on: somali pirates, lies, and defending what’s yours.

some words from johann hari via the independent, and a two-part interview with somali musician k’naan:

also, big shouts to the homie nezua for his post on the matter.  his words reflect my thoughts and feelings regarding this issue. 

of course, the moment some brown/ black folks decide to defend what’s theirs, it’s a problem. imperialism hasn’t ended just because all maps have been drawn.  this is an injustice, to say the least. the somali people have every right to defend themselves.

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oh, hell no.

wtf?

i’m kinda, like… flabbergasted.

please feel free to engage me in discourse in the comments, okay?

there is so much wrong here. so much.

red tail feathers: a story from the holy odu.

retold by my dear sister/friend myra louise jenkins the fifth who knows everything.

from the odu Ose

Parrot
was the favorite wife of the king
and AAAAAAAALLLLLLLLL of the other wives were jealous of her

the other wives decided to paint Parrot’s stool with a poison
so that when she sat on it
her back side became red

Parrot was HORRIFIED!!!!

and to top it all off
there was a huge festival coming up
all of the king’s wives were supposed to dance
and they’d all decided that they were going to dance in the nude

Parrot went to the king
sayin’ “baby i can’t dance in the nude like THIS!!!!”
so he told the wives not to dance in the nude this time
they all agreed
and chose another dance to do

the day of the festival arrived
and the time came for the dance of the king’s wives to begin
the drummers started to play the rhythm called
“in the nude”
“in the nude”
and the other wives began to take their clothing off
Parrot stripped down as well

and they all began to dance in the nude

the rulers of the neighboring kingdoms saw parrot’s red bottom and said
“what is this wondrous thing???”

“we have never seen its like!”

“our destinies are not in order!”

“if you will not give it to us, will you sell it to us?”

and Parrot and the king
began to sell red tail feathers
and Parrot became very wealthy
and the king became very wealthy

what was once Parrot’s blemish
became her blessing

“Spoilers are not as rare as Improvers
Improvers are not as numerous as Spoilers
but those who seek to spoil me actually improve me.”

hold the motherfuckin phone!

Row over SA minister’s transplant

By Peter Biles
BBC News, Johannesburg

South Africa’s controversial Health Minister, Manto Tshabalala-Msimang is facing new calls for her resignation.

They follow newspaper allegations that she underwent a liver transplant while suffering from alcoholism.

The government says the reports are “false and speculative”, and President Mbeki’s office says he still has confidence in his health minister.

Dr Tshabalala-Msimang has – in the past – come under fire over her unorthodox approach to the HIV-Aids crisis.

Her emphasis on the use of garlic and beetroot for HIV sufferers brought her many critics.

But over the past fortnight, South Africa’s Sunday Times newspaper has made startling allegations that the health minister was an alcoholic who jumped the queue to obtain a liver transplant earlier this year.

The paper has also said that as part of a five-month investigation, it discovered that Dr Tshabalala-Msimang was convicted of stealing from a patient when she worked as a medical superintendent at a hospital in Botswana 30 years ago.

The health ministry has dismissed the newspaper allegations as “false, speculative and bizarre”.

It is now in the process of preparing a more detailed response.

President Thabo Mbeki’s official spokesman, Mukoni Ratshitanga, has called on anyone with firm evidence, to produce it.

President Mbeki and Dr Tshabalala-Msimang have an association that stretches back more than four decades.

They were part of the same group of students which fled South Africa to go into exile in 1962.

Ten days ago, Mr Mbeki fired his deputy health minister, Nozizwe Madlala-Routledge, saying she had not been a team player and had made an unauthorised trip to an Aids conference in Spain.

