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But something more than instinct was guiding her trip...
Night was a shield for those who needed it, and kept secrets better than a best friend ever could. It protected, and at the same time, left the weak more vulnerable.
Kiamichis Mountains, Oklahoma
Adam was looking out the window, his eyes narrowing sharply as he squinted against the light. Franklin thought that Adam looked a lot like his father. Same strong face—same far-seeing expression in his eyes, but he was taller and more muscular. And he’d been beyond the Kiamichis. He’d lived a warrior’s life for the United States government. Franklin set his coffee cup aside, folded his hands in his lap, and closed his eyes. It was good that Adam Two Eagles had come home.
Within an hour after arriving back at his home, Adam began the preparations. He drank some water before going out to ready the sweat lodge. On the way down the hillside, he got work gloves from the tool shed and a small hatchet from a shelf. A sense of peace came over him as he worked, gathering wood and patching a small hole in the lodge. Tonight, he would begin the ceremony.
If Franklin and Leila had made a baby together, the Old Ones would find it. He hurried back to the house, gathering everything he needed, then walked back to the small lodge above the creek bank. He undressed with care, shedding his clothes a layer at a time. By the time he’d dropped his last garment, a slight breeze had come up, lifting his hair away from his face and cooling the sweat beading on his body. The first star of the evening was just visible when he looked up at the sky. He checked the fire. Ideally, there would be someone outside the lodge continuing to feed the fire, but not tonight. Tonight the fire that he’d already built would serve the purpose. He lifted the flap and crawled in. Within seconds, he was covered in sweat. He sat down cross-legged, letting his arms and hands rest on his knees. With a slow, even rhythm he breathed in and breathed out. Then he closed his eyes and began to chant. The words were almost as old as the land on which he sat. The hours passed and the moon that had been hanging high in the sky, was more than halfway through its slow descent to the horizon. Morning was but an hour or so away. Inside the sweat lodge, all the words had been said. All the prayers had been prayed. Adam was ready. He crawled out of the lodge. When he stood, the muscles in his legs tried to cramp, but he walked them out as he then moved behind the lodge and laid another stick of wood on the fire. With the sweat drying swiftly on his skin and his mind and body free from impurities, he reached into his pack and took out the carving, as well as the hairs he’d cut from Franklin’s head. Some might have called it a prayer—others might have said it was a chant—but the words Adam spoke were a call to the Old Ones. The rhythm of the syllables rolled off Adam’s tongue like a song.
The log he’d laid on the fire popped, sending a shower of sparks up into the air. Adam felt the prick of heat from one as it landed on his skin, but he didn’t flinch. Still wrapped in the cloak of darkness, he lifted his arms to the heavens and began to dance. Dust and ashes rose up from the ground, coating his feet and legs as he moved in and out of the shadows around the fire. He danced and he sang until his heartbeat matched the rhythm of his feet. The wind rose, whistling through the trees in a thin, constant wail, sucking the hair from the back of his neck and then swirling it about his face. They were coming. He tossed the owl and the hairs into the fire, and then lifted his hands above his head. As he did, there was what he could only describe as an absence of air. He could still breathe, but he was unable to move. The great warriors manifested themselves within the smoke, using it to coat the shapes of what they’d once been. They came mounted on spirit horses with eyes of fire. The horses stomped and reared, inhaling showers of sparks that had been following the column of smoke, and exhaling what appeared to be stars. One warrior wore a war bonnet so long that it dragged beneath the ghost horse’s feet. Another was wrapped in the skin of a bear, with the mark of the claw painted on his chest. The third horse had a black handprint on its flank, while matching handprints of white were on the old warrior’s cheeks. The last one rode naked on a horse of pure white. The wrinkles in his face were as many as the rivers of the earth. His gray hair so long that it appeared tangled in the horse’s mane and tail, making it difficult to tell where man ended and horse began. They spoke in unison, with the sounds getting lost in the whirlwind that brought them, and yet Adam knew what they’d said. They would help. As he watched, one by one, they reached into the fire and took a piece of Franklin’s essence to help them with their search.
Then, as suddenly as they’d appeared, they were gone. Adam dropped to his knees, then passed out.
~~~
It was wonderful to again connect with Sharon Sala on Facebook... I have missed interacting with my many friends there... Now, it seems so different since I essentially had to start over... I've ordered Sharon's upcoming book, but I am so happy I got Rider on Fire to start back reading her wonderful books...
This multi-genre book starts as a thriller as a DEA Agent, Sonora Jordan deals with her life as a child who was "dumped" the day after she was born... A child who never knew who she was...
DEA agent Sonora Jordan was running after a drug dealer when she fell into the twilight zone. One moment she was inches away from grabbing her perp, Enrique Garcia, and the next her gun went flying as she fell flat on her face.
The shot that would have hit her square in the back went flying over her head. Instead of the heat and dust of Mexico, she was in the shade of a forest and hearing the sound of moving water from somewhere up ahead.
She lifted her head, and as she did, she saw a tall, older man standing on the porch of a single-story dwelling that was surrounded by trees. His skin was brown, and his hair was long and peppered with gray. There was a wind chime hanging by his head that looked like a Native American dream catcher. The chimes were different shapes of feathers. It was so foreign to anything she knew, she couldn’t imagine why she would be hallucinating about it and wondered if she was dead. The man lifted his hand, and as he did, she had the strongest urge to wave back, but she couldn’t seem to move. She couldn’t see his face clearly, yet she knew that he was crying. A sad, empty feeling hit her belly and then swallowed her whole.
By the time she realized she wasn’t dead, only face down in the dirt, the vision was gone. If that wasn’t enough humiliation, her perp was nowhere in sight. “Oh crap,” she muttered, then breathed easier when she saw Agent Dave Wills coming back with the perp she’d been chasing. Garcia was handcuffed and cursing at the top of his voice.
~~~
Sonora had grown up essentially, alone, even though she had people monitoring her as an orphan... She would be placed in homes of one sort or another, but she only speaks of one particular foster mother who would lock her up every time a man came to visit... She could hear the two adults, but didn't understand what was happening... After years, she had become afraid of the dark, which has never left her, even while she had grown to become one of the best agents in her DEA section...
She was last involved with the Garcia family, a drug cartel from South America, led by the oldest living son. During the DEA raid, two brothers were taken, one of whom was killed--by Sonora. Garcia came on the hunt, immediately pledging retribution--funny, isn't it, how criminals feel that being caught should result in retribution even though they were the ones doing something illegal... In any event, DEA officials soon learned that he was now in the U.S. and told Sonora she would have to leave the area... Of course, Sonora resented this. But, on the other hand, she soon began to believe it was a good thing...
And it had to do with the vision that had occurred during the fight with the two Garcia brothers... Of course she had no where she could or should go, so she went to a world map and started drawing a line, until she felt it was time to stop... She was heading to Oklahoma...
