Blackhumouristpress's Blog

August 13, 2013

When Maeve Met Medgar

“So if you cannot see, what can you describe to me to help me understand what you know about the color black? As in black people. I’m so interested to hear what you have to say.”
A beautiful young blond and blind woman happened to plop down at the first table she could find at the food court in a mall she had never been to before. She was pouring water into a bowl for her seeing-eye dog. A tall man was eating an ice cream for 49 cents from Mc Donald’s. Medgar loved eating soft serve ice cream going back to the days when he would visit his grandmother in Mississippi in summer months and take pocket change with him and his cousin to the Tastee-Freeze.
Maeve was dropped off by her aunt’s caretaker who was livid that the woman she had cared for, for close to thirty years while she declined with Alzheimer’s, willed her small fortune to her blind niece from Detroit. Aside from assuming that she would inherit the home and money for being a friend and constant companion, Sarah had a thing against German Sheppard dogs whether they were seeing-eye dogs or not. Sarah was Jewish and lost relatives in death camps at the hands of Nazi in Germany. As a girl, Sarah heard stories of German Sheppards snarling and biting hiding Jews in cities in Germany. Oddly enough, Sarah’s great-grandfather was a man who was responsible for creating chemical warfare during World War I and a pesticide called Zyclon A that was eventually modified to kill humans in Nazi death camps and renamed Zyclon B. Sarah was related to that unique man attributed to a lot of death during two world wars. A definite player in human history, German history, modern warfare and a German Jew.
In any event, Maeve would inherit a large Frank Lloyd Wright home in Oak Park, Illinois, Sarah the Caretaker and a few million dollars after the death of her wealthy aunt. The end was drawing near and so Maeve moved from her small apartment in suburban Detroit to suburban Chicago. One warm summer day, Sarah dropped Maeve off at a indoor mall in a lower economic area that had very few Caucasians milling about to buy gaudy t-shirts, cheap jewelry, gym shoes and hip-hop wear. Maeve was told by Sarah that the mall was a nice mall, with nice people just like at home in safe, homogenous Troy, Michigan which is a good fifteen miles from the muck and mire of inner city Detroit.
Maeve, unbeknownst to her, plopped down at the same table as the ice cream eating Medgar. Medgar startled Maeve by speaking to her.
“What a beautiful dog you have, Miss…”
“Oh! I’m sorry; I didn’t know this table was taken. I’ll take another.”
“No need, no need. I’m just sitting here enjoying an ice cream and some air conditioning. Can I buy you an ice cream?”
“Thank you kindly. I am on a strict diet. I’m trying to eat as healthy as possible. I have done research on partially hydrogenated products that are the causes of heart disease. I’m trying to stay away from anything with too many additives. This is my first week in Chicago and I’m truly lost here. I told Sarah that I visited the Summerset Mall in Troy, Michigan nearly everyday. So she decided to bring me here. Is this a nice mall?”
“Well, malls are malls, Right?”
In Troy, the mall had a glass atrium with faux palm trees and resembled a place in Dubai. The mall had granite floors polished so that one could see their reflection and was as clean as if it had just opened. It housed five star restaurants and top shelf department stores. The mall near Berwyn, Illinois catered to lower economic people. There was an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet and all the fast-food kiosks that one would find out on the boulevard. People were obese and poor and people of color by in large. Maeve didn’t learn this during her first visit. Medgar, a sensitivity trainer for union workers who were disciplined for racial slurs, was between classes. Most of Medgar’s clientele were white, blue collar, under educated and under cultured, suckled from the tit racists with a fear and disdain of others unlike them. In order to keep their union jobs, they would need to take fifty-hour courses that illustrated the fact that all Americans were immigrants and that all immigrants had taken their turns as the lowest rung on the ladder. There were also testimonials from Asians, Hispanics and African-Americans who had been discriminated against. Most whites left more resolved in their racism but they learned to keep their racism private at work.
“Black… Hmm… Dismal, dank, despair, no light.”
“Light? What is light? “
“Something warm like the sun. I can feel the sun. The sun feels light and airy. The smell of trees and flowers. At night, it is cold and I hear the night is black and black is cold and it doesn’t have sun and warmth… You know?”
“Forgive me for asking but I just think it is so interesting to speak to some who is visually challenged…”
“Visually challenged? Please… That is insulting. I’m blind not stupid.”
“Okay, as you wish… Blind. It is interesting to hear what the blind perceive.”
“I see… Sorry, I hear that all the time. Just thought I would use that phrase even though I can’t actually see.”
“Ha… I got it… So Detroit. Motown. What was that like? Lots of black in Detroit.”
“I was born in the city of Detroit and never went back. All I heard was how screwed up Detroit was going back to the riots after Martin Luther King Jr. From what I hear and know, Detroit was like Rhodesia and has become Zimbabwe and there were too many Robert Mugabe like mayors that ran the city into the ground instead of a Nelson Mandela.”
“That is an interesting analogy. Detroit went from being a prosperous white city to a bankrupt black city. What do you think will save Detroit?”
“White people, white money. It’s okay to have a black city but you cannot exist without whites. I have studied the differences between Chicago and Detroit and the whites have not abandoned Chicago.”
“Did you know that Chicago had a few black mayors?”
“Yes. Did those mayors work with whites?”
“You got me there, Maeve… I am so glad that our paths crossed today. It has been so interesting to me to get your point of view. You being blind and discussing your views is like me being at a dinner party and being invisible. Just listening and taking it in. Good luck here in Chicago.”
Sarah was standing off to the side listening and watching the interchange between a good-looking black man and a good-looking white woman, Maeve. When Medgar departed, Sarah approached Maeve.
“I didn’t hear everything that transpired between you and the gentleman at your table but I do want to make you aware that he was a black man. Did you know that? Did he tell you he was black?”
Maeve furrowed her brow. She felt duped and used. Every black man she had come across in the past had a pseudo, bastardized Deep South accent. Medgar didn’t sound like Amos or Andy. He sounded white as if a color could have a sound. Maeve was embarrassed by the assumption that she was speaking to a white man and ashamed to admit it to Sarah who had been less than nice to here during the short amount of time she had been living with her and her aunt. Sarah asked Maeve what he sounded like to her. Maeve gave a snide answer.
“Well Sarah… He sounded much taller than he looked to me. Can we go home now?”

