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“Be Humble, Nigga Be Humble 10K” from the novel in progress, “Isaiah Jones versus the Sea (A 21st Century Odyssey) by Joey Da’rrell Cloudy.;

Chapter 32 Be Humble, Nigga Be Humble 10K pt 1 of 3

January 1st, 2121,

Marcus Garvey Port, Ghana

The Second Coming

“…Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned;”

-William Butler Yeats

Betzalel stood on the trampoline turned landing pad covered with a tarp repurposed staysail, a worn-out genoa, a silent sentinel sleeping in the darkened downpour waiting for the Summoning the Golum. “Motherland.” the old man said squinting his emerald eyes a bit reading the title aloud, his mellifluous baritone echoing through the expanse of the empty stateroom of the now permanently anchored 100- year-old ‘Hemisphere’, once the largest sailing catamaran yacht in the world, back in 2011 when she was first built the 145 feet (44 m) long sailing catamaran now sat permanently anchored the crowning jewel floating in a reserved slip in the center of the harbor directly in front of the Port Garvey Museum of African Arts and Letters.

Outside, he watched a pair of super cargo ships pass each other, their decks piled several stories high with freight. The multicolored steel cargo freight containers looked like impossible stacks of children’s blocks piled upon the deck as they silently glide beneath the great Fanon floating suspension bridge that spanned the Lake Fanon River. The Mega-cityscape glistened; the great grey 100-story concrete superstructures erected nearly a century ago by primitive first-gen robots, now stood painted garish psychedelic colors, their towering poured cement walls adorned with dancing lights of advertisements shimmering wet in a steady warm rain. The unpainted sections of poured wall looked like the fossilized ribs of a prehistoric behemoth.

Across the river, along the docks of old Free Town settlement, he could see the glistening wet streets reflecting the neon lights of the bars, discotheques, and whore houses. A squad of bored street cops in the newest lightweight titanium urban assault Titan 21 model armored suits busied themselves chatting up the local street walkers standing in the cover of doorways and store awnings. Older model gas-powered yellow fiberglass with black and white checkered roof Tro Tro drones were still in use over there; they sputtered by backfiring and belching blue smoke. There were middle-aged transports as well as old first-gen hydrogen fuel cell carbon fiber clunkers.

A cornucopia of human misery was on display along the docks’ narrow residential roads; legions of thieving junkies, homeless beggars, alongside gangs of bush babies lined the rain slickened streets. a small group of a dozen or so Chinese working girls, all huddled together next to a group of cloistered nuns, faces framed with bright white edges of black habits, waiting for the next auto-hoover bus, sharing the shelter of the solar panels that functioned as awnings for the myriad of shore shop owners. The great docks constructed when the AI built the floating city were full of boats and ships of every size and shape, and color.

It was a floating ghetto around a seaside ghetto just across the river. A boy with no pants, maybe 5 years old, stood at the edge of his family’s floating house on the waterfront, relieving himself, seemly oblivious to the fact that he had no pants, ignoring the rain. A heavy-set round round-faced woman with her head covered in a brightly colored orange and green head wrap stepped onto her 42nd floor balcony, looking across the bay as he looked at her, letting the rain cool her off. Two flights up and one unit over to the left, a short bald fat man in a dock worker’s vest opened the glass doors leading to his balcony and lit a cigar carful to blow the smoke outside of the building.

Now the smaller service drones were beginning to buzz by quicky weaving in and out of the traffic effortlessly. He turned his attention away from the growing chaos of morning traffic as passenger shuttle drones the size of minivans began to fly by, he headed across the room to the bookshelf on the port bulkhead. A young girl in a white muslin linen dress and sandals enters, her hair neatly parted down the middle into perfect little Afro Puffs. She has his large emerald eyes but otherwise looks exactly like her great great grandmother at that age. He reaches out and gently touches the cover of a deeply tanned leather-bound novel, the first he had ever written, quite by accident of course.

Thats why she was here this morning, she wanted to hear the stories again. “Did I tell you that you look just like your nana when she was your age?” “No, Not yet, but it’s ok, it’s early and I just got here.” “Isaiah just stared at her for a moment, and she stared back defiantly. They both got a case of the giggles as he sat down on the thick, cushioned bench, she sat beside him as he opened the book and began to read. It was a novel cobbled together from a collection of letters he had typed on his antique crimson Olivetti Valentino typewriter while at sea and those sent to him during his voyage from Galveston to Ghana. In those days, most of his correspondence was to his parents, Helena and Kennedy Jones, while some were written to his best friend and future wife, Aeon Zavala.

The book included reproductions of the NOAA maps his family had kept, marking his daily progress, recording the coordinates he sent each evening and each morning in his daily text messages. It featured reproductions of the water-colored drawings he had made of the peoples he met at port cities around the world, sea birds, dolphins, orcas, cloud formations over the sea, the ports, towns, and villages he visited, his boat—a Monarch Ti 44 ft Solent-rigged sloop, the SS Exodus one of a handful of sail boats with a marine grade titanium hull. There were even reproductions of the sketches of his dog, Starbuck, napping on the bowsprit. He loved capturing these moments through quick plein air paintings and pen and ink drawings whenever he had the time.

Had it really been one hundred years, an entire century, since he set sail from the port of Galveston after spending that last night with Aeon? He had planned to leave on New Year’s Day, but Aeon had other plans.

“How about you put off weighing anchor, hoisting the mainsail, and blowing this place for a day? It’s humiliating to admit, but I missed you while I was in California.” Her voice weighed the burden of a profound sorrow he had not heard before. “It’s only been four months since you started school. I thought you were having fun in San Diego?” Isaiah asked, genuinely confused. “Look, Izzy, Aeon explained, carefully choosing her words, this is the first time I’ve been away on my own, and even though Penny is there with me and living on your grandparents’ catamaran instead of the dorm is fucking awesome; I still just miss the hell out of you. I mean think about it. We’ve been together practically every day since we were six, and this is the longest time I have gone without seeing you. I do not like it. I miss being able to take your presence for granted. Does that make any sense to you?”

“Yes.” He smiled as he wrapped his arms around her. “I have missed you as well.”

“You remember when we were kids, I used to tell you that I was going to marry you when I was grown?” she asked, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Of course. I remember everything,” he stated flatly. eidetic memory.”

