The 7th

"Welcome to district number 7, the house of pain...cause this is gonna be a pain in your ass if you don't like black folks....and by the redness of your faces I ain't far off the mark.  Oh by the way...the welcome wagon that just left here that's sergeant Richards and he's got an intolerance for intolerance.  I take it that that's how you all ended up down here in the shit hole," said Byron Shields with a broad grin.

"Look buddy...it was just an overtime detail...what's the big deal."

"The big deal is the shit hitting the fan big time," Ron said with his feet propped up leaning back in a chair that groaned beneath his weight.  Byron Shields nick named Ron the 6-year vet had dreams of becoming a stand up comedian; comic relief was his goal until the hands of fate turned his life in another direction.  His father’s unfortunate death left his family in dire need.  Raised to be self-sufficient and responsible he assumed the responsibilities of being the provider in the house stepping into his father’s shoes in his early twenties.  He possessed the face of a teenager, and that’s where his co-workers made their mistake of underestimating him.  Most times, they were made an example of by a serious tongue-lashing that was equivalent to Red fox or Richard Pryor harassing their audiences.

 "I See you white boys cutting your eyes at me...don't be hating because you fucked up on TV."

"Ron...shut- the-hell- up," said a soft voice by the window attempting to suppress a laugh, “don’t nobody wanna here your bull shit early in the morning."

"Yeah man...it's too early for your shit," another sleepy voice responded.

"Aw you just mad because you can't live at the gym...ya Shaka Zulu looking-" 

The door swung open with the Richards returning to the podium.  The frown on his face automatically announced bad news.  "Aw man...here we go," mumbled Wade Jackson, "guess I ain't getting to the gym today either...damn."

 Richards stood there momentarily thinking to himself how to be the bearer of bad news, but he knew there was no way around it, "ok it's been brought to my attention that extra coverage is needed on the South end...as per captain's orders we are to cover that area until further notice"

"With what?  We're already stretched like a rubber band," Jackson said letting out a sigh.

"We're just gonna have to make do...like the chief says do more with less."

"Yeah but he ain't out here making do is he?"

"Look Jackson don't piss on my already bad day...you wanna stay in this piss hole...huh...bad plumbing, bad electrical.  Fucking crack heads running around messing around with your vehicles.  I don't know about you, but I'm tired of having to crack skulls on the way off duty.  Look it's a huge construction sight with a lot of building materials laying around."

"They need to secure their shit then," said a salty female voice from the rear of the room.

"Don't start with me Max," he said glaring at the 19-year vet.

"Look I know it's a lot but the higher ups thought with so much controversy around the site It'd be a good idea to have some extra man power around it, not to mention we'd be more familiar in that location when we do relocate."  The tension in the room seemed to lighten at the mention of relocating.

 "New guys...my office...the rest of you know the drill.  Be safe stay safe, and make it home safe."  Clearly offended by the black sergeant’s commanding and take-charge attitude the newly transferred cops felt a well of collective hate against the seasoned sergeant rising up threatening to spill over.  Their eyes could not help but to express their contempt in taking orders from him.  As the others were leaving out for their daily patrol assignments Sierra Sheldon happen to glance back; feeling eyes on her back she noticed the cold and steely stare coming from the newly reassigned transferred Jim Wagner.  She held his stare until he looked away.  "What the hell is his problem," she said feeling an uncomfortable familiarity about him.  There was something she disliked about him that went back further then the fiasco the day before.  “Creep."

"Com'on woman...wha'cha dragging for...its coffee time," Jackson said tugging at her shirtsleeve.

"Alright...alright...I'm coming," she said to her partner of the last 18 months.  Outside the sun had begun to rise up over the horizon.  The cruisers began surging their way to life as officers with clipboards seated themselves in vehicles with mileages that could write a book telling stories the average person could not begin to imagine.  Sierra and Jackson have witnessed more unusual and bizarre incidents in their short careers then the average person would see in a lifetime.

Jackson sat behind the wheel; his young face etched in the concentration of the thoughts that saturated his mind.  "Yo ...what's up with the day dreaming," Sierra asked as she started the daily patrol log, starting with the vehicle’s mileage, "hey I thought you were in a rush for your caffeine fix?"

"Ya know something...there's something about them white boys...can’t put my finger on it, but for some reason I don't trust'em, and I don't lik’em...don’t ask me why I just don't."

"Duuuuh maybe because they don't like people like us...ya think?"

"No...  Besides that.  It's something that just ain't right.  They just got here and already I can't stand'em...ya know...just forget it I'm probably just tripping."

"Well can we trip over to the dinner and get some coffee before the bullshit starts?  I'll put us in service in ten minutes...so com'on already."

***

Samuel Richards sat behind a cluttered desk full of memos, directives, incident reports ,patrol logs, overtime sheets, and a ringing phone; agitated and annoyed he answered, "7th....Richards," he said exasperated, "ok let me check I'm gonna put you on hold," he said stabbing at the red button and slamming down the receiver.  "God damn it give me a break," he said  hanging up from the phone eyeing the three patrolmen including the sergeant; again a strange and unpleasant feeling emerged as the four gazed back at him waiting for him to brief them so they could belittle him in the privacy of closed doors.

"Four re-assignments why do I get all the...never mind," he thought to himself looking over the files on his desk.  "Edwards...when did you make rank?"

"About a mouth now."

"An you’re down here in the shit already...who'd ya manage to piss off?"  The man's face turned beet red as the senior sergeant eyed him sensing the man's resentment.

"You're gonna be holding things down as the relief supervisor when I'm not here so I suggest you get familiar with the system here.  We got a way of doing things here in the 7th, so you can throw all that other crap out the window.”  Edwards felt like an open book swallowing hard before speaking, "there was a misunderstanding that's all."

"That's not what I'm reading here...if you're trying to make a name for yourself here to take back to your good ol boys club I strongly suggest you don't...AM I clear?"

"Crystal."

"Fine the other side of the squad room through the double doors to the right set up shop....desk, locker, phone...all waiting for ya.  I'll be there in a minute to get you computer access.” 

Still steaming Edwards turned without responding as animosity and resentment coiled around him like a snake; having to answer to a black man only stoked the already burning anger.  "What was the department coming to," he thought to himself as he turned the doorknob to the small office that seemed barely large enough for a desk let along two.  Richards failed to mention he would be sharing the space with Sergeant E. Michaels.  Briefcase in hand he stared at the other desk in its neatly maintained area free of dust, file bens neatly stacked with other office supplies housed by a more modern desk compared to his.  Edwards looked over to the area that was to be his space.  The almost antique wooden desk covered in dust, old paint cans, brushes, and dirty rags made his blood boil keeping his face a constant shade of deep red.

“Oh I see you found your desk and everything ok I’ll get the janitor to get it cleaned up for ya," the corporal said holding back a snicker, "oh…the captain wants you to come and sign for your training date," the corporal’s heavily Latino accented voice said.  Shaking with anger he never turned around to face the corporal, and continued to speak with his back turned, "what training?"

"Oh they didn't tell you... anger management and diversity training," he said closing the door.  To add insult to injury not only was it embarrassing to him having his good ol boys see him tossed down to what he considered the slums; now he had to be told how to properly interact with those he considered beneath him.  "Damn it," could the day get any worse he thought to himself.

Back in Richards's office, the remaining three grew anxious; not knowing their fate; being re-assigned to a predominately-mixed community.

