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Isaiah Jones vs the Sea (A 21st Century Odyssey) chapter 32 excerpt titled “African Rhapsody” from the novel in progress “Isaiah Jones versus the Sea (A 21st Century Odyssey) by Joey Da’rrell Cloudy;

Chapter 32. African Rhapsody* pt 1 of 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

African Rhapsody:

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 they 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 sliced through the waves as he glided towards Accra Bay, Ghana. Each day, sailing the coast of West Africa ended with the Exodus in a new country.

They carefully zig-zagged between the tiny islands off the coast of The Gambia, motoring past hippos as they floated in the shallows of the preserve’s estuaries. He kept his distance even with a titanium hull; he knew they were the real apex predators in Africa, killing exponentially more humans than lions. The crocs have about the same kill count as hippos. His own personal favorite irrational fear of sharks made even less sense when you find out that only 1 person every 2 years is killed by a shark attack. Irrational fears are called irrational for a reason; he could not logic his fear of shark attacks away.

He smiled when Starbuck saw the great beast and began to bark her challenge at the hippos. They enjoyed the quiet life they lived on anchor for the next weeks sailing. They stayed at sea 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 Exodus, under the watchful eye of the gathering masses on the shoreline, who watched cheering as several helicopters hovered 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, and internet influencers and content creators 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 and informed 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 courier just stood there, mouth agape; he had assumed Isaiah would drop everything and come with him. …

Isaiah thanked the courier and informed 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 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 mounted on their bow 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 Africa. Isaiah had no idea this would be a public ceremony. He had assumed that he would just pick up the citizenship paperwork at some 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 peoples lining the edges of the streets, dressed in all manner from traditional headwraps to weaves and extensions, baseball caps and sunglasses, designer tees to country folk in tattered dungarees and ill-fitting suit jackets, old pork pie hats. Couture-clad dandies stood next to Barefoot teen boys in short pants and torn tee-shirts, vendor’s street carts on wheels dotted the sides of the roads. No one was expecting a turnout like this; it was a logistical nightmare but an economic boon to the city coffers. A stage had been erected mid field and after the Prime Minister and a cadre of white wigged black robes draped with red, green, 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 Ghanian 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 before 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 on 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 that 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 55 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 by nationalizing the wealth buried in the soil of the continent. And end centuries of extraction economics imposed on Africa by our enemies in the West.

There is more wealth in the soil of Africa than in any other continent, and now it will be controlled by the African United Alliance/AUA. The African equivalent of the EU. We possess more petro wealth than all the Saudi oil states, our mines are packed with the lifeblood of the tech industries’ cobalt, gold, and we have massive quantities of oil and natural gas. We have the richest soils, and 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. Today, we have taken control of our finances and our fate. 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 the African United Alliance 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 to Cameroon, from north to south to east to west, from the Mediterranean to the Indian Ocean, from the Arabian Sea to 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!” The ground shook. “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 Isaiah exited the stage, the crowded stadium 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, 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 AGI he designed, code-named MOTHER, that would supervise the construction of Accra Bay, soon to be renamed Marcus Garvey Port before 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 would 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 American Embassy to meet with the US ambassador. He could see the crowds outside lining the sides of the streets as his convoy drove by. He sat in the back seat, absentmindedly petting Starbuck as they drove to the US Embassy. The guards on duty were expecting them and immediately opened the gates as they approached, and they drove in without even stopping to show any identification. Once inside, they escorted him and his security team to the ambassador’s office. They were never frisked, patted down, nor was his entourage asked to secure their weapons; he was sure there had to be a bomb detector or something, but he saw nothing.

Ambassador Barry Irvin Patterson was still wearing the eye patch over his right eye after having cataract surgery done three days prior. He was in and out of the doctors office in a few hours total and after the surgery his Southside Chicago former Nation of Islam, Black Muslim wife Patricia drove him home teasing him mercilessly 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 on the foreign consulates’ payroll. Barry Patterson was a pale, slightly haggard, tanned, long-faced old white man with dyed black hair in his mid-50s. The other 3 agents, 2 men and a woman in the room, were dressed like him in dark suits, white shirts, and black ties. The 2 men both looked like they had just flown in from someplace up north; they were both extremely pale, impossible to be that white and live this close to the equator.

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 AGI. And well, MOTHER knows best?” Patterson, losing his customary cool, shouted. “You didn’t, Oh No! Did you? Please tell me you’re kidding, you couldn’t, you wouldn’t have?! You insolent little 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, name it, 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 75 meters 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,” Isaiah said as he prepared to leave. “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 military escort followed him to the waiting car, where the rest of the security team was waiting, ready to go. Mr. Boateng and Majid were still in the car waiting in front of the embassy when they returned.