“You do know that we are still going to get married one day, right?”

“Of course. That’s just like sailing; it has always been the plan. It’s your plan, but I am on board. You’re my plus one ride or die.”

“Great! Now, when you are out there docked in these exotic ports of foreign lands, you are going to be offered some wet ass pussy, and all that I ask is that you never go skinny dipping, okay? I mean it, always wear a condom with the others. Do not return with a dirty dick.”

“So, you want my dick clean?”

“I want my dick spit-shined,” she said, collapsing into his arms, laughing.

“I’ll do my best, but I don’t think I can reach it with my mouth,” he replied, joining in her laughter.

“Seriously Izzy, when you dally with others in your travels aways wear a condom, I plan on having us a litter of smart, beautiful babies running around this boat,” Aeon added between guffaws.

“So, we’re living on the boat and home-schooling our kids?” Isaiah asked earnestly, now genuinely intrigued. He had never given any thought of it before even though they had met families that lived at sea during their families annul summer vacation sailing bare-bones chartered 58 ft catamarans around the Caribbean. There families had vacationed together every summer for the last 10 years. Always in the Bahamas and Caribbean. Only once did the stay in Mexico in the Gulf during the pandemic when they Caribbean Islands where on lock down so the chartered a boat in Galveston and sailed to Cancun to visit an old friend who had retired on a boat in Mexico 16 years ago. The year after they sailed from Galveston to Malibu to visit Isaiah’s grandfather Hector Leonardo Jones where he lived on his boat a 48 ft cat. It seemed logical now that she had mentioned it. Isaiah loved logic.

“Well, yeah. She said with a knowing grin I would say it worked out pretty well for us. I graduated high school two years early and will complete my doctorate four years after that. You finished two years ahead of me, and I know for a fact you slowed down so you wouldn’t leave your mom too soon when she was still struggling to stay off opiates. So, you could have finished high school by the time you were 11 or 12. Our parents did a pretty good job with the home-schooling. And our kids will learn a lot sailing around the world and working on the boat with their genius dad. I’m going to be a crew-making factory. Won’t be able to see my feet for 3 years, Two girls and two boys.”

“That’s the plan?” Isaiah asked.

“That is the plan,” she said with a smile. “And your grandparents are fucking epic. I love them. I hope they are still alive when we get married in ten years.”

“So, you have a date for it now, huh?”

“I’ve always had a date. I just didn’t tell you. But now, before you ship out, you need to know that no matter what happens out there, you must return in time to celebrate my 27th birthday.”

“We’re getting married on your birthday?” Isaiah asked, somewhat surprised. “Yes. My birthday is in the spring. The weather will be nice, school will be out for Easter vacation. I’ll catch a flight to wherever you are anchored, and we’ll get the nearest captain to bind us in holy matrimony. I will have finished school with my double major in Marine Biology and Marine Archaeology. Did I tell you that I’ll be getting certified to dive in dry suits next semester, in some glacial lake up in the mountains of Montana or Dakota, somewhere? Beautiful area, mountains near a glacial lake. I’ll send you the link,” she said, hugging him tighter.

“Is there anything you need me to do other than be a sperm donor?” he asked dryly.

“Yes. As much as I love beards, I am going to want to see that beautiful face of yours on our wedding day, so you’ll have to shave your face, too. And the only thing I will ever ask you to be extravagant about when shopping for me will be my wedding ring, Tiffany’s, with a rock big enough to choke a horse. Do we understand each other? Have I made myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Isaiah replied. “I understand the assignment.”

“Good, because no matter what lies the other girls tell you, size matters.” ______________________________________________________________________________

It was as he approached Puerto Rico that the first strangers began to come to the docks to meet him as he pulled into port. There were just a handful of curious locals and three reporters, 2 were bloggers, but Bianca was the most widely read well well-known reporter in Puerto Rico. As he made his way through the Bahamas and the Caribbean islands, there were more people gathered at the docks each time he moored the ship. And even when there were no crowds when he arrived, there were large numbers of people at the pier by the time he returned to the boat a few hours later with provisions.

Most just smiled and waved as many recorded his return to his vessel with their phone cameras. None of this made any sense to him; he was just a scientist who loved to sail and happened to be black. Big deal, he thought. This was a scientific expedition to retrace the route of the slave ships from Galveston to Ghana. It was important to document these sorts of journeys, so he chose to use pen and paper to document his expedition, Galveston being the place where the last to hear that the slaves had been freed years earlier. And the war had ended over a year ago.

The Devil’s bowl, he did hundreds of sketches and watercolors of anything that caught his eye. On the occasions when he was docked overnight, it became an unofficial tradition for him to invite a few people and a local reporter aboard for supper. He was a high-functioning Autistic and an introvert by nature, but he was also coming to understand that he was viewed as an ambassador for his tribe. Most had never met an African American sailor; all the skippers of the cruisers and ships they met were white guys, sometimes Arabs, Asian, occasionally a white girl would sail through. He noticed that more and more people were wearing their hair in cornrows and dressing in the same white muslin linen ensemble he favored for informal affairs, dinner parties aboard the Exodus.

His long white cornrows were still black in those days, before the 3rd great War or the two civil wars that followed, nearly destroying the newly formed Union. He looked down at the titanium cybernetic prosthetic grafted to his right leg just below the knee. Ocie looked down at his leg, also always fascinated by the robotic appendages, pistons, gears, and wiring. She would get a tool kit and practice repairing it when he wasn’t feeling well. There were newer carbon fiber ones covered with synthetic skin that matched your own, but she liked Tata’s antique first-generation cybernetic leg. Ocie reached out and touched the metal leg, always fascinated by its structure, the thick black cables that led up to his thigh disappearing beneath the skin where the sensors connected to the nerves in his body.

“Does it still hurt Tata?” Ocie asked, looking up at him, her green eyes brimming with empathy.

“No little Griot, not anymore.” He replied with an involuntary smile. Then he continued the story. By the time we reached Barbados, the last stop on the Caribbean Island hopping before we crossed the Atlantic, the crowds had grown to hundreds, possibly thousands of spectators hanging around the pier, hoping to get a glimpse of the guy from the Key West video. Most came to gawk at the high functioning autistic black kid with a sailboat. The video Mara and Beatrix posted the night they celebrated his shakedown run in Key West was still getting millions of views on YouTube, and it had been 2 months since he left Key West.

