solvents
Soon nature shall scorch with cold after heat did same and the savannah wither
Seasons sing songs with melodies drummed up by thunder, bidding summer hither


May 2011:
 Breezing in is the chill not of winter only but all around and abound
Regional tones belt loud tunes of times changing and peace being struck aground
Domestically, political trumpets trump up incoherent promises of shifty mirages
Every claim though lame is projected vociferously in images loftier than giraffes


June 2011:
 The bite of cold bids goodbye to the heat of summer in half a year
All that’s not done now must be done next or destiny has for us more to bear
In a month the trumpets blow louder and packages of tomorrow open afresh
But like children of fishermen awaiting the day’s catch we know days of zero fish


July 2011:
 We are agog even after years of hopes that abort as glory seekers seek
Pathetically tolerant of the glory hogs as their lips screech more than speak
Powder votes get blown in imitations of traditions borrowed and faulted
To the promise makers like dancers without rhythm common sense has bolted


August 2011:
 The month of the deceitful breeze of warm days and freezing nights
We have heard but not seen much difference in the utterances of the July knights
They rode like Vikings and galloped in mimicked chivalry in parades of integrity
Counting down the year we can hardly bear we witness fake gallantry in its brevity


September 2011:
 Pregnant clouds build and roam the blue skies in languid momentum
Hopes of rain mount in readiness for nature’s bounty of which we erode its quantum
For us that’s the month of pitiful nostalgia and remembrance as mirages host our hopes
A day decades ago we were starry eyed in joyous anticipation as from white, black took the ropes


October 2011:
Nature adorns a carpet of freshly groomed fur of greenery with flowery ribbons
First showers bring wetlands till the flora and fauna resemble the works of myriad crayons
Reviews and reversals visit the loud shores of mouths with timid tongues as projects prolong
It’s Christmas count-down but even one voter’s fingers cannot count a hope that needs a sojourn


November 2011:
Real rains drain huge heat waves moistening the air with moisture density
The offices that offered and pledged deeds for glory awards exhibit no similar propensity
Talk begins of the year to follow and lies flow profusely like rivulets of torrential downpours
Forlorn farmers hardened by decades of perfumed promises place rusty ploughs on course


December 2011:
Brings the month pledged to the Lord for human hope through tears and toil
It will be two more Decembers of sweat and soiled souls before the cauldrons of votes boil
Boisterously blows the benevolent breeze though this time it borrowed wind from yonder shores
Forecasts fan furnaces of fierce changing times and fiery fermentations of brews of woes....




By Andrew Sesinyi


Saturday, 25th December, 2010


[This poem was motivated by observations of world events]

TUNISIA, OH, TUNISIA

(CNN) -- What is happening in Tunisia? [17 January 2011]

Following a month of largely leaderless popular protests against the government, Tunisia's President Zine El Abidine Ben Ali fled the country on Friday. Fouad Mebazaa, the speaker of parliament, was sworn in the following day as interim president, and new elections are due within 60 days.

What were the protests about?

They were sparked by the suicide of an unemployed college graduate in December. The man set himself on fire in front of a government building in the town of Sidi Bouzid after police confiscated his fruit cart, saying he was selling without a permit, according to Amnesty International. He died January 4 from his injuries.

The event tore the lid off what appears to have been long-simmering fury at Ben Ali and his associates. Tunisians accuse the ruling circle of rampant corruption and nepotism. Recent diplomatic cables from the U.S. Embassy in Tunisia obtained by WikiLeaks revealed growing disquiet with the government -- especially over nepotism.

 

Now for Andrew Sesinyi's TEARS OF A TORN POET

Once upon a decade in time I visited Tunisia

Overflying the languidly curvaceous contours

I savoured my window seat seeing sights of Tunis

I was seeing a land made and designed for tours

I loved the white washed buildings gleaming in the sun

I landed and adored the desert disaffected bustling Tunis

Baking in the African sun Tunis looked as inviting as a freshly baked bun

I stayed a week with taste buds weakening for Tunisian dishes

 

President Zine El Abidine Ben Ali presided and hosted guests gallantly

The conference had all inferences of an African wonder in splendour

Little was showing then that could two decades later be displayed arrogantly

Nothing said anything about today's troubled Tunisia in a political blender

I decry Africa for ever crying wolf whenever desiring to undo democracy

There is an outcry about the cries of pain when hope hovers and dies

Cries that mourn each season of life as graft gives birth to growing autocracy

When blood bonds bear still-born products with commercials of lies.