 "You three hold tight for a minute," Richards said getting up from his desk looking out the window into the parking lot," SONUVABITCH," he growled jetting out of the office leaving the three bewildered, moments later loud shouting could be heard from the window.  The three went to the open window to see what the commotion was.

"Get the hell outta this god damned lot before I crack your crack head ass skull,” he shouted to an individual dressed in winter clothing in the middle of summer.  The layers of dirt made it hard to distinguish the man's racial identity

"Ooooh if it isn't one of my missing slaves."

"Get your crazy ass up outta here," Richards bellowed loud enough for it to be heard by anyone in the area.  "Oh shit is this what we got to look forward to; working down here in the 7^th," Halaski asked looking at the others in disgust.

"What the hell is that?”  Barnes was horrified at the man's appearance.

"The hell if I know...I can't tell...it's a dirty bastard...I know that much."

"It's a crazy ass ...an I betcha there's a whole lot more of'em out there," Halaski said smirking

"Damn spades out there and in here...I'll be damned...if my great great grand daddy was alive this shit would kill'em for sure."

"Yeah well he's probably turning in his grave like the rest of our dead kin.  Damned hood coons in charge of shit...I'll be damned if I didn't have to...

"Ok everybody back to business," the sergeant said entering back into the office rubbing his knuckles. 

"What was that about," Wagner asked.

"Listen up...out here...watch your vehicles when ya work mid nights...that white boy out there has been known to try vandalize our cars...locked'em up a dozen times... stunk up the place to high heavens...couldn't get the smell out for weeks.  So now when we see'em around our cars we just tune'em up an he's on his merry way; real nut job...thinks he's in the 18th century...in colonial times... back on some plantation. I got his god damned slave alright," Richards growled.

"He's a white man," the three said in unison shocked and appalled. 

I hope you have enjoyed Another reality written for your 3rd eye where fact sounds like fiction and fiction sounds like fact

This was an excerpt from the 5 book series "To Resurrect and Avenge" 

now available at amazon.com   http://astore.amazon.com/wwwicosochch-20

Spirit of Revenge

Beneath a moonless sky stood a shanty tin roofed shack, rigidly boards marked seasons of spring, summer, fall, and winter.  Grass refused to occupy the soil only mud and animal manure.  A steamy August night in Louisiana seemed to magnify a climate of irritability.  The air was thick without movement.  Screams and voices could be heard coming from a dilapidated structure, “hold’em, me can’t mend’em if he keeps movin all over the place,” momma Tutu said in exasperation, as the women tried to pin the muscular shoulder against what was supposed to be a bed.  Blood soaked rags that once served as a shirt lay on the floor in a corner.  The lantern’s illumination held by Mae revealed angry open slashes across Rufus’s wide back; slick with sweat and blood.  The sight made her nauseous.   Turning her head from the open wounds she looked out the window into the gloom of night thinking to herself, “when’s it gonna be over, is this the life I have to look forward to; beatings for just talking bout freedom,” her thoughts quickly returned to Rufus’s loud groans of pain assaulting her ears.  The old root woman’s hands were as gentle as she could make them cleaning the dirt from the deep slashes down to where pink flesh peeked through.
“How many times me tell ya not to be saying things bout Lincoln’s plans round’em whip carrying crackers,” she said through gritted teeth as she seethed with anger.

“I hate’em...I hate’em all...beat me for having hope to live better,” he said between gasps and moans.  The salty tears that streaked his face became the conduit of hate; hate colored by rage that resided somewhere deep within him threatening to become air and spread among the others locked into an existence of servitude.

Methodically momma Tutu grounded the herbs between her teeth; thinking deeply about the young man’s words, feeling his deep-rooted anger.  She then spit the ground herbs into an old chipped cup then adding another ingredient mixing the two.  “Hold still Rufus this is gonna sting a little bit, but it’ll keep ya clean...so don’t no fever get in ya.”

“Momma Tutu...ya think we is gonna be free by that there thing they is talking bout from President Lincoln?”

 “Hush now...stupid gal.  Ain’t no paper gonna set you free and take away these white folks free labor,” Mae said in a resentful soft voice; as if afraid her words would escape outside.

 “Wasn’t talking to you… now was I,” the other woman shot back in defiance.

“Shut your holes you two,” barked a harsh voice coming from the doorway.  As they all looked up, towering in the door was Ed square jawed and big boned frame smelling of whiskey and cheap cigars.  Silence dominated the small shack.  “Ain’t gonna be no emancipation for you all, so...ya better shut your black holes for ya git some of what Rufus got… whipped that hide right good,” he laughed as Rufus trembled with rage.  The two women could feel the brewing anger as they kept him pended down.  Momma Tutu continued placing the herbs into the wounds ignoring the slave hand mocking them.      

“What’s that ya got there some more of that coon medicine, better brew up some more you all gonna be need’n it if ya keep thinking bout some emancipation gonna be setting loose free labor round these parts, ain’t never gonna happen.”
The intensity in the room began to thicken as the silence became deafening.  Momma Tutu’s breathing became deep and regimented as her body temperature began to rise in the already stiffening hot shack. 

“You really want to leave this room Mista...ain’t no cause to beat down the already beaten.” 

Ed froze at the woman’s words not sure how to respond.  Looking at her through the illumination of the oil lamp, she took on an un-natural look to him.  The black slick complexion and piercing eyes made him uncomfortable.  The others seemed to hold their breath waiting for the repercussion.  Ed pointed a finger at her half-laughing, “Ya know something...old niggra woman you lucky,” he said as he turned and left out of the shack.  Everybody let out a sigh of relief.

 “Why didn’t you just kill’em,” Rufus said in a harsh whisper, “I know you knowed something from where you came from...you is a fresh water African, ain’t no more like you.  You shoulda killed that cracker.” 

 “Jus hush, jus hush for you get us all whipped up good or even lynched, and throwed to the gators for talking like that,” Mae said.  Rufus seethed with anger as the spirit of revenge slowly rolled over him “I’m tired...I’m jus so tired,” he said turning his head to face the old healer.

 “I know you know how to make a man’s heart jus crush all up in his chest...I heard you done it before.”  Then suddenly as swift as sidewinder Momma Tutu’s hands grabbed the young man’s face startling Getty and Mae; never have they seen her move so fast.  Through clenched teeth, “don’t you ever talk bout things you know nothin bout boy... hear me, or I’ll snap ya like a twig.  None of ya...hear me.”

“Yes Ma’am,” they all responded in unison at once with an added touch of fear.  The old woman resumed dressing the remaining wounds becoming lost in her thoughts reflecting back to almost thirty years ago on another hot August night.  As the pages of time flipped pass the scene changed.

Down by the river trying to cool herself off one of the ranch hands staggered up, “wha’cha doing out here all by ya self girly...lookin for some company,” the man said leering at her as she attempted to back away.  You ain’t gone nowhere; not till ol Hank here gets some of that black stuff between them there legs...you is the only black tail I ain’t had yet,” he said with lust dripping from his mouth; his words slurred from the alcohol.  His staggered gait forced his prey back against the tree.  In fear, she trembled as the drunkard came closer.  She could smell the body odor mixed with sweat and the strong smell of whiskey.  Rotten teeth grinned at her,” please mister I ain’t trying to cause no trouble,” she pleaded as she watched him unbuckling his belt.