March 4, 2011

My Way or Zimbabwe

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 8:51 am
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The word had come down from a federal agent to Salvatore Scarpelli that the FBI would be rounding up many gangsters wanted for murder, narcotics, prostitution and money laundering. Sal “The Horse” or “The Hammer” Scarpelli quickly gathered up all his liquid assets and took a trip to Zimbabwe. When his wife asked where Zimbabwe was and why he would want to go there, Sal had an answer. “Dey got dem falls there that is like one of dem seven wundahs of the woild. I always wanted to go to Africa… You know to kinda look around.” It sounded crazy to Sal’s wife until about four days later when a dozen or more federal agents came in through the door while Sal’s wife was smoking a cigarette, drinking coffee and watching live footage of federal agents rounding up suspected and confirmed mobsters. Sal’s weeping wife called Sal who at that moment he had an audience with the dictator Robert Mugabe of Zimbabe. They were drinking wine and Robert Mugabe was trying to explain the rules of the sport cricket.

 “Eet t’is a fantastic game… So you ave a bowler much like a pitcher een your baseball. The blowler ees trrrying to spin the ball so as to knock down dee wickets behind the batsman. The whole team at bat must get out firrrst before your team takes the field… Thee world cup ees going on now in India. Eet ees a fantastic time. I don’t meese a match. Thaat an Two and a Half Men. Fantastic show.”

 Sal had to take the phone call of his frantic wife who had a house full of federal agents ransacking their home and holding her for questioning as to where he was exactly. Sal’s wife couldn’t remember the name of the country and so she asked Sal to speak with one of the agents in charge.

