Support Comrade Lokmar: The Long Distance New Afrikan Revolutionary

Support Comrade Lokmar: The Long Distance New Afrikan Revolutionary

a support call for Comrade Lokmar by Brother Khalfani Malik Khaldun

In 1987, I met Lincoln Love aka Comrade Lokmar Abdul-Wadood while being housed/segregated at Westville Correctional Center (WCC), a disciplinary unit. He was in segregation in association with the 1985 Revolutionary Resistance that occurred at the Indiana Reformatory aka Pendleton Correctional Facility. Labeled a riot/takeover by IDOC Prisoncrats, this event was a response to prison officers beating Lokmar, causing extensive head/face injuries. Leaving him bleeding and nearly dead.

Word of this beating reached Pendleton’s General Population and several of Lokmar’s comrades took action in an attempt to save his life. This is an event hated by the Prisoncrats all across this state. He and his comrades spent decades in Solitary Confinement. For nearly 40 plus years, Lokmar has been an advocate/staunch proactive Revolutionary inside Indiana’s Plantations. He’s been a teacher, educator, jailhouse lawyer, and civil litigator for years. Respected by everybody, he is an elder statesman who I can personally attest to being a giant humbly living in the shadows.

In 1987, when I met him at Westville, he had at least 500 books in his cell. In the past year, he has had 2 strokes, and although he still has at least 1 family member alive in his corner, he really needs your support out there. Please write to him and assist this deserving brother in whatever way you can.

You may reach him at:

Lincoln “Lokmar Wadood” Love #5268
1000 Van Nuys Road
P.O. Box E
New Castle, IN 47362

We need to ensure that he is getting the proper medical treatment he needs at this time. Thank you. In solidarity.

Support Call for Comrade Lokmar from Aaron Isby-Israel

Lokmar Yazid Abdul-Wadood aka Lincoln Love had a second stroke at the New Castle Correctional Facility in New Castle, Indiana, and was taken to an outside hospital on 04/22/2019.

Brother Lokmar has been held captive in the Indiana prison system since 1973, for a wrongful murder conviction from East Chicago, Indiana, where he was born and raised. Brother Lokmar has been serving two life sentences. For more than forty years Lokmar has practiced the Islamic faith as a sunni muslim and has been a devoted brother in the New African revolutionary struggle. I have known brother Lokmar for about 26 years and this brother has a lot of love for black people and has always helped all Prisoners no matter what their race is. Lokmar has also been a freedom fighter and tenacious Litigator in the courts in Indiana (Federal/State), helping many prisoners gain their release from Prison. Lokmar was born in 1952, during the emerging civil rights movement. He is a good brother and Human being and he needs a showing of support!

You can put money on Lokmar’s books and message him at

Below are articles from Indiana newspapers from 1985 and 1987 that discuss the 1985 uprising that Lokmar was at the center of, and its aftermath.






Notes on Nigeria

When it achieved independence from Britain on October 1, 1960, Nigeria was widely thought of by outsiders as the hope of Africa. It had had a peaceful transition to independence and a sufficiency of agricultural and mineral resources. The human resources included a decently trained and experienced civil service, an educated elite trained in British universities or at the University of Ibadan, and a small professional army. There were several political parties rather than the one often found in newly independent states. The 1952 British conducted census revealed a population of 35 million by far the largest in black Africa, so there was a decent sized internal market for industry. Both Time and Newsweek trumpeted this new giant. Yet the post independence history has been depressing, for Nigerians and their friends.

Biafra: International Discussion Biafran Genocide is Explained to Blacks in U.S. with Guest Lizzy Chimua & Other Biafran Guest – Haki Kweli Shakur

Theme 1: It is difficult for outsiders to evaluate an area. When success looks inevitable to them, it is time to be cautious.

Theme 2: A political, educational, and economic structure imposed from outside is likely to create problems unless it is a good “fit” to prevailing conditions. A long period of “tutelage” can make such imposed structures seem more natural, but they may still founder.

Theme 3: Multi-ethnic and multi-lingual states need a strong set of countervailing forces to keep them together. In the best of circumstances these should include a decent economy with shares for all, a set of icons like a glorious history of shared struggle, martyrs and wise men among the founding fathers, and recognized but hopefully low level of external threats.

Theme 4: The kinds of people who were the “elite” in colonial times may not be the right ones to run a country after independence. But they usually self select themselves for that purpose.

Theme 5: Countries put together by outsiders are often not a good natural “fit.” There are likely to be strong regional conflicts. Regional conflict incidentally is quite common. Our civil war, the separatist movements in Europe and the north-south split in China are 3 examples out of many.

Theme 6: Being a “favored race” of the former colonizing power is often not an enviable status once independence is achieved. Ibos in Nigeria and Sikhs in India are just two of numberous cases that could be cited. The fact that such groups tend to be minorities increases their problems.

Theme 7: Discovery of “wealth” or a quick jump in prices of a commodity may mean disaster rather than development. Iran, Mexico and Nigeria all are still suffering from the oil price rise bonanza of the 1970s.

The atlas provides some basic facts. The Statesman’s Yearbook can be consulted for the current situation. And the accompanying maps should also help in gaining an overall geographic perspective.

Biafra Xenophobia governments like nigeria are responsible for Biafran Deaths in South Africa – Haki Kweli Shakur

Geography: The boundaries of present day Nigeria were imposed by the British after negotiations with the neighboring colonial powers France and Germany. Nonetheless, one can see a basic “sense” in a country formed largely around the drainage basins of the Niger-Benue. One might also ask whether these might not also serve to delineate 3 countries rather than 1. The map shows a country with a gentle rise in elevation proceeding from the coast inland and two major upland areas, the Jos and Mambilla plateaus. This looks and is easier to penetrate and provide transport over than many African countries. A closer look would reveal obstacles that have been significant starting with the mangrove swamps and dense coastal forests.

A “belt” — the so-called Middle Belt — in central Nigeria puzzled the colonialists, because it had fewer people and settlements than areas to the south or north. Extensions of this belt are found to the east and west of Nigeria. For quite a while it was ascribed to natural conditions. Its cause is actually historical, the incursions of the Islamic Fulani horsemen from the north in jihads in the 1700s and 1800s. In essence, this is a classic political-geographic “shatterbelt.”

Resources: gold and slaves were sought early. The gold proved skimpier than hoped and the slave trade ended officially in 1815. The colonial powers always looked for mineral resources. In Nigeria the British exploited the tin of the Jos Plateau and the coal around Enugu. Both have been eclipsed in importance by the petroleum (even bigger natural gas resources not currently significant — flared off mostly) in the Niger delta and offshore.

Agricultural resources originally were a major attraction. These included the cocoa of the southwest, cotton and groundnuts (peanuts) of the north, and oil palm of the southeast. Firms like Cadbury and Lever Bros. Were important in their early exploitation. There have been fitful attempts to grow and exploit rubber east of Benin.

Multinationals have been prominent in African economies. In Nigeria, major players include the United Africa Company, Lever Brothers and Shell.

Biafra: Xenophobia is a construct of European/Chinese Imperialism – Haki Kweli Shakur

History: The history of Nigeria did not start with the British! On the northern borders were impressive empires such as Songhai and Bornu that engaged in trading with the Mediterranean and the Arab world. [“Morocco” leather was based on hides from west Africa’s savannah.] In the southwest was the unique Oyo civilization with its classical center at Ile-Ife and a number of vibrant urban centers. And the kingdom of Benin was renowned throughout and outside West Africa. Relatively recently, traces of interesting civilizations have been found in the southeast. But the impact of the British has been critical in forming the modern country of NIgeria.

Nigeria was part of the old slave and gold coast and a number of European countries had trading posts and forts there. But the British established dominance in the 1800s. In particular, they focused their power on Lagos, the best site to use as a harbor for their efforts to suppress the slave trade after 1815. In 1853, Lagos was made a Protectorate.

The British did not have much luck persuading the local population to help them administer the area. The climate was not such as to attract Britons. And there was considerable reluctance on the part of the native Yorubas to accept these foreigners as having a superior culture and so emulating them. The British solution, as happened elsewhere was to import a “client group,” in this case returned slaves from Sierra Leone, to serve as their agents and civil servants. Many of these people’s descendants are still prominent in the Lagos area and at the national level. The regard in which these folk with their adopted British ways were held can be apprehended by the term applied to them by a prominent Nigerian academic — “deluded hybrids.” Other groups filtered in to dominate smaller retail trade, from the eastern Mediterranean (Cyprus, Lebanon) and India.

Other points of penetration were Bonny and Calabar in the east and Warri and Sapele in the center. The push north began as a reaction to the fear of French penetration from Senegal eastward and even up the Niger. It was tough going. But by the first decade of this century, the task of forming Nigeria was done. Originally, the south and north were governed separately. The British, unlike other colonial powers, liked to rule through the native elite unless there were rich resources locally. In many areas of their Empire, they never expected or wanted to stay forever, unlike the French or Portuguese, and indirect rule fitted in well with this philosophy. Especially in the north, they found this an efficient arrangement in Nigeria. Why, then, is Nigeria one country rather than two, or three? Administrative convenience and the sense of “tidiness” of the colonial administrator, Lord Lugard.

Britain after WW II started to seriously plan independence for many of its territories. Places that had given trouble and the parts not favored by British settlers were first on the list. A number of constitutional meetings were held to plan the future nature of the independent countries. Asian possessions (except Hong Kong) went first, later Africa and the Americas. In West Africa, Ghana was felt most ready economically and in terms of its elite to receive indepedence and got it in 1956. Nigeria waited until 1960. Perhaps the major reason for the delay was the reluctance of the northern, Islamic, elite to see the British leave. They had kept a lot of their powers and there were few missionaries and the accompanying western education. They feared independence, too soon, would expose them to a “takeover” by “more advanced” southerners. As it turns out, northerners have dominated national politics because of their population weight; but they have depended heavily on allies from the south — sometimes eastern Ibos, sometimes western Yorubas along with Christians from the middle belt — to run the country.

The Political System since independence has had some constancies and some changes. The British, as they did elsewhere but not in their own country, left a federal system embedded in a parliamentary one. Originally there were three states — north, west, and east. The association of these with the three major ethnic groups and the dominance of the northern state in population led to fears of one dominating. So over the years the number of states has grown to 31 as the original three have been split. The south still fears the north’s population,islamic faith and political dominance; the north still distrusts the Christian and better educated south. When the army decided to return to the barracks in the 1970s they called a constitutional committee together. It set up a strong presidential system, rather like that of the United States. That worked no better than the parliamentary one between 1979-1983. But it will be tried again. Emulating the American arrangement, thehead of state between 1983-1994, General Babangida,decreed that there will be two political parties — one slightly right of center, one just left of center. In light of our own discussions of limited terms for office holders, it may be interested to know that all former office holders including the incumbents were forbidden to run again [this ban was later lifted]. In the event, elections were held but then annulled and the Yoruba (southwesterner) moslem who won the presidency has been in jail since he (maybe foolishly) decided to return to Nigeria to claim fruits of victory after spending a period of exile in Britain. The current head of state, General Sani Abacha, has a long history of involvement in previous coups and, perhaps based on his own experience, has cracked down harshly on dissent. While nominally starting the process for a return to civilian rule (by 1998?), he has hanged or otherwise disposed of dissident elements and critics.

The Urban System in colonial countries is usually influenced by the needs of the outsiders. That is true in Nigeria, as a famous geographer, Akin Mabogunje, has written. Some towns, like Kaduna and Enugu, were created from scratch — for administrative and mining purposes respectively. Others, like Ibadan, grew under colonialism. Still others, bypassed by the transport system built under colonialism, lost importance relatively or absolutely. Lagos, like other colonial capitals, became the dominant town. In most cases as in this one, a geographer could suggest a better balanced urban system. The key difference between city systems created in colonial and noncolonial systems is that the former reflect (capitalist) economic rationality much less.

The Transport System is likewise skewed by the administrative and economic needs of the external (metropolitan is a term often used) power. Taafe, Morrill and Gould in a classic 1962 paper describe stages in transport development in colonial societies. There is a focus first on coastal points of control and ingress. The routes are then pushed inland to areas needing quick access to put down potential unrest, secondarily perhaps to areas of attractive resources. Finally, some attention is paid to cross-connecting these routes. Over time, but it is often a long time, differential development becomes based on economic returns. In Nigeria, the threads of the colonial system are still very obvious. There are the railway lines from Lagos through Ibadan to Kaduna for administrative control purposes and to bring out cotton and peanuts from the north; off this is a spur to the Jos tin mines. The eastern line to the coal at Enugu also has a spur to Jos. The major road system, denser because roads cost less and are more flexible, has similar colonial antecedents.