 “You damned right girly...just you be still an keep yer yap shut,” he said grabbing her pulling her to his stench filled mouth.   Twisting and turning her face away from him, he became rougher.
“Hold still damned ya.”  She struggled even more.  Tears rolling in streams down her cheeks, and then suddenly a large hand made contact with her face.  The open hand that struck her face seemed to echo through the night.  The sudden pain paralyzed her momentarily, and then another emotion quickly replaced her fear like a raging fire surging up through her sending her into an altered state of consciousness. She stopped struggling and became stern and ridged unmoving as the drunkard slave master’s field hand tried to wrestle her to the ground.  He found that he no longer possessed any power over her.  He froze for a minute, “what the hell is this,” he said steadying himself as she glared at him with eyes he’d never seen before,  suddenly he felt a strange and unusual sensation running through him as she just stared at him with the hatred of a hundred years coursing through her with her breathing becoming deeper.  Her mouth turned and twisted uttering words foreign and harsh.  The strange sensation turned to a throbbing and gripping pain that crept up through his legs; they trembled and shook, “what in god’s name is-“ Then his words were silenced as he dropped to the ground; mouth open with no words or sounds exiting it.  Bulging eyes spoke his pain as he grabbed for his privates.  “Please he managed to get out between the groans of pain.  It felt as though a fire had seared his entire genital area.  She just stood there unblinking unmoved by his pleads for help.  His words echoed of how he had taken what he wanted from the slave women; cruel and brutal dehumanizing them with no consequences for his actions. She thought of the heartless acts of cruelty against the women she loved.  She remembered the emptiness in their eyes.  “Heartless does as heartless is and you should be without one,” she thought over, and over in her mind watching the man now grabbing his chest convulsing in the dirt.  “Nobody can hear you now,” said a voice coming from her that did not belong to her, a spirit that had taken up residence in her.  She laughed a low guttural laugh at the dying man, then suddenly her own consciousness returned to her causing her to almost lose her balance; disoriented  and confused she looked down at the slump heap that death had claimed making him cold and rigid.  The man was still gripping his chest as fear gripped her again, only this time urging her to run as fast as she could.  When she finally came close to the old rundown shack, she was drenched in sweat and tears trailed beneath her chin.  The oldest of the young men standing outside seen her running.  Despite the darkness, his eyes were sharp as a hawk.  “What in hell is going on,” he said looking to see if she were being chased, but saw no one pursuing the girl.  An older woman came out, “Reese what is it?”

“Don’t rightfully know yet...looks like little momma.  As she came closer he could see the terror in her face and he began to run to meet her.  “What’s gotten into you?”
 Panting and crying her words were unintelligible.  By then the slaves had gathered around the frantic woman.  Babbling and making no sense one of the older women took her face between her hands calming her down where she could catch her breath. “What’s wrong child?”

 “I didn’t mean it...it just happened...he kept trying...he was trying,” then the tears started all over again as the young woman trembled.  “It was that Hank at it again...damned cracker,” Reese snapped spitting in disdain.

 “Where was ya at this time of night?  You can’t keep going down to the river...it ain’t safe wit them drunken slave hands around....girl I thought I done taught you better gal,” the older woman said in a vain attempt to calm her down,  “did he hurt ya any?”

 “No...I think he’s ...he’s dead,” she sobbed.  Silence fell heavily for a moment as questioning eyes looked at one another.  The terror that once belonged to little momma now belonged to everyone.  “Ooooh my lord child...they gonna kill us all dead.”

“It’s lynching time....”

 “Hush you all,” said a tall slender woman of her fifties.

“Reese you round up the men and go on down to the river see what’s going on,” she said in a hushed whisper as tension filled the hot humid night air sending streams of sweat to drench their cloths.

 No one spoke as their fear ate at them gnawing at their stomachs.  What would they find at the river?  What would the next day reveal?  Would it be the end of a rope or would it be something much more sinister and cruel?

Reaching the river the sight rushed into view; slumped over the ground.  The ashen grey remains stared off into the night; hand still clutching his chest with his belt buckle unfastened.  Just at his feet lay the empty whiskey bottle.  Everyone was speechless trying to ponder the events that led up to the man’s demise since the woman could give no clear details only hysterical sobbing.

 “Oh my sweet Jesus...”

“Hush up June boy...ain’t nothin sweet bout this here mess.”  The men moved closer to the corpse to get a closer look.  “What we spoosen to do bout dis...Huh?”

“Looks like his heart done gave out,” Reese said rubbing the stubble on his chin.

  “I say that ol cracker done got what he deserves look at him ...look at his pants all undone.  He was fixing to have his way with another one of our women...jus last month he gotta hold of Bessie… girl ain’t been right since...jus ruin’t.... I say good for the Sonuvabitch.”

“Shut your pie hole fool before somebody hears us.”

 “Ain’t nobody out here but us.”

“Both of ya shut it...now.  I can’t hear myself think,” Reese snapped.

 “If we weight him down good...”

“NO...we gotta make it look like an accident...like he was swimming to cool himself off and got caught by the current and drowned.  Just take his clothes off hang’em up on that branch.  June boy you keep an eye out...Billy help me get his clothes off.  Jiff you get a branch and dust away all these foot prints and everything, hear me boy everything and don’t leave nothing.”

 “Good lord he stinks...ol dirty bastard.”

“Stop ya yakking and just get’em undressed we gotta make it look like he drowned before anybody comes looking for’em.”

“Alright Reese,” the younger man grumbled resenting the authoritative control.  Within minutes, they had the body undressed and the cloths hung over the tree’s branch.  The silence of the night was almost as un-nerving as the incidents itself; as all manner of nocturnal creatures became silent, witnessing events unfold.

“That ol cracker done messed wit da wrong one.  They always said there was something different about little momma.   Gal got some kinda power we all ain’t never seen the likes of before...now it done come out...that ol cracker won’t be grabbing no more colored women,” Jiff said wiping the sweat from his brow.

I hope you have enjoyed Another reality a place for the 3rd eye to indulge
This was an excerpt from the Cultural-Sy series "To Resurrect and Avenge" Book 1 you can visit www.wix.com/soyinkaiyabo/chasochronicals  or  to watch the book trailer

http://astore.amazon.com/wwwicosochch-20

available at amazon.com

The Metal Threat

Down town pandemonium erupted as metal crashing against metal sent screams into the air as bodies scattered fleeing from the 50-ton bulldozer that had seemed to have developed a mind of its own as it rammed unsuspecting vehicles and caused massive damage to parked cars, and oncoming traffic.  An over turned minivan lay on its side pushed against a fire hydrant; the geyser of water added to the already chaotic and frenzied scene with mounting confusion.  Several vehicles disabled by the rampaging construction vehicle made it difficult for emergency responders to get into the area; therefore the metal menace continued on its destructive reign crashing into anything that lie in its path.  Plate glass windows shattered as flying debris stabbed through the glass injuring the customers of stores, shops, and grocers.  Personal belongings littered the sidewalks and street.  Twisted metal signs laid across parked cars pushed up against one another while the driver of the bulldozer shifted to reverse backing over dozens of bicycles.  Terrified screaming pedestrians scrabbled to get out of the way.  Suddenly the bulldozer shifted forward pushing over a traffic light.  Sparks flickered as it leaned in an awkward angle before crashing down to the street sending puffs of smoke into the air.  Several people remained trapped in mangled vehicles.  Anguished cries for help only egged the bulldozer on as it plowed into more vehicles.  One vehicle’s window was smeared with blood. 