But something more than instinct was guiding her trip...
She loaded up what she could carry on her bike--but first she had to get it back from a guy she used to date. The only thing she found out much later was that he had asked to give her a message before he died... "I didn't tell him anything..." Garcia will appear once in a while as he chases her...but I'm going to switch to the "fantastic" part of her book...
You see, Sonora was not Latino as she thought; she was Kiowa. Her father was ill with cancer and he'd asked his friend to try to find her... Adam had left his tribe and joined the U.S. Military Services, but had been drawn back to his home to take the place of his father as Healer for the area. So, of course, he knew what he had to do... Adam would need to contact the Old Ones for help!
It was Adam she first met in a nearby town and it was he who suggested he follow her to where she was meant to be... I have to say, I love supernatural stories and this one is simply fascinating... You see, Sonora has found her father, her tribe, a home, and a very, very handsome Kiowa Brave--Adam--to whom she is attracted! And the feelings are very mutual, especially since Adam had been having dreams of her, not knowing who he was dreaming of... Believe me, this romance story is easily worth the purchase!
But it gets even better... As Garcia is catching up on her... As Her newly found father is feeling the pain of the cancer... And as Sonora, who was alone all of her life, is suddenly meeting two men who will be the most important men in her life, for a special happily ever after! Don't miss this one!
Sah-nay-mah aka Snake Woman with son Andrew Domebo, in Oklahoma Territory - Kiowa - 1895
(Photographer unknown)
Snake Woman (aka Bertha Sahananah) was born on the Kiowa, Comanche, and Plains Apache Reservation at Fort Sill in Indian Territory in 1875. She married Eagle Bone Whistle (aka Charley Domebo), and their first child Andrew was born in 1895. They would raise seven more children
It was exciting to find this picture of a woman of the Kiowa Snake Clan on Facebook! It "allowed" (LOL) me to share one of the supernatural events that showed that Sonora, although alone, was never alone. For, of course, Sonora was never separated from her Clan, her Tribe... And, proof was illustrated when, at 16, Sonora went with friends for a tattoo, and was drawn to one particular picture... The one below is as close as I could find of that picture... and, yes, it was placed on Sonora's back...but much longer... WOW!
God works in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform...
I spent some time talking to my medical healthcare contact yesterday... After a little ranting--actually perhaps more than a little-- I then said, I think I've agreed to do too much... Again...
Of course, I've said that before, but I've really been trying not to allow that old "PTSD" to creep up... that brings back memories of living within job burnout from being required to become concerned about getting everything done... But I've been having "nightmares" about every night... This time, I'm going back to my first promotion out of the clerical area, where I had bosses to give work assignments... I was now on my own, after being handed materials I could use to complete the job and meet deadlines... to ensure that all of the students at WVU were sent to the right classes at the right time. Working simultaneously on 4 different semester schedules... Yes, it was a lot of work, because I was on the phone many times, most of the days, handling the present semester, while working overtime to schedule for the upcoming semester. All manually... Interacting with representatives from every single academic department...
Actually, I was enjoying myself, I loved the work and continued those feelings until years later when the Director was replaced. So, while dreaming, it really wasn't normal nightmares, it was a time when, even working long hours, was happy and exciting...
But that doesn't mean that the dreams don't reminded me that taking on more work can cause problems mentally and physically...
I have to respond to my physical needs, first...
And, of course, trying to keep up with the crap occurring at the national level--never knowing just who will be hit by the violence, harm, and loss of jobs, etc., now occurring across the land, surely adds to the constant pressure of having to check your bank account to see if your check(s) are received... You all know what I'm talking about... Rather than sharing more of that personal depression, I decided to let you hear a couple of videos of women like myself who are fed up with a political party like no other in the history of our nation! In an extremely negative way!
Some of you may have seen that a post had been snatched back due to the changes that had been made on my last post which was written by my friend and ongoing legal contributor, Harold Michael Harvey... There were long lines heading into the right column, while others were short and continued that way for many lines... What happened? All I know is that I had reached my final draft and stopped for lunch...
When I came back, on the data entry screen I found it had been moved out of compose, even though that should never happen until I publish the article... At least that was how it's been for the last 24 years I've been on Blogger... Darn it, just like during my professional career, somebody decides to change something and proceeds to do so without any type of notification. I was fuming, mortified and immediately attempted to salvage it... which was impossible to easily do...it had taken me part of two days to pull the draft together... Finally, I just quite working on it and turned off the computer. That's when I knew I had to talk to somebody.
Those who are readers and followers of my blog have seen that I have a statement up that I am no longer accepting requests for book reviews. I had promised that I would continue with a series of books, and to help a couple of other authors with whom I had been working for years. However, I ultimately began to get requests and wound up with a TBR list again...
To those individuals, I can only say that none of the discussions about a timeframe or deadline is now valid. I need to find out what happened, and ensure that what occurred will not happen again. That is not easy since, as most of you all know, NO SITE online provides routine procedure updates, announcements of changes, or any other method of communication until after the fact that damage has been done. Even then little is done to remedy the problem... I even had one writer send me an AI generated picture along with a message... I'm sorry, but there is NO WAY I will be using anything AI until I'm comfortable that there is no fake actions occurring... Nor trusting the sender. And given the state of the government and big corporations, it's not going to be soon...
For those to whom I've interacted regarding books and/or feedback of some sort, my only option is to say that, at this time, I will get to that project when I can. I will retain those activities in que or you can cancel any interaction or request... If you have not already read what happened to my eyes during an operation, then you need to do so... Every day I lose precious time trying to deal with this one change in my life...
Just knowing that our healthcare is in the hands of a government representative that even his family refused to endorse, has made me question a lot of things at this stage of my life... But I love books and I love that when I post, there are those who immediately come to read about another book...
May I be able to continue with that activity... I'll keep you posted...
On a sunlit morning in Sarajevo, June 28, 1914, a 19-year-old Bosnian Serb named Gavrilo Princip stepped from a crowd and fired two shots that would fracture the world. His bullets struck down Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria-Hungary and his wife, Sophie, igniting a chain reaction that would engulf continents. The assassination was not merely a murder—it was a match tossed into a powder keg of alliances, grievances, and imperial ambitions.
Austria-Hungary, backed by Germany, issued a sweeping ultimatum to Serbia. Serbia’s partial compliance was deemed insufficient. Among other things, Germany demanded that Serbia allow German investigators to enter Serbia, thereby compromising Serbia’s sovereignty. This was a bridge too far for the Serbians. Within weeks, the world’s great powers-- Britain, France, Russia, Germany, and the Ottoman Empire, were at war. The First World War would claim over 20 million lives, redraw borders, and dismantle four empires. But it also revealed something more profound: how ultimatums, when issued by empires in decline or ascent, often mask deeper contests over sovereignty, resources, and racial hierarchy.
