Sometime in mid-1631, a pirate flotilla left Algiers, one of the main ports on the Barbary Coast. The main ship was a Dutch-built 300-ton man-of-war, armed with about 24 pieces of ordinance. It was crewed by 200 men. The smaller ship was half that size in both weight and crew. The flotilla was commanded by Captain Murat Reis the Younger.
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The recent #MyDressMyChoice protests in Kenya have rekindled a debate that has plagued Africa since independence in the 1960s. Most African countries gained independence at about the same time two trends were catching on in the West.
At daybreak on November 4th, 1983, a scream cut through the serenity of Kiaga Village in Kirinyaga. The single scream quickly became cries for help, then wailing of what now sounded like a large group of people. What sounded like the cries of pain of a dying woman would lead residents of the small village to a horrific scene that would haunt them forever.
The hot and humid coastal air constricted into the Tangana Lodge’s dimly lit and badly ventilated rooms . The fragrance of purchased romance reigned over the humid evening air in the house of decadence. As the night came to a climax, the sounds of illicit sex, the loud banging on the walls, the rehearsed screams, and the drunken grunts reminded all and sundry that the sailors were in town. In one of those hot rooms, Lucy Kabura lay dying.
A tall man wearing a fake wig and a beard parked his hired car and walked towards the bank. He pushed through the door and walked in, right past the guard and towards one of the cashiers. It was a cold mid-morning in Durban, and the bank was not yet as busy as it would be in a few hours.
Badass has no passport. It has no rules. When badass finds you and hands you a titanium pair of the sac, you cant say no. Badass does not take no for an answer. You don’t choose badass, badass finds you. It asks nothing of you but to go completely berserk and show Death the middle finger. Meet 7 badass heroes from around the globe.
Sometime in late 1952, a series of mysterious deaths occurred at a mission station in Kikuyu, Kenya. First, the victims, a herd of cows, developed large swellings near the forelegs. The swelling then spread over the course of several days, across the chest and abdomen. Then one after the other, the steeds fell and died.
It was bound to happen again. Someone was bound to try again anyway. Given the long proven karma of history repeating itself, and the forest remaining the same despite the monkeys changing, it was only a matter of time. Only it was not so easy this time.
Sometime between May 1976 and February 1977, 102 wild animals were herded into large wooden crates at an undisclosed location in Kenya. The crates were then bundled onto the overnight cargo train to Mombasa, setting in motion a series of events that should never have happened.
[This piece was originally published on the Medium Blog here.]
I hadn’t planned to spend my entire afternoon like this. At least not at first. I was in town, with a few hours to kill and I knew exactly what I wanted to do with them. I always know, but I never get round to doing it. Instead of window shopping or sitting in a cafe trying to figure out whether the man next to me is just fidgety or is busy masturbating. (This happened once, in Java Capital Centre).