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Barack Obama: Voices from the Grave
Barack Obama: Voices from the Grave
Barack Obama: Voices from the Grave
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Barack Obama: Voices from the Grave

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"Why is obama chosen for this journey? Why is america chosen for this journey? Author, Chii Ughanze-Onyeagocha opens your mind to the answers to these questions as "HE" UNVEILS THAT AFRICA IS INDEED A LAND OF MYSTERIES."
LanguageEnglish
PublisherXlibris US
Release dateFeb 12, 2010
ISBN9781453583548
Barack Obama: Voices from the Grave

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    Barack Obama - Chii Ughanze-Onyeagocha

    Copyright © 2010 by Chii Ughanze-Onyeagocha (PhD).

    ISBN: Softcover  978-1-4500-2371-9

    ISBN: Ebook      978-1-4535-8354-8

    All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

    This book was printed in the United States of America.

    To order additional copies of this book, contact:

    Xlibris Corporation

    1-888-795-4274

    www.Xlibris.com

    Orders@Xlibris.com

    60603

    CONTENTS

    Prologue

    Chapter 1

    Chapter 2

    Chapter 3

    Chapter 4

    Chapter 5

    PROLOGUE

    On Dec. 18/09, the world confirms its subconscious knowledge of this DIVINE ASSIGNMENT—by awarding President Obama, a Nobel Prize for peace, before he starts the assignment!

    This book is told through the point of view of Nkem, the alter ego of Chii, as she slowly divulges the messages told her by ancestors, voices from the grave—many voices. This book will answer the following questions for you:

    Why is Obama chosen for this journey?

    Why is Iowa chosen to start this journey for Obama?

    Why is Oprah chosen to introduce Obama to America and therefore to the world?

    Why couldn’t Hillary destroy Obama?

    She even worked together with the enemy—the conservative Talk Show Hosts to destroy him. It still did not work, why?

    Why is America chosen for this journey?

    Why did a hurricane disrupt the Republican Convention?

    And most importantly, why did the Wall Street crash when it did?

    And why did the rest of the world financial institutions crash too?

    Skeptics, who do not believe in the power of God, and therefore do not believe in the supernatural, leave your minds open. Read on—.

    CHAPTER 1

    It is 3 a. m. Feb.13/ 2007. The same month Barack Obama announced his candidacy. I am having banging headaches, frontal ones.

    What is happening to me? I silently ask my God.

    I sit up on my bed, rubbing my frontal lobe, as hard as I can. But what ever is banging against the walls of this frontal lobe, won’t stop. It is banging as hard as it can. I panic, tears stream down my face. I only get these banging headaches, whenever my child hood sleep walking, hallucinations, talking in my sleeps and conversations with the dead, return.

    Oh my God! I scream and run to the bathroom, washing my whole head with the coldest water the tap can give me, while still muttering to my God, my Tony, my dad, my mom and all those beyond, who love me.

    Please don’t bring this back, please, please don’t, I plead.

    I stopped getting these banging headaches, soon after I got married to my Tony in Ames, Iowa. That was about 44 years ago, nearly half a century! Before that time, I was a sleep walker. I could talk aloud in my dreams; I could see and hear things in my dreams; things that always came true, and worst of all, I could have conversations with the dead.

    Please don’t let this come back, I plead again, my tears forming a pool on the floor. Suddenly the banging stops and my weird past start flashing through my mind:

    I see me back home, limping; my left foot bandaged. I look 15. That must be back in secondary school, I sigh. I was afflicted with an unusual sore on my left foot, my first year. This sore would not bleed, rather it exuded constant streams of a stinking fluid. Even if the sore were bandaged, this liquid would soak through the whole bandage in no time. Flies would surround my foot, whenever I was out of my mosquito net. Most of the time, I would hide there to read; hiding from these constant pests.