Several attempts made by pedestrians to jump on to the bull Dozier to remove the operator failed; confronting  what sat behind the controls of the machine was an affront to nature.  Something that possessed a human body sat behind the controls, but its eyes gave the appearance of something unearthly, as the eyes were void of life in their sockets glaring out at the horrified.  A young man who leaped onto the metal menace in an attempt to dislodge the operator made another attempt.  Shock and disbelief had frozen him in place.  A cold stone like hand lightning fast grabbed the man's throat like a vice.  For that short period, the young man literally looked into the face of death before being flung from the bulldozer.  Again, the machine backed up from mangled metal and turned to ram an approaching police car that had managed to circumvent the mass of tangled wreckage by jumping the curb driving down the sidewalk.  "Wha'da fuck...this is unit 22 on 3rd and Bakersfield road...I got a priority.  Oh my god-” The bulldozer’s huge metal scoop crashed down on the top of the cruiser after ramming it with unnatural speed.  Glass exploded everywhere striking pedestrians and emergency responders.  Horrified on lookers watched as the vehicle looked as though it were being pushed into the ground taking the cop inside with it despite the rounds fired in a futile attempt to stop and unstoppable foe.  His screams died away under the commotion of the screaming pedestrians. In the distance, more sirens could be heard approaching the catastrophic scene as dispatchers shouted for additional units.

"Oh shit did you hear that," she said in mid stride returning to the cruiser with Jackson on her heels, and his ear almost glued to the radio's speaker.  Jumping into the cruiser Jackson flipped the switch for the blue strobe lights and sirens.  "Something real ugly is going on," she said reaching for the radio's mic to respond as the cruiser's tires screeched around the corner almost on two wheels.  "Damn don't get us smashed up before we get there."

"I got this," Jackson replied concentrating on the traffic ahead to avoid any vehicles slow to move from the cruisers right of way. An air horn accompanied the flashing lights and sirens aggressively signaling the cruiser’s immediate approach, and to make way.  "MOVE damn it...don't you hear all this shit?"

"They hear...they think their gonna get a case if we hit'em."

"Yeah they gonna get more than a case...stupid sonuvabitches gonna get dead with all this metal running up their dumb asses."

"All units approaching the vicinity of 3rd and Bakersfield Road exercise extreme caution individual armed with a bulldozer one unit down with pedestrian casualties," the radio blared a second time.  A block and a half away and the chaos could be seen.

"Oh shit," Sierra said staring at the massive pile up of cars and trucks scattered around looking as if they had been dropped from the sky surrounding the bulldozer.

"We're gonna have to foot it...this is as close as we're going to get," Jackson said glancing up at the news helicopters that had joined the grim scene.  The bulldozers engine roared as its operator gunned the accelerator.  To the far left, the smashed cruiser seemed to beckon to the cops.  "Shit...we gotta get to that car."  Seconds later, more of the 7th district cars pulled up as close as they could to the scene.  The injured were removed from the area while cops attempted to proceed to the cruiser mangled beyond recognition, but with lightning speed, the bulldozer maneuvered itself in their direction preparing to ram them; chasing them back behind the wreckage of the other cars.  Again, they tried from another angle careful not to alert its operator.  A hushed crowd waited in anticipation.   Only the roar of the bulldozer’s engine dominated the ground below while helicopters hovered overhead adding to the urgency of the scene.  Closer the men and women in blue crept; cuffs and keys held in place in an attempt in silencing the clink of metal.  Radios were turned completely down, and breaths were held.  Sierra swallowed hard not knowing what she would be greeted with once she approached the mangled wreckage.  "RUN," a voice shouted out.  The swift turn of the bulldozer’s scoop almost caught Jackson as he dove out of the way.  Hot asphalt biting into his hands and knees caused a string of curses to erupt from his mouth.  "Yo man...you ok," a firefighter asked helping him from the ground.  Soon police supervisors were on location setting up their command center.  The intersection was now gridlocked; a standoff between cops and machine filled the atmosphere with eeriness.  Despite the open view of the bulldozer, its operator’s identity remained a mystery.  The only person that saw him was unconscious.

 "What the hell is this," barked lieutenant George Morison while cops and firefighters were desperately trying to devise a plan of rescue. Not knowing the cop's condition made everyone anxious.  "Has anyone heard a radio contact from him?  What is his status...is he dead, alive...what, and what the hell is in the driver's seat...and why can't we get the SONUVABITCH outta there?  What the hell are all of you standing around for," the lieutenant snarled through gritted teeth looking around at the chaos," get these civilians outta here!"

"Sir...their here because ...well...they can't leave...just yet."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because these are all their vehicles and they’re witnesses," the sergeant said pointing around to the wreckage of cars becoming more and more exasperated by the second; with all the questions he had to stop and answer while his men were trying to reach the trapped cop.    “Asshole," the sergeant thought to himself walking away.  "Sergeant...get a paramedic up here...we gotta get that cop outta there; that's if he's even still alive."

"Sir...we gotta get him cut outta there first of all and second; the sonuvabitch won't even let us get close to him... let alone get a paramedic in there," he said growing angry.

"You better get somebody to go in there and get that man outta there," Morrison called after him as the sergeant continued to ignore his demands.  "Damn asshole with fucking gold bars."

"Hey Serg the only way I see to fix this problem is to get a clean shot in...maybe we can nick'em...slow'em down," Jackson said with Sierra nodding in agreement.  "It's gonna take to long to get sharp shooters down here; swat's on the other side of the city on a job at a drug house."

"Why can't we do it," a southern drawn voice said coming from behind them, "I can hit that ass from fifty yards," she said turning all the attention to herself.  Standing there 5 ft 10, 170 lbs, and solid mass the 19-year veteran from Sheldon South Carolina unsnapped her holster.  "Now just wait a minute Max the department is still on the hot seat from the last shooting," the lieutenant said, and then all of a sudden the bulldozer that had been sitting motionless roared to life turning in their direction.  "Oh shit."

 A floored accelerator marked the four of them to be the next target.  Scrambling for their lives with hats, nightsticks and handcuffs flying in numerous directions they barely escaped the deadly menace.  "That's it I'm gonna pop that wild cat," she said drawing her 9 mm from her holster from behind an over turned truck where they had taken cover.  Three consecutive shots rang out stunning everyone the operator of the bulldozer fell limp slumping over the controls. 

"You got'em...damn woman...you da shit," Jackson said in awe.

"Good shoot Max.  OK...let’s go check out what we got here," the sergeant said, but no sooner than he could turn around criticism reared its ugly head, "cease fire god damn it who fired their weapon?"

"Max did sir...she took out the threat."

"That was an unarmed civilian!!!!"

"I beg your pardon sir but that unarmed civilian was armed with a fucking bulldozer trying to ram us," she said fuming, "I used the necessary force needed to stop the immediate threat SIR," she bellowed out standing toe to toe with the lieutenant; un-intimidated by the man's rank.  Jackson and Sierra stood off to the side watching in total disbelief before they joined the others in attempting to free the cop from the mangled cruiser.

"Morrison's an asshole all week," Sierra said clearing away some of the debris.

"Yeah SONUVABITCH coulda at least taking a day off from being an asshole today," Jackson responded.

"That's what you get when ya only think about your own ass...I guess.  What a dick head." 

Finally Morrison stopped arguing with the seasoned street cop; realizing he was getting nowhere.  "Officer I want a use of deadly force report before the end of your shift."

