We were in West Africa, and we came to see Africa. We wanted the realness of it all. We came to bring awareness to ourselves, to the real African experience among real people and real conditions of an underdeveloped society, of the life preconceived within the frame of Nigeria and beyond. Nigeria, Nigeria, Nigeria. I caught myself repeating this and Eric Esplin did as well. We looked at one another and chanted as if caught in a trance. Nigeria. Together, Eric and I, and a few others ventured into the masses of Warri-town. It was a night open, and the atmosphere [View Full Entry]

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Sweating, our backs glued to cloth, necks rubbed red, and strands of hair plastered to our foreheads. Albeit, with the fortune of the group, the late afternoon’s sun sunk nearer its horizon, shading the courtyard of the National Museum in Lagos. We were in the Federal Republic of Nigeria seated on plastic chairs, our feet sponging the crabgrass as we rested—patient, content. We waited for the showcase to begin; a showcase for us, the delegates of Global Citizen Journey. First, our day began in the city of Lagos, the once-capital of the fifth largest country in the world. With an estimated [View Full Entry]

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Africa began with no call, no sign, no indication. The gate for boarding at Heathrow International Airport opened and that was the start. All rows, all seats, all passengers crowded like a Haitian voting-poll, but eventually formed into two snaking lines as black as a cobra’s sheen. A few white spots speckled the arrangement, I among them. Suddenly, the minority I sought was found—and it was me. Albeit, twenty-four hours in London proved as a pleasant coat of primer. As I perused Piccadilly Circus around its surrounding Tube stations, words from worldly tongues quizzed my ears. People everywhere. Cultures and their [View Full Entry]

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I can’t really describe what it is like to fly over the Sahara at 39,000 feet in a 747 jet. It is like empty space, yet I know I have never been there, or at least physically laid eyes upon it while floating freely in stupor—and I know most others have not either. It is like an open valley, or a calm sea with limitless horizons. There are no hills from above. Certainly no mountains. There are dunes which I can see, but only fingerlings of thirsting riverbeds, long ago dried, now swept by only air. They look like a swipe [View Full Entry]

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“We are about people-to-people, our twenty Americans paired up with twenty Nigerians.” Susan Partnow, founder and director of Seattle-based Global Citizen Journey (GCJ), stood at the head of the room. She overlooked an audience; they overlooked her. “This is our grassroots connection.” What endured in bold letters were her last words, grassroots connection. The phrase was powerful, deep, strumming a chord within my system, a system slapped, pressed, and molded into the thought-processes of Western culture. But now, with a community of individuals devoted to the workings of peace and international teamwork, I began to grow from the old imprints and [View Full Entry]

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Cackling, it was like the fire laughed at him. It spit sparks, the embers of fireworks, showering the enclave, bursting through the screen. Beneath the grate, coals shone a neon furry. The fire was hot. It blazed a furnace heat, and yet he lay so near, soaking in the waves like sand. His thick red coat glowed under the orange flickers. I waited for him to smolder in ash, but stubbornly he refused, and turned his heavy head to rest upon the hearth. And there he watched with keen interest, eyebrows dancing with each pull of the cork; champagne frothing with [View Full Entry]

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Harry never understood himself. Doubly confused, his intangible actions led to questions, too many concerns. But he was different, and that was okay by us. Small, stout, stubborn in the haunches, he was hairy (ironic?) with a stubbed tail from the result of a virus. On all fours, Harry trotted, or more skipped, wherever he went. He licked his chops like a spoon of Jif and never gave kisses. Guests were surprised, and disappointed, this kiss-less greeting, but we were grateful especially when we’d gawk out our kitchen window, watching cute little ‘ol Harry do his business, turn around, and gobble [View Full Entry]

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She was hen. Her name Hen. Tan, brown skin, sleek and slender, but a weight of bulk with delicate touches of nimbleness. She was my Hen; a ’78 Volkswagen bus. There were numerous trips; surfing, the concerts, the local drives. And there were the days of reckless youth; a smokehouse in fog. She treated me like the King, and I cared for her like my Queen. Inseparable, an image in my mind, in so many minds, we were a part of one another, yoked together with a bondage of Love, and now only ripe memories. They cut like knives. It was [View Full Entry]

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“Now,” her voice was shrill like a mouse. The two guests glanced at one another. “My little shrew, yes, I call her my shrew; she’s a wily one. Most importantly, she has something called Anxiety Separation Disorder, or ASD.” Alarm bells sounded for the two baby-sitters: Most Importantly! Mia and Jane stared at each other. Each sought reassurance, yet found only a pair of eyes filled with pity. Their inner conscience started: Okay, let’s go! Yeah, I’ll race you! “So,” the mother continued, “She usually throws a fit and cries hysterically when I leave, even for the phone. I’m glad there [View Full Entry]

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I see orange, wax skipping white sheets, but smearing autumn over an open season. I see orange, and it is calm, but robust, rambunctious with a knife. Orange, the color, the crayon, my little pink fingers drawing pompous lines, connecting the mind’s eye. And then eyes, the orange lids like peelings from the skin. They are triangles, upside down like the madman’s costume, its fangs, the mouth wide, swallowing a melon of flame. I see orange as I press hard. Chunks of wax fall off in my excitement. My friends giggle around me. Grabbing for black, I tear down the paper [View Full Entry]

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