Story from BBC NEWS:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/2/hi/africa/6955090.stm

Published: 2007/08/20 12:20:55 GMT

© BBC MMVII

rent a rasta.

after having watched the whole documentary, i’m not fully certain that j. michael seyfert really delved into every aspect of the sex tourism in jamaica. instead, it seems that he touched on it as a segue into rasta culture/ philosophy. there’s nothing necessarily wrong w/ that, but i definitely thought i’d be seeing something a bit different. i suppose, though, that this film serves to explain (even if loosely) what/ who rastas are vs. the outside world’s often stereotypical view of them.

i don’t believe for one minute that this even scratches the surface, for real. the women who engage in such activities worry the shit out of me, but that’s another rant for another day.

i’m back to

where i was about three weeks ago. only my thought process is fueled by a conversation i had w/ some sistas the other night.
i know there are systems in place to stop us dead in our tracks. literally, even. i know that it’s sometimes so impossible to even see the top of that mountain made of disappointment, disaster, dreams, & desperation that climbing that motherfucker seems like a really sick joke. baby, i know what it’s like to have someone smile in my face & wish to hell that they could call me a nigger but instead just say “sweetie,” “honey,” or “girlfriend.” & i used to ache to know what it must have felt like to be acquainted w/ folks like my self, not just folks who looked like me. that ache grew.
the resentment, the annoyance, & the overall feeling of being fucked up in the game . . . those things were winning. i wouldn’t let them, though. & i won’t now.
because if i look myself in the mirror & decide that every fucking moment of my life is a war — a war that i don’t even think can be won — then i may as well pack it up . . . particularly if i come out the front door swingin on everyone i can w/ my machete or cutlass.
by virtue of biology, i am a woman. by virtue of biology, i am black. & by virtue of biology, we have become targets. we remain targeted now. everyone with a lick of sense & deductive reasoning skills knows about the prison industrial complex, COINTELPRO, the big tobacco plots, & everything else on this entire planet which has been put together to snuff the poor, non-white, &/ or female.
yes, baby, i know.
but for me, that venom cannot be turned in on myself
it will not be the weapon i use to slash every hand that reaches out to give to or help me
i will not blindly love what looks like me exclusively because of that fact
it is not okay to hate
ever

cuz if they do it to us, & we do it to them, exactly what the blue fuck is that gonna get anyone?

it’s not gonna give us any of the shit that’s been taken from, beaten out of, drained from, or confused about us. we will not get back yoruba, igbo, twi, akan, hausa, fongbe, kiswahili, xhosa, or any other tongue. our wombs will not take back in the children of rape, nor will they serve as a place to hide the children that we don’t want to be a part of this shit here. hate will not extract what makes you lighter skinned, her hair wavier than it is anything else, that baby’s eyes bright green, what made malcolm’s hair red . . . we can’t undo it. mahatma was NOT playin one bit when he said that an eye for an eye would leave the world blind. cuz if we hate on them, & they hate us some more, & we all go back & forth when will we have time to love ourselves? how do we build ourselves up if we’re wasting energy tearing someone else’s shit down? believe it or not, there has to be room for everyone . . . if you believe in a creator, then how could you not think so?

i must ask this, because i like where i live
i love my people
& i’ve been in that position before where when i say i’m DAMN good friends w/ white women, i get that sideways look. & i have to brace myself for the cries of ‘traitor,’ or worse yet being shunned or pitied because i’m ‘confused’ about who’s really got my back & who doesn’t.
cuz the same sista i want to help with her parenting skills already thinks something’s the fuck wrong with me since i don’t dress like she does. the sista who has the same nappy hair i do, the same ntozake shange books i do, respects the gangsta of kathleen cleaver the same way i do . . . she’s still poppin shit because she don’t think hers stinks. because she’s taking in superficial things about me & deciding FOR me what i should/ shouldn’t be a part of. what part of the game is that?
& the biology isn’t enough for any of us anymore. we don’t respect each other by virtue of blackness, because we are not all in the same neighborhoods by virtue of such. we are all over the place because legally, we could be . . . & the status shit is SERIOUS in these streets right now. fuck the white folks gentrifying all over the nation, niggas is fightin niggas over what some niggas appear to have, be, do, want, or feel. & that, my dears, is fucked up. screw standing up for anyone who’s willing to cut your ass down — black, white, yellow, peach, beige, blue-black, brown, red, or other. i will not, under any circumstances, support destruction of others by virtue of my own dislike for how they carry themselves. not unless it’s fully crucial to my survival.

i know what you’re talking about, but maybe you’ve never experienced what i have.

i was born fighting,
i will die fighting
but in between, i will choose my battles.

in case you’re not on my

facebook or myspace:

here’s a shitty (and rather large!) cell phone pic of my sexy back . . . & my first ever tattoo. meaning/ significance can be found here. now i’m off to work in this nasty weather. adios.

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