Like Alaska and Siberia with their permafrost, roads in tropical areas subject to heavy seasonal downpours need to be ballasted heavily. Otherwise they can wash out in one rainy season. In Nigeria and many other black African countries this is usually not done. Reasons include lack of money and “siphoning” of money from road construction to political pockets. On my first stay in Nigeria in the 1970s, a contractor who should know told me that the kickback to officials varied regionally but was usually 25 percent in the south and up to 50 percent in the north. A thin smooth coat of asphalt is usually enough to get a road approved for payment. [Some roads financed by the World Bank which knows of these problems are shining exceptions to the generally deteriorating streets and highways.] Some recent estimates say that 75 percent of the income from oil exports since 1973 has been illegally diverted in one way or another.

The Economic System in third world countries has been described by many authors. Among the most interesting commentators are W. Arthur Lewis, Joan Robinson, E. Wallerstein, Michael Watts and Gunder Frank. The major and obvious point is that the “modern” economies in these countries were designed for the benefits of outsiders. This has meant focus on commercial rather than food crops, “factory” or plantation agriculture with docile or skilled labor brought from outside if locals were unwilling or unable to serve efficiently, extraction but not much processing of raw materials and generally unbalanced industrial growth. This can take decades to change. Before the civil war in 1967, the major locations of “modern” employment were Lagos, the capital, and in the southeastern palm oil and petroleum centers. This pattern persisted through the 1970s and even by 1990 had been little changed if one excepts growth of government workers in the state capitals.

Firms from the colonizing countries dominated the modern sector. The United Africa Company, Shell and Lever Brothers have been mentioned above. They have parallels in other colonial countries’ territories in Africa, in South and Central America, India and Southeast Asia. In Africa in particular, enterprises run by outsiders from the same colonial system took up what opportunities were left by the multinationals. Thus the Indians and Pakistanis and Greek Cypriots in British colonies, the Lebanese and Syrians in the French. In southeast Asia, the Chinese filled those outsider roles more than anyone else. Reaction of Africans after independence was often to try to control or oust (Uganda, Kenya, Nigeria) these “scavengers of colonialism” as some Nigerian friends called them. With the multinationals, the Nigerians went so far as to mandate “Nigerianization” or ownership of half the company via preferential issuance of shares in the local branches. These shares of course ended up in the hands of the Nigerian elite and the army officers more interested in dividends than in running businesses. True indigenous capitalism in the form of major black owned firms has had a hard time getting started in black Africa. The “market mammies” of Ghana and southwest Nigeria are an interesting partial exception.

The Education System was also externally controlled. It was organized to turn out the low level clerks and sometimes the technical assistants needed in all colonial areas. The French and British took the cream of the crop to their own universities to become ministers or priests, middle level administrators and perhaps doctors or lawyers. The lower levels were taught such germane subjects as British literature, history and geography along with English and mathematics. There was usually care taken to make the students tend the school crop gardens to make sure they did not forget how to be farmers. [The French went further than the British in inculcating their culture, emphasizing correct pronunciation and teaching students about “our ancestors the Gauls.]

Notice the lack of emphasis on business and skills like engineering. Partly this was due to the proclivities of the colonial administrators, partly to a feeling Africans were not suited to these areas, partly a desire not to create competition. There were some universities before independence. In West Africa, the British set up Fourah Bay College in Sierra Leone associated with (as was common) the University of London. The first Nigerian University, founded in 1948 at Ibadan, was also originally an external college of London. After independence, there was an attempt, strongly resisted by the British and by Nigerians educated by them to university level, to introduce technical education and the American land grant philosophy. Thus Ahmadu Bello University at Zaria in the north focused on technology with help from the University of Manchester and the University of Nigeria at Nsukka aided by Michigan State devoted a lot of attention to the social sciences and agriculture.

The Military have been a dominant factor in running Nigeria. This was not intended. The British left a force of about 8,000 on independence. Its Nigerian officers were largely from the Ibos from the southeast with an increasing number inducted from the north and to a lesser extent the southwest in the post independence years. The last British officers left a few years after independence. Northerners always made up the bulk of the troopers. There has always been controversy over the ethnic “balance” of the officer corps. This army ballooned to about 250,000 during the height of the civil war 1967-1970. It has been reduced as expeditiously as possible since to about 100,000 now. [Letting out men with military training into a society with few economic opportunities for them is considered a dangerous business in Africa.] At least up to the present regime, to its credit and perhaps with some thanks to British military tradition, the Nigerian armed forces have generally been reluctant rulers. They did freely turn over power once and say they are committed to doing so again in 1998. But whether they will stay out is an interesting question.

Armies have a peculiar status in many post-colonial societies. They are often made up of many of the ethnic groups in the country (although the proportions may be different) and perhaps apart from some universities there is opportunity for individuals from different groups to interact. By their nature, they deal with machinery, sometimes quite technically advanced. Officers and technicians too are exposed to world class standards, whether these are eastern or western. The services must be organized and disciplined to a much greater extent than civilian society. They are supposed to be national institutions. And training and education are a necessity not a luxury. The armed services in many ways seem better suited to running a country than the civilian elite. They have often acted on the belief that that is true, aided by the failures of the civilian political system.

Foreign policy of African countries has varied from pro-Western (Kenya) to very pro-Soviet (Guinea and Mozambique until the breakup of the Soviet empire). Its constant factor has been opposition to the white dominated regimes that remained in southern Africa. Now that South Africa has become a “normal” rather than a pariah state it will be interesting to see whether a single theme will emerge other than a general identification with “third world” issues. Possible new focusesare the New World Information Order (licensing journalists) and preferential treatment of trade and debt for poor countries are among these.

Nigeria’s foreign policy outside Africa has been pro-Western and it has been a mainstay of many of the United Nations trucekeeping forces. It had a large contingent in the former Belgian Congo in the early 1960s for instance and Nigerians have served in the UN forces in Lebanon, Somalia and other areas. It was a vociferous supporter of liberation movements in southern Africa. The MPLA government of Angola, in particular, owes its legitimacy as much to Nigerian diplomacy as Soviet arms aid. A major theme has been to try to keep out foreign involvement in African political affairs, especially from the former Colonial powers. There has traditionally been great suspicion of French motives because of the numerous French interventions in the post-independence affairs of its former colonies. In trying to carry out this policy, Nigeria has not only joined but initiated pan-African attempts at resolving internal problems of other states. Notable among these interventions was its role in the Chadian African Intervention forces in the early 1980s (unsuccessful), its attempted mediation in border disputes between Mali and Bourkina Fasso (unsuccessful) and its current role as leader of the military forces of ECOWAS (Economic Community of West African States) in Liberia. But because of its disproportionate population and, for Africa, wealth Nigeria has often been looked at suspiciously by its neighbors afraid it may use its muscle against their interests.

A final question, and not just for Nigeria is what sorts of people, with what sorts of training are needed to run a successful state. Most Nigerians hope, but do not necessarily expect, that part of the qualification should be that the rulers be civilians.

NIGERIA. “Nigeria’s Rulers, ignoring court, decide to hold presidential vote,” Kenneth B. Noble, NYT 12Jn93,p.4 talks of reaction to Justice Bassey Ikpeme’s order to postpone the vote. Michael O’Brien, director of the USIA, being expelled for “blatant interference” in saying postponement would be unacceptable. Also credentials being withdrawn from 8 Americans here as election observers. Polls showed Moshood Abiola, Social Democratic Party, a Yoruba ahead with 47.3% of Bashir Tofa of the National Republican Party and a Kano man. Both are muslims and friends of current military president Ibrahim Babangida.

“Nigerian army sets aside election intended to restore democracy,” Kenneth B. Noble, NYT 17Jn93, p.1 reports on legal challenge to suppress reporting results. Growing indications were that Moshood Abiola was having a decisive win. “Nigeria rights group cites opposition’s gains,” Kenneth B. Noble, NYT 19Jn93, p.2 reports on the release by the Campaign for Democracy of final results. Moshood Abiola was said to have won 19 of the 30 states. The story notes this is a setback for the Hausa-Fulani group of the north; both candidates are muslims but

“Nigeria reveals census’ total, 88.5 million, and little more” NYT, 25 Mr 92, p.12. There is still considerable doubt about how many Nigerians there are. The 1952 British census was an undercount, the 1962 and the 1963 recounts were inflated and the 1973 census was annulled after it was taken — possibly because it revealed facts about the country the rulers did not want to acknowledge. The December, 1991 census counted some 30 million less Nigerians than most thought existed. It seems to have been an honest attempt at a count, at least according to most official observers.

“Nigeria had to act against coup plotters,” NYT, 2 Se 95, 18 is a letter from the Nigerian Ambassador to the US, Zubair M. Kazaure, justifying detention and death sentences for those suspected in a recent coup plot. He also justifies other aspects of domestic policies including Abacha’s 1993 takeover and the regime’s economic and political actions. Interesting alternate views are presented in Bob Herbert’s column in the Times of August 14 titled “The Fantasy Coup,” which generated this letter from Ambassador Kazaure. Letters from Nigerian exiles in the US have often had uncomplimentary things to say about his character and veracity.

“Repression in Nigeria,” Howard W. French reporting from Abidjan, Ivory Coast in the NYT, 12 No 95, 18 says that going ahead with execution of eight ethnic activists, the country’s leader, General Sani Abacha, was betting that international isolation was “less terrifying than the perils of Nigeria’s internal politics.”

“Commonwealth suspends Nigeria over executions,” Reuters to NYT, 12 No 95, 18 reports on the action of the 52 member Commonwealth. It is unprecedented. Only Gambia, currently under military rule, dissented. President Nelson Mandela of South Africa has been a driving force behind strong actions against the Nigerian regime.

“Nigerian government hangs 9 activists,” CDT(AP), Frank Aigbogun, 13 No 95, 10 reports that the eight final words of Ken Saro-Wiwa before his body went limp were “Lord take my soul, but the struggle continues.” It also reports that because of faulty equipment it took five attempts to hang the anti-government activist. Eight countries, including the United States, withdrew their ambassadors from Nigeria in protest. Ken was perhaps the most prominent Ogboni activist — the group inhabits the main oil-producing area of the country and has been complaining of not receiving enough compensation for the environmental damage done to their environment and livelihood by the oil industry. The major company involved, Shell has come under attack for not pressing the government to commute the sentences and for appearing to support it by going ahead with a $4 billion natural gas liquefaction program. Shell says it has no influence on the government and says if it didn’t cooperate with the government some other oil or gas firm would.

“Nigeria Foaming,” The Economist, 18 No 95, 15-16 raises the question of whether the execution of 9 political activists protesting injustices to the Ogoni people will be forgotten soon by outsiders — eager to make money from Nigerian oil and gas. Oil revenues are systematically stolen and squandered says the article and even though Nigeria is not the most brutal country in the world, it is the most misruled.

“After the hangings,” The Economist, 18 No 95, 18 notes the executions were announced while Nigerians were glued to the Nigeria-Uzbekistan soccer match. National news at 9pm ignored them as did state-controlled radio.

“Nigeria sees its sinking fortune in a soccer group’s snub”, Howard W. French, NYT, 6 Ap 95, A5 talks about the recent cancellation of the FIFA world junior championship to have been held here. Given the soccer madness that infects Nigeria, this snub may have hurt more than most. The argument was that security was not sufficient. “But perhaps more than security, soccer officials were also concerned about what has made life intolerable for many Nigerians: a level of corruption so high and an absence of basic public services so complete that many have concluded that the only service the military Government provides is to rob its own people…As with other tax money that frequently finds its way into the pockets of officials here, little of the budget allocated to get ready for the soccer tournament seemed to have been spent for its intended purpose….said one professor who spoke in his shabby offices where he rarely ventures [] because his salary arrives months behind schedule. ‘The sad fact is that without organizations like FIFA to bear down on us in all facets of life, this country, the way it is going, will never work.”


