You Can't Write A Script In Your

She Wanted To Ask Him Why They Were All Strangers Who Shared The Same Last Name.

If You Followed The Media You'd Think That Everybody In Africa Was Starving To Death, And That's Not The Case; So It's Important To Engage With The Other Africa.

Her Blog Was Doing Well, With Thousands Of Unique Visitors Each Month, And She Was Earning Good Speaking Fees, And She Had A Fellowship At Princeton And A Relationship With Blaine - "you Are The Absolute Love Of My Life," He'd Written In Her Last Birthday Card - And Yet There Was Cement In Her Soul. It Had Been There For A While, An Early Morning Disease Of Fatigue, Shapeless Desires, Brief Imaginary Glints Of Other Lives She Could Be Living, That Over The Months Melded Into A Piercing Homesickness.

The Educated Ones Leave, The Ones With The Potential To Right The Wrongs. They Leave The Weak Behind. The Tyrants Continue To Reign Because The Weak Cannot Resist. Do You Not See That It Is A Cycle? Who Will Break That Cycle?

Red Was The Blood Of The Siblings Massacred In The North, Black Was For Mourning Them, Green Was For The Prosperity Biafra Would Have, And, Finally, The Half Of A Yellow Sun Stood For The Glorious Future.