“That’s right… Zim-bab-we… No extradition laws here, my friend so you can go fuck yourselves, ya hear me? You motherfuckers got some fucking nerve coming in my fucking house, upsetting my fucking wife foist thing in the morning…”

Now Zimbabwe is a landlocked country just above South Africa that used to be Rhodesia and has been ruled by one man since 1980. Their national motto is, “unity, freedom, work”. Close to 94% of the country is unemployed; and dissent of any kind is dangerous for one’s health. Despite the fact that Mugabe was able to stamp out dissent over the course of thirty one years, the new wave of political unrest in countries such as Bahrain, Egypt and Libya did not go unnoticed by the president of Zimbabwe. President Mugabe understood that Sal Scarpelli was a diamond in the rough, an ace in the hole and an answer to prayer. Salvatore Scarpelli was a ruthless gangster who received the nickname, “The Hammer” because he actually killed many people with a claw hammer when he was young and on the rise. The other nickname, “The Horse” was given to him due to the fact that when his penis was fully erect, was nearly nine inches long and 2.75 inches in circumference. Sal relished both nicknames. Over the course of thirty years, Sal went from a young foot soldier on the streets of New York to a multi-millionaire who owned land, businesses and had friends in law enforcement and government. Sal’s generosity most likely saved him when, if you’ll pardon the pun, when the hammer dropped.

Robert Mugabe laughed and shook his head as one of his assistants put on a cricket match between Zimbabwe and New Zealand. Zimbabwe was up 137-8 and it did not look good. New Zealand could probably match that score with two batsmen. President Mugabe spoke to Sal who was speaking to the feds but Sal wasn’t listening. When the conversation ended for Sal, President Mugabe got to the point of wanting a visit with such a high ranking mob figure from the United States. Sal was all ears as the saying goes.

“Your rrrrecord, your methods, your elusiveness is trrruly fantastic. I use the word fantastic when things are trrruly above board, top shelf… You my friend are thaat such perrrson. Things thaat need to be done without emotion or merrrcy is what I need. As you may ave erred, this Facebook, Twitter sensation has rrrun amok in northern Afrrrrica. I cannot afford to go out like Louis XIV and Marie Antoinette. No guillotines, no Rrrobespierre or new age of enlightenment… Dissent comes about like a brrrush fire and I need a rrrreally good fireman. I cannot allow dissent. I would like to make you ed of omeland security. South Afrrrrica add thees during the old days of aparrrtheid. Eet ees a way of keeping everrrything calm… I think eet aas a fantastic rrring: Salvatore Scarpelli, director of omeland security.”

 Sal got to work of amassing an army of men who secretly kept an eye on cafes and bars or anywhere where people congregated. Anyone accused of dissent went before a tribunal. Sal oversaw the hearings. The hearings went much like this:

“Peter metah… meetah coomboh… Ya know it would be fucking helpful to me if someone here who knows how to pronounce these fucking names might prompt me a bit on how to say this shit. DON’T JUST FUCKING STAND THERE! GO THROUGH THE FUCKING LIST AND WRITE DEM OUT PHONECIANLY SO I’M NOT TRIPPING ON MY FUCKING COCK HERE! Now then Peter… I will call you Peter for now until I get a bit of assistance. It has been brought to my attention that you have been brought here on charges of trying to foment a riot. Are you now or have you ever been a subvoisive?”

 It Worked as planned. Before long people from all walks of life were informing on each other to escape prison and possible torture. People were deathly afraid of the foreign white man who showed no mercy. It was like the Salem witch hunts and Red Scare rolled into one. The Department of Homeland Security worked with the efficiency of the KGB. Nobody trusted anyone and feared death or imprisonment for expressing an opinion. The President felt safe again to watch television and nap during the day. Sal when not presiding over the fates of Zimbabwe nationals, tended to his harem of women. Sal liked women of all colors and had new ones in his small mansion at all times. Sal liked two women at a time usually. Life was good for Sal in a country where white people were scared of black reprisal. Black people were now scared of a strange white man given full authority to keep peace by any and all means necessary.