Aeon and Penny, Trenton, Adira, and Raphaël had all messaged him to let him know that their favorite NPR writer, Sara Vowel, was flying in to interview them for an article about their old punk CD ‘Death Pixel’. After the article was published, the album of 17 songs was put on Amazon and Spotify for sale, and so many people tried to get it that the servers were crashing. Like Kendrick Lamar’s ‘To Pimp a Butterfly’, it was highly praised by music critics for its lyrical depth and artistic range. It was a punk album with a blues song and a blank verse poem set to bebop jazz.

The next year at the Grammys were hosted by Ricky Gravis and Zendaya. Ricky gives one of the most heartfelt and moving introductions of a band in the history of the Grammys. Rickey Gravis speaks into the microphone. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, I’ll forgo my usual and now expected skewering of the rich and famous tonight in order to tell you a story, a true story from my pathetic life.

I never wanted to be a comedian, as some of you may know, I think I see three of the seven people who bought my album back in ‘198?’ cough cough… we recorded one album and had a single that got just enough airplay to embarrass everyone involved so badly that we all left the music industry. And that’s what an “Industry of Cool” to quote the late Lester Bangs, God rest his soul. I was a part of it when all I wanted to do was be a rock star. I ended up retiring from music altogether and started making comedy.

It turns out I was good at it, but in my heart, I was still a punk rocker. Or so I thought until last year when I heard the song ‘The Decline of the Western Civilization WW III” with lines like “Forgive me father for I have sinned, I’m just waiting for the drugs to kick in, I passed out face down on the bathroom floor, got fucked in the ass by a tranny whore!” I’m just waiting for the drugs to kick in!” Then the first track “The revolution will not be digitized’ Then ‘Sonic Apocalypse Now’, I think you get the point. I listened to the entire Album, and every track was a banger, as the kids say these days.

And I became acutely aware of two things: these 13 and 14-year-old kids were better musicians than I would ever be, and 2, they were smarter than me. And that got too me, the old farts in the room know what I mean, we’ve all met one of those kids who is a real-life genius and smarter than every adult you have ever met in your life, their fucking terrifying like those pale little bastards in the Village of the Damned or Children of the Corn, they creep me right the fuck out they do.

It makes you feel small and weak and stupid, and you say we want smart kids, but what we don’t say is not smarter than us, just ya know smarter than your idiot neighbor’s kids. That’s all. So, now my ego is ruining this great music for me because I am being eaten alive with envy. I began to rationalize it, they can’t be that good, it’s all-digital and done in post. Wrong! The entire CD is done live in the garage in one take! That’s a big part of why it sounds so raw is because it is raw, not this slick over produced formulaic bubble gummer teen pop shite, we’ve all heard a million times before, it’s not punk by number.

Fuck my life. So, they must suck live, then someone sends me two rare as botulism videos of the band playing. The first is a cover of Patti Smith’s Rock and Roll Nigga’ watching the video, it’s clear the band is just relaxing before they practice and warming up after tuning their instruments, and they kill it. Aeon was born to sing this song. Her voice is explosive in its power, monstrous, sensual, feral beast, and I see her do a little dance in the middle of the song, it’s a bit of choreography from Cabaret or the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

The next video was scrubbed from the internet because the lead singer is only 13 in this video is disturbing, but it is by no means pornographic or a crime. however, those of us who know the lyrics to ‘Full Penetration Piggy’ well, she does that to a blow-up doll in a policeman’s uniform and with the editing and the zoom in on the eyes of the doll while she simulates stimulating the officer’s prostate with what appears to be an 18-inch candy apple red strap on latex dildo molded to the finest detail from a very large horses’ cock? I gotta say, Dallas police are some real pussies for threatening a bunch of kids with jail because it looks like you’re getting ya back blown out in a music video. Whoever had the idea of attaching those googly eyes to the doll, bravo, bloody well done.

It was literally Death Pixels ‘Fuck the Police’. I say this now because their record label Ultra Violet Light Publishing has just won a case for the band in Texas state supreme court overturning the case and throwing out the dpds case as meritless saying the video while offensive is not pornographic and the judges panel lectured the prosecutor and the police for a gross violation of the bands freedom of speech saying the case had no merit and that any first year law student could have looked at this brief and told them it was unconstitutional at every step and they will be looking at the bar to have the prosecutors disbarred for gross negligence and malicious misuse of the courts.

Hold your applause, please, I haven’t finished my story. Where was I? Ah, yes, full of envy because they were even better live. Aeon Zavala’s stagecraft is magnificent, completely dominates the stage, it’s like she’s 30 ft 30-foot-tall rock goddess. Then they do the most punk thing of all: they quit.

Here I must confess that I would have given my left and my right testicle to have been a part of this band and written a single song as good as the worst song on their album. I would play that one song until the wheels fell off, you would have to drag my moldy corpse off the stage like I was a member of the Rolling Stones. A long way to say I love you guys. You inspired me to go back into the studio and record some tracks again. I heard you guys did the entire album over the Easter Break. That is wild.

I had retired, and I heard that you were performing tonight, and I called my agent and told him I’m hosting the Grammys, my favorite band is gonna be there live. He pulls all the strings he’s got, and I end up paying the salary of the comedian who was already contracted to do the show this evening, so I’m working for free tonight. Enjoy my money, Kevin.

Zendaya adds, “I’m not just the cohost tonight, I’m a fan. I’ve listened to their music every day for the last year. My favorite song is Pygmies Can’t Dunk, If anyone makes a movie about this band, I want to be cast as Aeon. The audience applauds, and Rickey and Zendaya are both having fun as the band takes the stage. ______________________________________________________________________________

Trenton, Adira, Raphaël, and Aeon have all taken time off from their schoolwork at universities across the nation to endure the awards ceremony and receive the band’s Grammy for best new album and song of the year. And in one of the most surreal performances in the history of music, Isaiah from the deck of the SS Exodus anchored off the Fiji Islands joins the band via satellite for a performance of their number 1 single ‘Side B is for Beast Mode’ to a standing ovation. Followed by a Jimi Hendrix inspired instrumental rendition of the Star-Spangled Banner, the hidden track that begins 44 seconds after the last track, ‘Eulogy for Nipsey Hussle’, finishes.

the first thunderous chords of the electric guitar screaming the national anthem begins. The performance of the stagecraft was pure punk, as Aeon takes a step forward, turns her back to the audience, bows her head, and raises her fist in the air. Isaiah takes a step toward the camera turns his back and begins the first thunderous notes on his electric guitar next Trenton takes a step forward into the spotlight turns his back to the audience and begins to wail on the guitar joining him the rest of the band one by one turn their backs to the audience as they play until the only one facing forward is the drummer. And when the song is done, Raphael stands, raises his fist, and turns his back to the crowd.