The war’s aftermath was a feast for the victors. Germany was stripped of its colonies and forced to pay crippling reparations. The Ottoman Empire was carved up; its Arab provinces were handed to Britain and France under the guise of League of Nations mandates. France reclaimed Alsace-Lorraine. Italy gained territory. Japan seized German holdings in the Pacific. The United States, though late to the war, emerged as a global creditor and industrial power.
But the spoils were not merely territorial. They were ideological. The war reified the logic of racialized empire even as it exposed its contradictions. Over a million African and African American soldiers served in the war. Black Americans like the Harlem Hell-fighters fought valiantly in France, only to return home to segregation and the Red Summer of 1919.
African troops from Senegal, Algeria, and Nigeria were conscripted into brutal labor and front-line service, often denied recognition or compensation. Their blood helped redraw Europe’s map, but their names, somehow, were not etched into its monuments.
Fast forward to the present. President Donald Trump, in his second term, has revived the language of ultimatums—this time directed not at European monarchies but at postcolonial states in Africa and South America. In October 2025, Trump declared Nigeria a “country of particular concern” for religious freedom and threatened military intervention if the government failed to protect Christians. Days later, he authorized a dramatic military buildup in the Caribbean, targeting Venezuela’s Maduro regime and signaling potential land strikes.
These ultimatums, cloaked in the rhetoric of religious liberty and narcoterrorism, echo the imperial logic of 1914: moral justification masking geopolitical ambition. Venezuela, for its part, has intensified its claim over the oil-rich Essequibo region of Guyana, where ExxonMobil has discovered over 11 billion barrels of recoverable oil. The area has become a flashpoint, with Venezuelan forces accused of hybrid warfare tactics, cross-border raids, referenda, and map redrawing eerily reminiscent of Crimea.
Should conflict erupt, the “spoil of war” would be clear: control over one of the most lucrative oil reserves in the Western Hemisphere. For a U.S. administration eager to reassert hemispheric dominance and secure energy independence, the temptation is palpable. But the cost—human, moral, and geopolitical—could be catastrophic.
Photo by Ameer Umar on Pexels.com, Nigeria
To understand the stakes in Nigeria, one must revisit the Biafran War (1967–1970)—a brutal civil conflict rooted in ethnic and religious divisions between the Hausa-Fulani (Muslim) in the north and the Igbo (Christian) in the southeast. After a series of coups and anti-Igbo massacres, the Eastern Region declared independence as the Republic of Biafra. The war, fought over sovereignty and control of oil-rich lands, claimed up to three million lives, mainly through famine.
The Nigerian government, backed by Britain and the Soviet Union, crushed the secession. But the war left deep scars. The slogan “No victor, no vanquished” masked enduring marginalization and mistrust. Today, those same fault lines persist. Attacks on churches, reprisal killings, and political exclusion have reignited calls for Biafran autonomy. Trump’s ultimatum, framed as a defense of Christians, risks inflaming these tensions and internationalizing a domestic crisis.
Just as the Biafran War was fought over oil and identity, any future conflict would likely center on the Niger Delta, which remains home to vast oil reserves. The spoils of war, once again, would be black gold and Black lives. And Black lives have never mattered to the U. S. in Asia, Africa, or the islands of the seas.
What remains unresolved, a century after Sarajevo, is the role of Black and colonized peoples in these imperial dramas. In 1914, they were conscripted without consent. In 2025, they are still too often the collateral, whether in the Niger Delta’s oil fields or the barrios of Caracas or the ghettoes of Memphis or Los Angeles. Yet their memory endures. Their service, their resistance, and their authorship of freedom movements from Harlem to Accra to Johannesburg remain a counter-archive to the official record.
As we stand on the precipice of another resource-driven conflict, we must ask: Who writes the ultimatums? Who bears their cost? And who will be remembered when the maps are redrawn?
Or we could “Seize the Times,” as Bobby Seals, Co-chair of the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense, urged in the 1960s, and demand no wars in Africa in our name under the pretext of coming to the aid of Christians. Especially, when Christian charity is not shown to children whose families depend on the SNAP program to put food on the table, and when the so-called Christian nation of the U. S. allows an occupying nation to kill women and children at will in Gaza for years, justifying it as an act of revenge for the October 7, 2023, attack by Hamas.
How much revenge is enough? The solution to genocide in Gaza is not in a so-called peace agreement. The best solution is for the U. S. to stop funding Israel. Likewise, the solution in Nigeria is for the U. S. to stop funding both sides of what is essentially warfare over who controls the oil and the money that flows from it. Without the U.S.’s greedy hands and clandestine operations in Nigeria, the hostilities would not have existed.
Hands off! No U. S. wars on African soil!
!!!
Nigeria’s Black Gold and Broken Promises Biafra, the Niger Delta, and the Long War for Sovereignty
Photo by Jan Zakelj on Pexels.com
In the heart of southeastern Nigeria lies the Niger Delta, a region rich in oil and memory. It was here, in 1967, that the Republic of Biafra declared independence, igniting a civil war that would claim millions of lives and expose the fault lines of a postcolonial nation still tethered to imperial logic. Today, as foreign powers issue ultimatums and eye the region’s resources, the ghosts of Biafra stir once more.
The Biafran War was born of betrayal--political, ethnic, and economic. Following a series of coups and massacres targeting the Igbo people, Nigeria’s Eastern Region, led by Lt. Colonel Odumegwu Ojukwu, declared independence. The new Republic of Biafra sought to protect its people and control its oil-rich lands.
The federal government, dominated by the Hausa-Fulani Muslim elite, responded with force. Backed by Britain and the Soviet Union, Nigeria launched a brutal campaign to crush the secession. The war lasted 30 months, killing between 500,000 and 3 million people, primarily through starvation. The oil fields of the Niger Delta were both the prize and the battleground.
In 1970, Dr. Njaka, a general in the Biafran Army, fled Nigeria and accepted a position at Tuskegee Institute, where he chaired the Political Science department. He believed deeply in the need for a sovereign Biafra, free from the influence of the Muslim north, propped up, he said, by British and Soviet interests. “America could have come to our aid,” he told me, “But they didn’t want to go against the British.” Then, with a twinkle in his eye and a strong British accent resonating from below his navel, he added: “The White man always sticks together.”
His words, spoken with both resignation and clarity, revealed the racial and geopolitical alliances that shaped the war and still shape the region today.
Even after Biafra’s defeat, the Niger Delta remained a site of extraction and exploitation. Multinational oil companies (Shell, Chevron, ExxonMobil) pumped billions in crude while local communities suffered environmental devastation, poverty, and militarization.