    I came from a poor family in Nigeria. Poverty was something very common to most Africans, before the mid twentieth century (1960s). But God gave me a very special gift. I was considered brilliant, because I excelled in every academic Endeavour I undertook. In elementary school, my teachers would often take me to higher classes to solve math problems, that those students could not solve. These teachers must not have been thinking of the grave danger, they put me in. Boys from those higher classes would always way-lay me after school, and beat the hell out of me. I often wondered in my pain, why they beat me, instead of my teachers. Without my no—nonsense, warrior, younger sister, Nchekwube, I would not be here, writing this book. My sister broke many boys’ heads with bottles, on my behalf.

    Back to my weird sore; my family and the secondary school, took me to many hospitals. None of these hospitals could cure this sore, nor could they stop the stinking fluid. They suggested amputating my foot. My father would not hear of that. I was his life and he could not see me with only one foot. A tinsmith in one of the local governments, my father was also a herbalist and believed strongly in the African traditional medicine and the power of God. He refused the amputation and consulted the oracle (God’s mouth piece). He was told that one of his relatives was out to kill me, because of my rapid academic progress. But the oracle could not tell him which brother it was and how to stop my dying. He offered many sacrifices, but nothing positive was coming forth. But my father was good in his herbs. He researched and found a herb that could stop the stinky fluid but it could not cure the sore. In spite of all these problems, I was determined to go to America. For Nigerians of the mid twentieth century, America was the place for great brains to study. Great Britain was no more exciting. Every Tom, Dick and Harry went there. America was new.

    Great Britain was our colonial power. And in the years before the sixties, Britain had used propaganda effectively, to turn us against America. This propaganda was so effective that, American degrees were no degrees in Nigeria prior to the sixties. And virtually none of the very few Nigerians that had gone to America to study, before this period could get graduate level jobs in Nigeria. American degree was no degree and that was it. But these all changed in the sixties, when America came in full force with USAID (United States of America International Development) scholarships, and awarded them to a few selected, fortunate bright students. These students were to study in America, and to experience this unique quality of education, American system of education. Unlike British education which focused just on the students’ major fields, at the first degree level, American education exposes a student to so many fields at the undergraduate level. By the time a student graduates with the first degree, he can discuss his major field and many other fields intelligently. That was not true of British education at that time. Experiencing American education first hand, became America’s best weapon against British propaganda and it worked.

    I was still aspiring to get to America, if my weird sore would let me. Finishing secondary school and doing well in WASC (West African School Certificate, equivalent to American SAT-Standardized American Test) was the only way to get this scholarship to America. In the sixties, a university degree, was the most assured way out of poverty for Nigerians, and a major path into the upper class. You were sure of a car and a good house for next to nothing, in most graduate level jobs. And getting that degree abroad, especially from America, gave a push to one’s upper class status; as strong a nudge as being born abroad, especially the West. A complicated class system, right? but that was the situation then and much of it, is still with us: such as being an American born citizen, having the green card, naturalizing as an American citizen, and just being in America; all of which have different privileges and social symbols.

    I was still determined to use my brains to leave poverty behind. I was still determined to be in America. I was not going to let anything stop me, not even this weird sore. But the sore had its own agenda. My left foot was now fatter than the right foot and it has also become lifeless. Someone could stand on this foot, over my sore and I would not feel anything. But I could still walk. I just dragged my left foot along. The mind is a very powerful organ! Mine was seriously set on America, regardless of this life threatening sore. The sore was focused on its agenda more than ever. A night before the WASC examination, as I was later told, I was studying on my bed. Suddenly I went into a trance and my body started shaking vigorously. My vono bed was making such loud squeaking noise, a crowd of students quickly gathered at my bedside. It was 11pm. and every student was supposed to be in bed in these dormitories. This secondary school was a boarding one.

    I was talking aloud in my trance, just repeating No one is to call any teacher; no one is to take me to the hospital; I will kill anyone that does this to me. West African School Certificate examination, is a two weeks’ examination. It was to start the following morning. And death is a very scary thing in our culture. A threat of murder is one thing no Nigerian wants to take lightly, especially when it involves something as mysterious as this sore. Students just cried and prayed beside my bed. Then I started talking with some invisible people inside my mosquito net, the students said.