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30 Mother Goddess of Igboland – Ugo Nwamama

❌ 💢➕🔻🔺️
Names Of Various IGBO Mother Goddesses:

1. NNE-CHUKWU – The Supreme Mother Of The Universe.

2. NNE-ANA – Mother Earth.

3. NNE-OMA – Mother Of Purity.

4. NNE-ONWA – Mother Moon.

5. NNE-ONO NA MBU – The Mother Who Was At The Very Beginning Of Time.

6. NNE-ONU – Mother Of The Watery Abyss.

7. NNE-ATU – Mother Bull And Thoughts.

8. NNE-AGWU – Mother Of All Infinite Wisdom And Knowlegde.

9. NNE-UWA – Mother Of The Cosmic Egg.

10. NNE-ETE – The Mother Who Detamines The Structural Plan Of The Cosmos.

11. NNE-IGBO – Mother Of The Forest Of Life And Her Children.

12. NNE-OBI – Mother Of Hearts And Home.

13. NNE-UTO – Sweet Mother / Mother Of Cosmic Growth.

14. NNE-ELE – Mother Of The Infinite.

15. NNE-IYI – Mother Of The Celestial Waters.

16. NNE-MMIRI – Mother Water.

17. NNE-NRI – Mother Of The Priest Kings.

18. NNE-OFO – Mother Of Sacred Truths.

19. NNE-CHI – Mother Of Spiritual Energy And The Core Of The Cosmos.

20. NNE-OSHIMIRI – Mother Ocean.

21. NNE-OKWA – Mother Of Thrones And The Guinea Fowl.

22. NNE-BU-ISI – The Mother Who Was First.

23. NNE-OKPU – Mother Creator.

24. NNE-EKE – Mother Of The Cosmic Light

25. NNE-ORIE – Mother Of The Cosmic Watery Wave.

26. NNE-AFO – Mother Of The Earthly Soil.

27. NNE-NKWO – Mother Of Cosmic Winds

28. NNE M’UZU – The Mother Of The First Iron Smelting. The Mother That Knows Iron.

29. NNE-IKENGA – The Mother Of All Moving Energy Forces.

30. NNE-NWANYI-CHUKWU – The Supreme Elderly Lady God.

If There’s Anyone I Didn’t Mention, Drop Their Names On The Comment Section. Also Note That My English Translations Of The Names Of These Mother Goddess Doesn’t Give Full Detail Of What They Are. Each Of These Goddesses Are School Of Thoughts On Their Own.

Odinani/Omenala/AFA The Sacred Science of SELF – Haki Kweli Shakur





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The Untold Slave Rebellions of Maryland Easter 1817 & July 7-8 1845, Mark Caesar & William Wheeler

In the annals of slave rebellions, Nat Turner’s name looms large. The insurrection he led in Southampton County, Va., in 1831, involved the murders of 55 white men, women and children and sent shock waves throughout the slaveholding southern states.

Legislatures enacted more stringent codes restricting the rights of slaves and free blacks, and sectionalism replaced nationalism as the sharply divided country inched inexorably toward civil war.

Turner was hanged but outlived his villainous persona to inspire a 1967 Pulitzer Prize-winning novel by William Styron and more recently a 2016 film, “The Birth of a Nation.” Denmark Vesey, in Charleston, S.C., and a Richmond-area slave named Gabriel, are lesser known but still prominent figures in the history of slave rebellions.

Maryland seldom is mentioned in these discussions. Yet, on Easter in 1817, some 200 slaves revolted in St. Mary’s County. The outburst resulted in whites being injured by sticks, brickbats “and other missiles” and the sacking of two houses before peace was restored, according to the late historian Herbert Aptheker.

Historic Watkins Cemetery, The Untold Slave Rebellions of Maryland 1817 & 1845 – Haki Kweli Shakur

In July 1845, another uprising occurred in Maryland that is little remembered and rarely mentioned. Starting in Charles County, runaway slaves gained in strength as they passed through St. Mary’s and Prince George’s into Montgomery County, at one time numbering perhaps 75 men armed with pistols, scythe blades, bludgeons, swords, butcher knives and clubs. Their destination was the free state of Pennsylvania.

Their northward march to freedom is nowhere to be found in the written histories of the affected counties. “Maryland is not very good about discussing these things,” says Cheryl LaRoche, an archaeological historian at the University of Maryland who has extensively researched and written about slave escapes. “And part is to downplay these things we see and keep them local, as just some disgruntled folks making their way out of slavery rather than a larger narrative.”

This narrative begins on July 7 or 8, 1845. The “prime movers and instigators of the late Negro insurrection,” the Port Tobacco Times later reported, were Mark Caesar, identified as a free black man, and Bill Wheeler, the property of Benjamin Contee, a leading citizen of Port Tobacco in Charles County who owned as many as 48 slaves. As they moved through what are now suburban counties in the Washington metropolitan area, their ranks swelled with other fugitive slaves.

Marching six across along what is today Route 355, they were led, according to one account, by “a powerful negro fellow, sword in hand.” Five miles north of Rockville and two miles from Gaithersburg, their flight from bondage ended when they were confronted by the Montgomery Volunteers, a local militia, and a posse of citizens called into action by Sheriff Daniel Hayes Candler.

The sheriff, who served in the post from 1843 to 1846, lived in Rockville with his wife, children and five slaves. Candler, 33, had been born, according to census records, on March 15, 1812, in “Montgomery Village,” known today as a planned, suburban community first developed by the Kettler Brothers in the 1960s.

The insurrectionists did not quietly surrender but instead fought back. A detailed account on the encounter by the Rockville Register was reprinted in full on the front page of the Baltimore Sun on July 12. “GREAT EXCITEMENT. Runaway Slaves,” read the headline. The report said “these daring negroes” numbered 40, though there were rumors of nearly 200.

“The very boldness of the step led many citizens at first to believe that an extensive scheme of escape had been planned with the negroes along the route,” the paper said.

In the melee, 10 were severely wounded. A large number escaped and were never recaptured. The rest — 31, according to the newspaper — were led away in chains to the Rockville jail before being sold by their owners out of state. The newspaper account named five still at large and 10 wounded and their owners. Caesar and Wheeler were remanded to Port Tobacco, then the Charles County seat and now the smallest incorporated town in Maryland with an estimated population of 13 in 2016. There they were prosecuted by George Brent, who owned 15 slaves in 1840.

After a two-day trial, the jury deadlocked on Caesar, and a new jury was quickly impaneled and convicted him, this time “as a free negro aiding and abetting slaves in making their escape from their masters,” reported the Port Tobacco Times. He was sentenced to 40 years and died in jail of consumption on Nov. 11, 1850.

Wheeler remained a fugitive for several weeks but eventually was arrested, brought to trial in Port Tobacco, convicted and sentenced to death by hanging, but it was commuted to life in prison. Four months later, he escaped from jail and, despite a $100 reward offered for his capture, was never apprehended. The presiding judges, both slaveholders, were Clement Dorsey, later elected to the U.S. House of Representatives, and Alexander Contee Magruder, who is buried in Congressional Cemetery on Capitol Hill. Opined the Marlboro Gazette upon his death in 1853: “As a lawyer, he had few superiors; as a Judge, he was able and upright; and as a man, he was beloved by all who knew him.”

Of the uprising, the Maryland Journal said, “This is the most daring movement which has ever come under our observation. We have heard of gangs of negroes travelling through parts of the country sparsely inhabited, but never before have we heard of their taking to the public road in open day, within 2 miles of a County town.”

This “daring movement” inspired alarmed white citizens to meet and propose measures to prevent a recurrence. In St. Mary’s County, 10 people in each election district would comprise a “Committee of Vigilance” to closely watch over movements of blacks. The Montgomery Volunteers won praise and more recruits for their efforts.


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Black August to Blood September Rise & Meaning ( Attica Slave Rebellion )

Crown Prince of the Black Order Revolutionary Organization details the meaning and history of Black August and Bloody September

encourages conscious prisoners to rise up and participate in a work stoppage and demonstration on September 9th.

MIM-Prisons originally published this article.

Salute comrade, today we stand on this crest of time as we reach through the recess of our minds and commemorate, honor and salute our collective struggle as a people and our daring revolutionary heroes.

The month of August and September – Black August and Bloody September as it is referred to by many New Afrikan comrades, cadres and revolutionary organizations – are both months rich with our blood, our struggle, and our resistance as a people. During August and September we focus our energies around the discussions of New Afrikan revolutionary political education, progressive actions and revolutionary history.

We as progressive revolutionary thinking men and women do not view history through the lens of the bourgeoisie, who separates history into sub-parts. Under the Eurocentric bourgeois thought and ideological thought process history is a dead relic, a souvenir or memento of past events to be waved at with fleeting thoughts with no real or concrete links to the present.

Black August Memorial/ Commemoration Month – Haki Kweli Shakur

The bourgeois power structure uses the disconnection of the past from the present as a tool or weapon of divide and conquer. The divide and conquer strategy has never been more effective than it is today: cut them off from their past, make them feel alienated, alone and separated from a collective historical past – you do that and you weaken them enormously. This moment of weakness gives our enemies great power to maneuver us into the corner of political, social, economic and cultural inaction.

But through the lens of a dialectical-materialist, we must see history as a never ending stream of past events that gave and constantly give birth to present realities. This chain of historical events is constantly moving us forward into the ocean of endless possibilities. We must use this view of a “living history” as a source of defining who we are and the direction we’re heading as a people.

A tree without roots is dead, and so is a people who is not rooted in their history. So let’s use Black August and September as months of mental reflection as we unearth and trace the glorious and bloody foot prints of our past as a people. Let this reflection galvanize us forward into a new level of political struggle and resistance.

Historical Overview

The 1960 and 70s liberation struggle and movement gave birth to New Afrikan revolutionary heroes such as Malcolm X, George Jackson, Jonathan Jackson, Huey P. Newton, Sundiata Acoli, and many, many others. Historically then as well as now, the United States judicial arm was/is used as a weapon of repression and class subjugation.

Men such as Malcolm X and George Jackson went to prison as colonial criminals. But within those prison walls the alchemy of human transformation began to take place. Inside the deep dark confines of a United States concentration KKKamp they both began to turn the cells that held them into libraries and schools of liberation. George and Malcolm both unceasingly strove to create new social relations and social realities in the world around them by and thru revolutionary transformation. They both knew to create a new world that they themselves had to be representations of this new being, this new man in word, thought, actions and deeds. So as their cells became classrooms they internalized the most advanced ideas about human development.

George Jackson stated: “I met Marx, Lenin, Trotsky, Engels and Mao…they redeemed me. For the first four years, I studied nothing but economics and military ideas. I met the Black Guerrillas, George “Big Jake’ Lewis, James Carr, W.L. Nolen, Bill Christmas, Tony Gibson, and many others. We attempted to transform the Black criminal mentality into a Black revolutionary mentality.”

George Jackson and his comrades became the living example and inspiration for organized resistance for prisoners across the country. On August 21st, 1971, George Jackson and two other New Afrikan prisoners were killed (along with three prison guards) in a gunfight inside one of California’s maximum-security prisons called San Quentin.

To many, George Jackson was the embodiment of the New Afrikan man. George was fearless, upright, daring, self-educated and intelligent with revolutionary style. He took the lead with his brains and muscles.

In response to the murder and assassination of George Jackson, prisoners in one of New York’s prisons called Attica immediately responded. On the 22nd of August 1971 some 800 prisoners went into the chow hall not saying a word as they sat with black arm bands as a tribute to George Jackson. As one set of events leads to the next, 19 days later Attica prison went up in a revolt. The September 9, 1971 prison uprising and revolt in Attica led to the colonial captives controlling parts of the prison. In an address to the Amerikkkan people the rebels stated: “We are men! We are not beasts and do not intend to be beaten or driven as such.”

On September 13th, after five days of a heavily armed siege, the NY Governor Nelson Rockefeller gave the order to the state troopers to retake the prison. The state swine opened mass fire killing 32 colonial captives and 11 prison swine who were held hostage.

So today as we reach our hands through time and space – connecting our past to our present let’s use Black August and Bloody September as a moment of reflection, study, observation and movement in the direction of striking terror in the hearts of our captures by unifying in principle and action on September 8th to the 9th. We’re calling on all colonial captives/prisoners of war and political prisoners to stand up as a collective in a work stoppage.

Our aim is to bring attention and awareness to our collective situation.

George Jackson stated: “You will find no class or category more aware, more embittered, desperate or dedicated to the ultimate remedy – revolution. The most dedicated, the best of our kind – you’ll find them in the Folsoms, San Quentins and Soledads.”


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Transform The Criminal Colonial Subject Mind into a Liberated New Afrikan Revolutionary Mind, Turning Cages into Universities, Turning Communities From Colonies to Freedom Zones GJU

Revolutionary hero Alprentice “Bunchy” Carter was the leader of the Los Angeles chapter of the Black Panther Party until his death, which was instigated, promoted, and possibly even carried out by the FBI in 1969.