Movements such as MOSOP (Movement for the Survival of the Ogoni People) and MEND (Movement for the Emancipation of the Niger Delta) emerged in protest, demanding equity, autonomy, and environmental justice. The Nigerian state responded with crackdowns, arrests, and the execution of activists like Ken Saro-Wiwa.
The region’s oil wealth has never translated into prosperity for its people. Instead, it has invited corruption, conflict, and foreign interest.
In 2025, President Trump’s ultimatum to Nigeria, demanding protection for Christians or facing military consequences, reignited fears of fragmentation. The southeast, still home to many Igbo Christians, remains politically marginalized and economically neglected.
Calls for Biafran autonomy have resurfaced, fueled by memories of betrayal and the enduring logic of extraction. The Niger Delta, once again, is at the center of the storm. Foreign powers eye its reserves. Militants threaten pipelines. Communities demand justice.
If conflict erupts, the spoil of war will be clear: control over one of Africa’s richest oil basins. However, the deeper question remains: who owns the memory? Who writes the history? And who will be remembered when the wells run dry?
The story of Biafra and the Niger Delta is not just about war; it’s about authorship.It’s about reclaiming the narrative from those who profited from silence. It’s about honoring the dead, amplifying the living, and resisting the erasure of a people who dared to declare their dignity.
As new ultimatums echo across the hemisphere, we must remember Biafra not as a failed state, but as a prophetic voice. One that warned us, decades ago, that sovereignty without justice is no sovereignty at all.
~~~
Photo by Aleks Marinkovic on Pexels.com
EDITOR’S NOTE: Xplisset mused the other day about how the Brits and the Soviets gained a foothold in Nigerian oil fields. Tomorrow I will begin a four-part series to explore how this happened.
Oil is never just oil. In Nigeria, it has been the empire’s prize, the war’s engine, and the people’s paradox. From the First World War onward, Britain tightened its colonial grip on Nigeria’s oil future, laying pipelines of power that still shape the nation today. The Soviet Union, although it never drilled a barrel, cast its own shadow, training minds, seeding ideas, and offering an ideological counterpoint during the Cold War.
This series, Black Gold and Red Shadows, traces that double inheritance: Britain’s material entrenchment and the Soviets’ intellectual imprint. Across four parts, we’ll explore:
Part I: Britain’s Grip on Nigeria’s Oil — how colonial law and Shell-BP secured control.
Part II: The Soviet Shadow — scholarships, ideology, and the minds shaped in Moscow.
Part III: Collision and Continuity — the Nigerian Civil War as a crucible of oil, empire, and ideology.
Part IV: Legacies — how pipelines and ideas still echo in Nigeria’s oil politics today.
Nigeria’s oil story is not just about geology; it’s about geopolitics, ideology, and memory. Britain left behind contracts and infrastructure; the Soviets left behind questions and critiques. Both legacies continue to shape Nigeria’s struggle for sovereignty, justice, and self-definition.
As Kwame Nkrumah warned in 1965: “Her earth is rich, yet the products that come from above and below the soil continue to enrich, not Africans predominantly, but groups and individuals who operate to Africa’s impoverishment.”
This series asks: how do we reckon with that paradox today?
Over the coming days, each installment will unfold like a rhythm, with material power on one beat and ideological shadow on the next. Together, they form a syncopated truth about Nigeria’s oil: that it has always been contested, and that its future depends on remembering the past.
Let’s trace the pipelines and the shadows and ask what sovereignty really means in the age of oil, and Trump’s threats to send U. S. troops into Nigeria.
~~~
Black Gold and Red Shadows, Part I Britain’s Grip on Nigeria’s Oil
Photo by BEING MOMENTX on Pexels.com
When the First World War ended in 1918, Britain emerged battered but still clinging to its empire. The war had revealed a new truth: oil was no longer just a commodity; it was the bloodstream of modern power. In Nigeria, still a colonial possession, the story of oil was only beginning. Yet the structures Britain built in the aftermath of the war ensured that when oil did flow, it would do so under imperial control. In 1914, Britain had already fused Northern and Southern Nigeria into a single colony. Officially, this was about efficiency. In reality, it was about money. The North was running a deficit; the South, with its ports and trade, was in surplus. By binding them together, Britain created a centralized administration that could balance the books—and, crucially, centralize control over any future mineral wealth.
This was the blueprint: a Nigeria where resources would be managed from the colonial center, not by the communities that lived on the land.
By the 1930s, British companies were prospecting for oil in the Niger Delta. The search was slow, but the legal framework was already tilted in their favor. Concessions were granted to British firms, and colonial ordinances ensured that the Crown held ultimate authority over subsoil resources.
It wasn’t until 1956 that Shell-BP struck commercial oil at Oloibiri, in today’s Bayelsa State. But by then, the path had been paved: Britain had secured exclusive access, and Nigerian communities had been written out of the story. The oil and money would go to Great Britain, and the Nigerians would provide cheap labor, making the oil reserve very profitable to the Crown.
This plan was not significantly different from those on plantations in the southern United States during the 18th and 19th centuries. The British became more affluent, while Nigerians became poorer, without control over their natural resources. Yet Nigeria is confronted with the banality bordering on triteness of a 21st-century U. S. President who calls Nigeria a “shit hole country.”
Suppose the American President’s postulation is correct. What then does that make of the Brits and the Yankees who raped the sub-soil of Nigeria for its riches without investing back into the Nigerian people?
Britain’s postwar imperial strategy was clear: secure energy resources across its colonies to fuel both industry and influence. Nigeria’s reserves became a cornerstone of this plan. Even as independence loomed in 1960, Britain ensured that Shell-BP and other Western firms would remain entrenched.
The logic was simple: political independence could be granted, but economic dependence—especially in the oil sector would remain.
African leaders saw the trap. In 1965, Kwame Nkrumah wrote in Neo-Colonialism: The Last Stage of Imperialism:
“Africa is a paradox which illustrates and highlights neo-colonialism. Her earth is rich, yet the products that come from above and below the soil continue to enrich, not Africans predominantly, but groups and individuals who operate to Africa’s impoverishment.”
Though Nkrumah was speaking of the continent broadly, his words could have been written for the Niger Delta, where oil wealth would enrich foreign companies while local communities bore the costs.
Britain’s grip on Nigeria’s oil was not forged in the oil fields themselves, but in the laws, concessions, and administrative structures laid down after the First World War. By the time oil was discovered in commercial quantities, the colonial scaffolding ensured that Britain—and its corporate partners—would reap the rewards.
This is the material legacy: pipelines, contracts, and a centralized revenue system that privileged the state and foreign firms over local communities. The lighter-skinned races of people have often entered countries occupied by darker-skinned races and negotiated deals using their system of contracts to gain control over land, such as the purchase of New York.