 

 

WHERE HOPE HAPPENS

                    CHAPTER I


Nine year old Pidipidi Sejabana opened her eyes to a brand new day, her indolent brown eyes fixedly focused on a stream of morning light flooding the room from an open window in her hospital room. The little girl was awaiting her most cherished event of the day when her aunt would be visiting. Aunt Matshwaro was a plump middle aged woman and sister to Pidipidi's mother, Shadi. Shadi was dead. She died a year ago leaving Pidipidi in the care of aunt Matshwaro who was by all accounts a devoted, caring and protective guardian. Pidipidi received all the love she could get from her aunt and yet a permanent vacuum remained etched in her heart for the one face, the one voice and the single smell that would have made her the joyous little girl she wished to be, and that was the presence of her deceased mother, Shadi. Pidipidi knew that her mother was never coming back. She had long accepted that after months of praying and hoping for a miracle to bring her mother back. The one fruit of her prayers appeared to have been a contraction of the disease that had put her in hospital. Pidipidi was too young to understand many things but she had a foreboding sense of doom from the moment she entered the hospital; she sensed that she might never leave her sanitized prison with its aroma of disinfectant, cries of pain and quiet often the eerie silence seemingly precipitated by such cries. Pidipidi had heard of and seen other children her age carted out of the children's ward of the Princess Marina Hospital to unknown destinations. Nobody told her where the listless bodies were being conveyed; nobody explained why they never returned; nobody mentioned to her why she felt like a hamster in a narrow dark tunnel scurrying helplessly towards an even darker bottomless pit; but then no details would have served the little girl any better. She sensed from the suffocating feeling of canned hopelessness that her life was wasting away and that things might never be the same again; she dreaded with surreal uncertainty the time when her turn would come to be carted out of the ward to a destination unknown. Pidipidi wondered how she would feel, how those children who went before her felt or whether she would be aware of being transferred to her new abode. She may have been only nine years old, but even the young and innocent posses their basic instincts, for indeed, Pidipidi was on her death bed. As she lay there deafened by the silence of her ignorance and yet haunted by expectations of the unexpected, Pidipidi could only recall the best moments of her little life; that was when her mother was alive. Mornings before school and evenings prior to bedtime were her favorite moments.
On an evening preceding beautiful morning she was awakening to in the hospital, her mother would have walked into the small but comfortable bedroom she shared at home with her two sisters, one two years older and the other three years younger than her. Mother would tell the children their evening story as they lay on their beds in various positions of concentration. Mama Shadi as they fondly called her would pick stories ranging from romance to tales of chivalry, with all stories having happy endings. Each time, after every story, whilst still starry eyed from the hypnotic effect of their mother's adoring eyes and soothing voice, the children would attempt to prolong the pleasure by asking follow up questions, relating the stories to their own lives.
"Mama Shadi," Pidipidi would ask. "Do you think us three girls will grow up to marry good men and have children like us?"
"Yes dear," Mama Shadi would respond. When addressing her children by name Mama Shadi always shortened the names making them wonder amusedly why she had given them longer names then. "Pidi, with your big round eyes, you will charm any boy and make him worship the ground that you walk on. Your eyes will make him dazed till your voice comes; then he will be the sweetest husband ever and forever."
The children would sigh.
"Mama Shadi," Pidi the most assertive of the girls would persist. "Are you always going to be there for us and will you see us working and getting married?"
"Of course Pidi," Mother would reply. "I'm not going anywhere and I'm not leaving my girls until they are 100 years old."
"Then, what?" Pidi asked.
"Then what what, Pidi?" asked Mama Shadi.
Then what happens when we're 100 years?"
"Well dear, at 100 years you girls would be old enough to look after yourselves and you'd be leaving with your husbands anyway."
"And how old would you be mother?" That would be Pidi asking.
"I'd be old enough not to tell little girls my age because I'd still be a lady," said the mother.
Pidipidi would always take the lead as the virtual representative of the children.
"I don't want you to be old Mama Shadi. I'm afraid of you being old because then you might leave us like other old people leave their families to go and die."
"Pidi," said the mother laughing. "They're not elephants. They don't leave to go and die. They just die because it would be time. That's God's choosing."
"I don't like this dying thing, "Pidipidi insisted. "And I don't like this thing of God making people and then choosing they must die. I don't want him to take you away from us mama."
Mama Shadi was always touched when the children adopted such somber tones. At that stage she had no reason to suspect that destiny could deal them the fatal blow that it later delivered. Life was full of hope and optimism and vitality then.
"Oh nothing's ever going to take me from my girls. Now, everybody to bed."
Mother would tuck them to bed and retire herself leaving behind the lingering, comforting smell of her nightly after bath aroma of dettol soap.
Pidipidi remembered details of the various conversations with her mother as she lay dying. Although too young to understand everything, she had been in and out of hospital for two years and at one point she and her mother were admitted in the same hospital. Her condition deteriorated after her mother's death. Her medication made her sick and the ravaging pain that shook her small frame often left her in tears of self-pity, loneliness, desperation, despondency and worse, fear. She had recurring bouts of influenza with fits of dry, chest wrecking coughs, sore throat, high fever and delirious shivers. Pidipidi had noticed that the little-girl magic she cast on the nurses when she was first admitted to the hospital had long dissipated with the nurses becoming more impatient, coarse and even physically rough when helping her around her bed. The previously gentle hands that administered injections with soothing tones had become harder and less restrained when handling her. The nurses grew less attentive, spoke in subdued but clearly derisive tones with obvious reference to her and barked at the slightest complaint from her.
