Goldenfingers

I find it very hard, painful and offending when you are talking the inner truth to someone whom you think you are closer to him/her and that s/he understands you better but only to find out the very person doesn’t believe  nor trust you. Thats why in the society we live today many people had been let down by the people they thought they could trust in times of need hence leaving the person  in-need in a dilemma situations.  The same people may end up exposed to the danger or taking their own lives when their cries had fallen on deaf ears. It is a shame and it hurts.  People only utter regret murmurs when the channel has taken its course.

Having experienced psychological and emotional abuse. I decided to know more of my rights. I did my researches and I hope they are going to  help you as well.  First, let me define psychological and emotional abuse.

Psycholological and emotional abuse is that which impinges on the emotional health and development of individuals. It is also presents with other forms of abuse. Examples of behaviour: shouting , swearing, insulting, ignoring, threats, intimidation, harassment, humiliation and depriving an individual of the right to choice and privacy.

Human Rights. Anyone who is in the UK for any reason has fundamental rights which the government and public authorities are legally obliged to respect. These became Law as part of Human Rights Act 1998. Here is the list of your human rights;  the right to life, the right to peaceful and enjoyment of your property, the right freedom of expression, the right to education, the right not to be punished for something wasn’t a crime when  you did it, the right to a fair trial, the right to respect for private and family, right to protest, the right of freedom of thought conscience, and religion, and freedom to express beliefs and finally freedom of assembly and association.

Exercising your human rights: If you are in situation in which you believe that your human rights are being violated, it is advisable to seek if the problem can  be resolved without going to court by using medication or internal complaints.  Before you decide to  take any legal action it is vital that seek Legal advice. Citizen Advice Bureau and Community Legal advice.  Enforce your rights. I paved  a way for you and me.

It has been 3 years from now after  the day I was supposed to be deported to Zimbabwe. After a jealous manager masterminded it. Thank God  he saved me. Instead of deporting me, they rotated me  within three major detentions  namely as Colin-Broke, Tinsley House and Yarlswood. I had been in detention for a period of six weeks. I was fortunate to be released earlier because some of the detainees had been in the detention for more than six months to a year and still they were in dilemma. I would like to express my gratitude to the people who campaigned for my release, some supported by visiting and praying for me. Sally and family , Emma and family,  Peter,  Rose, Perseverance and the church. Thank you for all the beautiful work you did for me. I truly salute you as Heroes. The  unconditional love and support you gave me was absolutely incredible. May the love of God continue to overflow you and your families. I pray for the divine favour and that you may continuously live happily for many years to come. I will always love you and you will remained touched to the core of my heart until death separates us. Comrades be blessed.

Euna

Having lived in Britain for more than six years and seven months under asylum system had drenched my soul. I went through trials and tribulation where upon I have been evicted and left homeless. At one stage sleeping underneath the bridge. Housed with a good Samaritan for more than five  months. Reinstated my benefits under Asylum section 4 support. Betrayed by one of the managers for MPQ properties, a housing agent. On the 14th Septmber 2006 at about 5:30 a.m, a group of armed police officers came broke the house where I was  living. Handcuffed and dragged me out of the house . I was completely half-naked. Outside, the rains were pouring  and landed heavily on my half naked body. Shoved into the police van.  I was literally caged. I had no-clue of where they were taking me to.

After seemed like eternity we arrived at the unknown  destination. It was the Middleton Police Station. I was taken to a cell.  It was my first time to experience the prison life. I never committed any crime or any fraud but on this day I was a prisoner of  the injustice world. The same day they imprisoned I was suppose to seat  for my final examination for Childcare level 2 and  staring a Foundation Degree in Childcare the following week  at Hopewood College in Rochdale  but alas all these ambitions were thwarted in one goal.  Later in the prison I was told by the senior officer that I was going to be deported to Zimbabwe. I was made to read a letter written by one of the ministers from Home office.  How could this happen to me I said as I raced with my thought. The binding law was saying No Zimbabweans should be deported. Where everyone was putting law into their hands knowing they won’t face any persecution. I spent three nights  in cell and I refused to touch any food they had brought before me.