"Fine...it beats being dead," she snapped walking away.  Feeling defeated frustrated and embarrassed Morrison looked for another outlet to vent on; walking over to cops, firefighters, and medics working diligently to free the cop from the mangled cruiser, "I want this mess cleaned up ASAP."  For a minute, everyone stopped and looked at the police supervisor as if he had two heads and went back to working.  The sergeant stepped away from the cruiser wiping sweat from his face, "We can't do that sir...not right now anyway."

"And why's that sergeant?"

"Sir this is a crime scene."

Thanks for taking the time to visit Another reality.  I hope you enjoyed this excerpt from the 

Cultural-Sy novel To Resurrect & Avenge Book one. You can visit me at  

www.wix.com/soyinkaiyabo/chaoschronicals
also available at amazon

The Desecration

On a cloudy and overcast day at what appeared to be blocks of empty vacant land and a neighboring cemetery tension and malice loomed overhead. A frustrated crowd standing along Rosa Parks Boulevard fed up with bureaucratic red tape, and dishonest politicians who constantly took advantage of the underprivileged for their own means stood by restlessly watching and waiting to see what additional propaganda would be propagated before the community and media in a small parish on the out skirts of Monroe Louisiana. 

A history of false truths seemed to have paved the way for inequality in housing, job availability and a soaring crime rate accompanied by a ruthless police force with a pension for excessive force.  A failing health care system spawned over crowded hospitals with insensitive doctors, nurses, and staff that set the stage for malpractice suits that drug in an out of corrupt courts while lives were ruined or lost.  Now the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back set in motion the second largest protest since the civil rights era almost sixty years ago was now in full swing.  The desecration of a 18th century Negro cemetery connecting to the Underground Railroad outraged and appalled the community. Heightened emotions flooded the city making not only local news, but national and international news as well.  News van after news van crammed into the parking accommodations provided for them while police stood by eagerly awaiting the opportunity to ticket and tow the media covering such a historical event that would eventually expose illegal and corrupt activities between politicians, police and land developers.

"400 hundred years...what more can they do to us...that they haven’t done already," the woman's magnified voice boomed through a megaphone standing in the path of a bulldozer.  A dozen cameras zoomed in on her with boom mics extended capturing every word.

 "They have stolen this land the same way they have stolen from the red people.  They have killed us and we have returned through the next generation...they have killed us again and we return in the following generation.  What is there to fear?  They have killed off our leaders, but their spirits are with us by way of the ancestors.  They have already taken from you...what more do you have to lose," she said continuing to inspire and excite her fellow protesters as more joined the ranks. 

"Sisters and brothers there is blood in the land we stand on.  The memory of our ancestors along with their remains lies in this ground.  We must respect their burial grounds.  Have they not given their blood...their sweat and tears in for this soil?"

"That's right our ancestors deserve better...the right to rest in peace," a man's voice shouted as he chained himself to another, and that person to another all linking themselves together combing flesh, and steel as their ancestors had been aboard slave ships. 

"You will no longer desecrate the remains of our ancestors or defile the ground in which they rest in," another woman shouted. 

The crowd gathered around the construction vehicles blocking their way to do any further damage to the cemetery.  "This is a historic site that must be preserved it has that right," she said. 

Eeriness lingered in the air. Illegally exhumed graves revealing decrepit wooden boxes containing the remains of the dead and up rooted trees created a dark atmosphere of malice. 

The University's forensic archaeologist department had already inspected, and carbon dated the site reaching the conclusion that the remains were more than three hundred years old, and of West African ancestry, and recommended preservation of the site.  Professor Moreni Ngosi head Louisiana State University of the department of anthropology stood by watching the events unfolding before her eyes wondering when the police's patience would wear thin with the obstruction of their new police administration complex;  a site that had become real estate for the taking. Adjoining row houses to the cemetery where so many were forced or swindled out of their homes by developers years prior to the present event contributed to the community’s resentment.  Moreni Ngosi continued watching the smug expressions of those in blue.  A look of contempt blanketed their faces as the speaker continued to spew out venomous, but accurate comments in regards to African descendants' turbulent history since coming in contact with whites at home and abroad.  Her words were like a double-edged blade cutting indiscriminately.  Professor Ngosi knew the young woman spoke the truth, even in Nigeria the African American's history was a sensitive topic.  She feared for the young woman's life. 

"How long do we have to listen to these porch monkeys," she overheard a cop say to his partner.

"Until we get the word...alright so stop your freaking wining."

"Well it would be nice to have a new H.Q. instead of that piss hole for a district house," he said as the two leaned against the cruiser with folded arms across their chest like the rest of their co-workers the majority being white; their black counter parts reassigned to lesser details.

 Despite the hot and humid temperatures she could not help but feel an icy chill in the air; the mounting tension from the police and the growing frustration from the community created all the makings for a violent out come.  “The university's board of directors could pull the plug on the project at any given time; depending on the politics," she thought to herself.

"Hey professor Ngosi," a voice said shaking her from her thoughts; turning around she saw Officer Sierra Sheldon a seven  year veteran that earned her reputation as a female Malcolm X and Angela Davis all rolled in one; a intelligent, assertive and conscious police officer.  She withstood the onslaught of racism and sexism like a damn holding back a river of ignorance from patrolmen to supervisors; intelligently putting them all in place.  Her first year was equivalent to hurricane Hazel.  One visit to a Lukumi root woman, and a Harvard University educated attorney resulted in a lucrative law suit against the department with three patrol officers and supervisor terminated extinguished any further harassment and a hands off policy.  Sierra Sheldon pretty much came and went as she pleased. 

"Well...look who it is...my favorite cop."

"Yo what’s up girlfriend?"

"I am so glad to see you ...I tell ya your co-workers make me nervous.  Is it necessary for them to be so...I don't even know the words for it?"

"You mean racist," Sierra laughed.  Without warning, her radio crackled with the dispatcher's voice interrupting them.  "Excuse me," she said sensing something about to take place.  An uncomfortable feeling settled down in her stomach.  "Hey...it looks like it's about to get ugly out here...you might wanna roll; a dispatch just came down from the chief...they want the crowd dispersed."
The loud boisterous command echoed with intimidation and hostility coating each word.

"You are to immediately disperse from the area or be arrested."  In less than thirty seconds police were donning gas mask. 

"I'm going back to the lecture hall where I belong.  I'll talk to you later be safe Sierra," she said heading for her vehicle,” let me know how everything turns out…you know how the media likes to edit out the truth."

"Oh I know that’s right, it's not gonna be a walk in the park...I'll tell ya that much," Sierra said looking at the vulnerable houses in the distance knowing how far the wind can carry the air born irritants.  It was summertime and most poor people did not have air conditioning which meant being trapped inside a hot box or choking on tear gas deployed in a densely populated area.  She knew how cruel those could be tossing tear gas canisters into and beyond the crowd knowing the wind could pick up at any given time.  "This is bull shit...they ain't gotta go there like that," she said while donning her mask.  The first canister popped rolling toward the protesters that were already dispersing the area.  The bluish white smoke sprayed out, and then pandemonium broke out as protesters and on lookers made a run for it as stinging eyes impaired their vision.  Some blinded by the gas ran headlong into police wheedling plexi-glass shields.  Instantly extendable batons dropped helpless protesters to the ground where boots found their way to torsos and other exposed body parts.  Spurting blood sprayed the ground as cries of agony rang out in the air.  Screaming women hysterical over children falling under the shields of the police as they tried to flee drew news cameras to film cruelty fueled by anger over the activist’s words of truth.  Even through the tear gas and chaos, the woman's words continued through the megaphone cutting like hot blades through butter.  Sierra was amazed at how the young woman had managed to evade the blows of the batons and continue her fiery speech; now flagrantly criticizing the boys in blue referring to them as closeted white sheet wearing Klan descendants; infuriating them further.