At school Pidipidi had been told of a disease called AIDS and she soon caught its constant reference in the nurses' vocabulary when they whispered to each other. Pidipidi had heard that to get AIDS one had to have been a bad girl. She had not been a bad girl and so it puzzled her that every time the nurses were around her the subject appeared to rarely miss from their utterances. She was soon to discover the reason for the tones of conspiracy around her when one evening two nurses, believing that she was asleep, started discussing her.
"The little girl," said the first nurse. "It's sad what happened to her, isn't it?"
"Yes it is," the second nurse replied. "Sometimes you just wished she'd die and be spared the agony."
"Oh don't say that," said the first nurse. "You never give up hope."
"What hope sister?" asked the second nurse. "Her mother died of HIV/AIDS. Obviously this recurring condition of her is AIDS."
"We don't know that for sure", said the first nurse. "The doctor hasn't even asked for the test yet."
"Because it's obvious sister. The treatment would still be the same anyway because these are opportunistic diseases she's suffering from."
"True," replied the first nurse. "But we don't know for sure that she is HIV positive."
"Of what use would that information be? Her mother died a year ago of HIV/AIDS. Obviously…"
"Stop it sister," interrupted the first nurse. "She's nine years old. She was eight when the mother died. She's not sexually active, and if it was a mother-to-child transmission she would have had it nine years ago and she would have long had the symptoms."
"I guess you're right, but there've been cases…" said the second nurse.
"Yes. There've been cases and this is not one of them. In any case, it's not important. The poor thing is very ill, she's an orphan and she's here for our care."
Listening to the conversation which basically pronounced her death sentence, Pidipidi snuggled deep into the bed linen, seeking comfort and silently visualizing pictures of her short life and the life that could have been. Very soon the sedative that the nurses had given her for pain started working and she slipped into the welcome zone of deep sleep.
A third nurse entered the ward and her two other colleagues who had been talking about Pidipidi cheerfully extended the conversation to her.
"Hey, Kitty! There you are. Isn't it a shame about that little girl Pidipidi?" asked the first nurse, busying herself with a paraphernalia of medicinal bottles and syringes as she attempted to lighten her curiosity o the subject to cursory conversation.
Kitty was a slightly built young woman of around 23 years old. Her petite figure and quiet disposition made her the envy of many nurses. Kitty appeared to be a textbook prescription of how a nurse should look and sound. She had a soft voice, dreamy eyes with long eye lashes and pursed lips that appeared apologetic about making lengthy conversation. Her abundant thick African hair was neatly piled in a hut shaped style on a nicely shaped head.
Giving her colleagues a slow, lingering smile that never failed to convey a message of friendship and goodwill, Kitty said:
"Yes it is. It's really sad Bodi and I'd rather not say more about it, if you don't mind."
Bodi, the first nurse, looked at the second nurse, folding her arms around her ample bosom in a mocking stance as she said:
"Here we go again, Mercy. Kitty walks into the ward at the beginning of a shift and doesn't want to talk. We have a long day ahead of us. Let's hope young Doctor Sekopo is the one on duty today."
Mercy, the second nurse was drawn into the conversation.
"Come on Kitty. You know Bodi won't let the subject go until she's exhausted her huge appetite for gossip. Humor her"
"There's no humor in this case," replied Kitty. "There's no humor at all and you girls don't even know all the facts about it, so shut up and go to work."
"And what facts are there we don't know of Kitty?" insisted Bodi. "We know the poor thing lost her mother to AIDS and now she's going too. What else is there?"
"That's what you know Bodi," replied Kittty. "That's what you know, and it's not the full story."
Mercy was becoming increasingly interested in the conversation whilst Bodi's heaving breasts strained against their imprisoning fabric, expressing the mounting excitement of the young lady.
"Kitty, don't speak in codes or Bodi will bust her bra," said Mercy laughing.
"Yeah, Kitty. Tell it as it is. Who slept with whom, where and when?" Bodi was incessantly curious.
"It's not a sex scandal Bodi," replied Kitty. "It's a detail that all of you girls miss when defaming this poor girl."
"What is it then?" The two nurses asked simultaneously.
"Okay, but promise you won't tell anyone and that would put an end to this subject," Kitty said.
"Yes, we do," said Mercy.
"Yes, I do," said Bodi.
Kitty looked at Bodi with distrusting eyes before saying:
"Bodi, if your mouth was a country of secrets it would be devoid of inhabitants by now. This is a medical matter Bodi and it's not for idle chatter."
"Oh Kitty," protested Bodi. "Why does everyone distrust me? I don't tell professional secrets anyway."
Kitty decided to upload the secret she had kept for over a year and download it onto her colleagues. It was almost an act of relieving herself of shouldering the burden of of secrecy.
"Okay," said Kitty. "When Pidipidi first came to this hospital a year and half ago, she was not HIV positive."
"Huh?" The two nurses interjected.
"Yes," Kitty continued. "Her mother was. She wasn't."
"Kitty, you've got it all wrong," said Bodi, her dark eyes round with disbelief. " Look she's nine years old and she's tested positive…all the symptoms point to full blown AIDS."
"Yes, Bodi," replied Kitty. "She's HIV positive now. She wasn't when she was first here sharing a room with her mother. There are records you know. I'm not just talking. This is not hearsay."
The stunned nurses stared at their colleague, puzzled.
"So, she got the virus from…?" Mercy asked, letting the question drift in space as if unfinished.
"She's not sexually active," Kitty said. "Her mother was a loving and extremely careful woman. Pidipidi did not get infected at home."
"Where then?" asked Bodi. The suspension was killing her.
Kitty, rearranged a cluster of bottles on the trolley she was beginning to push as she replied:
"That little girl was infected in this hospital."
        ….. …….. …. ………..