Later I  was moved to a detention the Colinbrooke  near Heathrow airport. I spent 72hrs at the dentition and moved to another detention, the Tinsely House which is adjacent to Gatwick Airpot where I detained for two weeks .  I was maneuvered back to Colin-Brooke detention. After three days stay, then they moved to Yarlswood the biggest detention in UK, which accommodates about 450  detainees. Detained for another two weeks and I was released later back to the community. In all detentions I saw cruelty, torture,  human to human degradation. Detainees tried to commit suicide. Some detainees had stayed in detentions for more than one year.  I saw pregnant women, mothers with young children or toddlers, teenagers, adults and the crippled. They cried relentlessly day and night  asking for help. Help for what?  Justice and Freedom. Unfortunately to the majority of detainees their cries were  fallen on hard rocks.

When  I was released I went and lived with same Good Samaritan who had accommodated me before. She had signed as my Surety. I met a lot of my sympathisers who also commented on me  and said that I had a strong will. After a  month from detentions I started  to suffer from Post-traumatic distress Order. It was the twitches but it took a lot of time for the doctors to specify or identify my ailment. I remember one incident when one of the Neurogist from Traford Hospital was terrified with  my twitches.They were very embarrassing. I could continuously shake and it had happened so many times in public. It took 6 months to for NHS to send a psychologist to me by then I had slightly improved. If someone could not touch or hold me  in time, I will eventually fall.

After  staying ,more than one half years  in the house of surety (S) I was reinstated to Section 4 support. It is all about to share with other different individuals. I had with some nice people but some are hard to share with. The situation is worsened by Home Providers the (Ha… Ho..s) who sent their own mangers and they infuriate hatred between the residents. There is irony upon their household name.    There is no happiness  in their homes. They create problems and they do not how to extinguish the fire which they had started or simply to the resolve problems. With their unethical behaviour  they had  actually triggered my twitches.   I  wish if there is some where  I could live and have a peaceful life. The managers came  to impose their threats on me and ruin my confidence.

I am a lady who is multi- talanted. Qualified nursery manager, Cake decorator,Freelance writer, A Community reporter, a natural gardener or farmer. But unfortunately I am vehemently prohibited from working by Home Office. I wish I could work and earn a living for myself.  Lived on £35 voucher weekly which allows you to buy food only in Asda. No cash   for emergencies. It is  my life as a asylum seeker who is left in dilemma without knowing what the future holds for you. I haven’t seen my mother for more than six years and she turning 85 this year . I can’t help her. I heard she is very ill and fragile. I wish I could hold her and touch her. I only cry for  genuine help to all my readers. My soul has been crushed. Is there  someone out who could help me.

Short story.

I found it very interesting in respect of all fathers to have a special day that dedicates to them only. It is a day that the family would gather together and appreciating the value of having a father in the house. The value that out- numbered the presents that are brought before them.

What does the word father means to you? In my own judgment it means the head, resource, rock, pillar and provider. A father is an important figure in the family, but how many people  recognise this day and give thanks or show appreciation to their fathers . To some it is like an ordinary day that goes without being noticed.

It was 21^st of June when I was at Bowlers Car Boot sale in Trafford Park when it clicked to me that it was father’s day. Then, I realised that I haven’t seen my father for more than two decades. My father had passed away when I was very young at the age of 11. He had fallen ill and unfortunately his body was too weak to  fight the battle and also age contributed to his final rest. He died aged 88 and I was the last born in a family of 29 children. He was a polygamist and blessed with four wives. My mum was the fourth wife.  In Africa a wealthy man goes hand in hand with polygamy. It is the eye that catches a lot of women and unknowingly they found themselves woven into it. As for men the wealth becomes the pulling factor or a weapon to let women draw closer to them. My father had accumulated a vast  wealth over the years. He had a large heads of cattle, goats, pigs and also a number of servants. I had grown to love him and with time I became his closest friend and I could reveal my secrets and wishes knowing he would never breach any of my trust.

At times he would gently touch my nose and lifted it up a little higher in a straight line. “Let it be like that of a white man’s nose,” said my father with a posh voice.  I would laugh with joy and felt superior because my father had likened my nose to that of white man’s. In those primitive times,  the majority of black people or  in Africa thought a white was superior when compared to them and some had taken extra mile to worship him rather to worship a true God. I knew that my father wasn’t that primitive to think a white man was better than him but he only wanted to see me smiling since in those days it was prestigious to be linked or connected to a white man especially in young children’s minds.