 "Yo what are you doing," Sierra yelled watching a co-worker unsnapping the holster of his weapon.  She caught his arm in a deadly death grip," there's no need for that...they're just trying to get away from the gas."  When the two looked up a host of cameras were rolling film  with lightning speed her hand reached up and snatched the officer's mask off his face in front of the cameras.

"COWARD hiding behind a mask and badge like the Klan did with our ancestors hundreds of years ago,” said the angry voice through the megaphone.

"Fuck," the exposed cop growled trying to hide his face; caught in the act of drawing his weapon on an unarmed man overcome with tear gas.  Sierra quickly lost herself within the crowd rendering assistance along with the medics that had finally arrived at her request.  As the gas began to dissipate so did the commotion as most of the protesters had managed to flee, but not un-scaved.  However, there were those who bravely fought back and were either hospitalized and or arrested, but to Sierra’s surprise, there was no sight of the outspoken young woman activist despite checking all the police wagons there was no hide nor hair of her.  "I'll be damned," she said to herself feeling perplexed and bewildered lost in her thoughts.  "Hey buddy...what’s ups...it was a real bitch out there with that full moon...got these Klan boys off the chain.  I knew I shoulda stayed the hell home."

"No shit...did you see that shit?"

"No what?"

"Fucking Wagner...that bitch was ready to shoot somebody," she said leaning over whispering, "I had to stop his dumb ass; snatched his mask off right in front of the cameras...dumb ass didn’t know it was me.  Two can play at those games," she said laughing as the two slapped five.  The area began to clear out as news vans and choppers returned to their news rooms; with the latest on how the city's finest conducted themselves at a civil  protest; an already bad reputation hung over the department like a dark storm cloud.  Now an officer's face featured on the evening news in the process of drawing his service weapon on a helpless protester created a continuation of open hostility, and criticism toward the department and not excluding the mayor’s office.  Overwhelmed the mayor's secretary and administration assistants were bombarded with incoming calls from City Council members to State Reps.  The phones never ceased ringing.  The press congregated outside the prestigious office with cameras and microphones at the ready.  The hallways remained congested as security struggled with distinguishing press from average citizens who had come to complain about the fiasco.

I hope you enjoyed an excerpt from "To Resurrect & Avenge"  written with with consciousness in mind.  Another reality continues to keep your 3rd eye fed with thought provoking articles and speculative and historic fiction.  To read more visit www.wix.com/soyinkaiyabo/chaoschronicals 

Momma Tutu

“Serve your slave masters well an when you die you will be rewarded in heaven,” his voice boomed as if it were magnified; while Getty mimicked the de-humanizing words craning her scrawny neck around to glare at the field slaves.

 By now something other was making its way on to the physical plain; something of spirit; something of a fiery nature, something invoked to protect those descendants of very powerful and ancient ancestors. 

The more the good reverend Windwood preached his fire and brimstone sermon demeaning the field slaves the more offended the Congolese Nkisis spirit became.  The more verbally abused they were, the more the powerful Nkisis spirit rose up in anger. On and on the good reverend Windwood ranted his fire and brimstone sermon, then suddenly the painting of the crucifixion of Jesus fell from the wall.  The field slaves trembled with anger and resentment; knowing within their spirit, they were to be no servant to any man. The sermon paused momentarily; taking notice of the falling painting one of the ushers removed it from the floor.

“The lord wants obedience and no other heathen gods shell be worshiped before him,” he shouted pointing to the field slaves causing the rest of the congregation to turn and glare hateful looks.  Again, the air filled with tension bordering on hostility.

“Some house of the lord this is,” Buck muttered, “they about a second away from lynching us...even if we is somebody’s property.”

“You nigras hush ya pie holes while the reverends preaching,” one of the ushers growled.

“Damned slaves oughta have they own nigra church, and not in here wit good Christian white folk.” 

 Mae bit down on her lip until it bled trying to hold her tongue while she held tight to her high John root. 

“It’ll be over soon, “ol man Reese whispered.

“Not soon enough...Indians snuck up outta here before it got started...lucky,” Buck grumbled. Momma Tutu seemed to be the only one unaffected by the sermon as she stood quietly with closed eyes; giving the appearance she could be standing up sleep, but little did they realize she was fighting hard to keep Zarabonda from lashing out.  In her mind, she was in another world as Zarabonda spoke to her inner ear.  He re-affirmed thoughts that had previously visited her mind thoughts that were horrible in nature.  Zarabonda revealed images to her mind’s eye concerning Missy the master, and the good reverend Windwood.  A flood of imagery poured over her making her nauseated.  The wickedness of the good reverend Windwood and Ebeneezer Everts was unlike anything she had ever seen before.  The images were almost maddening, but she withstood them, and their extent of their evil.  Her legs buckled almost dropping her to the floor.  Reese and Manny steadied her, “the heat must be getting to her,” Manny said.

“Ain’t no heat can get to a pure blood Congo woman...them visions she be having...now hush up,” Reese whispered as the hell storm sermon went own. 

“We all need to pray sisters and brothers...pray for our president’s salvation of his soul...because disobeying the lord, and setting nigras free, he has doomed our great nation to HELL.  Pray sisters and brothers...pray to Jesus for the confederate south to be strong...pray for them godless heathens to find Jesus and be good slaves...pray for our brothers and sister that suffered from the slave revolts that left good Christian plantations in ashes.”

“YES JESUS,” a voice from the congregation cried out.

“Let no man steel from the lord,” the reverends voice bellowed out.

“That’s right rev...Let no man undo what god has ordained not even the president of this United States...amen,” a man’s voice barked.  The congregation had become so excited with the reverend’s hell and brimstone sermon it was like a wild animal catching the scent of blood in the air.  Whispers wishing Lincolns demise flowed around from the various pews, “they need a rope for that no good vermin,” another voice spoke from the front of the congregation.  Intentions of violence filled the air like smoke from an erupting volcano as the good reverend Windwood’s words fueled the hatred.  Hooping and hollering in the name Jesus ensued with hand clapping, and feet stomping to the chants of amen save the south sweet Jesus.  The congregation was so excited and riled up that they had forgotten all about the slaves in the back of the church.  By now, Getty and the master's children had begun to feel uncomfortable. Having never seen the whites in such a state of mind, the closer it came to Lincoln's emancipation the stranger their behavior became, as true feelings revealed themselves.

"These white folk is smelling blood in the name of their god," Momma Tutu said; snapping from her trance.  "I say we need to get the hell outta here...they is a split second from a lynching," Buck whispered nervously motioning them all to the door.  It was not difficult to slip out un-noticed.

Back at the slave quarters, Momma Tutu sat in silence rethinking the events of the morning as did everyone else.  "Is that what a good god fearing Christians is suppose to be like," Maggie asked shaking her head," they ain't no better then rapid dogs...calling us heathens...they just as evil as the night's long."

"I can't take no more of those words of the lord," Buck said laughing to himself.

"I don't know how those dimwits in the master's house do it...them white folk hate them just as much as us, and they sit up there Sunday after Sunday sucking it all up," Mae said in disgust.