 “In New York, we would take a fucking guy like you and string him up with a cement block attached to his ankles and drop him in the fucking river. That would keep him from ever getting ideas in his head again about going against the machine. Zimbabwe is the machine and the machine must work if it is to survive and flourish… Four months. We’ll review your case again after you’ve had some time to think about your delusions of fucking grandeur… Take his ass away from me… Next!”

 Sal was big tabloid news in the United States. Television networks wanted to interview Sal Scarpelli but only one interview was granted and that was to Eliot Spitzer. CNN sent Eliot Spitzer to Harare, Zimbabwe to conduct the interview that was doctored up to keep the public from hearing profanity. Rolling Stone Magazine got a hold of the real interview and the entire interview became an instant sensation on the internet. Sal answered all the questions asked of him and then had questions of his own.

 “I got a question you proly don’t want to answer but maybe one the public back in the United States might wanna ask themselves. How is it that a former district attorney and governor of New York who prided himself on going after so called, “organized crime”, gets fucking whacked for paying tens of fucking thousands on high priced call girls while he at the same time is fighting it? And then CNN give him a fucking show where he has the fucking balls to cross the fucking woild to ask me if I have any remorse for what I’ve done. Well I can tell you I won’t cry like a fucking bitch while my old lady stands next to me stone faced at a press conference. You can fucking bet your last fucking peso on that. Private failings is what you called it, am I right, Eliot? You fucking got caught and that’s the difference between you and me. I’m director of Homeland Security in Zimbabwe. That should be a big enough thorn in your fucking ass. As they say in every one of these countries that drive on the wrong side of the road and the wrong side of the car: good day, sir.”

 The winds of change blew over parts of Africa but Zimbabwe remained as tight as a drum. Sal was heavily rewarded for keeping order. Sal lived like a French king and loved living in a land that had so much disparity. Sal rode around in his bullet proof Lincoln Continental and looked at emaciated, barefoot blacks hanging around aimlessly. Privately he thought to himself that it was no different than driving through Harlem in New York.

 While driving through Harare one day, Sal spotted the most beautiful white woman he had ever seen wearing a tight Red Cross shirt, talking to a group of children. Her hair was reddish and her face was angelic. Her athletic frame attracted Sal. He liked women who could sprint over those that could pull a wagon. Sal ordered the car to stop. He popped a mint in his mouth and smoothed back his salt and pepper hair before exiting his vehicle. A dozen men with machine guns surrounded the perimeter. Sal approached the woman with an English accent.

 “I noticed your Red Cross shirt and was wondering if I might be of some assistance to you ma’am… I work for the government.”

 The beautiful woman smiled and fluttered her eyes nervously before speaking. Sal was mesmerized by every facet of the woman’s being.

 “So kind of you to stop… Yes, well as you can see, these children are orphans who are forced to beg in the streets and though it is Africa and they very well might not die of the elements as say… Brooklyn in January, they nonetheless are hungry and without shelter.”

 Sal, unable to blink resolved to do everything in his power to help the situation. The woman who went by the name of Rachel was invited to dine with Sal at his home. Sal learned that Rachel played guitar and wrote poetry and decided it was her duty to help those less fortunate than herself for a few years before going on with her life. She wore a summer dress that showed ample cleavage and contoured her flat stomach and shapely bum. Love was in the air for Sal and the idea that Rachel would eat his food, drink his wine and converse with him and then leave, was an impossibility. Sal nearly demanded that Rachel stay the night with him but Rachel prevailed. Upon leaving, Rachel sent Sal a text message some twenty minutes after her departure. The message went as follows:

 I realize now I should have stayed. I want you too so very badly. Please come to see me at my room in Harare. I will be waiting for you, counting the minutes : )

 Sal showered and perfumed all areas that might sweat due to being anxious and desirous. Sal dismissed his guards and told them to wait in the lobby of the hotel where Rachel lived. He approached Rachel’s room alone. Waiting at the door in an ivory colored negligee that draped every so daintily over her firm breasts was Rachel. She had one toned arm up, holding the door as she greeted Sal with a smile.