I was always proud of my father. In his early days he was a teacher, a business man and a farmer. In the early 80s he was appointed as a chief. Sometimes I would play around with the words and said to him “Father, you are not only a chief who rules his own people but you are also a chief breeder,” I would say it out with a squeaking naughty voice and I would see him exploding his lungs with laughter. “Oh! You daughter of mine, I tell you one day you will be in England. The Queen’s land. You are very intelligent,” commented my father. I would giggle with laughter that would only stop when interrupted by my other little cousin who always wanted to know what was going between us.

I cherished that little time that I had with my father and unfortunately the great two enemies known as illness and death came in our lives and stole my beloved father. He got ill for a long time and sadly we failed to say farewell to each other not because it was our wish but due to geographical distance. By the time he died, I was living in a different place where my elder sisters were looking after me. I heard stories from my mum and our closest relatives that at his deathbed my father was always calling my name and he was desperate to see me. My mum sent some money to my sisters asking us to visit our father before he passed away but  unfortunately my sisters refused to travel claiming that the money that mum had sent was not sufficient for the journey. I requested one of my elder sisters to give me the money so that I could travel on my own since I knew the place but she refused claiming that I could get lost. I was extremely disappointed that I went for days without touching any food that they offered me and for a long time whenever deep emotions troubled me I grieved for my father.

Fatherhood is very important. Fathers love your children!

Children have quality time with your fathers whilst you have the time!

Mothers continue to support your husbands and encourage your children to cement relationships with their fathers!

Maintain your relationships and have a fewer quarrels as they can ruin a good relationship!

I found myself staring at the most intriguing man made wonders of the world. I looked around and I saw a multitude of people flocking to and fro and I realised I was not alone, with the unquenchable desire to see the most distinctive building in the Northern region of Europe. I stared and stared it again and I wondered who were these men who were utterly genius that they had tremendously displayed their mental power to build an astonishing building that world had ever seen. As my eyes continued to explore the beauty of York Minster Cathedral I found myself standing next to a light painted green life-size statue of Constantine.  The resemblance showed he was a man of great power and probably mightily feared and respected in the whole world.

As I turned around I screamed loudly. “It’s amazing,” I said and it was echoed by a huge number of people. “Absolutely,” they chorused. But this was the beginning of my appetite. The hunger to know the depth of the root had inflicted my mind. I was filled with some emotional desire to know the brain-storm of this mesmerising building. Fortunately it did not take long before my hunger was rewarded.

York Minster foundations can be compared to a tiny dot of the word. It was in the year of 627 when it was built. It was chiefly established for the baptism of the Anglo Saxon King, Edwin of Northumbria. It was a tiny wooden church. The baptism took place on Easter Sunday. Soon after his baptism, Edwin ordered that the small wooden church to be rebuilt in stone. Unfortunately in 633, Edwin was killed before the completion of the church hence it did not meant that it was the dead end of the assignment but it flowed. The work was delegated to Oswald. The small stone church was constructed on the same site as the original wooden church and it was enlarged time and again. Surprisingly, it fought all types of odds through the Viking age in York, but it also faced its first ever deadly catastrophe. It was engulfed by fire in the 1069 when the gigantic Normans had overthrown the city.

It did not take long before the Normans had decided to replace the damaged Saxon Minster church. It was around 1080 when Thomas of Bayeux became and archbishop and began building the cathedral that become what we have today. The vast of Norman was polished up around the 1100 and the distinctive base can still been seen today.

In 1215, a prominent figure known as Walter Gray became the archbishop. It is during his time of 40 years of service when a captivating idea channelled into his mind to transform the church into the Minster we have today. It is understood that the South and North transept were built first. Unfortunately, like Edwin, Walter passed away before their completion. Was it a curse?  I asked myself. No, said my thoughts. It was meant to be passed on generation to generation until it was fully completed.

Then, Nave western end was erected 1360 after major work had commenced in 1291. Later the work was transferred to East end with the building of Lady Chapel which was completed by 1405.

Accomplishment was not easy or like spreading margarine on a slice of bread. There was sweat and blood in the process of building. The builders faced major setbacks that were utterly compelling. In all, the fire wanted to destroy the hearts of these medieval architectures. In February 1829 Jonathan Martin purposely started a fire in the Quire. This act of combustible resulted in the destruction of the whole east end roof and timber vault and all the wooden furniture of the Quire. 11 years later a second, accidental, fire destroyed the Nave roof and later a central tower was reportedly collapsed and work replacement was not done till 1433. It was between 1433 and 1472 that the western towers were added and the Minster was finally completed. It had taken over two centuries and five decades (250) for it to please the eyes of the world from one generation to another. Even in the twentieth century, the 1967, 1972 and 1984 the fire had stroked again on the building like a venomous snake.