In the audience, grown men with the most cynical minds in America are in tears, crying ugly and hard snot, the worst. In San Diego aboard the SS Ariela, Hector Leonardo Jones held his wife Ariela and cried for an hour after the performance. All of the kids in the bands parents were in the audience and in tears Trenton and Isaiah and the rest of the band where in the moment following their leader Trenton perfectly and he for the first time was able to make his guitar play not what he thought, but what he felt as he stood there alone in the middle of the stage his head bowed, his eyes closed, tears flowing down his cheeks the guitar wept with him. He was not alone. He had turned the song on its head and made it a protest song without saying a word. It turned the anthem into a stiff middle finger, and it was Punk as Fuck! and that was the refrain the crowd chanted as they slowly rose to their feet to thunderous applause. This would be the first and only live performance of Death Pixel. ______________________________________________________________________________

Homecoming; after the grueling Atlantic crossing, beating into the wind, the extra distance of tacking, Isaiah and Starbuck were both glad to finally see land as they approached the small cluster of islands, Cape Verde, about 100 miles off the coast of Senegal. The crowds that gathered when he made landfall in Cape Verde were modest compared to the masses that congregated in Barbados. But that was a trick of the island’s location being 100 miles west of the mainland. He stayed overnight, then rose early to gather provisions, then enjoyed the day with the dog off the boat, where Starbuck stretched her legs running around on the beach.

Once he hit the first port city on the west coast of Africa, the port of Dakar, Senegal, the crowds were even larger than in Barbados. Now their numbers were in the 10s of thousands. The thing that seemed to shock the locals most, more than a black captain on a cruiser sailboat or his green eyes, was when he spoke to the people in their native languages; that is when people went crazy.

They were all so happy a foreigner had bothered to learn their tongue before coming to their country, even if just passing through, they all seemed to appreciate the effort, especially from an American. Isaiah sailed south for the next week, hugging the coast he sailed by The Gambia, Guinea-Bissau, Guinea, Sierra Leone, Liberia, Sierra Leone, Côte d’Ivoire as he made his way towards Ghana, he received a text message from his father Kennedy informing him that the crowds were growing so large in Ghana that the government decided to send an official to Accra Bay to expedite your right of return paperwork and your dual citizenship exception.

They have given you a small house on the beach in Accra Bay. There will be a small ceremony at the port when you arrive, and afterwards, they will have a VIP military escort to chauffeur you to the capital to meet with the Prime Minister and give an acceptance speech to the Congress. PS, your mom is standing right here reading over my shoulder, and she says to tell you she loves you and we are all so proud of you. Remember son… “Be Humble, nigga Be Humble.” -Kendrick Lamar. Love Dad -PPS your mother is laughing at me because I drop those dope ass KL bars at the close.”

Isaiah: “LMBAO!”

Chapter 32 Be humble, Nigga Be Humble pt 2

“I can say with no ego, this is my finest sword.”

Hattori Hanzō

‘Bohemian Rhapsody’

“Is this the real life?

Is this just fantasy?

Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality

Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see

I’m just a poor boy, I need no sympathy

Because I’m easy come, easy go, little high, little low

Any way the wind blows doesn’t really matter to me, to me” -Queen

January 1st, 2121,

Marcus Garvey Port, Ghana

…..Betzalel: Now, where were we before lunch little griot? he ask the little afro puffed girl with both of his green eyes sitting beside him on the staterooms bench, distracted again by the gears and pistons and wires and circuitry antiquated chromed pistons of the first gen titanium cybernetic prosthesis grafted to his right leg just below the knee. “Isaiah was back on the boat. it was his first day in Ghana. He just got his right of return papers and was now a citizen of Africa!” Ocie exclaimed, proudly reciting the story. “You memory is a perfect.” he said “we griot must seek perfect memory of heart as well as fact. Where was I …”. “the boat!” she said exasperated, ready to here more of the story again. “Of course, the boat, right May 5th, 2022 his first day in Accra Bay.”

Chapter 32 Be Humble Nigga be Humble pt 2.

“The world is yours, if you can count!”

-Cyrus ‘The Warriors’

The next week was good sailing to the beach at Accra Bay. They were averaging 7 knots crossing about 120 nautical miles per day as he sailed south, the wind coming from the north. He ran a Solent rig, the jib and the genoa set up butterfly rigged with the wind to his back, the sloops’ black titanium hull smashed through the waves. Each day’s sailing ended in a new country. They carefully zig-zagged between the tiny islands off the coast of The Gambia as hippos floated in the shallows of the estuaries of the preserve. He kept his distance, even with a titanium hull; he knew that they were man-eaters more deadly than crocodiles or sharks. He smiled when Starbuck saw the great beast and began to bark her challenge.

They lived on board for the next weeks, sailing to avoid the crowds that began to gather when he was on the shore. Even if he wasn’t autistic, the introvert in his nature would still need a break from unwanted attention. They finally went ashore again once they reached Ghana’s Accra Bay. He docked the ship under the watchful eye of the gathering masses on the shoreline, who watched cheering as several helicopters hovered with their news cameramen half hanging out of the choppers, filming the crowd as he arrived.

Police and soldiers directed traffic, keeping the streets clear as they patrolled the busy streets of the overcrowded city. The international press was gathered together with the local news teams behind a sawhorse barricade flanked by uniformed police. reporters, mics in hand, stood in front of their film crews shouting their questions at him as he walked down the pier towards the shore. He was first greeted by a young white man in a carbon-colored suit from the US Consulate with a message for him from the Embassy requesting that he meet with the US Ambassador immediately.