Born in 1942, Carter had been exposed to crime early in life. He was the leader of a street gang called The Slausons, which belonged to the hardcore Renegade faction. He was called “Mayor of the Ghetto” by many, and served time in Soledad prison for armed robbery During his incarceration, he became radicalized, first by joining the Nation of Islam like many other Black people who found themselves captured by the criminal injustice system at that time.

After meeting Eldridge Cleaver of the Black Panther Party (BPP), Carter renounced the Nation of Islam, dedicated himself to the fight for Black liberation, and joined the Black Panthers in 1967.

In early 1968, Carter returned to his native Los Angeles and founded the soon-to-be very prominent and successful BPP-LA chapter. Later that year, the BPP-LA was admitting 50 to 100 new members a week, and a comprehensive and rigorous study of BPP literature, politics, firearms, and first-aid training was developed.

The presence of a skilled and disciplined black liberation movement in Los Angeles was unconscionable and intolerable to both the Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD) and the FBI. A campaign to undermine and ultimately destroy the BPP was launched.

Transforming The Criminal Mind – Abdul Shakur

Before I proceed, we can all concede to the fact that there is a strong probability that the Willie Lynch letter is a hoax and that there exists no credible documented evidence that Willie Lynch even existed, though some claim Frederick Douglass once made reference to Willie Lynch. So not to get in a quagmire or distracted in the debate over the validity of the Willie Lynch letter, we can all unequivocally concede that within the context of that hoax letter there exist factual descriptions of some of the methods that were actually employed by slave masters and kolonialists across the country and the world. It is these documented methods that we call the Willie Lynch System.

I choose to use the title the Willie Lynch System to facilitate the content of this message with the hope of illuminating how these methods are being applied in the 21st century. These methods are still a functional stratagem within the ideology of kapitalism, though they are often inconspicuous within society. But within the prison industrial slave-complex, the 21st century plantation, these methods are magnified tenfold and the wardens serve as the slave masters overseeing their concrete plantations.

The slave masters had developed and executed a multitude of methods designed to preserve the proliferation and longevity of the genocidal slave system, and the wardens throughout the country have implemented a number of similar methods within their government-sanctioned concrete plantations, but my focus here is to briefly illustrate a method that was designed to discourage Black prisoners from relinquishing their criminal mentality and becoming New Afrikan Revolutionaries.

During the years of genocidal slavery, the slave master would identify the most rebellious and incorrigible Black slave and whip and beat him to death in front of all the other slaves as a vivid reminder of the severe consequences for resisting the will of the slave master. The warden overseers have incorporated a similar method, but a modified application to meet the new set of circumstances and goals, and the Prison Industrial Slave Complex is one of the leading pioneers in the advancement of the Willie Lynch System and methods.

Within the scope of their operational deployment, the execution aspects are less brutal, but brutal nonetheless, and just as effective. Within the realm of the Prison Industrial Slave Complex, the warden overseer and his/her agents – e.g., Office of Correctional Safety (OCS), Institutional Gang Investigations Unit (IGI), Investigative Services Unit (ISU) – identify those New Afrikan revolutionary prisoners who they fear possess the potential to transform the Black criminal mentality into a revolutionary mentality and place them (us) in solitary confinement and then subject them to a number of torturous tactics designed to both break our will and serve as a warning to discourage Black prisoners from making that transformation.

Wardens and their gang investigators identify those New Afrikan revolutionary prisoners who they fear possess the potential to transform the Black criminal mentality into a revolutionary mentality and place them (us) in solitary confinement and then subject them to a number of torturous tactics designed to both break our will and serve as a warning to discourage Black prisoners from making that transformation.

In order for us to fully grasp the significance of the modified application of the Willie Lynch System – based on our definition of the Willie Lynch System (WLS) – in the 21st century, we must first identify its present goal(s). During the era of genocidal slavery the slave masters employed the WLS to facilitate and guarantee the continuity of Afrikan slavery. The warden-overseers’ objective is similar. Their goal is to preserve the Black criminal mentality to guarantee Black recidivism to facilitate that path from the hood to prison.

This extremely rare photo, one of several just received by the Bay View, is of the cell of Abdul’s neighbor, Todd Ashker, in the Pelican Bay SHU, taken in July 2007. Describing this picture, Todd writes: “Front view of cell D1-119. The locked tray slot is where I get my food trays, mail etc.” Not only is the cell very small, but the lights are always on and, because the front wall is perforated steel, there is no privacy whatsoever. The outside wall is uninsulated, so the cell is freezing cold in winter. Todd has lived in a Security Housing Unit (SHU) for more than 25 years, since August 1986, and in the Pelican Bay SHU nearly 22 years, since May 2, 1990.
My people, we are losing thousands of our young people annually due to Black-on-Black gang violence and thousands monthly due to mass incarceration. Our communities are like factories producing raw commodities – human commodities – to fuel the PISC. We cannot effectively abolish the PISC (Prison Industrial Slave Complex) without addressing those conditions which are conducive towards fueling the PISC, such as Black-on-Black violence.

We can resolve the epidemic of violence and criminal survival in our communities without working with the pigs, government or the Prison Industrial Slave Complex. The New Afrikan Revolutionary Prisoners understand this crisis better than anyone and the warden overseers are aware of this and this explains their oppressive campaign against our New Afrikan Revolutionary Collective nationwide. Our isolation and the censoring of our voice and political views, as well as our torture, is designed to interfere with our endeavors to transform the Black criminal mentality.

My beloved people, it is critical to our success that we as a people understand the systems that we are up against. Our plans often fail because we lack a practical comprehension of that which oppresses us. Though we can concede that the Willie Lynch letter was a hoax, no one can deny the methods that were described in that hoax letter were factual. This is well documented and we need not have to debate with any 21st century house slaves to confirm the validity of these methods.

When our New Afrikan girls identify the White doll with beauty and the Black doll with ugly, this is clearly indicative of self-hate. There exist hundreds if not thousands of living examples that can and will confirm the validity of these methods described in the Willie Lynch letter. Though we are over a hundred years removed from genocidal slavery, we are still suffering the ramifications of an enslaved and tortured people. We have yet to fully recover. Just because many of our people have succeeded – according to their individual definition of success – does not negate the psychological effects or the existence of the methods employed by the slave masters that we now choose to call the Willie Lynch System.

During the years of slavery, there were over 2,000 documented Black slave masters, but this fact does not abrogate the fact that the U.S. system of genocidal slavery was a racist-based construct, and this is still applicable today. Our success or liberation will not be determined by the Negro Kapitalist, neo-Kolonialist upper and middle class. Our success and freedom will be determined by the New Afrikan oppressed under-Klass, not by a knee-grow minority, nor shall we allow the Black Kapitalist to define our truths and realities!

Before I end this text, it would be remiss of me to neglect to make the following declaration: It is imperative that we thoroughly understand that there exists a connection between the Prison Industrial Slave Complex and the ills that inflict our communities, such as gang violence, and that we can’t abolish the PISC without resolving those ills which are destabilizing our communities. This would necessitate a concerted effort.

We must support one another tangibly

We need to get past all the unnecessary feel-good rhetoric and begin to work on a pragmatic, practical and collective agenda designed to get the job done. Our support for one another must become more tangible, beyond hollow words. For example:

1) The Bay View must become the people’s voice. We spend – i.e., waste – money buying subscriptions to magazines that only promote Kapitalism with a Black face, such as Ebony, Essence and Black Enterprise – plantation periodicals. The Bay View speaks to our culture of resistance, justice and freedom. A voice for the unheard.

I am compelled to ask, when was the last time a subscription to Ebony, Essence or XXL saved the lives of our children? When was the last time spending over $100 for a pair of Nikes stopped Black-on-Black gang violence? When was the last time a $400 weave prevented teenage pregnancy or the spread of HIV/AIDS?

I ask, why are we so eager to invest our money into those things that are of no moral or cultural value – while allowing those things, such as the Bay View, that are of great value to go unfunded? Is this not a profile of a damned slave? The Willie Lynch letter may be a hoax but the methods are more real today than they were back then. We think and act as if we’re inferior, not our true selves. We have no sense of priority as a community, but we are quick to blame racism for our failure to act responsibly.

Why are we so eager to invest our money into those things that are of no moral or cultural value – while allowing those things, such as the Bay View, that are of great value to go unfunded? The Bay View must become the heart and soul of the New Afrikan Black underclass.

The Bay View must become the heart and soul of the New Afrikan Black underclass. We must mobilize our energy and resources to guarantee its longevity and pledge our support to Willie and Mary Ratcliff and Brotha JR in their endeavors to make the Bay View the heartbeat of the people’s movement and true New Afrikan egalitarianism.

The purpose of locking up 80,000 Americans in 8- by 10-foot coffins like this (this is the bunk/office area of Todd Ashker’s cell in the Pelican Bay SHU) is to terrorize all Americans into abandoning any effort or thought of rebelling against a system so powerful and cruel it buries living human beings this way for years and decades.
As I have always, I must ask: What have your eyes seen to wish to see no more? And what have your ears heard to wish to hear no more? Can deafness and blindness be our collective desire? Can you hear beyond your own voice, or see beyond your own vision? Have we become that mentally handicapped where we have lost our natural capacity to grasp our true sense of humanity? Have we fallen that far where we are no longer able to find our true self? What have we done for you to ask no more?
2) I ask, how serious are you about resolving the Black-on-Black gang violence, recidivism? Then you must go beyond just expressing your frustration. I encourage you to tap into the people’s think tank where we are committed to solving the problems that confront our communities.

At present we are developing a revolutionary think tank completely dedicated to building strong and self-sufficient communities. We are solution-oriented beyond hollow rhetoric and revolutionary slogans. This think tank will consist of New Afrikan (Black) community activists, New Afrikan scholars and students and New Afrikan revolutionary prisoners. Together we can and will make a positive difference.

Our revolutionary think tank is known as the Bunchy Carter Institute for Revolutionary Change (BCIRC). Our present goal is to get more community activists and students involved in the BCIRC.

The solutions and proposals we develop cannot serve our community trapped in this concrete hell with us. But the Bay View will serve as that bridge. Community activists, parents, students and youth can tap into this think tank via the Bay View. This is why it is imperative for our people and community to subscribe to the Bay View.

Let’s say an activist or parent is interested in addressing the gang issue in their community. They can send their question or concerns to the Bay View and this is why it is imperative for the community to support the Bay View, the only national newspaper that provides lifesaving and life-sustaining service to the New Afrikan community.

Black August Memorial/Commemoration Explained – Haki Kweli Shakur

The solutions and proposals we develop cannot serve our community trapped in this concrete hell with us. But the Bay View will serve as that bridge. Community activists, parents, students and youth can tap into this think tank via the Bay View. This is why it is imperative for our people and community to subscribe to the Bay View, the only national newspaper that provides lifesaving and life-sustaining service to the New Afrikan community.

My people, we can’t keep living off the ancient glories of our ancestors. What form of pyramids are we going to leave behind? Our communities should become the pyramids of the 21st century and not the ruins of ancient past. As New Afrikan political prisoners and POWs and politically conscious prisoners will never capitulate to the trappings of the Willie Lynch System, but our light can and will shine much brighter if we connect as one for this common cause. I reiterate, we can’t keep blaming racism for our own failure to do what’s in our own best interest. I now bid you peace and solidarity.

The foundation of George Jackson University which is ” Transforming the Criminal Mentality into a Revolutionary Mentality” Throughout Ourstory there have been many brothers as well as SiStars whom transformed themselves from a Criminal to a New Man/Woman with knowledge of self and a progressive mind . ….e.g. Malcolm X; George Jackson; Bunchy Carter; James Carr; General Kumasi; Sanyika Shakur; Assata Shakur; Sekou Odinga; Eldridge Cleaver; Lumumba Shakur; Larry Hoover, Jeff Fort, Mutope Duguma and many more, They set examples for the people to show us that we can change from the conditioned mind of doing the work of the oppressor to the revolutionary mind thinking for himself or herself doing the work of the people .

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#BlackAugust James ” Doc ” Holiday 1985 L.A. Times Article Propaganda of CIA Controlled Media


Black Prison Gang Moves In on Cocaine Trade

Southern California law enforcement officials have become increasingly concerned about the growing presence of the Black Guerrilla Family prison gang on the streets of South-Central and Southeast Los Angeles.

At least two murders have been linked to an organized attempt by the gang to move in on the lucrative cocaine trade in the Watts area’s housing projects, where some residents fear that recently paroled prison gang members are trying to establish a foothold.

Alarmed by the violence–and by widespread rumors that Black Guerrilla Family members are stockpiling weapons–state Board of Prison Terms members met with Los Angeles police detectives last month to discuss what actions the board can take to thwart the gang’s activities outside the prison walls.