I found myself being amused with such detailed work that the ancient architecture had displayed over the years and it’s absolutely second to none. Inside, the building, I saw stained glass window depicting the family tree of Jesus Christ and on another stained glass window depicting King Solomon. These wide distinctive decorations within the Minster building left me without a word that I found some of the intricate ornate carvings were simply baiting to watch that they also led me to see the medieval perpendicular gothic style. The perpendicular style, which relies on a network of intersecting mullions and transoms rather  on a diversity of richly carved forms for effect, gives an overall impression of great unit, in which the structure of both windows of both clerestory and east end are integrated with arcade below the vault above.

The exciting news is that the current York Minster administrators are making sure that the ancient architectural would not come to a dead end but passed on from generation to generation. They are only doing this by doing a project known as York Minster Revealed and it is supported by Heritage lottery Fund. The aim of the project is to preserve and to repair this prehistoric building is constant.

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Have you ever give yourself a thought about something you loved most or something you had ever loved before? Are you still connected to that thing or somehow it had crossed your the pathway? How do you feel when it betrays you or when it is taken away from you or completely destroyed? There is only one theory that says the thing you cherished most can be compared to a life of a clay pot. It’s very fragile, so either you keep it safe or it can be taken away and also you can break it.

This had been a relationship between me and my beloved brown boots. I fell in love with them the moment I saw them in one the shops known as Shoe Zone. I could only describe it as love on the first sight. I wanted to purchase them the very moment I had seen them but alas I did not have the cash. I decided to buy them some other time when I know my pocket would be fine but at the same time I was also praying inwardly that the stock would not last before I possess them.

In a less than a week, the shoes were now in my hands. I loved; I kissed, and stroked them several times. They were appropriate for winter season which was due. My first time I wore them was one of the Sundays when I went to my local church. All the way to church by bus and from the church I received thousands of compliments about the shoes. I felt great and proud of my choice.

One morning I was rushing for the bus and while on the middle of the road my boots slipped violently that my legs were left at 180 degrees apart. I endured a great pain that I had to crawl to cross the road and fortunately there was no traffic close by. As weeks progressed, I put on my adorable boots once more and on this day it was raining. I was happily singing a chorus song as I walked down Littleton road heading to Salford student village and I was coming near the round-about when I found myself skidding aggressively not once but twice before my hands touched the ground. “Sorry! Are you OK,” I heard a male voice asking me. “Yeah fine. Its them boots,” I said as I pointed them with my fore finger. “I’ m glad that you are fine. I thought you were going to split into two because the way you landed was badly that I feared for your life,” added the caring male voice.  “Thank you”, I murmured with a girlish tone and the young man was gone. We were going on opposite directions. After a while I told myself that I should put away the boots for a longer rest.

Three months later after the last dangerous episode, I was tempted again to wear them. It was the same love that I had experienced when I first saw them that was now oozing from my heart to put the boots on. I grabbed and shoved them on to my feet.  Feeling content, I left my house and boarded one of the Stagecoach double-decker buses to Openshaw but my fate was still waiting to strike again. I walked safely on to the bus and it was when I was about to drop off from the Stagecoach motor vehicle when an accident occurred again with my boots. I had managed to descend carefully from the stairs and I was almost few inches from the door when my boots glided fiercely and sending my left leg front- wards and the right leg backwards in a quickest spilt that my body had ever experienced but this kind of split I had only witnessed on professional dancers.  If I was dancing, I think the spectators would label it as second to none split they had ever seen. I landed heavily on to the floor that left other passengers numb. They were terrified and some of them thought that I had actually broken one of my legs. “Are you ok”, they chorused. “Fine,” I said and tried to put a smile on my face. “I just need two people to lift, ple…” I was already up before I finished my sentence. Two gentlemen had managed to lift me up without any struggle. I was safely led out from the bus and made to relax. After the bus driver was satisfied that there were no complications or anything of life threatening on me, he resumed with his journey. He had thought of calling the ambulance but after I had assured him that I was well. He left nodding his head in shock. Apparently some people who had seen me falling down, they told me that one of my boots had stepped on an empty plastic packet of crisps which was lying on the floor. They were truly convinced it was the root of my split fall.