Isaiah thanked the courier, informing him that he would be happy to meet the ambassador after he completed his business at the Capitol building with Ghana’s President. I do not mean to be rude; I simply have a previously scheduled engagement. So please send the Ambassador my apologies and assure him that I will swing by his office later. Thank you. The young red-faced American courier just stood there, mouth agape; he had assumed Isaiah would drop everything and come with him. The Ghanaian officials who had been sent to meet him were all smiling now. The 2 stocky middle-aged men in dark suits were with the Ministry of immigration, while the other half dozen men in starched and creased fatigues were his escort, and the others were a half dozen policemen guarding the pier leading to the ship. In the distance, armored patrol boats with 50 caliber machine guns patrolled the shores.

The people gathered for the citizenship ceremony at the Baba Yara Stadium tickets sold out immediately after they went on sale last weekend, when he arrived in Cape Verde Island. Isaiah had no idea this would be a public ceremony. He had assumed that he would just sign the citizenship paperwork at some nondescript government office downtown. The stadium was at capacity over 40,000 people gathered inside. Outside in the streets of the nation’s capital there were estimates of several hundred thousand had come to the city in the last few days alone, with the total numbers over the entire week estimated to be 2 million bodies total had swelled into the body of the city Accra, the capital of capitals of Ghana, welcome home Isaiah, the minister smiled welcome to Africa.

He sat looking out the window at the crowds of people lining the edges of the streets, dressed in all manner from traditional headwraps to weaves and extensions, baseball hats and sunglasses, designer tees to country folk tattered dungarees and ill-fitting suit jackets, old pork pie hats. Barefoot teen boys in short pants and torn tee-shirts, all manner of vendors’ street carts on wheels dotted the sides of the roads. No one was expecting a turnout like this; it was simultaneously a logistical nightmare and an economic boon. A stage had been erected and after the Prime Minister and other cadre of white wigged black robes draped with red, gold, and gold sashes as wide as their shoulders official finished their speeches Isaiah was led to the podium to recite the pledge and accept his citizenship papers, and a passport, along with a football jersey and the Ghanaian flag to fly on his ship.

The lanky nervous teen sat in a chair absentmindedly resting his hand on the dog’s neck adjusting Starbucks collar as the dog sat beside him staring into the crowd and at the people who now surrounded them suited officials and dignitaries in traditional robes and Kenta accessorizes faced the crowd and the bank of news cameramen lined up if front of the stage. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath to calm himself, he spoke as the cheering subsided.

“Good afternoon, thank you for giving me such a warm welcome. My name is Isiah Leonardo Jones; I am a mathematician, not a politician, but there is no way to calculate how I got here. I was born in Sigonella, a US naval air station in Sicily, where I lived until I was 6. My parents both retired from the military, moved to Dallas, and that is where I lived for the next 10 years of my life. People say that I look like my father and that I have my mother’s eyes. Growing up in America, people are always telling me who I am. I am not truly black because of my mother, or others say I am too black because of my father. This dual mind of the black American is tedious. The reality is, because of the color of my skin, all of my life I have been treated like a black man in America, and now I would like to be treated like a black man in Africa.

After the applause subsided, the lanky teen from Texas nervously continued. Today we are 54 fingers on the same splayed hand, tomorrow we will come together in the power of the black fist. You cannot break a board with your finger, but when they come together with training, you can break a brick. Tomorrow we 54 nations, 2000 languages, 3000 tribes will unite to form the single most powerful nation on earth, a united African continent, one nation. Unified, we will wrest control of our pillaged and pilfered resources and nationalize the wealth of the continent.

There is more wealth in the soil of Africa than in any other continent; now it will be controlled by the African equivalent of the EU. We possess more wealth than all the Saudi oil states; our mines are packed with the lifeblood of the tech industries, cobalt, and gold, and we have massive quantities of oil and gas. We have the richest soil we can grow almost any food here. There is land enough for us all. It is all a simple matter of leadership understanding the source of wealth and power and how to use it to enrich our own lands instead of the lands of our former oppressors. And now we have control. The next generation of Africans will all have servants and wealth to rival the greatest of nations. The Jubilee will be declared, and we will command the lion’s share of the most coveted resources on the planet for ourselves.

We now walk a new path, a path that leads to a new, undreamed future. A new world awaits us all, each and every one. All we have to do is learn how to forgive one another. All we have to do is come together as one people, under one flag, over one nation. As I said before, I am a mathematician, not a politician, but I have done my homework, I have crunched the numbers, and numbers do not lie. People of Africa remember this…the WORLD is yours…if you can count!”

The stadium exploded with thunderous applause of all even those listening outside on their phones cheered. The leaders of every nation on the African continent have already agreed to join the new confederacy. I look forward to our future together as one great nation from South Africa to Libya! From Somalia north to south to east to west from the Mediterranean to the Indian Ocean from the Arabian Sea, the Atlantic from ivory to the gold coast to every coast!”

He had to stop as the noise of the cheering crowd grew too loud to hear. He bowed his head for a moment as the noise subsided. He cleared his throat and continued. His words measured calm as if he were reading history. “The great revolutionary Ghanaian hero, our first Prime Minister and President of Ghana, Kwame Nkrumah, said.

“I am not African because I was born in Africa. I am African because Africa was born in me!” “All power to the people!” The stadium erupted in thunderous applause as he raised the red, gold, and green flag high over his fist before he waved goodbye. As he exited the stage, they cheered and chanted “All power to the people!”. “All POWER to the PEOPLE!” “ALL POWER TO THE PEOPLE!”

He left the stadium with Starbuck on his heels, he climbed into the back of the black Range Rover, and headed to their meeting with the President. They exchanged pleasantries, and Isaiah gave him a flash drive with the designs for the AI he designed, named MOTHER, that would supervise the construction of Accra Bay, soon to be renamed Marcus Garvey Port for his return. On the laptop, the AI showed them the first city designed by AI and built by AI hydroelectric power from waves integrated with solar panels and wind turbines powered the city along with the desalination stations. These were the plans for what will be called Port Marcus Garvey. Today, the locals all just call it Port Garvey.