“How did your meeting with Ambassador Patterson go?” Virgil asked with a Cheshire cat smile. The soldiers could not contain their laughter. 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 Sargent asked, “What was on it?”

“The world is yours, if you can count,” -Cyrus,” Isaiah 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 a numbers person, that means that I calculate the odds. For example, I calculated that there was only a 13 percent chance of us all walking out of that meeting alive. If things went sideways, they would have killed all of you and tossed me into a box in a black site 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 well, here we are having a pleasant chat in my new country.”

“Welcome home, brother,” they all said at once. “Thank you. I was not born in Africa, Isaiah said with a 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.” “Sometimes you find the ‘Lost Ball.”

“The sarge said with a toothy grin. Isaiah smiled, understanding he had finally found his way back to the village. He was not lost anymore; he had found the way home.”

“What’s next?” Mr. Boateng asked, sitting in the passenger front seat.

“In order to receive the new AGI, each nation had to join the newly formed AUA, the Africa United Alliance. Isaiah replied, That means open borders between all members, no passports needed to travel between African member nations, they are treated as states, like in the US. We will have a single united currency and no fighting members.

You must come to each other’s aid when the council of elders calls, when a member nation state is attacked. One currency we control ourselves, not the Northern European money guilds. Basically, Gaddafi’s dream is now real. Like the EU, we will be recognized by the UN by all nations except the US, Britain, and Israel; the rest will fall in line.” Isaiah said confidently, even though he had doubts about several of the nations’ loyalty, it was too soon to be sure.

“Isaiah Jones versus the Sea (A 21st Century Odyssey)

African Rhapsody pt 2 of 2

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

-Hattori Hanzō

African Rhapsody: (continued…) 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 eyed the stranger suspiciously, then fist bumped him rather than shaking the agent’s hand.

“Are you with the CIA or the state department? He asked, obviously agitated. 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, in muted confusion.

No, sir, Captain Jones, we are not with any government, sir. The second white man replied. I’m Mr. Anderson, and this is Mr. Smith, and we are here representing MYC.

“Wait, what do you want?”

“We do not want anything from you, sir. We were sent here to inform you that your friend and our former employer, Beaumont Ulysses Johnson, has died.”

Our primary purpose is to inform you that Mr. Johnson has left you his shares of MYC/Monarch Yacht Corporation. We will need your signature here, and here, where the Xs are, sir.”

“Wait a minute, MYC? Why is he leaving it to me?”

“As I’m certain you already know, being his friend, Mr. Johnson had no children. His widow 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.” “The old man 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 to anyone who would listen. He would contact the engineers at the company after your chats and implement your ideas into production. He even bought a separate company that manufactures catamarans because he believed that you were right about there being a place in the market where they could fulfill the needs of the casual mid-level cruisers’ vessels, for your ideas. He often boasted that talking with you helped him increase the corporation’s profits every year for the last decade, sir.”

I had no idea, Isaiah said. I was shocked when he gave me the Exodus when he got too sick to sail, but I just thought he had lost too much mobility after a stroke or something. We never talked about anything else, except sailing in our chats.

“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 the 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 informed us of the fact that you were emancipated, so you can sign the paperwork yourself. Oh, and this is yours, sir.

What is this? Isaiah asked, taking the black piece of rectangular plastic.

Company credit card, sir, you are now the CEO of Monarch Yacht Corporation.” “Congratulations, Boss.”

Isaiah read the papers but did not sign the forms. They were all standard boilerplate paperwork; it was a legit contract. But, he decided it would be wise if he let Penny look over the contracts before he signed. What’s the use of having a friend with a contract law degree if you can’t get their help with something like this?

Everything appears to be in order; still, I will have my lawyer look these over before I sign if that’s ok with you gentlemen.

He boarded the Exodus. He looked up at the red, white, and blue rag that flew over his ship before 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.

“Would you folks like to stay for dinner?” he asked, Mister Boateng and Majid awkwardly, trying to be a good host in his new land.

“Can we please stay for dinner, Tata!?” Majid cooed to the old man.

“Of course, we would be honored to join you for dinner Mister Jones.”

“I loved your critique of optimal transport, calculus of variations on the last paper you published,” Majid said in an excited burst.

“Thank you,” Isaiah said, genuinely impressed that she was familiar with his work as a mathematician and not just this internet viral fad.

“Oh, and I ordered the CD to get the secret track after ‘Eulogy for Nipsey Hussle’, will you sign it 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, they were 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.

“Guess what we are having for supper?” he announced awkwardly, yellowtail tuna, fish, eh, no surprise there?” he grinned like the big goofy kid that he was. 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 more than a bit overwhelming.”

“It’s the internet,” Majid said flatly, following him down the companionway into 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 our age first, then others wonder what the buzz is about, and it snowballs, like Justin Bieber or that chocolate rain kid. It rarely makes any logical sense like Tiger King, what was that… you’re different, and people like looking at people who are defective.”