In the case of Nigeria, this has involved securing rights to the mineral-rich subsoil on the land, a fundamentally uneven legal negotiation. For instance, New York was paid for with a few trinkets. In Nigeria, human beings were sold by bribing trial leaders, and oil is siphoned off to the West through similar agreements written on paper between Nigerian leaders and the oil barons in the West.
Into this mix, the U. S. President is threatening to send U. S. troops into Nigeria under the guise of protecting Nigeria’s Christian population. Still, the wise know, it is ostensibly to gain control of the black gold flowing abundantly underneath the feet of the Nigerian people, who have learned over time to mine their own oil fields.
In the next installment, we’ll turn to the Soviet Union not as a colonial master, but as an ideological suitor. If Britain built the pipelines, the Soviets sought to shape the minds that would question who those pipelines served.
!!!
Photo by Oleg Podlesnykh on Pexels.com
Black Gold and Red Shadows, Part II The Soviet Shadow
If Britain built the pipelines, the Soviets sought to shape the minds that would question who those pipelines served. After Nigeria’s independence in 1960, the Soviet Union moved quickly to establish ties—not through oil concessions, which Britain and other Western firms jealously guarded, but through ideas, education, and solidarity.
From the early 1960s, Moscow opened its universities to Nigerian students. Hundreds traveled to Moscow, Kyiv, and Leningrad to study engineering, medicine, agriculture, and political science. For the Soviets, this was not charity—it was a strategic move. By training a generation of African professionals, they hoped to seed socialist sympathies and cultivate allies in the Global South.
One Nigerian student later recalled: “We were taught that oil was not just fuel, but power. The West used it to dominate; we were told we could use it to liberate.”
These young Nigerians returned home with both technical expertise and a sharpened critique of Western imperialism. Some became professors, others civil servants, and still others union leaders. Their influence was less visible than Shell-BP’s derricks, but it was no less real.
When Nigeria descended into civil war in 1967, the Soviets faced a choice. At first, they sympathized with Biafra’s secessionist cause, seeing echoes of anti-colonial struggle. But geopolitics prevailed. By 1968, Moscow had shifted its support to the federal government, supplying arms and technical assistance.
General Yakubu Gowon, leading the federal side, made the stakes plain: “Our oil is the engine of this war effort, and we must protect it at all costs.”
For the Soviets, this was less about oil itself and more about influence. By backing the federal government, they secured a foothold in West Africa and demonstrated their willingness to counterbalance Western dominance.
The most enduring Soviet legacy in Nigeria was not military but intellectual. Soviet-trained Nigerians reshaped university curricula, infused labor movements with a socialist critique, and introduced centralized planning models into government discourse.
In the 1970s, Nigerian labor activists—many influenced by socialist thought—called for nationalization of oil: “The wealth of the Niger Delta must serve the people, not foreign masters.”
Though military regimes and entrenched corporate interests often sidelined their demands, their voices kept alive an alternative vision of sovereignty—one rooted in collective ownership and resistance to neo-colonial control.
The Soviet Union never drilled a barrel of Nigerian oil. Its influence was not measured in contracts or concessions, but in classrooms, lecture halls, and union meetings. Britain left behind pipelines and corporate entrenchment; the Soviets left behind ideas and trained minds.
In the next installment, we’ll bring these two legacies into collision—examining how Britain’s material grip and the Soviet Union’s ideological shadow intersected during Nigeria’s civil war and beyond.
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Photo by Meshack Emmanuel Kazanshyi on Pexels.com
Black Gold and Red Shadows, Part III Collision and Continuity
By the late 1960s, Nigeria’s oil was no longer a distant promise—it was a prize. The discovery at Oloibiri in 1956 had matured into a steady flow, and Shell-BP’s derricks dotted the Niger Delta. But as the nation fractured into civil war in 1967, oil became more than an economic resource. It became the engine of survival, the bargaining chip of diplomacy, and the battlefield of competing empires.
Britain’s position was clear: defend the federal government, defend Shell-BP. London supplied arms, intelligence, and diplomatic cover to General Yakubu Gowon’s regime. For Britain, the war was not only about keeping Nigeria intact but about ensuring that oil exports remained uninterrupted.
As one British diplomat bluntly put it in 1968: “Our interests are Shell’s interests, and Shell’s interests are ours.”
This was the naked truth of neo-colonial entang entanglement: the fate of a newly independent African nation tethered to the balance sheets of a multinational corporation.
The Soviet Union, meanwhile, had initially flirted with sympathy for Biafra’s secessionist cause. But by 1968, Moscow recalibrated. The federal government, not Biafra, offered the greater prize: legitimacy, influence, and a chance to counter Western dominance in West Africa.
Soviet arms began flowing to Lagos. Technical advisers followed. For the first time, Nigeria became a stage where Britain and the USSR stood on the same side—both backing the federal government, though for different reasons.
General Gowon himself acknowledged the centrality of oil: “Our oil is the engine of this war effort, and we must protect it at all costs.”
Caught between these global powers were Nigerians themselves—soldiers, civilians, intellectuals, and activists. For many, the war underscored the paradox of independence: political sovereignty without economic control.
Labor unions, often influenced by socialist thought, began to demand nationalization of oil. One union leader declared in 1971: “The wealth of the Niger Delta must serve the people, not foreign masters.”
In universities, Soviet-trained academics introduced critiques of capitalism and centralized planning models. In villages, however, oil meant displacement, environmental degradation, and the slow erosion of traditional livelihoods.
The Nigerian Civil War revealed the strange convergence of Britain and the Soviet Union. Both backed the federal government, but for different ends: Britain to protect Shell-BP, the Soviets to gain geopolitical leverage.
Yet the deeper collision was not between London and Moscow, but between Nigerians and the structures imposed upon them. Britain’s corporate entrenchment and the Soviet Union’s ideological outreach collided in Nigeria’s institutions, leaving a legacy of dependency, critique, and contested sovereignty.
By the war’s end in 1970, Nigeria had emerged bloodied but intact. Oil revenues surged, but so did foreign entanglements. Britain had secured its corporate stake; the Soviets had secured a foothold in Nigeria’s imagination and diplomacy. Tribal animosity between the Muslims and the Christians shifted to a cold war that has spilled over to the outright slaughter of Christians by the majority Muslim areas in the north.
The collision of black gold and red shadows left Nigeria with a dual inheritance: pipelines that carried wealth outward, and ideas that questioned why.
In the final installment, we’ll trace these legacies into the present—how Britain’s material grip and the Soviet Union’s ideological shadow continue to echo in Nigeria’s oil politics today.
Photo by Pao Dayag on Pexels.com
Black Gold and Red Shadows, Part IV Legacies
By 1970, the Nigerian Civil War had ended, but the struggle over oil was only beginning. The war had revealed oil’s centrality to Nigeria’s survival, and it had also exposed the competing hands that sought to shape its destiny. Britain left behind pipelines, contracts, and corporate entrenchment. The Soviet Union left behind ideas, trained minds, and a critique of dependency. Both legacies continue to reverberate.