    I remembered clearly seeing three gray haired people enter my net, two men and a woman. I could not scream, I just watched them. The two men sat beside me, one on each side. How they could squeeze beside me on this tiny bed, was beyond my understanding. They called my name and touched me tenderly. The woman rubbed my sore foot. She was chanting as she rubbed it. Then she would stop and the three would make me say aloud No one is to take me to the hospital—

    When they came into my net, they had told me their names, and had told me that they were my ancestors. I did not remember nor recognize any of them. But it did not matter, they were my ancestors and came to help me. I believe in ancestors, like my father did. These three told me not to be afraid and I was not afraid. Students said that I talked to invisible people for hours. Then around 3 am I became quiet and was fast asleep.

    I remember clearly that my alarm went off at 7am. I did not set this alarm that hectic night. My ancestors must have. I jumped off my bed and fell flat on my butt. I could not walk. My left leg had gone completely limp. I looked down at myself, sprawled helplessly on the floor beside my bed. I did not cry. Before long, students rushed back and carried me to the school clinic; of course not to the hospital. My sore was cleaned, and bandaged as usual. I was carried on a stretcher to the examination center in the campus. This was how it went on, for the two weeks of this WASC examination. After the WASC, I was then driven to the hospital. The doctors repeated their suggestion and again my father rejected it. Amputation was no option for him. He carried me home. He became despondent. He had no more options on how to save me, except a miracle from God. We just prayed and prayed. But I was very cheerful, although immobile. We continued waiting and praying for a miracle. We had nothing else to do to this sore.

    While waiting, I had a dream one night and saw my WASC result. I screamed the details aloud in my happiness. My father copied these details. The real result came out the following day and the details were just as I said them in my dream: Grade one with excellent details. We were jubilant. But not for long. My father sank back into his depression. He felt that I was slowly leaving him.

    But not me. I had no such fear. My mind was set on America. Just seeing this great land; the land of milk and honey; being an American graduate, that would set my life for good. I prayed and prayed.

    Then from no where, one very old man appeared; must be over 90, and in loin cloth, as my father told us later. No one saw him coming. It was six in the morning. My father took his goats out to eat grass, and was sitting under a palm tree, thinking of my sore, when this old man suddenly stood in front of him. My father was startled and stood up instantly. The old man wasted no time in delivering his message in his shaky voice. He told my father that he knew everything about my father. He knew what my father was thinking about. My father’s jaw dropped, as he stared at this old man, from no where. The old man continued. He said that I was going to die in a couple of days. My father’s legs wobbled and he leaned against the palm tree. He quickly told my father, that it was he, the old man that made the medicine to kill me. My father raised the long rod, he was holding. The old man eyed him and my father lowered the rod. That was the rod he carried with him every morning to protect his goats from wild animals. He told my father that my father’s half brother had paid him to make the medicine. My father moved closer to him, as he said the half brother’s name. My father quickly turned to leave, raising his rod high up. The old man called my father back, by his nick name. My father dropped the rod and turned back instantly, his eye balls bulging! How did this old man know my nick name? my father wondered.

    He bent down and slowly picked up his rod, still wondering how this old man knew his nick name.

    According to my father, the Old Man smiled at him cynically, I have decided to unmake this evil medicine. And in consequence, I would die.

    My father drew closer, the rod dropping from his hand once more.

    The old man continued, I have been in turmoil since I made this medicine. My father’s face twitched.

    Listen to this instruction attentively, and carry it out exactly. Your daughter’s life depends on it," my father nodded in quick successions.

    The Old man turned to leave, Follow me, don’t let me disappear. Have someone take your daughter to the lone hut by Waterside Aba, and wait there.

