Excerpt "Diary of a Lost Girl" by Kola BoofOBAMA BARACK, TAVIS SMILEY AND BOOK NEWS
REVOLUTION: The Black Woman Artist
Peter Bergen "Lied" on Kola Boof
ESTHER ROLLE--Poem by Kola Boof
KOLA BOOF hits #1 with Young Black Female Readers
Excerpt "Diary of a Lost Girl" by Kola Boof
A Classic Short Story by KOLA BOOF
Mysterious Plane Crash in Sudan--Deng Ajak killed
There Is Only One DENG AJAK--A Poem by Kola Boof
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DIARY OF A LOST GIRL by Kola Boof. Available at AMAZON.COM or call Seaburn: 1-718-267-7929 The first 2 chapters of Kola Boof's autobiography, "Diary of a Lost Girl". ISBN: 1592320120 Naima
iaodla The Nile...is a river in Sudan. That is where this writer was born, in the hot metropolis of a city called Omdurman (which along with Khartoum and North Khartoum, in size and density, could be considered the New York City of North Africa). Unfortunately, my novels and poems have always pissed people off and made them contentious towards me--so as I begin now to sketch a portrait of myself and my life, as truly no one else could, I do so with the knowledge that the contents of this book could get me killed, and I ask that you, the reader, not come into this book expecting to "like me"--I’m not that kind of artist--I’m a very damaged and altogether unusual woman from a very different culture than yours, so it’s important that you be prepared to expect the unexpected. My ex-lover, Osama Bin Laden, once threatened my life because of a poetry collection I wrote; he felt I was prostituting myself for America (instead of for him)--my Ethiopian publisher was firebombed in 2002 for printing a collection of short stories I wrote, and on April 9th, 2003, an investigative Human Rights report presented on the floor of the UNITED NATIONS confirmed the "fatwa" and death threats that I had received from Sudan due to the books I write.
15 *Read UN REPORT on page 427 Diary of a Lost Girl My real name is Naima Bint Harith--but I call myself Kola Boof. I’ve learned that many Americans (especially whites and media types), think that’s a comical name--but it’s very special to me, because it’s actually the greatest poem that I ever wrote. The name (as a poem) signifies four things--(1) the Kola nut, which is the favorite snack of African children as well as the symbol of prosperity, moral goodness and well being to Africans as a people. (2) The sound of the African drum ("boof!" comes the drums). And then finally, because as a teenager, I so loved silent screen star Clara Bow and cartoon sex kitten Betty Boop, and was (and am) a silent movie buff to the point that I wanted to create a sexy movie star type name that would still encompass everything that I cherish and sought to represent as an artist from Africa--aaand--as a womanist and a wombbearer. So in the poem "Kola Boof", I achieved all of that with two words and made it my name, and in fact, took it further by naming several of my books after the silent films that I loved so much as a teen ("Flesh and the Devil"..."Long Train to the Redeeming Sin"..."Diary of a Lost Girl"). I don’t want to jump too far ahead of the story, but I didn’t learn to speak English until I was fourteen, and because of that, I didn’t have a lot of friends in America and was a politely cheerful but introverted, emotionally unhinged young girl who took refuge in the books of Richard Wright, Alice Walker, Sherwood Anderson and Sylvia Plath while also being enamoured of the ghost misery (and magic) that can transform you in silent films. I had a very hideous childhood and spent most of my pre-adult years in Psychiatric care, something that many people have enjoyed making fun of and have tried to use to discredit my voice and my opinions--but all of this is why, as an African, I came to create the poem "Kola Boof" and to love it so much. I am further blessed, because I’m also an American citizen, and not too many people can boast that they are the daughter of the land of the blue blacks (Sudan), the daughter of the River of Blood (the Nile),
16 Kola Boof and also, the daughter of the mightiest nation on earth, America--and yet still--both! my countries (America and Sudan) are mainly infamous for their institutions of slavery, and moreover, it was slavery in modern day Sudan that caused me to come to the United States and be adopted and raised by the strangest Africans I’ve ever met..."the Black Americans". So you see, this is going to be a very interesting book.