· Corporate Entrenchment: Shell-BP, later joined by Mobil, Chevron, and others, remained dominant in Nigeria’s oil sector. The contracts and concessions negotiated under colonial and early postcolonial regimes ensured that foreign firms controlled production and exports.
· Revenue Centralization: Britain’s colonial blueprint, placing mineral wealth under central authority, remained intact. Even after independence, oil revenues continued to flow to the federal government, often at the expense of the producing communities in the Niger Delta.
· Neo-Colonial Continuity: As one Nigerian economist lamented in the 1980s, “We traded one master for another. Independence gave us flags and anthems but not control of our resources.”
Universities and Unions: Soviet-trained Nigerians reshaped curricula, infused labor movements with socialist critique, and challenged the dominance of Western economic models.
Alternative Visions: They argued for nationalization, collective ownership, and development strategies rooted in sovereignty rather than dependency.
Lingering Influence: Even as the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991, the intellectual seeds it planted continued to shape debates about Nigeria’s place in the global economy.
One Nigerian professor, reflecting on his years in Moscow, put it this way: “The Soviets did not give us oil rigs, but they gave us questions—questions about who owns the rigs, who profits from them, and who pays the price.”
Today, Nigeria remains Africa’s largest oil producer, yet the paradox endures: immense wealth alongside persistent poverty. The Niger Delta continues to bear the scars of extraction, polluted waters, devastated farmlands, and communities demanding justice.
Britain’s legacy is evident in the infrastructure of extraction and the contracts that still favor multinational corporations. The Soviet legacy is audible in the voices of activists, scholars, and unionists who continue to demand that oil serve the people, not foreign masters.
The story of Nigeria’s oil is not just about geology; it is about geopolitics, ideology, and memory. Britain’s grip ensured that oil wealth flowed outward. The Soviet shadow ensured that Nigerians would never stop questioning why.
Together, these legacies remind us that the struggle over resources is also a struggle over narrative: who tells the story of oil, and whose voices are heard in its telling.
As we close this series, one truth remains: black gold and red shadows still shape Nigeria’s present, and they will continue to shape its future until sovereignty is not just political, but also economic and cultural.
So when an American President says he will invade Nigeria to protect Christians from being ethnically cleansed by the Muslims, know what the American business interests are really after is “black gold,” “Nigerian Tea,” and they will kill the Muslims and the Christians to get their western hands on it.
Although the Nigerians were complicit in the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade, blood is thicker than mud; it’s a family affair. Keep U. S. boots off Nigerian soil.
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Harold Michael Harvey Sharing His Wisdom!
Folks, I have never been so proud of this friend and author! In a short period of time, I have received answers for so many questions that have been floating around in my mind... If you can't also think the same, start over and reread, emphasizing only my italics spotlights of what struck me as answers... Yes, they include history that had never been taught in context...
Yes, they certainly put a slant on the world-wide events that continue to today--the only difference, perhaps, is there being more billionaires backing the greed that goes with authoritarian leaders. Indeed there is an intriguing dance that is still being played, mostly by governments and large corporations...
But, is it enough to now understand and know the answers? No, I don't think so... One thing that has helped... The greedy chose the wrong person to lead the United States at this time. We KNOW he is not capable of Conceiving all that is being done. Yet it continues to happen...
In allowing, yes, allowing a Supreme Court to go unchallenged after seeing what we've seen, it is an obvious assumption--a logical awareness... That NONE of those in our government can now be Trusted. Sure there are a few, but they have no power behind them...that's our fault.
Additionally, allowing an element of religion to become so entrenched was clearly NOT following the Words of God... In each country who has chosen the symbolic Barabbas over God's son, NOTHING has been resolved by His Death!
NOT IF THE UNITED STATES CONTINUES TO GO BACKWARD UNDER A PUPPET TO MONEIED EVIL!
Millions of God's children are being Sacrificed to Greed-- Human Greed... Not fictional characters like devils and demons and whatever comes into the minds of those who place money over people... It continues...
Was THE DEATH OF God's Son Not Sufficient for Some? No, it seems it wasn't...
Lord, you paid with your life, Yet Barabbas' followers still live Father, Forgive Us! And, thank you for Blessing Harold Michael Harvey and others like Him who Know You Well! Let more and more turn to the Great I AM and find His Truth and Love the One and Only Answer...
Matthew 19:23-26 American Standard Version (ASV)And Jesus said unto his disciples, Verily I say unto you, It is hard for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of heaven. And again I say unto you, It is easier for a camel to go through a needle's eye, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.
God is NOT RELIGION! FORGET ABOUT A RELIGION CATEGORY TO BE YOUR CULT AS IT NOW IS CLEAR! DO NOT ALLOW THOSE WHO CLAIM THIS OR THAT TO SPEAK FOR HIM! ASK HIM YOURSELF!
God loves ALL His Children Red and yellow, black, brown and...white... DO NOT EVEN THINK THAT ONE PERSON IS "MORE THAN" ANOTHER Open your Mind to God - the Great I AM!
Across the World, Lord...find those who Know YOU and let them Hear the words Michael Harvey gave to us today.Let us KNOW the truth He's provided That the rich are not placing you as First And millions die because of this infection of Greed Wipe out the Golden Greed and allow more to hear your Truth-- and most of all Know Your Love Amen...
Let God's Love Within Each Who Hear Speak of YOUR Truth of Love for All... May His Spirit Guide You Today and Always...
God Calls each of us to Share His Love and Truth Will you forget about those who do harm?
Start Each Day to Rid the World of Hate! Violence?!
Stop and think right now...WHAT WILL YOU DO TO RID THE WORLD OF GREED, HATE, AND VIOLENCE?!
Hey Michael...So happy to have shared your Words! You Are Helping Rid the World of Greed, Hate and Violence! May God Continue to Bless You!
Folks, As you may know, I've been trying to do more than I have time for, but I felt it was important to do so. Now that the election is over, I need to step back and slow down a little. When I realized that I needed to find out what Michael had been writing, and I started reading, I knew I wanted to share the entire Research effort of this one important issue now being pulled into our daily lives by this administration. Without knowing the history, I was just guessing as to what DJT was "playing" at in South America and Africa... He just wants to continue to USE people to get richer and richer! As has leaders done in the past! No wonder there are so many wars! And, in my opinion, continuing the use of religion to justify violence is despicable! I can guarantee God did not have His Son die to have millions continue to do the same old fighting over and over for eternity! May you listen and learn from this background. As you know I had to pull this post back into draft form, so I hope those who already had pulled it up will chance it once again... I have worked for hours to redo--or try to--redo the formatting... and I did not stop and take any breaks... So if this doesn't come out, I again apologize but will need to rethink whether a corporation that creates something, but then does their own interpretation of what was written, especially by my contributors, can be continued... I'll be forced to stick to my own writing re books for the foreseeable future...and not waste the time of my contributors and readers...
Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, along with all malice. Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.
EPHESIANS 4:31-32
Why do you pass judgment on your brother? Or you, why do you despise your brother? For we will all stand before the judgment seat of God; for it is written, “As I live, says the Lord, every knee shall bow to me, and every tongue shall confess to God.” So then each of us will give an account of himself to God.
ROMANS 14:10-12
What we are, and where we are is God’s providential arrangement—God’s doing, though it may be man’s misdoing; and the manly and the wise way is to look your disadvantages in the face and see what can be made out of them. --WILL SCHWALBE
I don’t want to do him any favors. I don’t want a killer in my home. Everyone should understand that, most of all God.
This book is about Truth and Lies... It's about good and evil... It's about love and hate... It's about...living!
Once again, it was interesting timing that this book was selected from my TBR long list. There was nothing I knew about the book, other than it was... available to acquire... either free or a low price. I don't even remember which... I do know that I have one fault--or blessing--depending on how you look at it. When I see a free book, I automatically get it! I can't seem to stop myself, especially as I recognize that I have NO idea of anything about the book...
Well, folks, this was a winner! Even though you may not understand until the very end... I like that kind of book--do you? That keeps the mystery, the suspense alive, page by page, wondering... Or trying to pick out clues. Well, for me, it was right before the Prologue... There were three references that were provided which are intended to share the thoughts, the reasons, that, perhaps, the author wrote the story. I was hooked immediately, even before I read one word of the book... One flaw in ebooks for me is that the software has been programmed to take the new reader directly to the first page of the book. Me, I prefer to start right at the cover, so I can ponder how that front cover is meant to convey something about the book, preferably an enticing cover that welcomes the potential reader into the world they might enter.
The Prologue was interesting, only for the fact that it introduced some main characters, and which could be misleading as well. Because the first page of the book takes place about 30 years later... where we meet the main character, who from the first day of her birth, she was told lies. Still she was able to reason herself out of those lies, like many of us now are doing, and had learned about God along the way and began her life in giving herself to the community in which she had been scorned by many... A simply fascinating character that you just might like to meet... I would!
Sleep was a phantom for Hanna for most of the night. She dozed here and there between tossing and turning. For the first time that she could remember, she was relieved when the alarm went off. Rubbing her eyes, she threw off the sheet and sat up. Stretching mightily, “Ow, ow, ow” squeaked out when the side she’d bruised yesterday protested painfully. After the stiffness and discomfort eased, in a few minutes, she felt ready to get up and face the day. On Saturday mornings, she’d meet with her best friend, Amanda, for a brisk walk. Mandy lived a block over and would walk to pick up Hanna. She strode into the bathroom, yawning, then rinsed off her face and pulled on her workout gear. The doorbell rang; Mandy was always on time. Hanna grabbed her phone, shoes, and socks and trotted to the front door. “Sorry I’m a tad late,” Hanna said as she pulled the door open. “I didn’t sleep very well.” Mandy stretched. “That’s okay, I’m moving slow this morning myself.” Hanna closed the door and sat on the porch bench to put on her shoes. “Why are you moving slow today? Missing Brody?” Mandy’s husband was a cycling coach, currently riding in Europe with his team. “Yeah, that. But we had a good Zoom call yesterday. What kept me awake is I’m worried about Edda. Losing sleep over it.” Hanna looked up from her laces. “Edda? Why? She’s the most stable, reliable person I know.” “Maybe. But she met some guy online, and I think she’s being bamboozled.” “Online?” Hanna almost laughed, the thought of Edda being caught up in Tinder or Match.com being so absurd. Mandy’s face made the laugh die in her throat. “That doesn’t sound like Edda.” Hanna tied her laces, grabbed her phone, and stood. Mandy leaned against one of the porch pillars, tension stiffening her shoulders. “It doesn’t. Apparently, it’s been going on awhile. I thought she was a little distracted lately. I wished I had pressed her on it awhile ago. But . . .” “You didn’t want to meddle?” “I’m more than her boss. I’m her friend. I should have meddled.” “So, how’d you find out?” “I caught her on the laptop in a chat room. It was like pulling teeth to get her to tell me what was going on. She said the person contacted her on the memorial website she set up for Bobby.” “What were they chatting about?” “At first she thought the guy was struggling with addiction, like Bobby. Now she’s not sure. All she would say was that she thought someone was pretending, and she wanted to find out who it was.” “Pretending?” Hanna slapped her forehead. “Edda sent me an e-mail, said she wanted to talk.” “About what?” “Legal help, I think. I never responded. Right after I read the e-mail, I was interrupted. I forgot all about it.” “Well, talk to her. Her son’s death really hurt. She’s not over it, and if someone got ahold of her online and is trying to take advantage, they need to be stopped. What if she thinks she found Bobby’s dealer?” “Why would you say that?” “No specific reason. I’m just worried. I should have paid more attention.” Hanna took a step and stood next to Mandy. “Agreed. I should have answered her e-mail.” She couldn’t remember the exact wording of the e-mail now. Could Edda have been trying to find the man responsible for Bobby’s death, or was it something more dangerous? “Yeah, I’m hoping you’ll talk to her and maybe look into this guy she’s been conversing with.” “Consider it done. I’ll drop by for a visit after church tomorrow. Ready?” Mandy nodded and together they hopped off the porch. She changed the subject. “I know you had quite a day yesterday. Braden is a handful for any babysitter.” News always traveled fast in Dry Oaks. It was no surprise that Mandy knew about the incident. “Yeah, the boy has endless energy. I hope that accidently falling from a cliff is the extent of his mischievousness.” Falling into step with Amanda, they headed for the local high school to walk the track. Saturday was a light day for both of them. Amanda was an avid cyclist. Hanna’s exercise of choice was running, and a normal run for her was around six miles. To mix it up, on Tuesdays and Thursdays she swam in the local pool. While vigorous exercise always helped clear her head, Saturday was a welcome break. The pleasant easy walk and chat with Mandy helped center Hanna, especially when the workweek had been tough. She was certain she did the same for Mandy. Her friend ran a local crisis pregnancy center, and often Hanna could feel the hurt and sadness radiating from Mandy. Too many young women saw abortion as the only option, and it weighed on Mandy and, to a certain extent, Hanna as well. Saving and protecting the innocent was a central reason she went into law enforcement. This morning, the most pressing thing on Hanna’s mind was Joe. Mandy was more than Hanna’s friend. She and her grandparents were family to Hanna. Joe murdered Mandy’s parents. How could his probable release not affect her? Hanna wasn’t certain how to broach the subject. “Braden only suffered a broken arm?” Mandy asked. “Yeah, besides that, just bumps and bruises. He