"I even heard that oldest dimwit spouting off like that reverend Windwood; call'em self preaching to the others ....craziest thing ya ever wanna hear; a house slave imitating a country preacher putting down his own kind," Reese said noticing Momma Tutu's despondent look," you alright? Ya scared us for a minute there...ya having another one of them visions wasn't ya?"

"Yelp, and it was mighty powerful...them folks is something evil...offended Zarabonda to no end...took all the strength I had to keep'em back...I is still feeling a bit winded.  He woulda tore that place apart!"

"I saw the picture fall from the wall," Mae said.

"Wasn't no falling...it was knocked from where it hung.  So much wickedness up in that place....Zarabonda saw them white folk...all of them and how they’d rather see us dead than freed....and that girl Missy....I feel sorry for the girl...she got the devil's seed growing in her belly."  Everyone gasped at the old woman's words.  "What you be saying?"

"I be saying she got the seed of that evil preacher up in her.  Poor girl been passed back and forth between the master's bed and the good reverend Windwood's bed.  Master's seed wouldn't take ...him being all sickly and everything," Momma Tutu said with disgust twisting her face, "make me feel unclean just talking bout it."

"Me too...been feeling something awful every since setting foot in that church," Rufus complained.  It was not long before they all complained of ailments and bad feelings. 

"That's the evilness in them words they be preaching...pure evil that just grabs a hold of ya.  Me people called such evil the Bucra; an evil thing birthed from hate," Momma Tutu said turning down her mouth and frowning as though she tasted something sour.

“Ain't nothin but one thing for us to do...we gotta get cleaned from the white man's evil on us...cause if we don't it'll just eat us alive bit by bit eating us from the inside...all kinds of sickness be on ya before ya knowed it."

"Like the Massa?"

"Yelp ...just lik’em."  They all cringed at Momma Tutu's vivid description as she went on.

“When the owl hoots we‘ll meet in our special place, and you all knowed what to bring."

"Momma Tutu....I hate to say it but something's telling me we is gonna need a little more than just some roots and all....remember what we all talked about? You saw how riled up they was in that church...it ain't gonna be long...we gotta be prepared to make a move.  We is gotta protect ourselves."

“Reese is right I knowed about a path that leads up in the hills to those red people's village...them ones that don't come down to here, and they ain't friendly wit whites either.  They know we is here and that one day we is gonna run away...and they know they is the only ones we can run too."

"I heard it was some slaves living up in them hills already from other plantations after the uprisings," Buck said.

"Is that right? Well why ain't we gone," Rufus said impatiently.

"Just hush boy, ain't time yet," Momma Tutu snapped, "tonight just bring what ya need," she said in a whisper as they all dispersed from the shack.

An imminent sense of danger cloaked the descending night while an undeniable resentment filled the air with hostility all stemming from the good reverend Windwood's Sunday morning sermon of superiority and supremacy only hours ago. 

What was it about those who came from across the ocean in chains stripped of everything they owned; doomed to a life of misery providing comfort and wealth for those that spilled the blood of the original inhabitants.  Laboring from sunrise to sunset day in and day out; seven days a week was their blight.  Was it the determination of dreams of freedom?  Was it the desire to exist in a humane existence that fueled such animosity and resentment from whites to the point of unspeakable acts of cruelty and inevitable violence that set the stage for an imminent demise?

 Finally, the owl’s hoot echoed through the night catching the ear of those who sat in anticipation of invoking the powerful Congo spirit.  One by one, they all slipped off carrying their meager belongings and farming tools with sharp or blunt edges. They all blended into the night. The full moon hung low in the sky with a hint of red around its outer edges as if to suggest some catastrophic event approaching.  

Again, they seated themselves around the fire giving thanks for the little they did have and to be able to pay homage to the creator in their ancestral way despite the fire and brimstone sermon’s threats of physical violence from those who hated and feared them.  Their prayers to the powerful Nkisis spirit asked for safety, protection, salvation, and to be delivered from the cruelty of those who would see them dead before setting them freed.  They prayed to be relieved of an existence of torment and misery.  They prayed to the Congo spirit to be cleansed from evil that had tainted their spirits upon entering the white's place of worship.  Again, roots found their way into the fire sending the pungent smoke into the air.  The spirit's mantra echoed repeatedly.  Small rattles and other items that served as handmade instruments kept a steady and hypnotic beat enticing them to dance around the flames that demanded more of the pungent roots and herbs.  Soon the wind made her presence felt as she whipped at the flames.  Dark clouds made their way to block the moon's illumination.  An entire atmosphere became charged with something ancient and primordial as another presence ripped through the material plain washing over everything like a vast ocean. 


I hope you enjoyed an excerpt from "To Resurrect & Avenge "
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As usual I'm writing from the 3rd eye for your 3rd eye in Another reality 

The Children of Banjul Part 2

 An explosion of anger threw Mazula into a fit of rage hearing the bitter truth.  Grabbing a torch from the wall it grew as if the king’s anger was increasing its size.  The flame danced wildly as it took on Mazula’s malevolent spirit. Over and over he struck the warrior with its flames biting at his skin as he ranted and raved foaming from the mouth like some wild rapid animal terrifying the council until Zaire fell beneath the savagery.   

“Your majesty you’ll kill him how will he serve as the sacrifice if he is plundered to a pulp,” his trusted advisor said to him snapping him from the rage that revealed the beast within.  Throwing the torch to the floor it returned to its normal size, “take this dog from my sight… to the dungeons with him and at the rise of the jackal’s moon he’ll enter hell’s gates.”

Bruised and battered sprawled out on the dungeon’s floor human waste and filth surrounded him as rats ran across him.  Quickly gathering himself swatting the rats from his body he then backed away from the unidentifiable filth.  As he further gathered his composure he attempted to gain his bearings as he noticed his cell seemed to be isolated away from the others as he found it unusual to be the only prisoner in Mazula’s dungeons.  However in the distance he could hear horrible screaming.
 “The man beast is no doubt satisfying his unholy appetite with the suffering of others.”  Pacing back and forth testing the fortitude of his cell a bitter conclusion and realization almost dampened the warrior’s spirit. “Think…think there is a way out of this god forsaken place.  I will not fall prey to Mazula’s blood lust,” he declared finding a place on the floor suitable enough for him to make himself comfortable as fatigue compelled him to close his tired eyes.  But the horrible screaming went on snatching sound sleep from him, and then suddenly there was silence.  “Poor soul… may his ancestors guide him into the light to cross over to the kingdom of the dead to be with his honorable ancestors… for god has been merciful to him to allow death to take him from his suffering,” he prayed as sleep finally embraced him.

“Warrior…warrior you must escape before they come for you,” the faint whispers urged slowly stirring him from his hard earned slumber.  Looking through the darkness at nothing he stood up,” who is it that calls out?  Is this place cursed playing upon my mind robbing me of my sanity, or have my dreams become torturous…leave me be evil of Mazula.”

“It is not the will of the ancestors for you to parish in this place…the guards they come for you… I will do what I can to help you,” the disembodied voice said,

“Who are you…are you a ghost of this place trapped here?”

“Only one of many I have just passed over I heard your prayers for me…thank you for relieving me of those sufferings.  I will not see you suffer at the hands of Mazula’s evil.  Your words were the first holy words this place has ever heard.  Mazula’s guard are just as twisted as their king.  They will come to torture you and to break your spirit for the sacrifice.  Quickly position yourself to have the advantage then I will do what I can.  You must do the rest.  Take the guard’s tunic and helmet and make as one of them and I will show you the way out of this place, but you will have to survive the crossing waters …it is an evil place with many water ways and they are filled with many horrors thanks to Mazula’s wickedness.  I must warn you your chances may be slim to none in the shadow waters.”