Back at my house, I packed my boots away where my eyes could not reach. I did not want to touch them again though my heart was aching for them. They had been in a “safe” place for almost five months. But today, early morning I was tempted again to put on them. It was the Manchester weather that had actually forced me to go and reveal the forbidden hidden treasure and that had always risked my life. Outside, it was raining and I thought it will be good again to have the boots on my legs and hence I am protected from the cold. I quickly fetched them from the clandestine place. I was on my deadly gear but this time I was not going far from house. I was going to a local shop to drop my some of my cakes for sale. I decided to board a bus though the place where I was going was only ten minutes walk from my house but I wanted only to utilise my weekly bus pass since I had one already and also avoiding the rains.

In three minutes I had already reached my destination. I alighted from the bus and I had just walked less than few metres from the bus stop and I could see the bus was still loading more people when my boots slipped heavily that I landed one knee down and whilst the other was up. Guess where I was? I was on Cromwell Bridge. I picked up myself quickly. I resumed with my journey as if nothing has happened but actually my right knee was in pain that at first I thought it was severely bruised. The pain lasted for ages. I never bothered to look around because I was certain that there were a number of people who had seen me falling down and some them I had already seen them before the incident. They were standing on the bus stop just across the other side of the road.

The bad experiences that I had faced with my loving boots had cajoled me to put it in black and white. I promise you readers that I am not going to wear them again but to preserve them for references. Something you love can be treacherous and give you some heart burns. Despite the all the adventures I had, they are really warm inside. Probably I should wear them at home when I am relaxed and not going anywhere.

“Who is this?” I cried out with a loud hysterical voice that I didn’t know existed in me. The whole ground was shaking with terror. I stumbled quickly from my bed; I grabbed the edge of my settee with all power and pushed it hard on to my bedroom door. I danced around in terror not knowing what to do, and then I saw my mobile phone lying on the edge of the window sill. I clutched it and quickly dialled 999. “Hello. “Do you want the police, the …”  “The police please,” I said as I cut out the operator’s voice. “How can I help?” said the female operator. “An intruder has entered my house,” I said as my voice trembled with fear. “Give me your name and your address,” she asked. I called out all my personal details. “Did you see the person and where were you?  I saw him and I was sleeping in my bedroom. “Is the intruder still there and could you describe how he looks? said the operator with a probing tone. It was then when I realised that I was shouting on top of my voice. Instantly, I reminded myself to lower my voice in fear that the intruder would come back if he heard that I was reporting him to the police. Recognising the danger I faced, I started to sob uncontrollably while I was hanging on the phone. “Calm down, the police are on the way to help you.” I heard her voice but my mind was in a whirlwind. Every ticking second was like a year. I wanted to fly and go far away where I will be nursed and feel secure. I wanted to be near my loved ones, where I will be told everything is fine. The more I thought about it the more my tears were streaming like a river. “Why had he targeted me?” I asked myself several times as I struggled with my conscience.

It started like a normal day and a night before I had slept at my friend’s house whom I shall name Liz. We went to bed very late at exactly 3 am. At 6.30 am, I got out of the bed and after having a shower Liz dropped me at my house as she was on her way to North Manchester Hospital where she worked as a mid-wife. “Thanks.” I murmured as she skidded off. I was now alone in my own house. I checked my diary and I noticed that I was going to meet my new mentors and other voluntary community reporters for the first time.  The venue was the Broughton Trust. The scheduled meeting time was 10.00 am till 1.00pm. I was filled with enthusiasm and desire to learn more new skills as a community reporter. I glanced at my watch and I realised that I still had two and a half more hours of preparation and the rendezvous was just five minutes travel by bus from my house. I was taught that the first impressions are important especially in interviews when meeting other professional people. With this in mind, I went to my wardrobe and I pulled out my most prestigious dress which I wore with pride. I pampered my face with lovely make up. I looked at myself in the dressing mirror. Satisfied, I clutched my handbag and left the house.