got lucky.” “Did he say how he ended up on the ledge?” “Chasing the dog, who was chasing a squirrel. Cassidy couldn’t keep up.” “Hmph.” For a few minutes, they walked in companionable silence. Hanna had the sense that something was on Mandy’s mind. Was it still Edda? “Sounds like there is more to follow,” Hanna said. “Yeah, but it doesn’t make sense. It’s certainly not a Christian thought. It’s the Buckleys. Well, it seems sometimes as if they are cursed.” “Cursed?” Mandy waved her hand. “I know, I know, we don’t believe in curses. But so much tragedy for that family. First Chase, then Chase’s son, then Braden’s mother, then Scott . . .” “As a law enforcement officer, I could say there is nothing cursed about it. Just a lot of bad life decisions and unfortunate situations. Chase hung with the wrong crowd, his son was an unfortunate victim of a motorcycle accident, and Braden’s mother never had both feet on the ground—” “Okay, okay, I hate it when you get all official and pragmatic on me. Whatever the reason, it’s sad. And I hope this tumble is the worst thing that happens to Braden for a good long time.” They started their first lap around the track. Hanna could never do this boring type of workout without Mandy. “Speaking of bad things and curses,” Hanna began, “I got a strange visit yesterday.” “Visit? From whom?” “The Department of Corrections.” “What?” Mandy stopped, and so did Hanna, a couple of feet ahead of her. She turned back. “Did he die?” Mouth half open, Hanna looked at her friend. Was there hope in that question or sorrow? She shook her head. “Not yet. But he is dying. Cancer. They want to grant him compassionate parole.” Mandy frowned. “Huh? What is that, how would it work?” Hanna shrugged and started walking again, and Mandy hurried to catch up. “They want to send him to me. On hospice.” “You’re kidding.” “I wish I was. My answer is no. I’m too busy. Running a PD means I’m at work most of the time, for heaven’s sake. I don’t even have time for a dog. Besides, he’s really nothing to me.” Mandy grabbed her arm and they stopped again. “Don’t tell them no, Hanna. Don’t.” “What? Why not?” “Because. He’s at the end. Maybe he’ll finally do the right thing and tell me where my parents are.” Hanna saw desperate hope in her friend’s eyes. Surprise hit like a blow. “Wow.” “What?” “I never looked at it that way, from your perspective. I—” The sound of a car pulling into the school parking lot stopped her. It was a county car. Nathan. That he was here, now, meant not-good news. Mandy jerked around and followed her gaze. “I sincerely hope he just misses you.” Nathan got out and walked toward them. He looked tired. His clothes were rumpled, and the shadow of a beard darkened his jawline. Hanna bet he’d not been to sleep yet. “Good morning. I thought I’d find you two here,” he said as he approached. “What gives? You look like you’re the bearer of bad news.” Hanna tried to keep her tone light even as her stomach turned. He nodded, expression grim. “Afraid I am.” He looked away from Hanna, and his voice softened. “Mandy, we found a body last night. Another woman.” Nathan took a deep breath. “There is no easy way to say this. It was Edda.” “Huh?” Hanna felt as if all breath left her body. Auntie Edda? The pain she felt was real and ragged, but she held on to her emotions and watched the color drain from Mandy’s face. Reflexively, she reached out and gripped her friend’s elbow. “You’re sure?” Mandy asked, voice soft, unsteady. “As sure as I can be. I talked to her enough. I know her son is gone. Is there any other family I need to notify? News agencies were all over the scene. I don’t want any of her family to find out from a news broadcast.” Mandy shook her head. “Her husband passed a while ago. She spoke of a niece in another state, but how close they were, I’m not certain.” Her voice broke, and Hanna felt for her friend. Then Mandy seemed to brace herself and swallow the tears. “I know who did it.” She folded her arms, anger rapidly replacing grief. “I tried to warn her. It’s a guy she met online. Someone named Diego.”
~~~
Hanna was the town sheriff, duly elected, which was probably the strangest thing if you didn't get to know the town and who they might vote for. Because Hanna's father was in jail for murder... But Hanna was being born on the day that a fire destroyed a meth lab and people were killed, injured, and, ultimately, Joe had confessed to it all...
What was worse was that he had planned on one last batch to have sufficient funds--he wanted to get married and welcome his child into the world with a somewhat "clean" slate... That plan never had a chance...
To make matters worse for Hanna, she had fallen in love in high school with Jared, who had even asked her to get married... thing is, he wanted to take her out into the world--and all that jazz that young boys want to do. Hanna wanted to stay in her home town, a place that had accepted her, where she felt safe... welcomed in her church and in her community. Jared left...and broke her heart... It was obvious that she saw it as just another way she could be hurt by... men... She was just now getting to know another law officer and was at least willing to see how things might go... But it was obvious that his feelings were much stronger than Hanna's. Especially when Jared came back to town, when his father died....
By that time, the truth of the past started to unwind...
Women are disappearing, seemingly having met somebody on a dating site. There was a major fire in the area--her resources were called to that catastrophe. Hanna was being sued by a former employee who was shocked when she was actually voted in as sheriff... And his misogyny couldn't accept that she was able to fire him... And he became very vocal about it around town...
That was easy to do, because there was one man who decided he was meant to spread the news in his town, whether or not it was actually true wasn't relevant. After all, he had published a book... And apparently most people in town had read the book... It was the "real" story of what happened on the night when Hanna's father had murdered people and disfigured one of the sons of the most influential family in town. Rumors were out that he was beginning to write a book from the family whose two sons had been most affected by the murder night years ago...
And even more was to be faced by Hanna... Those who controlled the prison system, had developed a program to try to lower the numbers of people in the jails. One of the options was to allow those prisoners with good records but who were now near natural death, to go home... Home? They wanted Hanna to accept a man she had never met into her home? No Way! She thought she had forgiven him, in God's name...but...
And then she talked to her best friend who had stood with her all her life. And, for the first time learned that her father supposedly murdered her parents and got rid of their bodies. She asked Hanna to agree to accept Joe into her home, so she could talk to him and see if he would tell her, finally, where their bodies were located so they, too, could be finally with their families... Hanna gave in and soon Joe was in a hospital bed, with 24-7 hospice care, in her guest bedroom...
Fortunately, the work of the sheriff didn't ever stop, so she was able to leave him there and proceed with her life... NOT...
This is an action-packed book in some ways; in others it is a book to contemplate about the primary issues we have--the difference between Truth and Lies... And what harm can be brought about through the use of lies to get what greed requires... This one became a personal favorite, for many reasons... But the main reason is the writer's ability to tell a much-needed story and still allow readers to participate in the issues displayed... Kudos!
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