Lyrics:::The Peace Song

I woke up feeling peaceful and happy today and the lyrics came to me and I jotted them down. I've always wanted to see my words put to music, so I thought I'd do it myself. Usually, I'm hindered by the fact that I can't play instruments, but today I found a site with public domain music and I changed the words here and there to kind of go with the beat...there are still areas of improvement - and I will improve on it later- but I felt I should post it and see what people think.
Thanks for checking it out.

Work in Progress::: The Hunter and the Leopard

I finally decided to look over this one and make some changes. I still want to make it about the encounter between the hunter and the leopard more than I have so far. It is set in a small village in Rwanda, as you might have read before, I aim to try and tell tales that are about life in Rwanda, not necessarily village life, but life in general. When this work is done, I want it to portray the struggle between past and present, man and nature, farmer and hunter, etc.
Well, read on and comments are welcome either here or on Facebook.
Thanks and enjoy.

The Farmer and the Leopard 

this poem has been removed and can be found in the first issue of EXILE CALLING coming out on October 5th, 2009...subscribe today to enjoy reading my work.

After I had written this piece, I found this photo online. It is not mine and all credit goes to Andy Biggs. It was perfect for the picture I had in my mind of the leopard in the piece. I love leopards.

Motivation

It is so hard to find motivation right now. I always read and hear about writers going through what I'm currently going through, but now I am experiencing it myself. Things have been hectic for me lately, but that's not the reason for my lack of motivation. I can't quite put a finger on it, but I need to focus soon.
We just bought the first of at least two bookcases and we are going to take a look at a potential desk on Wednesday. We can finally unpack the books, put them away and- after the desk gets here- I can have a space to sit and work.
I love the three main women in my life right now, and I want to thank them: my grandma who has always been my fiance since I was a kid, my baby for her love and support in everything, and my newly-found mom for her love and perseverance all these years.
I also want to thank those following this blog, I owe each one of you a free copy of my first published book for $20, just kidding.
Now that I have done my thank-yous, I have to get to work assembling this bookcase, and, maybe, working out later. Thank you all, again.

Onondaga Lake Park: Research in pictures

A Past Illuminated

I can't begin to describe the emotions involved when meeting a parent for the first time, especially across a divide as deep and wide as separated my mother and I. When I received the notification that someone was trying to locate their son, with the specifications alluding to me, I was dumbstruck. It was as hard to believe as anything I've found hard to believe in life. For years, my father had tried. Then a little under a year ago, I, too, began looking for her. I consider myself a sleuth, but the task was herculean to an amateur like me. I tried different names and tried contacting the university I was told she had attended a quarter century ago, but it was all to no avail.
A parent at a school I worked at happened to work for CNN and he offered to help. I gave him as much information as I had and it didn't work. Information had reached us in Rwanda that she was married and living in Moscow. I passed on that information to the parent. I was told that her parents had been KGB, which I passed on, too. Months later, still no success.
Then came a Sunday afternoon in September, a mild day in upstate New York at an outdoor festival when I received that notification. My first action was to show my girlfriend Nadia the message. She asked me if I thought it was my mother and I said I wasn't sure. Maybe, maybe not. I called my uncle (my dad's younger brother) but he did not pick up. I tried again, but the phone kept ringing, even denying me the opportunity to leave a message.
I holstered the phone, put it in my jeans pocket, and tried to walk as calmly as I could through the street perusing the different festival booths and attractions. I held Nadia's hand and tried to carry on a conversation with her without seeming as excited and in upheaval externally as I was internally. A few minutes later, while browsing a selection of LPs, I removed the phone and looked at the message again.
This time I called a friend of mine in Atlanta. I told him what the message was and he asked me the same question Nadia had asked me; do I think that it's really her? I gave the same reply; I don't know.
After we finished talking, I responded to the message telling her I had a different name for my father. She must have thought I was referring to a step mother, for she apologized for not being there. With that second message, my walls of doubt crumbled.
I still did not fully understand what was taking place, but I knew a new era had been ushered in. I was ecstatic, but a lifelong of keeping emotions in check prevailed. I wanted most of all to ask her what had happened. I had never asked my father much about their situation, so I wanted to know the full story from the only woman who could tell me that she did not give me away because it was a shame for her to raise a half-black child in her society. I wanted to know why she had let my father take me, or if she had known whether he was planning to take me. I wanted to know why she did not come to Rwanda when so many other soviet women who had married Rwandans had left and come to Rwanda to live with their husbands.
I waited until I reached home and traded messages with her. The next day we talked on the phone and I could feel emotions rising on her end when I asked her what had happened. I suspect I moved too fast, and I was sorry I did, because I wanted to talk to her a little longer.
However, later that evening we chatted for four hours. She told me about her and my dad. About the relationship with her parents, and their fear of her marrying a foreigner. She told me about years searching for me and the failure of her actions. She told me enough about herself to make me understand myself. Then it dawned upon me.
Throughout my 26 years of life, there had been part of me I could never fully identify. A part that was mischievous and hard-headed. A part that reinforced my belief in following my heart no matter what others thought. That part that made me right even when all evidence pointed to my being wrong. It was that very same part that helped me set, if not come close to setting, the record for how many times one can get beatings for a repeated offense. It made me scoff at the old proverb of "a hard head makes for a soft behind."
Talking to her made me realize what that part was and its origin. That was my mother in me. When I constantly climbed trees in spite of the forbiddings against that, pocketed the money and ran home instead of riding the bus, constantly lied about my whereabouts and did a myriad of other such acts, it was my mother in me. The hardheadedness, untamed and in the face of the man who loved her most. It must have hurt him to know that his son carried so much of the same qualities that he admired in her. A constant reminder of the forbidden love he gambled on and lost. But, like her father towards her, he did his best to exorcise those very same qualities from his son.
Now, I know that she was always with me as much as I was with her in her thoughts. Time and distance have done little to erode the bond between mother and child, and existence is a little brighter in a secluded corner of the universe because of this. An immortal quality of a mortal soul at its most apparent, and we, who are witnessing it, now rejoice at this reunion.
I have not learned all I want to learn yet, and her heavy heart has not laid its heavy load off yet, but destiny, at least, is on our side.