In a couple of minutes I was on the bus and not long after the bus had dropped me off. I found myself knocking on the door. “Come in.” I heard a sweet melody voice beckon me inside. I showed up and in a second glance I saw everybody in the room was smiling at me. “You are Euna, I am sure,” said the slim, medium, and blond smashing girl whom I had already suspected as one of our mentors. “Yes,” I nodded in agreement. “Take a seat!”  “Thank you, I said as I placed my hand bag safely on the table. In a few minutes, I became familiar with everyone and we were on first name terms. The atmosphere was buzzing. Our mentors did not take long in briefing us about the project and how we were going to flow into the system through their help and guidance. We were all happy to learn blog, audio story telling and film making. Our mentors asked us to write down a list of places which we may want to visit and have some interviews. “Prison!” I said loudly. “Why?” asked Tee who is one of our mentors. “Mainly, I want to know why there is a high crime rate with many young offenders. What can be done to minimize the situation or to help young people not to waste their time in bad things but to invest it wisely in things that benefit themselves and the community.” Our meeting ended in a good note. Finally we dispersed.

I was back in my house and fully relaxed on my lovely comfy sofa. I was about to get myself a cold drink when I heard the clicking sound on my front door. I stood and watched two men holding a lot of goods as they entered my house.  I recognised one of them, he was a boyfriend of Aimee, whom I was about to start sharing my house with. I greeted them. “How is this area? We have heard that it has got a bad reputation of crime,” enquired Aimee’s boyfriend. “Umm, it’s ok I have been here for six months but nothing bad has happened”, I added. “That sounds good,” they chorused. They quickly loaded Aimee’s room with the luggage.  At that time Aimee was in North Manchester Hospital expecting to deliver a healthy baby boy. My mind was soon filled with the joy that I was going to hold that new baby when he was brought home. Unconsciously I started to sing this song: How sweet to hold a new born baby and to feel the pride and enjoys it gives. Then I saw Aimee’s boyfriend leaving followed by his friend. I heard the screeching and then the sound faded as they drove far away.

I was alone again and then I thought of writing some short stories. I fetched my laptop and begin to work on my writing. After a while I became exhausted and felt drowsy at the same time, so I stopped writing and I put my laptop away. I headed to my bedroom which is on the first floor and left my laptop and my printer in the living room. I stripped off my prestigious dress and then I put on my night dress. Outside it was not yet dark but according to my clock it was 4.00 pm. It did not take long before I fell asleep.

While sleeping, I had a strange fun dream but regrettably I could not remember any details. Whatever the dream was it forced me to wake up. I picked up my mobile just to check the time and I was shocked that I had only slept for three and half hours when I thought it was already midnight. I was about to phone Liz to narrate the events of the day when I heard a tapping knock. I ignored it and thought that it could be someone knocking on my neighbour’s door since we lived in terraced houses. After all I was not expecting anyone to visit me at that particular hour. So, I concluded that if they are my friend(s) he or she could ring me. With that in mind I closed the chapter. The whole house was dead silent and even outdoors I could barely hear any squeaking sounds that I normally hear when children or people walking on the street. Probably it was one of the winter evenings where everybody was forced to be indoors earlier than they had expected.

I had just turned my head and faced my bedroom door and then I watched my door being opened slowly. Instantly my mind began to race and my heart was pounding and sent shock waves to my adrenaline system. Who could be in the house? How did the person manage to enter the house without making any sound? Is he one of the managers from Happy Homes? The house I lived in was run by one the housing agents and sometimes they did have access to our houses whenever they want but the normal procedure is that they had to contact the resident(s) first to confirm their visit. I continued to race with my thoughts again. What does the person want and why is the person opening the door stealthily like a thief?

At that moment, the door was widely opened and there I was facing a very slim, tall and bald headed white man. He was wearing blue jeans, blue t-shirt and black leather jacket. A small black brief case was clutched tightly under his left armpit probably to disguise his intentions. We squarely faced into each other’s eyes regardless of the distance. The moment he saw me, he quickly fled as if a bullet had been shot into his eyes.

I was terrified and felt insecure. It even triggered the twitches that I had once suffered from after experiencing post traumatic stress disorder. I began to think through the events of the day and I feared for my laptop and regretted for leaving it downstairs which I had never done it before and even my sleeping pattern was unusual. I would usually sleep just after midnight and only in the very late hours of morning. The inadequate sleep that I had the night before had inevitably invited the intruder. Darkness in the house had also paved a way for the burglar because when I went to sleep I never bothered to switch on the lights and hence I fooled myself that it was too early to use the power. Probably another factor that could have attracted him was that he might have seen Aimee’s boyfriend bringing the goods inside the house.