    This is the common name for the huge river in our town, Aba. This river was nearly ten miles away, how could this old man get there on foot? my father wondered.

    Can we go in a taxi? my father asked. The old man was already in the bush, walking faster than one, half his age. My father stared at him momentarily, wondering, if this man was real or a spirit. My father shook his shoulders in a resigned manner and followed him, calling aloud on my cousin to hurry me down to the river in a taxi. My father did not let his eyes off this man but walked a short distance behind him. My father must have been very attentive to details, because he remembered minute details when he narrated this later to the family.

    My cousin ran to my father Did I hear you correctly, Waterside Aba?

    My father nodded quickly.

    My cousin’s eyes popped Waterside Aba is an evil river.

    My father nodded, as he pushed my cousin off his path, Taxi, taxi to the river, quick, my cousin yelled at a passing taxi cab.

    My cousin and I were off to the river in no time. We waited several hours for my father and the old man to arrive. We feared for my father, this evil old man could kill him in the forest. He probably was some monster that turned into an old man. This kept tumbling in our minds. But suddenly the two of them appeared at the hut; must have been near 8pm. We exhaled.

    The old man immediately peeled the bandage off my sore and hurried me to the shrine behind this raggedy wooden hut. It was like he was running out of time. He talked to the oracle in a tongue, none of us understood. My father kept watching him closely. The old man went inside his hut, and came out with a small cup of juice. He gave it to me to drink. I drank it cautiously. I would drink anything that would get rid of this weird sore. Within a few minutes the sore turned into a curly mass of green algae. I started screaming. Everyone joined me to scream, except the old man. He moved me near a small hole behind his hut; my father and my cousin quickly followed us.

    The old man scraped the algae into this hole. My sore immediately started bleeding for the first time; an open, clear, bloody, sore resulted.

    My father was frozen in place, staring at this sore, his mouth wide open, his hands up high, in supplication to God.

    The old man washed the sore clean and rubbed some ointment on it.

    He turned to my father with a very distant, worn-out look, She is saved. Take her home. The sore will heal in a few days. Good night and goodbye, he pointed us to the mat in the sandy front of his hut and sadly walked into his dingy hut. He died that night.

    BACK TO THE PRESENT:

    My banging headache returns. I rub it as hard as I can.

    God please take this headache away, please Good Lord, take it away, I weep.

    A loud crack in the ceiling, I look up. A thin wall slowly moves down in front of me. Two strong invisible hands immediately position me, to stare at what looks like ghosts, having a meeting. Their voices sound ghostly and there must be a million of them, different ages. They seem oblivious of my presence. They are seated and are talking all at the same time. I am quickly enveloped into their discussion. I want to run away from my apartment and never come back. But I cannot pull away from this envelope. I try to see their faces. I recognize Dr. Nnamdi Azikiwe and Kwame Nkrumah immediately. They got Nigeria and Ghana their independence from Great Britain. They were also two of the earlier private students to America.

    Wow! I scream. But the sound is subdued. I continue looking at the other many faces. I recognize a lot of them, at least from their photographs I had seen: Dr. Obama, Barack’s father (I call him Obama Snr.), Dr. Reverend Martin Luther King Jnr., Steve Biko, Malcom X, Dr. Cheikh Anta Diop, Dr. Duboise, Ray Charles, Paul Robeson, Rosa Park, Coretta-Scot King and Bob Marley but not the rest of them. I notice two white figures: a woman and a man. Suddenly the white woman turns to face me. I recognize her immediately. She is Dr. Ann Dunham, Barack’s mother. The white man beside her is Stanley Dunham, Barack’s maternal grand father. They look just as they are in Barack’s book, Dreams of my Father. There are so many more ghosts sitting in rows behind, that I do not recognize. I shudder. Goose bumps come all over my body.

    Order! order! screams Obama senior. They all stop talking and stare at him.

    This is about my son! Heads are nodding.

    Your son? Ann asks sarcastically. You were not there when he needed you.