                Chapter II


It was at that stage that Dr Marcus Sekopo, a favorite among the nurses, walked into the ward. He overheard the last bits of the nurses' conversation.
"Alright girls, break it up," Dr Sekopo said sharply, his young, handsome features strained in an attempt to muster as much authority of pose as possible. "Kitty, could I please see you in my office."
Kitty and the other two nurses exchanged glances, then shrugging her shoulders she followed dr Sekopo into the small office where Dr Sekopo took a seat behind a wooden oval shaped desk, his stethoscope hanging casually around his neck. He pointed to a chair in front of the desk and Kitty took the seat, demurely crossing her stockinged, long, brown legs.
"Kitty, we didn't know this information had already gone out," said Dr Sekopo, looking apologetically at the nurse while toying with a pen holder on the desk in front of him. "The superintendent ought to be the one to confirm this to you ladies but seeing as you already know, It's only fair to tell you. But you have to promise not to share what I am going to say to you with your girl friends or anybody else. They know enough already. Can I trust that you would keep the confidence?"
"Of course doctor," replied Kitty. "I've kept this to myself for a while now and only mentioned it because I felt obligated to the little girl in a way. I knew she didn't contract the virus from her mother, although it puzzles me then how she got to catch it."
Dr. Sekopo studied the nurse's face in an intense look before replying:
"Kitty, the little girl, Pidipidi, has been interfered with."
"Interfered with?" asked Kitty.
"Yes," replied the doctor. "She, how do I put it? She has been…"
As the nurse stopped in mid sentence Kitty felt a growing rage inside her.
"Doctor, I'm a nurse," she said in a subdued voice that nonetheless conveyed her restrained anger. "If there's anything you want to share with this little girl, please do so. She might need all the help she can get and I'm not too sure she will have enough of that, seeing how the hospital has already betrayed her."
Dr Sekopo coughed nervously before saying:
"I truly understand your anger, Kitty, but the fact is…the hospital didn't betray Pidipidi. The girl is a victim of abuse."
Kitty felt the room spinning as the air increased in density until she thought she would collapse.
Looking at her Dr Sekopo was about to rush around the desk towards her when Kitty said:
"I'm okay doctor. I'm fine. It's not me who needs help. Oh My God! Abused? How? Where? By whom?"
"A relative Kitty," replied the doctor. "An uncle who's been living with them since Pidipidi's mother died.
Kitty stood up and despite the limited space in the room began pacing, in the process upsetting the chair she was sitting on which crashed to the floor. She bent to put the chair back in place.
"Dr Sekopo," she managed to get back her voice. "Has this been reported to the police? Where's this monster that did this to the child?"
"He's in police custody," Dr Sekopo promptly responded hoping to calm the agitated nurse and fearing that he might have to give Kitty some sedative. "When we realized that Pididpidi had been interfered with we called in a child psychologist who managed to get the story from the little girl. It wasn't easy and despite all the heart-rending stories we've heard and the endless episodes of death and suffering in the medical profession, this case has the worst profile."
"I hope he burns in hell," snorted Kitty. "I hope…I wish they hanged beasts like him."
Kitty stopped speaking when she lifted her face and saw the pain in Dr Sekopo's eyes. She had never seen a doctor so emotionally affected by a medical case before.
"Kitty, there's more bad news I'm afraid," said the doctor, lowering his eyes.
"How bad can it get doctor?" replied Kitty, now in a hushed tone.
Dr Sekopo replied:
"The girl's aunt and guardian committed suicide last night. She left a note. She felt she had let her deceased sister down. That's the women's youngest brother who abused Pidipidi."
Kitty felt waves of nausea rising and falling in a storm of emotions now wrecking her body and before Dr Sekopo could catch her, she fainted and fell to the floor crashing on the wooden chair she had been sitting on. The sound of crashing wood and a thud as the nurse's body fell overcame the restraint of the other nurses who rushed into the office and helped Dr Sekopo move the listless nurse into a consulting room where they placed her on a couch. Dr Sekopo immediately administered a mild sedative as nurse Kitty moaned, regaining consciousness.