The President and Isaiah shook hands, and he thanked Isaiah before Isaiah left his office after all of the official hand-wringing was over. The security team next drove to the US Embassy to meet with the ambassador. He could see the crowds outside lining the sides of the streets as they drove by. He sat in the back seat, absentmindedly petting Starbuck as they drove to the US Embassy. The guards were expecting them and immediately opened the gate as they approached, and they drove in without even stopping to show any identification. Once inside, they escorted him and his security team to an office where they were never frisked or patted down. He was sure there had to be a metal detector or something, but he saw nothing.

Ambassador Barry Patterson was wearing an eye patch after cataract surgery the day before it was in and out in a few hours total and afterwards his wife drove him home teasing him because he now looked like a bond villain, the irony of it wasn’t lost on him being a lifelong diplomate who had spent his life working in African nations. He was also a CIA source of information, if not an official agent, like many in the foreign agencies. He was a pale, haggard long long-faced, old white man with dyed black hair in his mid-50s. The other 3 people in the room dressed like him in dark suits, white shirts, and black ties.

Two men and one woman. The 2 men looked like they had just flown in from someplace up north, both extremely pale, impossible to be that white and live this close to the equator. The tall pony-tailed blonde woman, only a few years older than the two men in their mid-twenties, was his pit-bull top CIA field operative, Cindi McPherson former chess prodigy who joined the agency for the action. By the time you realized you were in a fight, she was already planning where to dispose of your corpse. Tactical genius, for her, this was all just another chess game, and she was a chess master.

Ambassador Patterson didn’t waste any time. I’ll get to the point, Mr. Jones. We know why you are here, and we want the flash drive. It is too late, I already gave it to the presidents. Then you have signed his death certificate. Wait, what do you mean by presidents’ plural? His look of smug cockiness disappeared, replaced with a look of comprehension and panic. Isaiah smiled. The Presidents and Prime Ministers of every nation on the continent now have the AI. And well, Mother knows best? You didn’t, Oh No! Did you? Please tell me you’re kidding, you couldn’t, you wouldn’t have?! You little jumped-up son of a bitch. Who the hell do you think you are?! Ambassador Patterson shouted, turning red with anger.

“Who me?” Isaiah said as he stood preparing to leave. “I am nobody.”

Ok, kid, what do you want? Patterson said, crumbling in defeat. “Reparations eventually 40 acres and a SUV, but for now, you can start by getting the US Army Corps of Engineers over here to help widen and deepen the river leading to the lake. I want a minimum 30 ft depth and wide enough for super-sized cargo ships to pass. Why? Ambassador Patterson asked. That…is above your pay grade, long-pig, good day, sir! and send the president my love. Ciao.” As Isaiah stepped towards the door, one of his Ghanaian guards quickly moved to open it for him, failing to suppress her smile. The escort followed him to the waiting car, where the rest of the security team was ready to go. Once in the car, the commanding officer spoke. I have never seen anyone tell someone to go fuck themselves so politely. The other guards all laughed.

“Why did that old spook want your flash drive so badly?” The sergeant asked, “What was on it?”

“The world is yours, if you can count.” -Cyrus,” Cyrus said.

“Are you joking you planned all of this when you were 9 years old?” the Sargent asked incredulously.

“No, I designed the software when I was 9. he explained, You see, I am what people call a numbers person; I calculate the odds. For example, there was only a 13 percent chance of us all walking out alive. If things went sideways, they would have killed you all and tossed me into a black box somewhere, only letting me out of my cage to write code for DARPA. But we were lucky.

Using Moore’s Law, Isaiah explained. I had the software designed, yes, but there wasn’t a PC powerful enough to run the interface, so I had to wait, and I calculated two cycles of exponential memory capacity, which is four years. And here we are all having a pleasant chat in my new country. It feels good to finally be home.”

“Welcome home, brother,” they all said at once.

“Thank you. I was not born in Africa, Isaiah said with a wry grin. But I got here as soon as I could.” The soldiers all laughed.

“You are going to be OK, little brother; we have got your back here always.” The sarge said with a toothy grin.

“What’s next?” the corporal in charge of their unit asked from her seat in the passenger front seat.

“In order to receive the AI, each nation had to join the newly formed AUA, the Africa United Alliance Isaiah replied, That means open borders between all members, no passport needed to travel between African member nations; they are treated as states like in the US. A single united currency and no fighting members. You must come to the aid when the council calls when a member nation state is attacked. One currency we control ourselves, not the European money guild. Basically, Gaddafi’s dream is now real. Like the EU, we will eventually be recognized by the UN by all nations except the US, England, and Israel; the rest will quickly fall in line.” Isaiah said confidently, even though he had doubts about several of his new nation’s loyalty, it was too soon to be sure.

When their convoy reached the pier, there were several more white men in dark suits stained with sweat in the African heat hovering near the entrance leading to the pier. Good Evening, Captain Jones, the American said, extending his hand to Isaiah as he spoke. Isaiah fist bumped him

“Are you with the CIA or the state department? because nothing’s changed since I talked to you people at the embassy 20 minutes ago. The two sweaty white men in navy suits and striped ties both stared at him, obviously confused.

No, sir, Captain Jones, we are not with any government, sir. The second white man replied.

I’m Anderson, and this is Agent Smith, and we are here representing MYC. Hello, who are you and what do you want?

We do not want anything from you, sir. We are here to inform you that your friend and our former employer, Beaumont Ulysses Johnson, has died. We were sent to inform you that Mr. Johnson has left you his majority shares of MYC. We just need your signature here and here, where the xs are.

Why is he leaving it to me? As I’m certain you already know, being his friend, Mr. Johnson had no children. His wife has been taken care of, so do not worry about any lawsuits; she approves of his decision. Agatha said that Beaumont thought of you as the son they never had. He had that picture of you on the cover of People Magazine 30 under 30 framed and on his desk in his office. You would have thought he won the Fields medal; he bragged about what a good sailor and shipwright you were. You have been in the will for years now, even before he was diagnosed with cancer. You are now the owner of 51 percent, which is a controlling interest of Monarch Yacht Corporation.

He didn’t want to burden you with the bad news of his death before you completed your first solo sail, so we were instructed to meet you here, boss. We contacted your parents first, and they told us you were emancipated, so you can sign the paperwork yourself. Oh, and this is yours, sir. What? Company credit card, you are now the CEO of Monarch Yacht Corporation. Congratulations Boss. Isaiah didn’t sign the forms after reading them, even though they were all standard boilerplate paperwork; it was a legit contract. He would have Penelope look them over first. She was the one with a contract law degree with a minor in international finance. This would be right up her alley.