“They are apparently learning that controlling cell blocks is not nearly as much fun as controlling blocks in the city,” said Bob Carter, a former Los Angeles police lieutenant who is now a member of the Board of Prison Terms and the organizer of the meeting. “They are doing everything they can to lay low in the prison and get involved in the action back on the outside.”

The Black Guerrilla Family, estimated to number about 400 members within California prisons and about 200 on the streets of Los Angeles, was formed in the late 1960s and early ‘70s at a time when white and Latino prisoners were also organizing into gangs.

Black Guerrilla Family members were initially characterized by prison officials as having tight internal discipline and a left-wing political ideology which held that blacks were essentially political prisoners.

Black August Memorial/Commemoration Month Explained Haki Kweli Shakur

Political Beginnings

Authorities said the group, which had ties to the Black Panther Party and Symbionese Liberation Army in the mid-1970s, once had a political strategy that included plans to kidnap Department of Corrections officials. In addition, the group was believed to have developed an intelligence network that tracked the movements of police officers throughout the state.


But as the group evolved, a faction made up primarily of prisoners from Southern California became more concerned with organizing around street crime instead of revolutionary politics.

A group of suspected Black Guerrilla Family members once thrived in the Pasadena area, but that contingent has diminished since the 1979 arrest of James H. (Doc) Holiday in connection with a drug-related double homicide in Pacoima. Holiday’s first trial ended in a hung jury. He is still in Los Angeles County jail awaiting a second trial.

Police and parole officials, who have long kept close tabs on suspected Black Guerrilla Family members released from prison, again grew nervous about the organization’s street activities last March when two murders at the Nickerson Gardens housing project allegedly resulted from Black Guerrilla Family attempts to establish itself in the area’s drug-trafficking market.

Three Nickerson Gardens residents recently paroled from state prison were arrested on April 4 for the murders of Elbert Robinson, 25, and Earl Hanzy, 26, at the project. Taken into custody were Michael Dorrough, 31, described by police as an admitted Black Guerrilla Family member, and two associates, Andre Mathews, 30, and Herman Coleman, 29. All three suspects are awaiting trial in Compton Superior Court.

One source in the city Housing Authority, which runs the project, said that despite the arrests, it is a common belief among residents in Nickerson Gardens that the Black Guerrilla Family is still behind much of the drug trafficking in the sprawling housing complex.

“The LAPD has caught some of them, but they (the Black Guerrilla Family) are here, and they have their activities going on,” said the source, who asked that his name not be revealed.

One project resident, who also asked that her name not be printed in fear that she might be harmed, said she was paid $300 a week to allow the prison gang’s operatives to sell rock cocaine from her Nickerson Gardens apartment.

“They pay very well, as long as they’re making money themselves,” the woman said. “They were bringing in three grand ($3,000) a night at my place.”


The woman said Black Guerrilla Family members do not hesitate to use violence against individuals they suspect of crossing them in drug deals or cooperating with the police.

“They’ll smile in your face and kill you with a grin,” she said. “They’ll kill you like nothing.”

Shortly after the arrests of Dorrough, Mathews and Coleman, the Board of Prison Terms called for the meeting with Los Angeles Police Department detectives specializing in prison gang activities to discuss suspected gang crimes here and in Oakland, where the organization is also believed to be involved in drug trafficking and related violence.

Back Into Action

“We are receiving reports that BGF members are going back into their communities, particularly in Los Angeles, and becoming involved in street crime and engaging in disagreements with local community gangs over territory and control of illegal activities in those areas,” said Bill Elliott, executive director of the Board of Prison Terms.

“In reviewing these reports, you get a good idea that there is some significant activity going on out there,” he added.

Detective Jim Vuchsas of the Police Department’s prison gangs unit estimated that about 200 suspected Black Guerrilla Family members are living in Los Angeles. That figure represents an increase of about 50, or 33%, from a year ago. Vuchsas attributed the increase to the number of parolees released from state prison in the past year.

The gang’s influence, however, extends far beyond its actual numbers, according to law enforcement sources. They said the Black Guerrilla Family has been making contact with the estimated 1,500 black street gang members from Los Angeles inside the prison system and successfully recruiting the younger ones to sell drugs and engage in other crimes for the gang when they are released.


Pattern Developing

Detective Bob Nelson, another Los Angeles police prison gang investigator who attended last month’s parole board meeting, said the gang’s involvement in drug trafficking and violence on the city’s Southside is “a pattern that’s been developing over the last year.”

Moreover, some suspected members “seem to be very active in obtaining sawed-off shotguns and assault-type rifles,” Nelson said, adding that he has received numerous tips that gang members are stockpiling weapons.

None of those leads have been substantiated, “but we keep hearing information about it,” Nelson said. “It’s rumored they have an armory.”

Received Same Information

Dan Mariani, supervisor of the Department of Corrections’ parole office in Huntington Park, which handles ex-convicts living in Watts and the surrounding Southeast Los Angeles area, said his office has received the same information about Black Guerrilla Family weapons caches.

Mariani said that if the rumors are true, it could mean that the group is preparing for a battle with competing drug gangs that are already entrenched in the South-Central area.

“It that happens, all hell would break loose,” Mariani said.


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Can’t Stop Won’t Stop April 1993 Esquire Classic Sanyika Shakur aka Monster Kody




Before he became the merciless enforcer for one of South-Central’s most notorious gangs, before they called him Monster and his name became legend on the street, Kody Scott was just a bluff sixth grader looking to get some respect. The humble, bloody beginnings of a Crip warlord.


The Blood made a last dash from the car to the porch. I raised my weapon and he looked back—for a split second we communicated on another level—then I laid him down.

I was left with just myself and the awesome flashes of light that lit up my mind to reveal bodies in grotesque shapes, twisting and bending in arcs that defied bone structure.

Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop




Sanyika Shakur

aka Monster Kody

The war has been raging on for twenty-two years. The death toll is in the thousands—the wounded, uncountable; the missing in action, unthinkable. No one is keeping a tally. It’s been hidden from America like an ugly scar across the belly of a beautiful woman.


I PROUDLY STRODE across the waxed hardwood stage of the auditorium at the Fifty-fourth Street school under the beaming stares of my mother, aunt, and Uncle Clarence. Taking my assigned place next to Joe Johnson, I felt different—older, more “attached” than any of my fellow classmates. This feeling made me stand more erect, made me seem more important than any of my peers onstage—even Joe Johnson, who was “king of the school.” It’s quite amusing to rerun the day of my sixth-grade graduation, June 15, 1975, over in my mind and remember vividly how proud I was and how superior I felt next to Joe Johnson. I had first sensed my radical departure from childhood when I was suspended a month before this day, driven home by Mr. Smotherman, the principal, and not allowed to go on the grad-class outing because I had flashed a gang sign on the school panorama picture.

Mr. Smotherman was appalled and accused me of destroying a totally good picture, not to mention that I was, he said, “starting to show signs of moral decay.” Actually, half of the things Mr. Smotherman told me I didn’t catch because I wasn’t listening, and besides, my mind had been made up weeks earlier. How I expected to get away with flashing on a photograph is beyond me! But it points up my serious intent even then, at age eleven. For I was completely sold on becoming a gang member.

Shakur’s memoirs, Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop, will be published by Atlantic Monthly Press.

As our graduation activities wore on, my disinterest and my annoyance at its silliness escalated. I was eager to get home to the ’hood and meet my moral obligation to a new set of friends who made Joe Johnson look weak. After the seemingly yearlong ceremonies, my mom, aunt, and Uncle Clarence congratulated me with lunch at Bob’s Big Boy. While returning home I sat transfixed at the side window, looking out at the streets but not seeing anything in particular, just wishing Uncle Clarence would drive faster.

Tonight was to be my initiation, and I didn’t want to miss out on any activities that would occur during my first night on duty. Bending the corner to our block in my uncle’s Monte Carlo, I sank down into the backseat to avoid being seen in my white knit suit and tie. Peeping to make sure the coast was clear, I bolted past Moms into the house, down the hall, and into my room for a quick change.

Sanyika Shakur Monster Kody Beyond The Hate

“What’s your damn problem, boy?” bellowed Moms from the hallway. “I know you don’t think you going out anywhere until you have cleaned up that funky room, taken out this trash, and …”

I never heard the rest. I was out the window, steaming toward my destiny and the only thing in this life that has ever held my attention for any serious length of time—the streets. Stopping around the block to collect my coolness,

I met up with Tray Ball, who had accepted my membership and agreed to sponsor me.

“What’s up, Cuz?” Tray Ball extended his very dark, muscular, veined hand.

“Ain’t nothin’,” I responded, trying to hide my utter admiration for this cat, who was quickly becoming a Ghetto Star. (A Ghetto Star is a neighborhood celebrity known for gangbanging, drug dealing, et cetera.) “So what’s up for tonight, am I still on or what?”

“Yeah, you on.”

As we walked to the shack in silence, I took full advan■ tage of the stares we were getting from onlookers who couldn’t seem to make the connection between me and Tray Ball, the neighborhood hoodlum. I took their stares as signs of recognition and respect. At the shack, which was behind Tray Ball’s house, I met Huckabuck, who was dark, athletic, very physical, and an awesome fighter. He came to Cali from New York—accent included. For the most part he was quiet. Leprechaun, whom we called Lep, was there. I had known him previously, as he went to school with my older brother. Lep had a missing front tooth and a slight build. Fiercely loyal to Tray Ball, Lep stood to be second in command. Then there was Fly, who dressed cool and with an air of style. Light-complected and handsome, he was a ladies’ man and not necessarily vicious, but he was gaining a reputation by the company he kept. Next was GC, which stood for Gangster Cool. GC was possibly the most well-off member

The Blood made a last dash from the car to the porch. I raised my weapon and he looked back—for a split second we communicated on another level—then I laid him down.

present, meaning he “had things.” Things our parents could not afford to give us. He gangbanged in Stacy Adam shoes.

“What’s your name, homeboy?” Huckabuck asked through a cloud of marijuana smoke from across the room.

“Kody, my name is Kody.”

“Kody? There’s already somebody named Kody from the nineties.”

I already knew this from hearing his name. “Yeah, but my real name is Kody; my mother named me that.”

Everyone looked at me hard and I squirmed under their stares, but I held my ground. To flinch now would possibly mean expulsion.

“What?” Huck said with disbelief. “Your mother named you Kody?”

“Yeah, no shit,” I replied.

“Righteous, fuck it, then we’ll back you. But you gotta put work in [“put work in” means a military mission] to hold

it, ’cause that’s a helluva name.” GC, who was dressed like a gas-station attendant in blue khakis with a matching shirt, and I started out to steal a car. All eyes were on me tonight, but I felt no nervousness and there was no hesitation in any of my actions. This was my rite of passage to manhood, and I took each order as seriously as any African would in an initiation ritual to pass from childhood to manhood.

Sanyika Shakur aka Monster Kody Transformation, New Afrikan Independence Movement, Political Prisoners of War

GC was the expert car thief among the set. He learned his technique from Marilyn, our older homegirl, who kept at least two stolen cars on hand a week. Tonight we were out to get an ordinary car, possibly a ’65 Mustang or ’68 Cougar that could be hot-wired from the engine with as little as a clothes hanger touched on the alternator and then the battery.

We found a Mustang—blue and very sturdy. GC worked to get the hood up, and I kept point with a .38 revolver. I was instructed to fire upon any light in the house and anyone attempting to stop us from getting this car. I was quite prepared to empty six rounds into any house or at any person. Actually, I had fired a real gun only once, and that was into the air.

Under the cloak of darkness I heard GC grunt once and then lift the hood. It took him longer to lift the hood than to start the car. The engine turned once, then twice, and finally it caught and roared to life.

“It’s on,” GC said with as much pride as any brand-new father looking at his newborn child for the first time. We slapped hands and jumped in. Pulling out of the driveway, I noticed a light turn on. I reached for the door handle with every intent to shoot into the house, but GC grabbed my arm and said, “Don’t sweat it, we got the car now.”

On the way back to the shack I practiced my mad-dog stares at occupants of cars beside us at stoplights. I guess I wasn’t too convincing because on more than a few occasions I was laughed at, and I also got a couple of smiles in return. This was definitely an area to be worked on.

At the shack we smoked pot and drank beer and geared up for the mission—which still had not been disclosed to me. But I was confident in my ability to pull it off. I have never, ever felt as secure as I did then in the presence of these cats, who were growing fonder of me, it seemed, with each successive level of drunkenness they reached.