In another part of the hospital where Pidipidi lay, the little girl's diseased limbs were too weak to allow her to scratch herself. Although the room was well lit, Pidipidi began to see growing dusk and misty shapes began forming above her face. Curiously, one of the ghostly, wavy shapes took the form of her mother's face and suddenly the little girl was not afraid anymore. Pidipidi was once more in her bedroom back home with her mother sitting beside her, her favorite bedtime story book, "Beauty and the Beast" in her soft, loving hands. As Mother Shadi continued reading with an ever broadening smile, Pidipidi felt the soothing drowsiness of sleep overcoming her. From a distance she heard a different voice saying, "she is going" and then Pidipidi slipped into a void from which she never awoke.
Simultaneously, a surreal cry of a newly born baby floated across the room and a doctor's voice echoed fresh news:
"It's a girl!"




******************************END*******************************************





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To Live In A Land Of Liberty

I want to live in a land of true and trusted liberty
Where governance grants and not dampen gaiety
I want to live loved and free from constant control
Where my talents drive my initiatives without patrol

I want to awake many a sunshine bathed morning
Cheerful in my freedom without a face of mourning
Trusting in country and Lord without fear of autocracy
I want to feel and savour the soothing waves of democracy

Yet Lord Oh Lord, as each dawn greets my hazy horizon
As each creepy dusk visits, my waning spirits become frozen
For I feel knots of ulcerous apprehension deep within me
Forces of stealth that frame my being and won't let me be

I look at the land sprawling in latitudes of simplistic laxity
I see years gone by when these landscapes were in sanctity
My dreams are nightmares, my hopes but series of premonition
As I sense that the daily chips on my fortitude spell demolition

I want to wake up tomorrow with great memories of yesterday
To dance without sequence in the luxury of a certain everyday
An everyday that doesn't have a predetermined programme for me
Just wishing for days when my life is mine and I can let it so be

These seemingly unwarranted nagging fears of a fast fading era
Drive my thoughts to conclusions of an impending era of error
A conviction that we might have chosen a destinty fraught with peril
That hell once afar may be speeding on us with the might of the devil

When rains fall mercifully wetting the parched sands of my native land
When thunder roars and lightning claps and flashes, brandishing its wand
When the storms abate and sunshine drives off the hovering grey clouds
I recall how nature once spoke hopes thus and not today's lingering doubts

There is an unused sword that is sharp and shining with unspoken menace
I see false smiles on faces that daily discern that the sword shall soon deface
I perceive sounds of thunders that may be harbingers of rains of bullets
I sense doom dawning on the dusk of a troubled sunset over dry sandy rivulets

Yet a glimmer of hope lights the tunnel of my tormented thoughts of despair
In past times these foreboding torrents of terror within me underwent repair
So I pray with frugal bravado and guarded hope for a miraculous reversal
That our beliefs, hopes and prayers shall not be mere presentiments of betrayal.

By Andrew Onalenna Sesinyi
[This poem is as dateless as it is timeless]