Self-Discovery

On Sunday I decided to go see this multicultural festival going on in downtown Syracuse and get a chance to see this African dance group I am hoping to work with, when I received a notification on my blackberry that I had a message on facebook. I clicked on it and stood rooted on that crowded sidewalk with salsa music blaring from the nearby sound system while my mind tried to analyze and comprehend what my eyes were reading. The message read;

"Hi, Edouard! I am looking for my son - he was born Feb. 24, 1983 in Kishinev and left the USSR with his father in 1983. Your father's name is Samuel? He is from Rwanda?"

Could this be my mom???I have never known my mother since my father took me from the USSR when I was three months old. I never asked much regarding her and the little I knew was what I overheard here and there. However, last year I began to ask questions and learned a lot that I hoped would help me find her. I tried different venues and, even, a parent at a school I used to work at in Atlanta offered to help since he worked for CNN. So far, nothing worked out and so I was mulling taking my request to Oprah and hoping she'd help me find my mom.

Well, I responded to the e-mail and we began talking. We chatted and even talked online. I have learned so much by talking to her these past couple of days. Much that helps explain why I do the things I do. Much I have wanted to know for so long but never asked. 

So, now I'm happy. Happy to know my mother and that my grandchildren will know their grandmother. I'm happy to hear all the stories.

Although it took 26 years, there was no lack of trying on all sides. She had been contacting Rwandan embassies without response. My had had been trying to locate her without success. I, too, of course.

I will put more on this as it unveils and my head processes it better, but I want to thank the facebook people for being the bridge linking my mom and I. I also want to congratulate my friend Terrell who has been helping me and enjoying life in Ukraine for finding his father on facebook, too...Destiny, my friends, Destiny.

Journey Through Exile

Yesterday I had a long conversation with one of my cousins on the name of the blog. I have received a few compliments on the name, and it makes me happy to see people feeling the title. My cousin suggested that I could do things with the title, like write a book with the same title, etc. I agreed, however, this blog is to chronicle my experiences as a writer in a foreign land. As stated previously, I have been in exile for 15 years and still counting and throughout those years one of my greatest comfort has been reading. I remember reading a newspaper (Imvaho) on a bus in Rwanda when I was in first grade, and how my dad's friends, who were with us on the bus, were amazed that I could stay focused at such a young age in a crowded, noisy place. We didn't have many material to read in Kinyarwanda, so I read the bible. The Kinyarwanda language in the bible is the purest Kinyarwanda, so I was proud of my Kinyarwanda until it almost evaporated due to not being used.
Those of you who know me in Zimbabwe know how much I read there. At one point, I read a novel a day for three months, and the benefits were evident in the compositions for English class. Chekingo should send me my notebook I left with him if he still has it, that thing will be worth a lot of money some day.
These are just small examples with reading and writing. I have always loved it, but now I want to chronicle lives of people in exile. People on a journey. I want the world to know, and recognize in themselves, the pains, joys, laughter, tears, tribulations, and triumphs of being in a foreign place.
My first play "Where Flies Flock" is about a young lady who leaves her country home for the perceived adventure and pleasure of the city. She experiences success, luck, and, in the end, destruction at the hands of the city. She fights with going back, risking turning out like her brother who had tried the city life and returned to the country a defeated man. I wanted to show the struggle we, in exile, face when things get tough. When we don't see any way out, should we turn and head back where we came from? To lick our wounds until the situation improves and we can come back? Is there a guarantee that we will get another chance? And if we fail in a foreign place, who will be there to pick us up? In the end, the moral of the story is that if you see where flies are flocking to, you know there is nothing but waste.
Hopefully, we can pick up production again next summer in Atlanta, it was a joy writing it and thanks for the feedback.
But, as you take a look at my work, identify the traveler, what is being learned on that journey, and how do you feel the world is impacted by that traveler's experiences? There is much to talk about in regards to this, but I will leave the rest for next time.
Today, I am resting, I will not read or write. I will tidy up the place and make some brochettes, and, maybe, even go to the movies with my baby. I will take a moment to enjoy my journey, to celebrate my growth, and pray for guidance. I wish you all a wonderful weekend.