    Obama senior turns instantly, furious! You were not there either; just for a short while may be, and you quickly dumped him on your parents, he looks ready for war.

    So? You didn’t even try, Ann is defensive.

    Why couldn’t you follow me to Havard? After all you were my wife, weren’t you?

    Stanley steps in, Hey you two—enough of that nonsense. Barry has done better than most kids, hasn’t he?

    Everyone applauds.

    Obama senior interrupts, That brings me back to what I was saying before she—, he turns to Ann, his lips pursed and quivering.

    Not again, senior, please go on, Stanley pleads.

    Obama senior continues, God has decided that it is time. And He has picked my son—

    Ann Dunham cuts in instantly, Your son again?

    Please, please people—, Stanley pleads.

    Obama senior sighs and continues, The oracle has delivered God’s decision. Everyone nods.

    Our job is mapped out for us. Even though at the end, mortals will claim the victory and try to explain it their ‘shallow’ way. They all break down laughing!

    But before we start, we have to understand America’s presidential election system.

    I can take you through the primary, as far as when I was down there, Dr. Martin Luther King bursts in.

    And I can add the modifications from when you left, Ann adds.

    Obama senior sighs loudly. Stanley quickly eyes him.

    Coretta Scot King raises her hand, And I can come in after my husband and take you through the electoral procedures.

    What of the presidency itself, the White House? Obama senior asks. We have to make sure that he accomplishes what God has assigned him. And that no mortal obstructs him.

    Obstructs him and Michelle silly, Ann adds angrily.

    Obama senior turns to her instantly, his nose puffing!

    Stanley moves between them like lightening, Can you keep quiet Ann?

    Nice of you to mention my daughter. All eyes turn to this new voice. He just walked in. That must be Fraser Robinson, Michelle’s father.

    Steve Biko raises his head, The White House can wait. The primary is urgent! Barack is on the road right now, and we should be by his side.

    They all say Amen.

    Dr. King starts his explanation of America’s system of election:

    "Both the Democratic and the Republican parties have primaries and caucuses, starting the same time but not always in the same states. Campaigns for these primaries have already started; usually a year before the primary/caucus votes are casted; and two years before the general presidential election votes are casted, Nov. 4. The winner of these primaries/caucuses is formally nominated at each party’s convention; in Aug for the democrats, followed by Sept. for the republicans. Usually these winners are known earlier, when they reach the ultimate number of delegates, as dictated by their party’s election rules. The primaries/caucuses end at that time and the winners immediately start campaigning for the general election. For the Democratic Party, the magic number is equivalent to 2025 delegates. The general presidential election campaigns, now formally continue for a couple more months, then the general election takes place on Nov 4.

    Inauguration is the following Jan., usually 20. American presidential election is that simple." Everyone claps. They are all talking at the same time. Suddenly Coretta bursts out laughing. There is silence and heads turn to her.

    "Honey, so much have changed since you left. Let me go through it carefully, including the changes, so our fellow Africans and Caribbeans can understand the process.

    They cannot get anything from what you just said."

    Ann jumps in again Tell it like it is Coretta. These men think they know it all. All eyes turn to her and she shuts up.

    Coretta is silent, her face raised up. She looks like she is in deep thought. Then she lowers her head and the tension on her face relaxes.

    Iowa opens the process with her caucuses in January of each election year. New Hampshire follows with her primary, also in January for the Democratic Party. These can occur in different months and sometimes in different states for the Republican Party. But for the Democratic Party, Iowa always opens up the process with her caucuses.

    Many hands fly up.

    Why does Iowa start the process? And what exactly is a caucus? Dr. Azikiwe asks.

    Ray Charles takes it up, "Iowans from the 99 counties that make up Iowa, gather in schools, homes, halls and other assigned precincts, about 1784 precincts. They discuss and elect the delegates that would represent them in their county conventions. One has to be a legal resident of Iowa as specified by the law; and at least 17years old on the caucus day, to participate officially in these caucuses. That way an official participant is at least 18 years on the general presidential election day. Eighteen is the legal age for all elections in the U.S.A.