“Cuz, you gonna be down, watch,” Lep announced as if speaking to a son in law school. He stood over me and continued. “I remember your li’l ass used to ride dirt bikes and skateboards, actin’ crazy an’ shit. Now you want to be a gangster, huh? You wanna hang with real muthafuckas and tear shit up, huh?”

His tone was probing but approving.

“Get your li’l ass up. How old is you now, anyway?”

“Eleven, but I’ll be twelve in November.” Damn, I’d never thought about being too young.

I stood up in front of Lep and never saw Huck’s blow to my head. Bam! And I was on all fours, struggling for equilibrium. Kicked in the stomach, I was on my back. Grabbed by the collar, I was made to stand again. A solid blow to my chest. Bam! Another, then another. Blows rained on me from every direction. I felt perfect solidarity with a pinball. I knew now that if I went down again, I’d be kicked. And from the way that last boot felt, I was almost certain that GC had kicked me with his pointed Stacy Adams.

Up to this point not a word had been spoken. I had heard about being courted in (“courted in” means to be accepted through a barrage of tests, usually physical, though it can include shooting people) or jumped in, but somehow in my still-childish mind I had envisioned it to be a noble gathering, paper work and arguments about my worth and ability in regard to valor. In the heat of desperation I struck out, hitting Fly full in the chest and knocking him back. Then I just started swinging with no style or finesse, just anger and the instinct to survive.

Of course this did little to help my situation, but it showed the others that I had a will to live. And this in turn reflected well on my ability to represent the set in hand-tohand combat. The blows stopped abruptly and breathing filled the air. My ear was bleeding, and my neck and face were deep red, but I was still standing. Actually, when I think about it now, I realize that it wasn’t necessarily my strength that kept me on my feet but the ways in which I was hit. Before I could sag or slump, I was hit and lifted back up.

Tray Ball came in and immediately recognized what had taken place. Looking hard at me, then at the others, he said, “It’s time to handle this shit, they out there.”

In a flash Lep was under the couch retrieving weapons— guns I never knew were there. Two .12-gauge shotguns, both sawed off—one a pump-action, the other a single-shot; a 4-10 shotgun, also single-shot, and a .44 Magnum that had no trigger guard and broke open to load.

“Give Kody the pump.” Tray Ball’s voice echoed over the clanging of steel chambers opening and closing, cylinders turning, and the low hum of music in the background. “Check this out.” Tray Ball spoke with the calm of a football coach. “Kody, you got eight shots; you don’t come back to the car unless they all are gone.”

“Righteous,” I said, eager to show my worth.

“These fools have been hangin’ out for four days now. Hittin’ people up [“hittin’ people up” means asking where they’re from—i.e., which gang are they down with], flaggin’ and disrespectin’ every Crip in the world.”

I sat straight-backed and hung on Tray Ball’s every word.

“Tonight we gonna rock they world.”

Hand slaps were passed around the room, and then Lep spoke up. “If anybody get caught for this, ride the beef, ’cause ain’t no snitchin’ here.”

We piled into the Mustang, Tray Ball driving—and without a gun. Lep sat next to Tray Ball with the old, ugly .44. Huck, directly behind Lep, held the 4-10 between his legs. Fly, next to him, had the single-shot .12-gauge. I sat next to him with the pump, and GC was on my left with his .38. In silence we drove block after block, north into enemy territory.

“There they go!” Lep said, spotting a gathering of about fifteen people. “Damn, they deep too—look at them fools!”

I looked at my enemy and remember thinking, Tonight is the night, and I’ll never stop until I’ve killed them all.

Driving down another block, we stopped and got out. Each checking his weapon (mine being the most complicated), we started out on foot, creeping up stealthily. Tray Ball sat idle in the car and was to meet us halfway after we had worked over the enemy. Hanging close to buildings, houses, and bushes, we made our way, one after another, to within spitting distance of the Bloods.

Huck and Fly stepped from the shadows simultaneously and were never noticed until it was too late. Boom! Boom! Heavy bodies hitting the ground, confusion, yells of dismay, running, and then the second wave of gunfire. By my sixth shot I had advanced past the first fallen bodies and into the street in pursuit of those hiding behind cars and trees.

One Blood who had seemingly gotten away tried to make one last dash from the safe area of a car to, I think, a porch. I remember raising my weapon and him looking back—for a split second it was as if we communicated on another level and I understood who he was—then I pulled the trigger and laid him down. With one shot left I jogged back to the initial site of contact. Knowing fully that I had explicit orders not to return with any rounds in my weapon, I turned and fired on the house in front of which they had originally stood. Not twenty paces later, Tray Ball sped to a stop and we all piled in, frightfully amped from the climax of battle.

Back in the shack we smoked more pot and drank more beer. I was the center of attention for my acts of aggression.

“Man, did you see this little muthafucka out there?” Fly said to Huck with an air of disbelief.

“Yeah, I saw him. I knew he was gonna be down, I knew it and as—”

“Shut up, man, just shut the fuck up, ’cause he can still tell on all of us.” Silence rang heavy in my ears, and I knew I had to respond to Lep’s reaction.

“If I get caught, I’ll ride the beef. I ain’t no snitch.”

Although my little statement lessened the tension, Lep’s words had a most sobering effect. Tray Ball announced my full membership, and congratulations were given from all. It was the proudest moment in my life up until that time. Tray Ball told me to stay after the others had left. I milled around, still high from battle.

Sanyika Shakur aka Monster Kody Freestyle Flow

“Check this out,” Tray Ball said. “You got potential, ’cause you eager to learn. Bangin’ ain’t no part-time thang—it’s fulltime, it’s a career. It’s bein’ down when ain’t nobody else down with you. It’s gettin’ caught and not tellin’. Killin’ and not carin’, and dyin’ without fear. It’s love for your set and hate for the enemy. You hear what I’m sayin’?”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” I said. And I had heard him and never forgot nothing he said from that point on.

Tray Ball became my mentor, friend, confidant, and closest comrade. He allowed me to engage in acts of aggression that made my name soar—with alarming effects.

The seriousness of what I had done that evening did not dawn on me until I was alone at home that night. My heart had slowed to its normal pace and the alcohol and pot had worn off. I was left then with just myself and the awesome flashes of light that lit up my mind to reveal bodies in grotesque shapes, twisting and bending in arcs that defied bone structure. The actual impact was on my return back past the bodies of the first fallen, my first real look at bodies tom to shreds. It did little to me then, because it was all about survival. But as I lay wide awake in my bed, safe, alive,

I felt guilty and ashamed of myself. Upon further contemplation, I felt that they were too easy to kill. Why had they been out there?

I tried every conceivable alibi within the realm of reason to justify my actions. There was none. I slept very little that night.

I’ve never told anyone of these feelings before.

In the neighborhood, respect was forthcoming. In 1977, when I was thirteen, I turned my head while robbing a man and was hit in the face. The man then tried to run but was tripped by Tray Ball, who then held him for me. I stomped him for twenty minutes before leaving him unconscious in an alley. Later that night I learned that the man had lapsed into a coma and was disfigured from my stomping.

The police told bystanders that the person responsible for this was “a monster.” The name stuck, and I took it as a moniker.

As Monster, I consistently had to be more vicious to live up to the name. Tray Ball was there for me at every level, but he was at least four years older.

Still, we could relate. In 1978, he was captured for knocking a guy out in front of the police, who were questioning the guy about being robbed. I was left with Fly, Lep, Huck, and GC, who lost their will to “get busy” when Tray Ball was locked up. So I went in search of a road dog (i.e., “best friend”).

I had been seeing the name Crazy Dee written on walls for some time and had a pretty good idea who he was. While walking up the alley one day, I ran into Crazy Dee. We formally introduced ourselves, and I asked him if he wanted to kick it with us. Although he was already from the set, he kicked it with other people. A jovial cat of my age with happy eyes and a Hollywood smile, Dee became my road dog.

From this point on, Dee and I were inseparable. The set was still relatively small; everyone knew one another. (When I say “small” here, I mean approximately seventy-five to eighty people; that’s a small set. Today it’s not unusual for sets to be one thousand deep.) Though there were various sides and sections, we all met up at meetings in our park, though this usually occurred only when someone had been killed or some serious infraction had been committed. I continued to see and associate with GC, Lep, and the others, but it wasn’t the same with Tray Ball missing. He was the glue that bound us.

I had escalated from “little homie” to “homie” and was putting in much work and dropping many bodies. In fact, some shied away from me because I took things “too serious.” But Crazy Dee understood me and my thirst for reputation—the purpose of all gang members. I had learned that

I was left with just myself and the awesome flashes of light that lit up my mind to reveal bodies in grotesque shapes, twisting and bending in arcs that defied bone structure.

there were three stages to go through before the title OG— Original Gangster—applied righteously:

1) You must build the reputation of your name.

2) You must build your name in association with your set so that when your name is spoken, your set is also spoken of in the same breath, for they are synonymous.

3) You must establish yourself as a promoter of Crip or Blood, depending on which side of the color bar you live on.

In ’78 I was fourteen and still working on the first stage. But I had as much ambition, vitality, and ruthlessness to succeed as did any corporate executive planning a hostile takeover; a merger, needless to say, was always out of the question. Gangbanging in the ’70s was totally different from what’s going on today. The gang community on both sides was relatively small, contained in certain areas, and sustained by a few who kept the faith.

By now, of course, I had acquired my own weapon—a blue steel .44 Bulldog. It was small and fit into my pocket. I kept it on me at all times.

My little brother and his friend Frank were eating chili dogs at Art’s one afternoon when Frank’s chili-dog wrapper blew to the ground. Eric, who had been hired by Art not just as a cook but as a watchdog, was a hothead and needed little provoking to act a complete fool. He told my brother to pick up the paper. When my brother explained that it was not his paper, Eric became angry and collared him and ripped his shirt. Upset and confused, my little brother went home and got my mother, older brother, and sister.

I was out on a ten-speed, patrolling the ’hood with, of course, my .44. I was sitting on the corner across from Art’s when I saw my mother’s car with everyone in it pull to a stop at the light. Here I was, waiting for some action and it pulled right up—fate, I guess. My older brother signaled for me, so I followed them on over to Art’s. No one knew I was strapped. As I rode up, my older brother was standing there arguing with Eric. My brother hit Eric in the face and they began to fight. I immediately dismounted and rushed up on Eric’s flank to get a hit in, but he was swift and struck me in the ear, knocking me backward. All the while my mother was frantically shouting for us to stop, stop the fighting. Mad now, and insulted, I drew my weapon, aimed, and pulled the trigger. Click.

Damn, I remember thinking, I only got three bullets, and I didn’t know where in the cylinder they were! The click stopped everything—and then everybody seemed to move at once. Eric ran toward the chili stand, and my brother rushed toward me. Before I could aim and fire, my brother and I were wrestling over the gun.

“Give me the gun, I’ll shoot him,” my brother exclaimed.

The gun was now pointing at my mother’s chest. Click.

My mother jumped. I was momentarily paralyzed with fright. I let go of the gun and my brother turned and fired into the chili stand. Boom! The .44 sounded like a cannon.

Click. Another empty chamber.

[continued on page 137]

[continued from page 91] Eric by now had retrieved his shotgun and was on his way out after us. Seeing him coming, both my brother and I turned and ran. We had barely turned the first corner when the report from the shotgun echoed behind us. He chased us through several yards, firing and tearing up people’s property. He fired a total of eight times, but we escaped unscathed—except for our pride. My mother, sister, and little brother also escaped unharmed, though in great fear for us because they didn’t know our fate.

After meeting back at home, my mother wanted to send us all out to my uncle’s house in West Covina. We protested and stayed. The next morning, however, while standing at the bus stop waiting to go to school, Eric pulled up and mad-dogged me. “What you lookin’ at, punk?” he shouted.

“You muthafucka!” I responded, though scared because he may have had a gun and I couldn’t get mine out of the house; after the episode the day before, Moms was searching me. There were three young ladies standing there as well, so my pride and integrity were also involved, not to mention my reputation. I had to stand my ground.

Eric leaped from the car, circled from the front, walked up, and hit me in the mouth—bam! I faltered and became indecisive. But in an instant I knew I needed an equalizer, because he lifted his shirt to reveal the butt of a pistol in his waistband. I turned and bolted. Running at top speed with tears streaming down my face, I made my way back home, went right in, got my gun, and trotted back to the bus stop. I was hoping the bus hadn’t come, because I wanted the three girls who saw me get hit to watch me kill him.