 “I promise you won’t be disappointed…”

 Sal came to some time later on an airplane while wearing a straight jacket. Sitting on either side of him on a small jet were two white men. One was reading a fitness magazine and the other was napping with folded arms. Sal in a groggy state asked the man who was reading the magazine what was happening. He explained that he had been captured by the FBI and was being taken to a federal court in New York on a slew of charges. Sal became instantly despondent and remorseful that he allowed his libido to trap him like a preying mantis. Before being sentenced, the judge in federal court asked if he wanted to make a statement. Sal thought about it for a second and then asked to speak. The judge nodded his approval to Sal.

 “Um Robbie… Thanks for shot. I’m my own worst enemy. My advice to you: get the good looking dames outta the country. It’ll be your Waterloo.”

September 14, 2009

Zimbabwe and Rhodesia

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 4:15 am
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A tall blond woman with an uncommonly beautiful face walked up wearing a wind breaker that had a patch on it that read, Red Cross.  This tall blond woman went by the name of Jennifer.  Jennifer grew tired of being a sexually desired object for most of her life and at the age of twenty one, spun the globe and purposely kept her index finger below the equator.  It landed in the country of Zimbabwe.  Fortunately for Jennifer, she did not wind up in a country where she had to speak French, Dutch or Portuguese.  The people of Zimbabwe spoke English.  They learned English by the English and for a while, the country went by the name of Rhodesia.  Jennifer wasn’t even born when the country was called that.  In fact Jennifer was living in the country nearly a year when she figured out that Rhodesia and Zimbabwe were the same country. Many white farmers had long since moved out of the country and there were just a smattering of whites in big cities.  Jennifer didn’t seem to mind.  Jennifer went into a grocery store in the capital during her first few days in Zimbabwe in hopes of buying enough food to sustain her for a few days.  Upon entering a clean looking grocery store, Jennifer was shocked to see employees standing around a nearly vacant store.  There was bottled water and a few loaves of bread

 left.  Jennifer had no idea what it meant when the total in Zimbabwean Dollars came to $350,000.00 for two liters of water and a loaf of bread.  She gave the cashier a twenty dollar bill in American money and told her to keep the change.  The cashier pocketed nearly $400,000.00 Zimbabwean Dollars for herself which was the equivalent of a month’s pay.  It was a good day for that woman.  The only problem would be that she would have to spend that money immediately before the value changed.  The value of the Zimbabwean Dollar dropped by the minute.  Inflation was somewhere near 26,000% at the time of Jennifer’s arrival. Today it is nearly 2.2 million percent.  Jennifer picked the second poorest country in the world to make a difference.  As far as reaching the poor and impoverished, Jennifer was right on track.  To compound all of this, the president of the country declared land owned and run by white farmers to be seized.  There were nearly 400 white owned farms that helped the country sustain itself in 2000.  By 2007, there were just a handful of white hold outs that were in danger of not only losing their land but their lives.  Zimbabwe was really not a safe place for white people much less very attractive female white people.

            Now at time when blacks were squatting on white farm land and killing white

farmers, Jennifer showed up as innocent as Bambi.   The unemployment rate was somewhere near 80%. In the capital of Harare, she went to a clinic for women and told a large black woman behind a desk that she wanted to help.  This large black woman was surprised by the beauty and ignorant innocence of a young American woman, in a foreign land, unescorted.  After the initial shock, the woman sent her to the middle of nowhere.  The town she sent her to was dangerous and not far from the border with South Africa.  Most of the men and women were trying to enter South Africa illegally in hopes of finding a job.  Even if one could find a job in Zimbabwe, their currency was worth nearly nothing.  One might need a dump truck of money just to buy a meal.