He boarded the Exodus, where he took down the stars and stripes and raised the red, gold, and green Ghana flag. The security team and the surrounding people gathered to watch the strange black kid on a sailboat. All cheered as the new flag was hoisted. Isaiah secured the line, snapped to attention, and saluted the flag. Virgil Elinam Boateng, the smiling, shaved-head, broad-shouldered, thickly muscular barrel of a man in a perfectly tailored summer suit, obviously a government official of some sort, was approached with a girl Isaiah assumed was his secretary or assistant. She wore a light dress with a bold green and yellow palm leaf pattern printed on the fabric, her hair was in cornrows, and she wore braces and large round black plastic framed glasses. She was cute like an animai character come to life. She shifted the laptop to her other hand and reached out to shake Isaiah’s hand as she introduced herself.

Hi, I’m Majid Boateng. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Nice to meet you, too, Isaiah said, realizing that this was his daughter. I just came to give you my card, Mr. Boateng added, and let you know that if you need me, I live in the bungalow two doors down that way he said, pointing to the south with a beefy index finger. I am a lawyer, according to Oxford. I will be at your disposal whenever you are here or any time you find yourself in need of counsel or just have questions about the country. Feel free to ask. That is my private number; only the President and you have it. His daughter cut in,

“My father could have easily done this over the phone or by email, but I wanted to meet you; that’s why he brought me here. I’ve been following your voyage since Key West. I just had to meet you in person when we heard last week that you had finally made it across the Atlantic. They announced that you would be given your right of return papers at the stadium. I begged my father to take me. We, me and all my friends in school, I’m a sophomore and St Agnes for Academy, and we’re all talking about what happened that night. It was the most profound conversation we’ve ever had. You made me look at black america and the entire diaspora in a new light.

It was like the end of black panther, we all walked out of the theater shaken to our core, and the same thing happened after watching that video Beatrix and Mara posted. Boomers are always talking about how dumb and lazy our generation is, and you guys blew that line of trash out of the water. Most people our age do get famous on TikTok for doing stupid things, but that doesn’t make them our generation’s spokesperson. Are you really Autistic?” “Yes, he replied with a smile.” “They say that you are the youngest to win the Fields Medal at only age 11, and I read online that you are on track to win the Nobel.” “That’s all true. I just like playing with magnetism and making things go fast with magnets. Electromagnetic fields and gravity have always fascinated me as a mathematician.”

Majid smiled as she reached into her backpack and rummaged around looking for something inside it as they talked. “Anyway, you have inspired me. I was going to follow in my father’s footsteps and go into law, but now I’ve decided that you’re right: we need more engineers, scientists, doctors and plumbers, mechanics, farmers, and teachers, not YouTube content creators, TikTok dancers, and rappers. I have strong math’s, so I should score high enough on my application after I graduate. I loved your critique of optimal transport and, calculus of variations in your last paper you published. Thank you. Oh, and I ordered the CD to get the secret track. After ‘Eulogy for Nipsey Hussle’ will you sign my CD, please?”

“Wow, he said, still the shy gangly 16-year-old boy from Texas, if I could blush.” She laughed as he took the Sharpie she offered and the Death Pixel CD still in its case. He looked at the picture on the cover standing in front of an animai mural of themselves standing in the same parking lot in front of the mural of themselves. The mural was painted by their drummer, Raphael. It was as tall as the 2-story brick wall of the dive bar, that was 3 years ago, a CD they recorded over the spring break in Trenton’s garage just for kicks. Then they promptly forgot about it and went on with their lives. Now people were listening to it after NPR sent Sara Vowel to interview the band and review the album, all because Isaiah was trending online after a video some friends he made in Key West posted their conversations online. You had to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“I’ve never done this before,” he said, taking a moment to think he had no idea what to write, then he signed in a scrawling cursive script, “All Power to the People!” -Isaiah Jones.

“Would you folks like to stay for supper?” he asked awkwardly, We’re having yellowtail tuna, fish, eh, no surprise there?” he grinned like the big goofy kid that he was.

“Can we, Tata?” Majid cooed to her father.

“Yes, of course, we would be delighted to join you for dinner,” the old handler said, beaming. Isaiah headed down the companionway with Starbuck on his heels

“It’s nice to meet some calm people; everyone has been so excited today. It’s been amazing to finally get here after all of these years, but it’s been a bit overwhelming.”

“It’s the internet,” she said flatly, following him down the companionway into to the main cabin. “It allows people to choose instead of media moguls and ad agents, people and governments controlling what we see, we share what we like with others, and sometimes only a few people will like a post, and sometimes it goes viral. In your case a conversation with a drunk scientist hanging out on his boat in key west with his new friends got chosen by people your age first then others wonder what the buzz is about and it snow balls like Justin Bieber or chocolate rain it rarely makes any logical sense like Tiger King what was that… you’re different and people like looking at people who are defect.”

“Yeah, he agreed, it just feels so weird when it’s you under a microscope.” “Don’t worry, people will get bored and move back to cat videos soon enough. Relax and have fun while it lasts.” Majid joined their laughter.

Agent Barry Patterson and his team watched from a distance under the cover of the tinted windows in the back of a white cargo van loaded with state-of-the-art surveillance machinery and a fully loaded weapons locker. They sat sweating in the African heat, parked near the rear of the ever-growing dockside crowd. Patterson was a consummate professional, always dispassionate, cool as a glass of ice, and always in control. Today was the first time in over 25 years with the agency in every country where his linguistic skills were useful, he had served. Speaking Arabic meant he was all over the Middle East and North Africa for most of his career. This was the first time he was scared.

Cindi MacPherson and the two younger agents, both black suited thick thick-necked, rough-looking mid-western white men in their mid-20s, could see the old man was shaken; they just didn’t get the why. Agent MacPherson listened carefully as her boss, Ambassador Barry Irwin Patterson, spoke, not caring which one did it, never taking his eyes off the scene at the docks. “Contact Washington right away. If I didn’t know any better, I would swear the kid’s positioning himself to be the President of the new union of African nation-states. Just like the goddamned Arabs did with their oil in the 1960s when they formed OPEC. He’s going to nationalize the continent’s resources! That would make the new nation the most powerful nation on earth. The two younger agents, fresh off the plane from their previous assignments in Europe, didn’t understand. How is that even possible?