Art’s chili-dog stand has been on Florence and Normandie since the Forties, and up till that time it still had its original decor—open and primarily wood, with big windows facing out onto Florence Avenue. The bus stop was across Florence on Normandie. Turning the corner on Seventy-first at a steady trot, I was relieved to find the three girls still there, almost as if they were waiting for me. Passing them up, I heard one say to the other, “That boy is crazy!”

Taking no chances this time, I had six rounds and stood in the street in front of Art’s. Traffic was moderate, so I waited for the light to turn red. Once I

saw that I could safely break back across Florence and then to a backyard, I opened fire on Art’s. Boom! Boom! Loud echoes of baritone cracked the morning stillness as chunks of wood and shreds of glass flew off Art’s with magical quickness. Cordite filled my nostrils and revenge filled my heart. Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! I emptied six shots into the tiny dwelling, hoping to kill Eric, who had just opened up for business.

No such luck. I was captured the next day and given sixty days in juvenile hall but actually only served nineteen due to overcrowding. Once I was out, my reputation was stronger than ever. Even Eric gave me my due, if grudgingly.

THE WEEK AFTER my release, Dee, myself, and Stone and Snoopy, of the Rollin’ Sixties Crips (later the Sixties and my set—the Eight Trays— would become mortal enemies), were on our way to Rosecrans Skating Rink, which was where everybody who was somebody in the gang world went. Walking up Manchester Avenue, we passed Pearl’s Gym and the Best Yet hair salon. Still within the boundaries of my set, we came to a halt at the corner of Manchester and Gramercy Place, waiting for the light to change so we could trek onto Van Ness, where our bus was to depart. We heard two reports from what sounded like a .38. The sound came from the direction of Duke’s hamburger stand. Duke’s had recently become contested territory, as the Inglewood Family Bloods had begun to frequent it in hopes of establishing it as theirs.

As our attention turned to the sound, we saw Fly and Trace breaking out of Duke’s and coming toward us across the street. Trace appeared to have a big, long-barrel .38 revolver in his left hand. Running past us, one of them exclaimed, “Y’all bail, we just busted on some Families!”

We hadn’t done anything, so we kept on our way. Not a minute later, a white Camaro came screeching out of Duke’s parking lot. ‘There they go,” we heard an almost hysterical voice yell from the car. A second car, a huge orange Chrysler, came barreling out of the parking lot on the bumper of the Camaro, which was now coming directly at us. We scattered.

Dee and I darted right into an adjacent alley behind Best Yet, and I don’t know where Stone and Snoopy went. The chase was on. Hopping a fence in

the alley, Dee and I hid ourselves in the back of Pearl’s Gym. The Camaro and the Chrysler roared up and down the alley as we lay in dense shrubbery. I hoped the Blood who had been shot would die.

There were no Crip-on-Crip wars raging in these times. The worst enemies were Crip and Blood sets. Today Crips are the number-one killers of Crips. In fact, Crips have killed more Crips in the past twelve years than the Bloods have killed in the entire twenty-two-year conflict. And sets in the Crip and Blood communities have increased twentyfold—now there is literally a gang on every street. There are the huge conglomerate sets spanning hundreds of city blocks, extending into other cities and counties. It’s not at all unusual for one of these huge conglomerates to be policed by five separate divisions of the L.A.P.D. and the sheriffs department.

After an hour or so we emerged from hiding and walked east. Stopping at Western Avenue and Manchester, we found Snoopy and Stone. We devised a new strategy, as we were well aware that the Families were now out en masse looking for revenge. Just then the orange Chrysler hit the corner off Eighty-fifth Street packed with Bloods. We had two choices: run into the street and try to make it across Western and farther into the interior of our ’hood and possible safety or run into the surplus store behind us and hope they wouldn’t follow us into such a big civilian crowd. Quickly we chose the second option.

Dee broke first, with me, Snoopy, and Stone heavy on his heels. Looking back, I immediately understood that we had made a terrible decision, for the Bloods were bailing out of the huge Chrysler like beans from a bag and chasing us straight up into the store! I remember taking one last look back after I had jumped the turnstile, and I knew then that we were trapped.

The surplus kept a huge green trash can by the door that was full of ax handles of heavy oakwood; each Blood grabbed one as he entered. Alarmed and not knowing if this was a gang raid on his store, the manager locked the door once the last Blood had come in. I thought we’d be beaten to death.

Snoopy and Stone went one way, and Dee and I went another. I followed Dee up some stairs that led to an attic supply room and further entrapment. Four Bloods followed us up, swearing to kill us. One guy was shouting about the victim being his brother. Damn, how in the hell had we gotten into this?

Running up into the small attic area, I seriously thought about death for the first time in my life, and for the slightest second I wanted to turn and tell the Bloods, “Hey, all right, I quit. Pm only fourteen, can’t we talk?” Diplomacy was as foreign as Chinese to us all, but it’s a trip that when you’re under pressure, clear thoughts seem to abound.

Stopping and crouching—they had momentarily lost my tail among the rows and aisles of stocked clothing—I heard Dee trying to explain that they had made a mistake. “Hold it, man, it wasn’t us.” Dee’s voice resounded in a cracking tone of sincerity and terror.

“You a muthafuckin’ lie, we saw you, blood!”

Crack! “Ahh!” Crack! “All right, man, all…” Crack! “Ahh!”

Terrified, I crouched lower and closed my eyes, hoping they wouldn’t kill Dee, who was now on the ground and silent. But the beating continued. I felt completely helpless.

“Here go another one!” Crack! Across the top of my head the heavy ax handle came down. Swoosh! A miss, and in an instant I was on my feet. Crack! One to the back, as I tried to get past another Blood in the semidarkness.

“Wait, wait!”

“Fuck that shit, fool, you didn’t wait when you shot Mike!” Crack! “Ohh.” Crack! “Ahh …” Blackness.

When I came to I was on my stomach, handcuffed. Next to me was Dee. Both of us were bloody and swollen. Craning my neck to the left, I saw Snoopy and Stone. They, too, looked whipped and soiled.

“Which one of you did the shootin’?” a police asked from somewhere behind me.

“Him, the one in the blue overalls and sweat jacket.”

That was me! “What?” I managed to say through fog and loose teeth. “Who, me?”

“Yeah, you, you little crab-ass punk!” (“Crab” is a disrespectful term used by Bloods against Crips—defacing the enemy.)

For the first time, I noticed her—a girl. Looking up, I brought her into focus. Never seen her in my life.

“You a lie, bitch …” I blurted out, and was abruptly cut short by a

police boot on the back of my neck.

“Shut up, asshole. Are you sure this is the shooter, ma’am?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m sure, officer.”

I was transported to the Seventyseventh Division and booked for attempted murder. Now I was hoping Mike, the Blood, wouldn’t die. I was the only one who had been arrested. At the station I was asked a series of questions of which I answered none. I was taken to Los Padrinos Juvenile Hall to await court, no doubt facing a term for the attempted murder, which I hadn’t even committed. The strict code of the street held me, though, and I didn’t say a word to anyone about who had really shot the Blood.

I went to trial three months later. The gang turnout was surprising. Along with my family, at least fifteen of my homeboys came. All were in full gear (“gear” is gang clothes, colors and hats— actually uniforms). On the other side, the Bloods came in force in full gear. Tension ran thick through the courtroom as stares of hate were passed back and forth.

After the first day I was told that a shoving and shouting match took place in the hallway outside the courtroom. My homeboys had to serve as bodyguards for my family. On my next court date, I was released into the custody of my mother, pending trial proceedings.

The atmosphere was tight with rage. I couldn’t believe how personal these Bloods were taking this. After all, their homie had been shot “legally”—that is, within the known guidelines of gang warfare. He had been fired on in a contested free-fire zone. We had gotten numerous reports of Blood sightings and he just happened to be the first caught.

And now here they were, taking the war off the streets and into the courtroom, where neither of us had the experience to win. Blood after Blood testified to my shooting of their homeboy Mike. The final witness was the victim himself. Thin and wearing cornrowed braids, he would seal my fate with his testimony. After the prosecutor asked Mike to convey the events of that day, he asked if he saw the person in court who had shot him. Silence. And then . . .

“No, he ain’t the one who shot me.” “What?” The D.A. couldn’t believe his ears.

Murmurs filled the court as his homies whispered their disbelief at his honesty. Snickers and taunts came from our side. I sat still and just looked at

Mike, who stared back without a semblance of hate but with a sort of remorse for having put me through this.

The judge’s gavel struck wood. “Case dismissed.”

I stood, still looking at Mike, who was dismounting the witness stand.

“Tell Trace,” Mike whispered as he passed me, “that I’ll see him at another time.”

I said nothing, and fell into step with my crew. That night I led an initiation party into Family ’hood and dropped two bodies. No one was captured.

MY RELATIONSHIP with my mother continued to sour as I was drawn deeper and deeper into the streets and further away from home and school. My sixth-grade graduation had been my first and last. Actually, it was the last time I ever seriously attended school for academic purposes. My homeboys became my family; the older ones were father figures. They congratulated me each time I shot someone, each time I recruited a combat soldier, each time I put another gun on the set. When I went home I was cursed for not emptying the trash. Trash? Didn’t Moms understand who I was?

Dee and I continued to campaign hard, but we couldn’t transcend that first stage of reputation. On February 14,1979, when I was fifteen, I was captured for assault and auto theft. I took a car from a man by striking him over the head. Too drunk to drive, I hit every car on the block in my attempt to flee the area. The last and final car I struck was a Cadillac. The bumpers must have got caught, because the car I was in would not go into reverse. As I left the vehicle, I was surprised to find practically the whole block chasing me. Actually, it turned out to be just the owners of the cars I had hit. They had sticks and baseball bats and were running together in a tight group. But as I accelerated, their group dwindled to two.

Both men were quite intent on catching me. I continued to run, however, at top speed. Falling farther and farther behind, I heard them cursing and swearing to kill me. I struggled on. Rounding the corner on my block, I was elated to see that my pursuers were at least four houses behind. I darted down the drive of our next-door neighbor and hopped the fence into our backyard. I then staggered heavily into the house and literally collapsed on my mother’s bed. Pulling myself up, I began to discard my clothing, pulling on fresh pants, socks, and sneakers. I deliberately omitted a shirt to look as at-home as possible.

Not ten minutes later, I heard the police helicopter hovering above my house. It felt good at least to know that my mother was, as usual, at work. Five minutes after I heard the first hum of the helicopter, I heard voices coming from the front room. I quickly hid in my mother’s closet, but to no avail. I was violently pulled from the closet and promptly arrested. I later found out that it was a crazy cat named Theapolis who had snitched me off to my pursuers, who in turn had summoned the police.

During the trial on assault and grand-theft-auto charges, my sister, Rendis, tried to save me from a jail term but was not convincing enough against the thirteen witnesses who had originally given chase. I was convicted and sentenced to nine months in Camp Munz. (Camp is the third in a series of tests to register one’s ability. The streets, of course, being the first; juvenile hall being the second. With each successive level—the Hall, Camp, Youth Authority, Prison—comes longer, harder time.)

Nine months later I was released from Camp Munz and dropped off in the initial stages of a war that would forever change the politics of Cripping and the internal gang relations in SotithCentral. Although my camp term lent prestige to my name, it did little to help me break through to the second level of recognition. Crazy Dee, I learned, was not yet out, so I just did “odd jobs”—i.e., wrote on walls, advertised, collected guns, and maintained visibility.

It was during my stay in camp that my younger brother chose to follow me into banging and allied himself with the Eight Trays. It was ’79, the year of the Li’ls, the year of the third generation of Eight Tray gangsters. All those who were of the second resurrection—beginning in 1975 and ending in 1977—acquired little homies bearing their names. For example, there was Li’l Monster, Li’l Crazy Dee, Li’l Spike, et cetera. The set doubled within a nine-month period.

Meanwhile, the war between us and the Rollin’ Sixties was beginning to heat up. The first casualty was on their side. Tyrone, the brother of an OG Sixty, was gunned down during a routine fistfight by a new recruit who called himself Dog. The OG whose brother had been killed

wanted us to produce the shooter before a full-scale war broke out. The shooter, whom few knew, as he was new, immediately went into hiding, so we couldn’t produce him. As a result, our relationship with the Sixties soured dramatically.

Until then only one of our homies had been killed, and his death was attributed to the Inglewood Families. Threats of revenge grew loud, as did rumors of a war. In the midst of these imminent warnings, our homeboy Lucky was ambushed on his porch and shot six times in the face. Witnesses reported seeing “a man in a brown jogging suit flee the area immediately after shots rang out.” The night Lucky was murdered, Mumpy, a member of the Sixties, was seen at Rosecrans Skating Rink in a brown jogging suit. It had been further noted that Mumpy was heard telling Lucky that “since one of my homeboys died, one of yours gotta die.” A fight ensued and was subsequently broken up by members of both sides.