“Yeah, he agreed, it just feels so weird when it’s you under the 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. Pi……

Chapter 32 Be humble, Nigga Be Humble pt 4

May 5th, 2022, Accra Bay, Ghana

“The Promised Land.”

(cont..)…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 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.

The two young agents, both black suited, thick-necked, rough-looking midwestern white boys in their mid to late 20s, could see the old man was shook, they just didn’t get the why. Patterson spoke, not caring which one did it, never taking his eyes off the scene at the docks. “Contact our handlers in Langley right away. Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick. If I didn’t know any better, I would swear he’s positioning himself to be the President of the new union of African nation-states.

He’s going to nationalize the continent’s resources! That would make the new country economically the most powerful nation on earth. The 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 and shook his head.

Once they nationalize their resources, everyone in the West will lose access to those 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.

“He gave them an AI of his own design code code-named MOTHER. The techs say it’s a game, the game changer. You might have heard of it by its dead name, SINGULARITY. Think Terminators if SKYNET came to life for real, or Iron Man’s Jarvis/Ultron, or 2001’s HAL, whatever the hell you want to call it. It is as real as gravity, 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 just a bit, gentlemen, then obviously, you are not students of history or comprehending the staggering magnitude of what has transpired today.

So what, one of the 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.

My wife is black, my 3 kids are black, I voted for Obama TWICE!” the senior agent growled menacingly 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 the old man was like most cops when he spoke. He was wrong the old man was a fucking nigger loving boy scout. About 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.

“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 the hell 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.

That has been our modus operandi for the last 4 centuries, and as 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!

…After dinner, Isaiah and Mr. Boateng stood on the deck of the Exodus sipping champagne from plastic flutes while Majid and Starbuck played catch on the beach. His white ensemble in stark contrast to his guest’s dark suit. Boateng lit a cigar and smiled conspiratorially,

“Don’t tell my daughter, he grinned, she hates it when I smoke a good cigar.”

“Does your daughter know you’re a spy?” he asked.

“No, she knows I work for the interior department, but that means nothing to her except that I work for the government. How long have you known?” He asked.

“Moment I saw you, I figured you were a cop.”

They both laughed as they watched the girl and the dog sprinting along the water’s edge.

“I must ask, was that speech at the stadium really improvised?”

“Of course, I had no idea any of this was going to happen,” Isaiah said reflectively. “You do realize that the flash drives are useless, right? Isaiah asked.

“No, I did not know that.”

“I needed something to get everyone to agree to join the union. No one wanted to be the only African nation to not have access to the new General Intelligence AI. It’s called fear of missing out in advertising. Think about it, how could any program that powerful fit onto a flash drive? He chuckled. MOTHER has been online for almost 3 years now. Since I was 13. What they have is a key that allows the individual for whom it is coded for to access her. But it doesn’t really matter because once they sign the new constitution, she would have started talking to them with or without the drive.” Isaiah said with a shrug.

Boateng laughed loudly. “They are playing checkers while you are playing 3d chess. How long do we have?” he asked, exhaling a plume of pale blue-grey smoke.

“Ten years, 2033. He sighed as he contemplated his fate. After all of their old tricks fail. They will quickly grow weary of digging through their landfills to recycle the very resources they plundered from here, before their satellites’ orbits decay and begin to fall from space. They will do as they have always done in the past and start the war. MOTHER has been right about everything else so far.

We will be ready. We have history books, the leopard cannot change its spots; they cannot change their nature. We have their playbook; we know what happens next.” Isaiah said resignedly.

“Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was.” Boateng said with a wistful smile as they shared the silence, watching the sunset over the sea.

After dinner, Isaiah phoned Aeon. She answered immediately, screaming.

You’re AFRICAN! I LOVE YOU, AFRICAN MAN! Penny and others, their friends, students from the University of San Diego campus, were singing “Nkosi Sikelel iAfrika,” the South African national anthem, the unofficial African national anthem. He heard the shouting from the students partying with Aeon and Pen in the background as they talked. he smiled, listening to the sounds of the people’s celebration all over the city and now on the boat on the other side of the world in San Diego. He had finally made it to Africa. This was now his home he now belonged to the Motherland.

The Two Griots

January 1st, 2121,

Port Garvey, Ghana capitol of the African United Assembly

“But Tata, you still have two regular 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 the restaurant’s 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, for he is the Betzalel, he is 116 years old; and he never will never forget…anything.

-About the author

JD Cloudy’s poetry has disappeared in the literary journals: Fatfizz, Mad Swirl, Texas Beat Anthology, Danse Macabre, Du Jour, and Death List Five. He has won no literary awards, entered no slam competitions, and never completed college. He lives to write in Dallas, TX.