All he gave them was some AI bullshit. That stuff is useless. Ambassador Patterson looked at the two young agents seated in the rear of the surveillance vehicle and slowly shook his head, displaying his disappointment. Incorrect, gentleman, what he gave them was an AI of his own design, a General Intelligence, a synthetic consciousness code-named MOTHER. The techs say it’s a game changer, the game changer. You might have heard of it by its dead name, SINGULARITY. Think Terminators if Skynet is real and we do not have it. It’s in the hands of every nation that was once under colonial rule. If that doesn’t dampen your drawers a bit, then obviously, you are not students of history or comprehending the staggering implications of what has transpired today.

Once they nationalize their resources, everyone in the West will lose access to said resources as they begin to use them to develop their own nations. We’re talking all the rarest diamonds, silver, gold, cobalt, minerals, and metals needed for computers and cellphones satellites. If you have any stock in any oil company that is secretly running an African nation and stealing, I mean exporting their oil. I would sell my stock immediately. So what, one of the new agents said, let them build their nigger rigged bullshit AI.

If they won’t sell it to us, we can just take it. Send in the troops. The other young agent added. MacPherson stealthily placed her hand on her sidearm and released the safety. She didn’t like these two assholes and already had a place in mind to dispose of their bodies near the river, where the crocodiles would leave no evidence of their existence. Agent Patterson’s voice was low yet full of menace as he spoke. My wife is black, my 3 kids are black, I voted for Obama TWICE! The SR agent growled with the kind of intensity that promised imminent, possibly lethal violence was next. ya get me.” Yes sir. The young agent squeaked meekly, humiliated and terrified, he had assumed he was like most cops when he spoke. He was wrong. The old man was a Boy Scout; he was the closest thing the modern world had to a paladin. Agent Smith hoped his assignment here would be short. He hated the heat, the poverty, the people, everything was bass-ackwards here. “At least in Moscow, the whores were pretty and white. Fuck Africa!” Of course, he only thought these things after the old man turned his back. Cindi sighed and slid the safety of her 9mm back on, disappointed her boss had not given her the signal to take out the trash.

“Where was I?” Patterson continued, now his usual cool, cold self again… “Cold Fusion, yes, young man, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. They have allies with nuclear weapons; no one is invading anyone. Since 1610, we’ve done whatever we wanted here because we had a technological edge, we had steel swords and muskets. We’ve worked tirelessly since the collapse of slavery and empires to keep the tribes at each other’s throats and sell weapons to both sides when the war we manipulate arises. We fund coupes when we can’t get the resources we want, and we make sure we take what we want for pennies on the dollar of everything we do pay for; we may as well be stealing it. We pay them 80 cents per kilo for cobalt when the market price is 200 dollars per kilo.

That has been our modus operandi for the last 4 centuries, and well as for the last century, we’ve squandered any opportunity to do right by the African. We could have easily done so, and today would just be another Wednesday, but we chose not to do the right thing, and now it is too late. Judgment day is upon us, gentlemen. We are at the mercy of a history of our own making. Patterson added, exhausted. In the new paradigm, he’s at the threshold of the grand unified theory according to his peers in the field of mathematical theory, and now he has the aid of the world’s first sentient software at his side. The Chinese are not going to miss an opportunity to ingratiate themselves with the new world powerhouse. Ambassador Paterson exclaimed. We are no longer at the top of the food chain, MOTHER…Fucker!

The Two Griots

January 1st, 2121,

Port Garvey, Ghana, capital of the African United Alliance

“But Tata, you still have two legs there”, Ocie said, pouting. “When do we get to the good part? Betzalel smiled: This is the best part, little griot, but we can skip to the parts with more action if you like?”: Tell the story of the armor. The Woman from Okinawa…” “Ok, we’ll start there tomorrow, Ocie. I’m getting tired, ate too much dog at lunch.” Ocie begins to laugh, “eight dogs, ate dogs, now I get it. Why is the restaurant called 8 Dogs?” She laughs until she cries. He laughs with her, and for a moment, they are both 5-year-olds giggling. But he never forgets he is 116 years old, he never forgets… anything.

[1] Notes:

the 7 levels of taxonomy from broadest to most specific?

Kingdom.

Phylum.

Class.

Order.

Family.

Genus.

Species.

The hierarchy of biological classification’s eight major taxonomic ranks. A family contains one or more genera. Intermediate minor rankings are not shown.

Lived in Japan (1942–1995)6y

There’s an actress 寿美花代 (Hanayo Sumi) , it’s a stage name though. 寿美花代 – Wikipedia

寿美 “Sumi” is a common given name for women. 寿美子 “Sumiko” is longer version.

Also 澄子 “Sumiko” is common given name for women. Some women has スミ子 “Sumiko.”

All of them above could be “Sumi” as a nickname.

鷲見 “Sumi” is a family name and name of places. 鷲見玲奈 “Réina Sumi”.

Animal: Humans killed per year;

Lions, 200

Hippos, 500

Elephants, 600

Crocodiles, 1,000

Scorpions, 3,300

Assassin Bugs, 10,000

Dogs, 59,000

Snakes, 138,000

Humans, 400,000

Mosquitoes, 725,000

-About the author

Joey Darrell Cloudy is a writer of no import and as such served as one of the Publishers and Assistant Editor of Death List Five (voice of the lunatic fringe), an arts and literary magazine. He also sat on the board, as a figure head, as one of the founders of Project 108 Productions. A non-profit dedicated to promoting artistic integrity and serving as an interface between the somnambulistic public and those clinging onto the frayed edges of the typewriters ribbon.

Tom Cat Press was formed in 2002 to publish his first book of poetry Howl 18 poems for Allen Ginsberg. He has just completed his first novel titled Tramp. A libertine adventure of sex and drugs and poetry in that order, set in Dallas ‘historic Deep Ellum at the beginning of the millennium.

He is currently contemplating Death while compiling his poems into several books of poetry (tentatively titled; On Women, Pretty Words That Mean Nothing, It’s Complicated, Party In My Mouth, Watermelons, White Women and Cadillac’s and Poetry Ain’t Pretty).