zackomoroblogs

I n Greek Mythology, Thanatos is the death drive, an instinct for death, a god of death.  It probably exists in all of us. It explains why we embrace a violent streak hidden deep in the core of our beings. It probably explains why violence has gone hand in hand with most kinds of human entertainment. Don’t we even wildly cheer two cocks fighting to the death in enclosures? Don’t we stream to boxing contests if not to witness the knockouts?   I am a pugilist, a professional boxer, and I suspect that I have a slightly higher dosage of this death drive in me than the average man in the street for in the boxing ring you live like you are dying. It explains why Miyawa Mitoko died in the ring, died because he had tempted fate and paid for it with his life.  He too was a modern gladiator and I had killed him. I was at the tail end of my career, He was starting his; It was a lucky punch from me that had brought him down, a sucker punch that saw life ebb away from him at t

I,    Fayed Noor al Swedan , the son of Haji Shardid Noor Bogol, resident of the village of Afmadow , being of sound mind declare this here as my last and final will and testament … He was dressed in a nylon shirt and grey trousers; His face was scrawny with the sunken eyes set too close together giving him a perennially haggard and hungry look; an expressionless page not easy to recall.  He was also beyond reason.  He looked up his young face concentrating on the task at hand. Yes, he was young – sixteen going to seventeen – And he was ready to immolate himself. Somalia’s extremist group Al Shabab has a recruitment pipeline which starts at a mosque in Hagadera refugee camp in Kenya and extends right into Somalia through the heavy patrolled border areas. Four months earlier the young and impressionable Fuad had used the same pipeline from Kenya and crossed into Somalia to join the Al Shabab terror group. And in Joining Al Shabaab; Fuad found himself.  It was nothing as magical a

She was a nun, a Catholic nun and it was hard not to fail to notice her; it was Sunday and I had visited another city and found myself in the Catholic Church for Sunday mass service, I find that attending Sunday mass services deeply enriches and helps me spiritually to face the week ahead.  But back to the nun, she was tall for a lady and dressed in the grey habit of her order and she was conducting the choir adjacent to the altar and as she sang, I noticed the very perfect teeth, long neck and incredible eyebrows. Her face was quite calm, remotely smiling and from her composure you could readily see that she was quite at ease with her calling. She was a nun, probably in her thirties; yes, leading a choir at a holy place. A creation of God living her calling, a holy calling but still candy to the eyes… As I had pointed out, you could not fail to notice her. Her habit was made to measure and fitted her perfectly, ending an inch or so below the knees, her head scarf, meant

THE START  OF  CHRISTIAN ERA The  Khamseen is an oppressive and strong desert sandstorm that is experienced in Israel and the Levant.  It  is strongest in April and May sometimes lasting up to three hours enveloping the entire country with very fine sand giving the environment an eerie kind of darkness even at  noon. The Khamseen was blowing on that Friday,  the third day of April in 33 AD.  It was also the day Jesus Christ was crucified.  T he  week commemorating the last week of Jesus on earth is dubbed  "holy week".It is  the most solemn period in the Christian calendar. It begins on Sunday with a ceremony depicting Jesus Christ's triumphant entry into Jerusalem with a charged crowd waving palm leaf branches and chanting Hosanna,  words traditionally used to welcome a king. The chants of Hosanna were  a conscious recreation of an old Testament prophecy that the king of Jews would come to them mounted on a donkey as a sign of humility.   The holy wee

This week heralds the most holy week for the Christian calendar; it spells the hours leading to the crucifixion of Jesus Christ, a central figure in human history. It is a solemn period full of symbolism and outward signs of penitence, fasting, alms giving and personal surrender. About the same time last year, on Good Friday, I had joined my local faithful in enacting the tribulations of Jesus Christ from the courtroom to the crucifixion grounds. We Catholics call it the Way of the Cross. We were a big crowd of about 1500-2000 people and our snaking way of the cross route took us across the town. As the faithful continued with the way of the cross along the town streets, people on their routine duties too time to look at this group of Christians and after a minute or two lost interest and continued with their routine and chores. We plodded on and on rounding a corner, I could not help noticing a stranger along our path. He was a big man, rough, bearded craggy face

The village chief had summoned me. Though last in the government pecking order, the village chief holds an important position in the location where he has his jurisdiction. I paid a visit to the chief on a Monday afternoon. My mistake, Monday afternoons are reserved for the weekly village Baraza. The Baraza are gatherings of the villagers where the chief passes on the government policies and leads a discussion on the various developmental agendas affecting the location. It is also the time when the chief together with his advisors dispute and possible settle some knotty village affair which does not warrant official government involvement. The Baraza was in progress when I drove in to the chief’s camp. My attempt to drive off and not to be a bother was thwarted when the Chief though busy with the Baraza noticed me and sent an emissary running over insisting that I join the Baraza. I strolled over to the Baraza which was being held under a “N’gou” tree where 500 or so vil