            Jennifer showed up with a long tight skirt that went to her ankles.  She wore Birkenstock sandals with a shirt with George W. Bush’s face on it.  The caption said, “Wanted for war crimes”.  The people of the town were living in shacks with no plumbing.  There was no school for the children and no infrastructure to speak of.  It was worse than Tijuana in just about everyway and in this cesspool of human misery and squalor.  Jennifer was arguably one of the prettiest women in the world.  She came to the village with a back pack and an acoustic guitar.

            Jennifer’s father was a partner at a large law firm in downtown Chicago.  Their offices took up several floors of a high rise.  To be a part of this law firm was prestigious.  Attorneys were paid well. 

            Jennifer’s father had been a life long Republican.  He voted for every single Republican presidential candidate going back to Barry Goldwater.  Jennifer’s father was religious and driven.  They were Episcopal and lived in a small suburb that was in the top ten richest burgs in the country.  The village is called Kenilworth and all the streets were named after small towns in Great Britain.  England Primarily.  Most of the inhabitants were of British descent and very rich.  Jennifer too was of English lineage.  Ironically, Jack, Jennifer’s father, gave over $10,000.00 a year to an Episcopal missionary who was stationed in Namibia.  Jack was never even sure where that was.  He just knew his money went there to promote Christianity and safe drinking water.

            Jennifer went to prep school in the east and attended Stanford.  It was at Stanford that Jennifer had a history professor that told her that all American history was basically fabricated lies just like the bible and that the age of imperialism had come unravelled after World War II and the United States picked up where Great Britain and France had left off.  A man who had studied his whole life and received a doctorate at the age of

 forty five, challenged young and impressionable people to do something with their lives.  This professor read and re-read H.L Mencken and Nietzche in a studio apartment, with no wife and no family.  His big moment was protesting the war back in the late sixties and getting arrested.  He was promptly bailed out by his parents but told the story for so many years after that his time in jail went from four hours to four weeks.  His fabled plight resembled a Kafka novel rather than a simple act of civil disobedience that was considered to be a step above j walking or spitting on the sidewalk. 

            Be all that as it may, her father, his job, their community, their homogeneity, their insulation and so forth was somehow wrong.  Jennifer’s good fortune to be born into a good family was about as unlucky as some poor bastard’s luck to be born at a squatter’s camp in Zimbabwe near the border with South Africa.  Jennifer bought the line that it was up to her to make a difference.  Jennifer actually did make a difference in the lives of many people in Zimbabwe as did her father.

            Jack, the father of Jennifer, indulged his daughter despite the fact that he worried that at best, she would be gang raped by low level military leader, seeking to over throw Robert Mugabe, the first and only president of Zimbabwe.  At worst, Jack feared that Jennifer would be killed.  Either way, Jack knew that he could not stop Jennifer from doing what she wished.  He never set the stage for the word no and so Jack could not say no to Jennifer.  Jack built a hospital, a church and a school for the people of the town.  Doctors from France came and donated their time to help the people of the town.  Jack came at the insistence of his daughter to the remote town that did not even have a name.  He drove with a guide six hours in a Land Rover Defender on dirt roads until he found his daughter.  Along the way, Jack remembered his father’s friend who he had met in Great Britain during World  War II, was someone who had come from the area that became Rhodesia and then Zimbabwe.  He fought in the Second World War for Great Britain and lived on a farm about an hours drive outside of the city of Salisbury.  Jack’s father had always talked about visiting his old war friend in Rhodesia back when things were going well in the mid to late 1960’s.  They never got there.  Now Jack was riding in a Land Rover on roads that once existed during the days of colonial rule.  In many areas, the paved roads ceased to exist.  It after all had been over forty years since colonial rule.  Jack’s father never lived to visit his old war buddy but his son made it his duty to visit his daughter in what was once Rhodesia.

The children of the town danced and sang for Jack and hugged him.  It was

 the first time in his life that he had ever hugged a black person and the people of southern Africa were not like the caramel colored blacks back home that had mixed with whites at some point somewhere between modern times and the landing of the Mayflower.  The people of the town were blacker than black.  Their skin shined and their teeth and the whites of their eyes contrasted greatly.  Despite the fact that they had very little, they were happy looking and Jack left Africa feeling that he had done something very good despite the fact that he was badgered by his daughter.  Jack felt good about his contributions and that of his daughter until he received the news with a photograph that Jennifer had married a native of Zimbabwe.