    At the county conventions, these delegates select delegates for Iowa’s Congressional District Convention and the State Convention in that order. At the State Convention, delegates selected at the Congressional District Convention, select the delegates to be sent to the National Presidential Nominating Convention. Usually the number of delegates that each presidential candidate gets during the precinct caucus is announced by the media and later confirmed by the state convention; to be forwarded to the national presidential nominating convention. The number of delegates for state positions may change, as it moves from county convention, through district convention, to state conventions but not the number of delegates for the national presidential nominating convention. Again, for a candidate to receive any delegate from any precinct, the candidate must have at least 15% of the official caucus attendees of that precinct. It seems like for this year, 2008, there are eight candidates for the Democratic Party: Our Barack, Joe Biden, Hillary Rodham Clinton, Chris Dodd, John Edwards, Mike Gravel, Dennis Kucinich, Tom Vilsack and Bill Richardson. Only those that meet this 15% rule will gain delegates. The Republican Party has seven candidates: Rudy Gulliani, Mike Hukabee, Duncan Hunter, John McCain, Ron Paul, Mitt Romney, Fred Thompson and Tom Tancredo. The Republican Party has a different set of rules too."

    Dr. Azikiwe interrupts, It is still not explained why Iowa is chosen to be the first in this process?

    Coretta takes it back, It happened in 1972 when George McGovern ran for the presidency. Norma S. Mathews, Iowa State co—chair for McGovern’s campaign had manipulated the dates, so that Iowa would open up the presidential process with her caucuses. McGovern came second to Edmund Muskie, but winning in Iowa gave Muskie such a momentum, that both the Republican Party and the Democratic Party scheduled Iowa as the first for the following presidential election. It has been like that since then. Once in a while the Republican Party has deviated from this norm but not the Democratic Party. In general though, for the two parties, winning in Iowa, seems to give a good prediction of who wins the presidency. As one Iowan said once, ‘Iowans, although very stubborn, have great common sense. If Iowa feels that a candidate is better suited for the presidency than others, that candidate will most likely be found so in other states."

    Ray Charles comments, It is just like that old tv/movie saying, ‘will it play in Peoria?’ Everyone laughs.

    Coretta continues, Ray, you were an entertainer, so you know that saying, I don’t know it, never heard of it. I think that the belief that a win in Iowa predicts the presidential win, is more psychological than anything else. We believe that it will work and it works most of the time. But more importantly, Iowa struggles to maintain this opening position because it attracts enormous money to businesses in the state and also gives Iowa a political recognition, which is the reason other states keep challenging Iowa’s first position.

    They laugh.

    "Millions of dollars are spent in Iowa, for advertisements by both parties. Big time entertainers also visit the state to help the candidates. One more thing about the election process, the two parties, have pledged delegates. Democrats have more expansive delegates called the super delegates too. The later are party leaders and elected officials. These pledged delegates, especially, the super delegates can decide the primary election, more so, when the election is close. This way the party nominee is known before the convention.

    The following is the list of the dates for these caucuses and primaries.

    Jan 3—Iowa caucus

    Jan 5—Wyoming caucus (Republican only)

    Jan 8—New Hampshire

    Jan 15—Michigan primary

    Jan 19—Nevada Caucus & Republican South Carolina primary

    Jan 26—Democratic South Carolina primary

    Jan 29.—Florida primary

    Feb.7 1—February 2—Republican Maine caucus

    February 5—Super Tuesday: primaries/caucuses for both parties in 19 states, plus three Democratic—only caucuses and two Republican—only primaries. Proposals on modifying the above list have been presented but not yet confirmed.

    That is a very lengthy list, Obama senior comments.

    It is all over the internet. You guys do not go online, do you? Dr King laughs.

    Obama senior ignores his comment, "We shall all be exhausted by the time this

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