I thought it was ironic that I had talked of visiting the prisoners and also Aimee’s boyfriend having asked me about crime within the area. In less than six hours an intruder managed to destroy the trust that I had for the area. In fact he had convinced me that everything I thought about the area in period of six months was nullified.

It was a while when the police arrived. It took twenty minutes from the time I phoned and I was apprehensive by the lack of their urgency in such dreadful situation when I knew the nearest police station was just five minutes away from house by using any means of transport.

When they arrived I was still shaking like a reed but still speaking to the female online. She asked me to go and open the door for the police but I declined fearing that the burglar may be still around or within the premises. I climbed up higher the window and managed to communicate with the police outside. I signalled them to come in. In a minute, I was surrounded. “Is my laptop there?” I said fearfully. “We don’t know. May you come down, please,” said one of the officers. I went down and one the female officers was  holding my left hand and she did her best to make sure that I was calm enough before I was loaded with their probing questions.

As I got down, I could not believe what I was seeing. My laptop was still there lying on the same place where I left about four hours ago. It was a big relief and in actual fact, everything was intact. The robber had failed to come out with anything and I thanked God for sending confusion ideas in his mind and let him go empty handed. I’m sure if this burglar was to be asked how many people he saw in the bedroom. I am definitely sure that his response would be two. I knew God was on my side. Even in the bible it says if God is on my side who can be against me? I felt my prayers being answered. Every night before I go to bed I would always ask for God’s protection over my house and everything in it and even my own protection. The burglar could have attacked me and do something dreadful over my life but instead he fled away instantly.

The trick bit is that the criminal had cunningly worked his way in by using the kitchen back door. He had used a sharp saw to gain his entrance. The door frame was jig sawed. I could not believe that I failed to detect any faintest strange noise that was being done on my door whilst I was in the house. I was even shocked that he even climbed up successful on the stairs to my room without making any shrieking sound. I concluded that he was a master class thief.

The police did all sorts of probing and the forensic test but it came to nothing. The saddest part is that the police were inactive after the incident. I even told them that I see the intruder who broke into my house almost every day and apparently he lives just few inches from my house. It has been four months after the incident and the intruder is living happily with his family while my life is in a shambles. I hope the police won’t regret this and have to say sorry to the public when he strikes again. It is the police that let down the public when the snake is at large. I felt my case had been handled unprofessional way and the police tried to cover up for the bad egg.