            Nkute was like any other poor native of Zimbabwe.  It hadn’t been that way for him when he was young.  Nkute’s father was a well paid servant in a white household near Salisbury.  The man that Nkute’s father worked for was a politician that represented an area of Salisbury in the parliament.  He was part of the Rhodesian Front.  He had a hand in what was called the Lancaster House Agreement.  He wanted to ensure that if black majority rule was on the way, that whites still had a stake in the new government.  Whites were to retain 20% of the seats in parliament.

  Nkute lived in a descent home and was a champion Cricket player when the country was still Rhodesia.  After 1980, things began to change.  The white family that his father worked for moved to New Zealand and his father was out of a job.  Nkute’s family eventually moved out of the city to the country. 

Nkute was as an excellent student  He was sent by his village to school in Australia at the age of fourteen.  Nkute lived at the boarding school.  He was an exceptional student and gifted at soccer or as the call it, football.  He also was a valuable member of the school’s Cricket team.  Nkute did well all throughout school and became a doctor.  Nkute owned a house in suburban Sydney and had a nice life.  While listening to the BBC one day on his car radio, Nkute heard about white farmers being killed and land going to waste in Zimbabwe.  He listened to the reports of runaway inflation and the lack of medical attention for most who inhabited the country.   

Back in the Rhodesian days, white soldiers who assisted the British South Africa Company, were each given 3,000 acres of land through grants.  The leader of the British South Africa Company was a man whose name was Cecil Rhodes, hence the name Rhodesia.  The received a royal charter back in 1889.  The blacks on that land became tenants or were thrown off.  Blacks were given land in low rainfall areas and the good land for farming with good rainfall was given to whites.  At the time of independence, white farmers owned close to 5,000 farms.  The white farmers provided housing, school and hospitals for their black employees.  40% of the farms in the country were run by the 5,000 white farmers who made up over 60% of the country’s GDP.  Rhodesia was the bread basket of Africa.  Nkute understood what it was like to be ruled by white people and was happy as a young boy when independence happened.  It appeared to be the right thing for the majority.  The problem was the land distribution killed Zimbabwe’s ability to sustain itself.  People who did not understand and know how to farm, were given land and let the land go fallow.  It became paramount to import food to feed Zimbabweans.  The rate of malnutrition is at about 45% now.  It is low considering the inflation rate was 2.2% million percent when I first wrote about the inflation rate.  It has now risen again.

  Nkute took a leave of absence for a year from the hospital he worked for in Sydney and went to work for Medcin sans Frontier or Doctors without Borders.  Nkute made his way over to the same town that Jennifer happened to live in and the rest is history.  The normal boy meets girl stuff took place.  He was on good behavior while trying to woo her.  They married in Zimbabwe and disagreed as to where they would eventually live.  Jennifer did not want to remain in Zimbabwe the rest of her life nor immigrate to Australia.  Being in love with his beautiful wife, he decided to follow her back to the United States.  Nkute had to take further courses and training in order to be a full fledged practicing physician in the United States.  They both volunteered with the Red Cross together.

            “Excuse me, I am Nkute Nabazeen and thees ees my wife Jennifer… We har weeth thee RRRRed Crrross… Have you anyone who ees urt frrrom the fire?”  Said Nkute, in his strong southern African English accent.



            Nkute and Jennifer met with the tenants one by one and interviewed them in order to determine if they had somewhere to go for the night. At the end of the night, Nkute and Jennifer returned to their condominium on the 32nd floor that overlooked Lake Michigan. Jennifer went into their bedroom to light candles and prepare to do some yoga to help her unwind from the days events. Nkute purchased the Cricket Ticket on the Dish Network. India was playing South Africa in a test match. Nkute ate a deep dish pizza of spinach and onion, drank a Dutch beer and thought to himself; isn’t life grand?

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