Onjalazbroz- Testing the Foundation of Knowledge

The African story remains one of cruel contradictions. Decades after independence, the continent still grapples with systemic failures that force its people into impossible choices: risk death crossing the Mediterranean or endure slow suffocation at home. Certificates of Doom captures this dystopian reality through the life of Kepha, an educated yet trapped everyman whose struggles embody Africa’s post-colonial disillusionment. This novel is more than fiction—it’s a forensic examination of how economic violence distorts culture, breaks families, and reduces human dignity to a bargaining chip. Part 1: The Institutional Rot – Aviation College as Microcosm The novel's fictional Aviation College serves as a potent allegory for systemic collapse: 1. The Exploitation Machine Kepha and colleagues work marathon hours for wages lower than unskilled laborers Management consists of unqualified quacks who prioritize profit over education The "Certificates of Doom" scandal exposes ram...

When my friend confessed she wanted out of her 20-year marriage, I was stunned. How could two decades of shared life unravel? Then I watched Hope Springs (2012), and suddenly, her struggle made tragic sense. The film lays bare an uncomfortable truth: time alone cannot immunize a marriage against decay. Through Arnold and Kay Soames' crumbling 37-year union, we see how even the most established relationships can starve from emotional and physical neglect—and how radical honesty might be the only path to salvation. The Silent Crisis of Long-Term Marriage Arnold and Kay's marriage is a masterclass in quiet desperation. They sleep in separate rooms. They haven't touched each other in five years. Their conversations revolve around mundane logistics—what’s for dinner, the weather, the news. They are roommates, not lovers. Kay, played with aching vulnerability by Meryl Streep, is the canary in this marital coal mine. She still wants—craves intimacy, connection, the electric charg...

"The only language the poor understand is bread and butter." — Mahatma Gandhi’s words cut deeper in Africa than anywhere else. They explain why a continent that bled for liberation remains mentally colonized, why brothers kill brothers over imaginary lines drawn in Berlin boardrooms, and why "South Africans" chase away Nigerians while white capital still owns Johannesburg. Poverty isn’t just empty pockets—it’s a manufactured blindness that makes us attack our own while the real thieves watch from London and Wall Street. The Berlin Conference’s Living Ghosts In 1884, white men who couldn’t locate Africa on a map carved her into geometric prisons. Today, we defend these lines with patriotic fervor. A Luo in Kenya shouts " Harambee! " while his cousin in Uganda chants " For God and My Country. " Tutsis who shared milk gourds for centuries now march under different flags. The Zulu—once a kingdom spanning Southern Africa—now bicker over which Europea...

Dear brothers, By the time you read this, I'll be in Addis Ababa. Don't worry about me - I'm fine and settling in well. I'm in a new country now, one with focus and an energetic leader who stands up even to Pharaohs over Nile waters. I'm in the arms of my loving Edel and her beautiful daughter Beli, ready to start fresh. This is the land of Emperor Menelik II who defeated Mussolini's armies at Adwa. The home of running legend Haile Gebrselassie and the birthplace of Rastafari. Being here reminds me of that reggae line: "The system does not cater for me." That's why I left. I left my daughter Emily behind - that pains me. But not her mother. Tesa deserved to be left. Another day with her might have killed me. Brother Manga, you're the only one who'll truly understand. You've lived with women of this generation. You know the torture - when they throw the little money you give them back in your face, when they hurl insults that crush your ...

Today, the earth trembles beneath the weight of our collective grief. Another giant has joined the ancestors - Robert Gabriel Mugabe, the last in a fading lineage of true African liberators. His passing marks not just the end of an era, but perhaps the extinction of a certain breed of leader: the unapologetic Pan-African warrior. The Fallen Pantheon Mugabe now takes his rightful place among the martyred champions of our continent: Patrice Lumumba - murdered for Congo's resources Thomas Sankara - gunned down for daring to imagine Burkina Faso's self-sufficiency Kwame Nkrumah - overthrown for uniting Africa Muammar Gaddafi - lynched for creating an African gold dinar These were not perfect men - but when has perfection ever been the price of liberation? They shared one unforgivable sin: believing Africans deserved more than permanent servitude to Western capital. The Land Question: Mugabe's Unmatched Legacy While Mandela compromised and Kenyatta collaborated, Mugabe wielded l...

It’s been seasons, Yet I haven’t missed her— For you are the garden Where my heart now rests. I. My flower, distant in miles but near in step, You bloom in the chambers of my heart, Rooted deep in my mind’s fertile soil, A perennial presence in my soul’s quiet plot. II. Your voice—honeyed and warm— Sends peace cascading through my veins. When you sigh, "I miss you," Time stumbles. My pulse becomes a wild drum. III. In our sacred nights, I cradle you, A sculptor marveling at his masterpiece: The silk of your pink thighs, The poetry of your curves, Your mouth’s golden nectar— A taste sweeter than stolen butter. IV. You are my torch in the trembling dark. With you, shadows become steps I dare to take. My sun. My dawn. My photosynthesis. You turn my fears into light. V. Now, as night drapes the sky, I trace constellations in your eyes— Dark as the cosmos, bright as streetlights, Twin stars I’d orbit until time collapses.

The sun hung low in the sky, a dull orange ember smoldering behind a haze of dust. Chwa found Bandia perched on the cracked concrete slabs that served as the stairway to their mother’s house. Bandia’s eyes were half-lidded, the whites tinged pink, his gaze drifting lazily over the empty yard. The scent of burnt herbs clung to him—earthy, pungent, familiar. They greeted each other with a loose bump of fists, knuckles barely grazing. Chwa lowered himself beside his brother, the rough concrete biting into his thighs. For a while, neither spoke. The silence between them was comfortable, worn-in, like an old shirt. Finally, Chwa exhaled sharply and said, "Bandia, I think it’s time I started smoking weed." Bandia turned slowly, his lips curling into a knowing smirk. "Oh? And what brought this grand revelation?" Chwa rubbed his palms together, staring at the dirt between his feet. "I used to think I could get through this life sober. Thought if I worked hard, kept my ...