Work in Progress::: Woman

This is the first edit of the Woman piece. Take a look, compare, and let me know what you think. This piece came to me almost effortless, and I wonder why. I have had strong women in my life - I was raised by some, grew up with some, worked with some, and dated some (not the same ones, of course)- and I offer this piece to them. I edited a few things, but I know there are some parts that don't feel right, and I will iron out the kinks later...come on, people, please let me know what you think.
Well, I'm still working on being published...I still have to wait and see, but hopefully it will happen soon. I don't think I'm anything other than an up-and-coming writer who still has to find the perfect way to project his message through his writings. I am not a professional, yet, and the first step is to see my work published somewhere. I feel it will happen soon, just a matter of time. Once again, I thank the people that have helped me and encouraged me. Thank you with all my heart.

Woman

This piece has been removed and will appear, edited, in an upcoming issue of EXILE CALLING. Subscribe today to continue enjoying new work.

Another day!!!

On any given day, you can find me hatching plans of projects left and right. Lately, I have tried to consolidate, compartmentalize, and prioritize these projects to make sense - even to myself. Today, I am going to go back and edit the Salamander stories (without starting on the next part) and the Woman poetic prose. I will, also, touch up the Hunter and His Leopard, which needs a big face-lift. Talking about The Hunter and His Leopard, I found a picture by photographer Andy Biggs online that captivated the leopard I had in mind when the piece was flowing through me. I tell you, I believe in omens and, lately, they have been flocking to me...either that or my eyes are more open to recognizing them.
The other day, I would refer to her as a friend, definitely an ally, send me a link about an interview that implicated current Burkinabe president, Blaise Compaore, as having actually pulled the trigger and killing his former best friend, then-president Thomas Sankara. This was interesting to me because I had Compaore doing exactly that in the ending to my play "Sankara: My Brother, My Enemy." I feel a strong link to Sankara, and I regard this as an omen that I am on the right track.

Web Short Story Series::::Onondaga County's Own Peculiar Salamander's Conceited Tales Pt. 2

Well, here's part 2 of the salamander story. In this piece, the author talks of how he came to know about the salamander and builds onto the first encounter between them. Please let me know what you think, and, for those that are wondering, I will explain why I chose a salamander in a later post...possibly after pt. 5.

Thank you, and enjoy reading.

Onondaga County’s Own Peculiar Salamander’s Conceited Tales Pt. 2

This story has been removed and will be in an upcoming issue of EXILE CALLING. Subscribe today to continue enjoying new work.

What's in the works:::Sankara: My Brother, My Enemy

Sankara is more than a man to me. He is a gift from God. Leaders like him are so few and far between that, at times, we tend to forget that it is possible to be led by a simple, intelligent, self-less fellow human being. We have come to regard politicians as leeches hindering progress, especially in Africa. Sankara proved that you can lead motivated by helping the country and its people develop socially, economically, and politically. After much research into his life, I undertook the task of writing a play based on this great son of Africa. If you don't know about him, please google, wiki, or youtube him. (the reference points these days, lol). The play begins as he is freed from detention by his friend, and installed as the president. Among his first acts is to change the country from Upper Volta to Burkina Faso, meaning Land of Upright Men. The play progresses with the goals he sets for himself and accomplishments in gender equality, public health, social justice, etc. However, this success comes at the expense of alienation of the rich, who are supported by foreign powers. The disgruntled finally convince his best friend to overthrow him in return for riches, and return Burkina Faso to the darkness of poverty and corruption that allows them to once again pillage its resources.
The play's ending will highlight the conflict raging within his best friend as he realizes the consequences and severity of his actions. I will parallel it to the Judas incident in the Bible, but, rather than committing instantaneous suicide, the best friend's demise is a long time coming; culminating, however, in the same destruction of the soul.

Web Short Story Series::::Onondaga County's Own Peculiar Salamander's Conceited Tales

This story came to me soon after moving to New York. I purchased a biography of Mark Twain and, in it was a story about a newspaper series he had wrote called "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County." I thought the name An idea came to me to write a series of short stories with a central figure set in Upstate New York. I thought Onondaga wasn't a name you encountered in many places (same as Calaveras), and since there is a lot of water here, I figured a Salamander would substitute in well for the frog. I also decided to use the salamander to show how I view my experiences in this place, exaggerated of course.
The story is about a salamander who leaves his home in Georgia, where he had not been really accepted, and embarks on a journey that lands him in Onondaga County, New York. It will focus on his experiences in Georgia, on the road, and, finally, in Onondaga County. The majority of the stories will be about his experiences in O.C., with a few flashbacks here and there.
Anyways, without further ado, take a sit, adjust your glasses, sip on your beer (or wine), and enjoy the story. Let me know what you think.

Onondaga County’s Own Peculiar Salamander’s Conceited Tales of Adventure

This work has been removed and will appear in the first issue of EXILE CALLING coming out on October 5th, 2009. Subscribe today to continue enjoying new work.