After Lucky’s death, tension ran high. We wanted the shooters to fall under the weight of our wrath. A meeting of both sets was called by the OGs in a last effort to curtail a war, which would no doubt have grave consequences. The most damaging thing was that we knew where the other set stayed—not more than six months earlier, we had been the best of friends. The meeting was a dismal failure, erupting into an all-out gang fight reminiscent of the old rumbles. Diplomatic ties were broken and war was ceremoniously declared. They quickly suffered another casualty when their homeboy Pimp was ambushed and killed. Several others were wounded.

In the interim, Dee was released. After relaying to him the drastic events of recent times, we both chose to give 100 percent to the war effort. And perhaps, we concurred, this was a conflict that would carry us both over into the second realm of recognition on our climb to OG status.

In retaliation for Pimp’s death, our homie Tit Tit was shot, and while he lay in the street mortally wounded, the gunmen came back around the comer in a white van. Before we could retrieve Tit Tit, they ran over his head and continued on. The occupants in the van had also shot two other people, both civilians. This was the second homie to die in a matter of months. Shit was getting major.

Although we had been engaged in a

war with the Families, it had always somehow been confined to fistfights and flesh wounds, with the exception of Shannon—who, to this day, we contend, died at the hands of the Families. This escalation was new and quite alarming. For Crips tend to display a vicious knack for violence against other Crips. Seemingly, every Crip set erupted into savage wars, one against the other, culminating in today’s Beirut type of atmosphere.

The recent news-catching items of violence are a result of clashes between Crips and Crips and not, as the media suggests, between Crips and Bloods. Once bodies began to drop, people who were less than serious about banging began to fall by the wayside. There were lots of excuses of having to “be home by dark” and having to “go out of town.”

Dee and I held fast and seized the time. China, a very pretty but slightly plump homegirl, became my steady. She and I would often dress alike to further show off our union.

One afternoon she lent me her eighttrack tape player. As Dee and I were walking with China’s radio, we drew fire from a passing car—no doubt filled with Sixties. Unscathed but very angry, Dee and I climbed from the bushes.

“Check this out,” Dee said with barely controlled anger. “Rody, we gotta put a stop to these muthafuckas shootin’ at us and shit.”

He was looking at me hard in search of some signs of understanding. I said, “You right homie, I’m wit’ it:”

“You serious?” Dee asked with a sinister smile. “All right, then,” he continued, “let’s make a pact right now to never stop until we have killed all of our enemies. This means wherever we catch ’em, it’s on!”

“All right, I’m serious, Dee,” I remember saying as I pledged my life to the Sixties’ total destruction, or mine— whichever came first.

With that, I spun and threw China’s radio high into the air. The radio seemed to tumble in slow motion, twisting and twirling, as my gang life until that time flashed across my mental screen. From graduation to this—blam! The radio hit the ground, shattered into a hundred pieces, and the screen in my mind went blank.

There was Dee with his hand extended. I grabbed and shook it with vigor. From that point on, the medium of exchange in my life has been gunfire.


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AFA Igbo Spiritual Science and Tradition



Because i care, today i have chosen afa to discuss as my topic. But before i go into it properly lets talk a little about the matters raised by some confused kids on facebook which borders mostly on the price of Afa consultation. These kids are of the opinion that afa shouldn’t be anything above #500, and some others even ague that it should be free. Lol..!!! And when you ask them why, they usually have only but two or three defense line which are:
1. In the olden days priests do their works for free and then people come to appreciate them.
2. Freely you were given and freely you must give.
3. You were chosen by ndi ichie to help people back to odinala in this awakening.

These are basically their shield for defending whatever they claim to push forth. To them, they intend to bring all afa across igbo land to a fixed price which will sooth them. Weather it is discomforting to the priest who does such work or not is never their concern, to them they are the only ones that must be helped, the priest is a super human hence needs no help too. But looking at this their three cardinal shields, one can even carelessly throw certain careless questions at them based on this three point and will easily have them dumbfounded by the careless questions such as:

1. Are we Still in the olden days, have times not changed..? How many of these priest have you assisted in their priestly work..?
2. How sure are you that these skills of afa were received freely..?
3. Why didnt the said Ndi ichie chose you instead of the afa priest..?

You see, these questions will have them dumfounded and running, but yet does not in anyway explain to their own overstanding, as to why afa cannever be regulated nor have fixed prices hence i will take my time here to explain it normal to them all.

DIBIA: if you must know, the term dibia just as i had earlier explained on this platform simply means “The Master of Skills” from the two words “DI” meaning Master and “IBIA” meaning skills. meaning that any master of any given skill in any given field endeavor is automatically a Dibia, Just as we equally have Osu to mean professors. In igbo land we have dibia in virtually every fields endeavor but most popular of them all are the Di-ibia-afa (Diviners/prophets), Di-ibia-mgborogu na mkpa akwukwo (Pharmacist) , Di-ibia-Ahu-ike(Doctors), Di-ibia-nchu-aja(Priests), Di-Ibia-Nka na ire(Artists and Scientist), Di-Ubi (Farmers) Di-nta(Hunters), Di-Ochu(Palm wine tappers), Di-Mbga(Wrestlers) etc. These are all dibias, masters in these given field endeavour. Today, an Artist(Dibia nka) does his or her job without any form of restrictions as to what he or she must charge, no one reminds him that he was chosen by the said ndi ichie, no one reminds him that he recieved his so called gifts freely and as such must dish out his or her services for free and then wait for appreciation. This same thing can equally be said about doctors(Dibia ahu ike), Phermasists(Dibia mgborogu na mkpa akwukwo), the scientists (Dibia ire) and the rest of them. They all enjoy their lives with no restrictions nor regulations and as such charge whatever they so deem fit, but when they encounter problems in life, and wishes to consult the dibia afa, they suddenly remember that gifts are meant to be free. That is when you hear some creatures making such annoying statements that Afa mustn’t exceed #500. Lol..!!!! Isnt that a pity..?

Well let me go into afa a little to explain what afa is, especially for many who still feels that afa Is some sort of mystical magical gift from the said ndi ichie. Afa is simply science, a system developed by the ancient ones as a means of communication between the two material realms of creation namely: The Astral realm and the gross material realm. It can be learnt and understood. It works with the principles of radiation projection. Yes it can be learnt and understood but one who started learning such in this present lifetime can never compete with one who had already perfected these skills in his or her past existence and as such was born into this present existence with those skills already acquired in past existence. This is what many mistake for being gifted. Believing that these ones born with the skills of their past life were all chosen by certain Ndi ichie, and as such were all given those gifts. A very intelligent fellow would ask, why are the said ndi ichie this partial, why must they select some to be gifted and then abandon others..?

There are different kinds of afa in ala igbo, namely: Ikpikpara, Ugiri, Agbolo, Okwe, Ochokoro, akpurakpu, ego ayari, mkpuru ube, orji, Akupe, enyo, etc. Each has its own unique way of preparation and cost. Each equally has its own unique way and cost of maintainance, some afa are being maintained either on daily bases, weekly bases, monthly or even on yearly bases depending on the type and nature of preparation. Now talking of levels of preparations, some afa are on the level of Nwa Uriom, meaning that uriom is used on regular bases to maintan the afa. Some take roosters, some goats, while some are even on the level of ram. Be it on weekly or on monthly bases. With this, it is highly very possible for someone whos afa is on uriom level to charge even #100 because what he needs to maintain or service his afa on regular bases is just about #250 For the uriom, which he is certain to make before the week runs out or the month runs out, but can you say the same for a man whos afa takes a ram for maintainance or servicing..? Can such a person regain the money for the ram withing the week or weeks if he or she chooses to collect #100..?.

Now let me even go to the silly points raised by these agitators. To them they said that in olden days, dibias do their works for free. and i will repeat that same question again: Are we in the olden days.. ? Wake up!! Time has changed. No more plenty farm lands for farming as it used to be. No more trade by batter system as it used to be. Agricultural system has gone mechanised hence subsistent unmechanised farmers now appear like time wasters. Technologies here and there, please tell me, are we still in the olden days that you always speak of..? Now lets talk about the olden days. Do you know that in the said olden days that communities makes special provisions for their priests..? To the extent that first fruit of every harvest from every citizen goes directly into the temples, and as such belongs to the priests. With this first fruit, the priests are paid already, hence they may now go out to administer onto the villagers without collecting additional Charges. For indeed they have been paid via the first fruits and other similar thanksgivings to the temple. But if i may ask you all today, what provisions have your likes made for our present day priests..?, majority of the called ones in this present dispensation are suffering, just to raise money to answer to their call. How much have you contributed to that..? Now after he/she must have passed through hell to settle ndi otu, ndi mmiri, and lots of arusi/ighi, and then struggles to get money to either reconstruct an already destroyed temple or better still build a new one without your assistance, then you majestically approach his temple to educate him on how he must solve your problems for free right..? Using the useless quotes of the Caucasian man: “freely you were given and freely you must give”. The only provisions our communities make now are for the so called rev fathers and pastors. The dibias are never included in the budgets, but when they encounter problems in church, they quickly run back to dibias whom they have never made any provisions for, and then demand that his or her services must be for free or for #500. and if the dibia refuses then he or she must be branded fake, Castigated, and called all sorts of names.

Lol..!!! And for your mind Ndi ichie sent you abi..? Idiots!!, were you a traditionalist 15years ago..? would you have been a traditionalist if not for problems and hardship..? Now suddenly Ndi ichie have sent some bunch of hungry boys from amongst the repented Ipob slaves, to come and do What exactly if i may ask..? Hmm i think i know, to come and insult dibias like they formerly do to everyone in their Ipob parrot internet radio. But believe you me, you will never go Scot free from this one. Unless you repent and redirect those you have led astray, and also apologise to the priests Who you have slandered, be it on facebook or on calls. That is before you begin to see the real Ndi ichie in action.

Afa needs lots of concentration, and in most cases Solitude. Hence it is highly Difficult for Most real dibia afa to combine it with other jobs or else interference of vibration will become the result. Some dibias agwunsi even forbids such, i mean their agwunsi forbids them from doing other works. But here a lot of these miscreants are making noise on facebook, suggesting that Afa dibias should go and get a job. Lets assume that a dibia afa finally becomes a custom officer, do you think he can abandon his duty That pays him in thousands or millions then to come and solve your useless problems All for you to give him #500..? What time will such a dibia have to even attend to you..? Mmadu ana ahapu ebe ana echi ozo ma jebe ebe ana aru agwu..?

You better retrace your footsteps and do the right thing….


from Okechukwu Okoro


Urgent: Maroon’s Health and Request For Support, Russell Maroon Shoatz

Update from the Shoatz family:

As we mentioned last month, Maroon recently underwent surgery and had an extended stay in the prison infirmary.

We share with you now Maroon’s latest message on his health:

“As a Political Prisoner and fighter for over 50 years, I’ve now reached a point where those close to me can no longer shoulder the things they’re called on to do without broader community support.

Recently I was operated on, where it was discovered that I’m suffering Stage 4 colorectal cancer.

This is a CALL for donations to help us cover costs of treatment.

If the lying politicians can amass thousands of small donations, it speaks ill of our struggle against injustice if we will not support our own in similar ways!

Spread THIS call and help us!”

Straight Ahead!
Political Prisoner
Russell Maroon Shoats/z

While the news of Maroon’s ill health is of course disheartening to us all, we’re committed to doing everything in our power to ensure he receives comprehensive treatment for this latest diagnosis. Your support is critical to our efforts.

We’re reaching out to our extended community of support with a request for immediate donations towards Maroon’s medical costs. We hope to gain a holistic understanding of the treatments he’s received and make informed decisions about his medical care moving forward.

Donate here. Please give generously in this moment of heightened urgency.

We invite you to write Maroon directly and send him words of encouragement. Maroon’s Earthday is August 23!

Smart Communications
PADOC/SCI Fayette — Transferred this Week
Russell Shoats AF3855
PO Box 33028
St. Petersburg FL. 33733

As always, we thank you for your commitment, and we’ll keep everyone updated on next steps soon.

In love, strength, and solidarity,
The Shoatz Family and Friends

The picture at the top of Teresa, Maroon and Sharon was taken this past Monday. The photo below was taken in mid July. Maroon has his youngest sister on the right and his oldest sister on the left. Also pictured are Teresa, etta, Sharon and Russ III.