“I’ll take my chances…my destiny is not to be another sacrifice of the man beast who claims himself a king,” Zaire vowed strategically positioning himself for the element of surprise.  The heavy footsteps of the guard echoed in the distance as he concealed himself in the darkness blending in listening intently for the sounds that would spur him into action.  With the heavy cell door swinging open the moment was quickly seized as bodies slammed against the cold dungeon walls breaking bones adding to the blood stained cell.

“Quickly...you will need weapons and disguise yourself as one of them,” the disembodied voice reminded him.  Immediately Zaire clothed himself as one of the king’s guards.

“Follow the passages where the air is the purest.  There you will find a hidden passage way out.  It’s where the guards snuggle out the bodies of women who died at the hands of the beast’s depraved pleasures.   Their bodies are taken to be exposed of at the water’s crossings a cursed place that has now become the shadow waters.  You must hurry I can help you no longer the fates they come for me to judge my soul,” the voice said fading away.

“Thank you,” Zaire said with gratitude.

It wasn’t long before Zaire was out of the citadel, but what awaited him was equally dangerous.  The crossing of the shadow waters; water ways that proved to be unearthly no man ever dared entering the watery realm of the dead for fear of drowning in the shallowest depths of water. Zaire made his way from the citadel through the forest with the ground beneath his feet becoming ever so moist as the earth signaled he was coming closer to the watery place where not even aquatic life existed.  With every step taken he felt as though the earth was in protest of his very presence.  Despite the chill that clung in the air he sweated fiercely struggling to go on through the marsh-like land.  “This place is cursed,” the wind whispered in his ear carrying a foul stench,” are you cursed as well warrior?”
 Zaire dared not to stop fearing the ground would swallow him whole.  “I am Zaire of Banjul son of Jakuta and no curses fall upon my head,” he retorted as the mud began to thin out becoming something that resembled water.

“You trudge through the tears of many…be warned trespasser trespassing in this place will be your end,” the wind whispered.  As he glanced down into the water he could not believe his eyes as a woman’s mutilated body seemed to have faded into view and then became evasive from his sight.  “Mazula’s victims,” he growled as the water became deeper in some places.  As he shook the image from his mind’s eye the ground became solid where he found his footing again where he rested briefly.  Looking around through the light of the full moon the marsh seemed as if it would go on forever in all directions with the water reflecting the moon. Then a strange and hideous sound pierced the still night; a howling that became louder turned his blood cold. 

“The jackals’ moon,” he whispered grabbing the curved blade that hung at his side.  With his heart racing he looked out on to the vast waste with confusion taunting him, how long have I been in this madness…which way is out,” he said desperately.

“It does not matter warrior…killer of maidens.”

“I am no killer of women,” he shouted offended at the accusation,” I grow weary of these accusations,” he shouted again.

“Liar…you wear the stench of woman’s blood on your clothing you carry the dagger that has drank the blood of many a virtuous woman,” the wind whispered as a hand from the water grabbed at his ankle; quickly he shook the disembodied hand from his ankle and began running deeper into the shadow waters without direction or bearings. Soon the water rose up to his waist and then his chest.  His efforts to swim in the cursed waters were almost thwarted as a dozen hands grabbed on to him pulling him under. His lungs began to burn as he fought to reach the surface of the water; with the blade in his hand he swung frantically at the apparitions pulling him deeper into the water.

In another place not far from the citadel the exiled and displaced gathered around a small fire in regret remembering how their land was transformed into a place of sorrow and oppression by the cold and heartless Mazula who believed in nothing; slaughtering at will those who occupied the once tranquil land for the riches the earth blessed them with.  Brutalizing enslaving, and dehumanizing many for what he perceived to be an affront to the natural law they were captured for their spiritual essence; for no commoner was worthy to possess such a power.  Suffering had taken up residence as anguish dominated the once serene land.   Afraid to leave the safety of their homes they were nothing more than prisoners within their own land until they fled Banjul once a place of abundance; now nothing more than a wasteland that held painful memories.   

Thankful for escaping the king’s oppressive rule they still remained in fear being hunted for their spiritual essence; the keepers of the earth and first magic were slowly dying out and they soon became nocturnal as it was the only time they felt secure; concealed within the darkness.  Gathered around in a small group of what was left of the village angry words were exchanged.  The small fire that burned flickered wildly revealing the fear etched on their faces, “Mazula continues to hunts us like animals despite the fact we have abandoned his lands.”

“He hunts us because of who we are… the color of magic flows through our veins…it does not matter that we have not called upon the fates or the earth mothers or any other force of nature,” Choc said looking away from the faces that searched his for something other than the words he spoke as the fire began to pop and crack. 

“The fire says you lie…and someone has called upon the unseen,” the old woman said softly as hushed whispers seemed to intensify the atmosphere.

“I am sick of hiding, being hunted and my people enslaved because of our birth right.”

 “We are hunted and enslaved because you are recklessly angry you endanger us all by whatever it is you are doing in secret Choc,” an angry man added.

“No…it is because we do not fight back with our gifts,” Choc said jumping up from where he sat with anger almost seizing him.  Only by being rational would he be able to remove the fear and despair from those he loved, “how many have we lost I can not begin to count it grieves my heart.  We were not meant to exist in anguish, and our ancestors did not wish this suffering to be our lot.  They were the keepers of the first magic.  How is it we have fallen so far from our destiny?  Condemned for our love of the earth mothers and her fruits… the only thing we are guilty of is being nature itself and being one with the heavens.  That is not to be punishable by death.  It is to be honored and when we do not honor the sacred way that is when we become cursed by those who hate for no just cause. We shame our ancestors by not embracing our birth right…and that is why we do not fulfill our destinies.  We are the keepers of the first magic, and yes I have called on the fates.  It is time for change I will not be led to the slaughter for the pleasure of evil.”

“Then you will die a horrible death in Mazula’s pit of hell.  We have lasted this long without the fates or the forces of the unseen,” one man said.

“This is not living when we only come out at night like stinging insects. We are people of the sun we are of the earth.”

“She is right this is not living fearing whenever the sun rises, and scavenging for food and hiding in caves,” another added.

“At least you are alive to scavenge for food.  How many of our women have met their demise in the citadel and now lay in the shadow waters' mass grave,” his words taunted.

“It is because you will not fight for us…we have a weapon given to us by our ancestors deep within,” she shouted as anger replaced fear.

“Please…we can’t get anywhere by arguing among ourselves,” Choc said,” I have called upon the unseen for aide before we are all dead and gone. Yes I have communed with those whose spirits are no longer with us we can not go on like this.  Those souls must be acknowledged and given prayer,” he went on without remorse or guilt.

“You have doomed us all by calling on the spirits of the dead.”

“No…we are doomed if we do not honor them.  They should be honored they are of our blood…taken away from us by Mazula to endure a horrid death and to be laid in the shadow waters that was once a place that fed us and quenched our thirst and bathed our babies.  Now it’s a place where the spirits dwell and it may be a place of hope for us,” he said.

“Then let us prepare for the old ways to open the way…the stream is where we should be,” the old woman said in agreement with Choc convincing everyone to embrace the ways of the ancestors.

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