I was born in a round mushroom shaped hut. The house was built with dagga, poles and sandwiched with long thin pruned trees that were tied against the poles using the tree bark and this was done to support the hut. The roof was elegantly thatched with a long soft dried grass, so that in summer it would be pleasantly cool for the occupants when the weather was extremely hot. The hut had two high open windows, one on each side such that at the time I was growing I could hardly reach them. I remember an incident when my elder sisters had to push me through the windows because they had locked the keys inside and my thin body was squashed to a ball so that these tiny widows would swallow me. Inside, the floor was made of strong clay soil and it was so smoothly compacted that one would think that it was made out of cement. Once every week, my mum would give another touch to the floor using a mixture of cow dung and water, and then she would stir until it becomes smooth running soft dung. The next stage I would watch her with fascinated eyes as she had to bend down on her knees and her long dress would be already tied up to her upper thighs and her right hand dipped into the cow dung mixture. Once scooped, she had to spread it smoothly on the floor while her eyes are making sure that no bumps are left. The whole process would take about ten to fifteen minutes and then she had to let it dry for one hour and half and also forbade anyone to enter the house whilst the floor was still wet. Satisfied with her work, she would ask my sisters or me to collect a bunch of very soft green leaves from the nearest bush. When we collected the leaves, she had to start chopping them up using a sharp instrument and she would only stop when she started seeing the dark green juice coming out of the leaves. Then, I would see my mum take the chopped leaves into the house and spread them on the top of the dried dung floor and blended them well such that by the time she finished the whole floor would be absolutely spectacular to watch. I wished that nobody would spoil the hard work which my mum had done but by the same basis it was hard to maintain this standard of work because on some occasions my parents would invite people for informal or formal celebrations. African celebrations mean huge gatherings of people that would feast from your plates, accompanied by the pounding of drums, singing of merry songs and dancing that would last for a few days or a week depending how wealthy is the person. It is this time that I found the fortunate ones damaging my mum’s floor with their high-heeled shoes hence requiring another labour.  The hut had also a built-in 10 feet long, 12 inch high and 12 inch wide bench and it was on the left side of the house. The built-in benches were meant for men only and no women were allowed to sit on them regardless of their status.  As a sign of humbleness and respect, women were only permitted to sit on the floor. Before they sat down, the host had to make sure that a dried skin of a goat, sheep or of a good beast had been lain down. There was also a wider built-in bench but its length was half that of the former bench. Its purpose was to accommodate three massive sets of clay pots with well-painted black and red zigzag necks that mum had to arrange in sequence starting with the biggest pot at the bottom and finishing with smallest on top. In between the two benches, there were also very low built-in shelves attached to the ends of the benches and their function was to store big water buckets up to twenty five litres in capacity. Storing water was and is still essential in Africa because the majority had to travel miles and miles, to fetch it from deep wells if they are fortunate enough to have them or else they had to get water from the rivers or shallow infested wells and they then had an extra step of purifying the water by boiling it before they could use it. To the far right of the house we had a nicely styled built-in carved shelf. Its beauty had appealed to a large number of women and men in the community such that they ended up copying the style or pattern to build their own. Mum would show her expertise in arranging her kitchen utensils along the walls and on the shelf, and the shelf was always shining so that you would not see any speck of dust. This kind of energy that mum had always portrayed has also been instilled in me. In the middle was the fireplace or the cooking area, and the stove was made of four bullet-shaped clay bricks thirty centimetres apart. The space was specially made for the firewood to pass through to the centre of the stove on all sides. On top of the four bricks were six strong steel bars. The bricks were arranged in a kite shaped pattern, with two steel bars arranged on top diagonally, whilst the other four bars were also on top but arranged around the sides. Overall, the top of the stove looked like a kite shape but with four holes in between giving a space for different cooking pans.  The inside of the roof was sooty. This was due to the smoke. The fire also produced carbon monoxide but fortunately it never affected our health. We only experienced a lot of smoke when the fire wood was wet and struggled to light but when it was dry it was much easier and the fire would produce a light smoke that you hardly saw with your naked eye. In a nutshell the memories of this hut had haunted me for ages so that I felt that I should release them through my writing. Unfortunately this hut was demolished when my parents built a new modern kitchen hut.

Enjoy this – your comments would be appreciated.

I was so proud of this cake. It came as an unexpected surprise for I had never done any wedding cakes before but the normal  such as birthdays ones. I had gone to sleep early one night at the end of April 2008 and I was not feeling well. My phone house rang and my friend P, picked up for me. “Euna, It’s your call,” he beamed as he brought it towards me. I shoved off my head uncomfortable out of the blankets. “Hello,” I said as I answered the person online. “Euna, It’s Eppy here.” I am really sorry to wake you up late but I need an immediate help from you.” I listened attentively not knowing what to expect. “My cousin is going to wed this coming Saturday and he needs a wedding cake. He had arranged with another woman but the lady had let them down on the last minute,” she continued. “Could you make one for him, please,” she begged. “Can I speak to your cousin,” I said but without any idea what to say  to him. He immediately came on the line and I spoke to him. “Look, I heard your request but I am not going to say yes or no. Leave it to me and let me digest it for the whole night and I am going to give the response by tomorrow afternoon,” I told him. With this conversation I hang up the phone.

“Pee, what do you think? Should I make the cake for them?” I asked him to get his opinion over my dilemma. “Go for it and when opportunity strikes, heat it while it is still hot,” he responded. I knew It was time to do it and show my expertism in cake decoration. I realised the trick that it was to handle each cake as individual. All of suddenly, I was filled with the excitement of doing the wedding cake. I could not believe how luck I was. The next day I phoned my new client and told him the most exciting news he was undoubtedly expecting to hear and his voice was filled with gratitude. I made all the plans and in four days I had come up with an amazing cake. My neighbours were all astonished with creativity. ” You are talented,” they said in unison.

On the day of the wedding, everyone complemented on my cake. It was gorgeous outside and inside. The bride and the groom were over the moon. I felt satisfied with my articulate performance. It is a privilege for me to be a cake decorator.