owl
Yet before we get to the heart of my experience, there’s a few questions that I’d like to clear away up front, the main one being--"why did it take so many years for this book to come out, when it was announced four years ago?" And the answer to that is simple. Because of Osama Bin Laden--there was enormous interest in the book (and I was offered huge sums of money by two of the top publishers in the United States)--but we could never agree on how the book was to be presented. They demanded that his picture be on the cover of the book! (because after all, who in the hell had ever heard of Kola Boof? Nobody). And secondly, they wanted to remove all of my life story from the book and focus only on the chapters that featured my experiences with Osama Bin Laden. Nobody cared that I had been a feminist political activist, a secret agent for the SPLA and a published author--not just a bimbo, and because of that, and because I was hung up in contracts with various agents who were in agreement with the big advances being offered by these publishing conglomerates--I had to refuse the deals and just sit the contracts out. I thought it would be tacky to come out with a book about Osama, with his picture on the cover, when the fact is--I only knew him for six months (against my will)--and I was basically being asked to trash him
17 Diary of a Lost Girl in a way that would be palpable to angry patriotric post 9-11 readers who wanted to hear about this evil satanic demon-man and his "pornographic" rape and sexing of a sinful African jezebel movie starlet...you get the picture. And unfortunately--that really is the picture, but I still have to represent Kola Boof. I’m already a bizarre enough figure to those Americans who know about me ("topless on the back of her books--like a savage!"), and because of the complexities of my beliefs and my type of art, I couldn’t just take the money and run (although, I wanted and needed to--because my two small sons and I were living under protection of the United States government, almost like house arrest at that time, with no income, no freedom and were in very real danger, and I couldn’t very well go out and work a 9 to 5 job, and while I tried, as a mother, to get help by appealing to the media regarding the death threats and the situation of my children--I was accused of making up fantastic stories to get media attention and trying to "make money" off my books). So this book, a literary memoir, is my chance to prove my story by telling it truthfully. This is my "soul book", --it’s going to be my truth through my art. There are plenty of photographs from my modeling days, my childhood and my life all over the internet--there’s plenty of news footage and a documentary about my life (which includes footage of me with my sons) that can be watched online for free (the internet), and there are radio interviews with my adoptive Black American parents that you can listen to online for free. There’s even footage online of me singing "My Breasts Are Filled With Milk and Honey", a traditional African Nilotic mothering song, that you can watch online during Black History Month. That’s really the best I can do in the way of images--is direct you to the internet--and in the case of Osama Bin Laden, who almost never allowed himself to be photographed with his wives--it’s even more ridiculuous to expect that he would have posed for photos with a Black infidel mistress,
18 Kola Boof and just as there are no photos of me with other important people in my life, for instance--the slain Dutch filmmaker Theo Van Gogh (who befriended me in 2002) or my late leader John Garang (my poem about him, "Choll Apieth", was read at his funeral) or Derrick Bell (my idol and good friend at New York University) or Stephen Elliott (the author of "Happy Baby" and "Looking Forward to It") who rescued my career as a literary fiction writer by publishing my work at a crucial moment, the two of us chatting over the phone for months yet never taking a photo--likewise, there are no photos of me with Osama, other than the ones his brother took in Morocco (and by accident, as I wasn’t supposed to be in the picture), which I don’t have access to. Naturally--the run-ins I’ve had with The New York Times, Connie Chung and others who, initially, because I was in hiding and couldn’t give interviews, said I didn’t exist and was a character made up by white college boys as a prank on the internet have made me bitterly agressive in talking about my experiences with Somi (Osama)--mainly because they accused me of lying about it and trying to "cash in" on it. And because I was forced to reveal that I was with Osama, and initially tried to deny it (see the London Guardian Newspaper), because I didn’t want to lose my American citizenship (categorized as a "suspected terrorist" under the PATRIOT ACT)--and because, for the life of me, I don’t know why anyone on American soil would want to willingly admit to being "Hitler’s girlfriend", which is what it’s like to say you were "Osama’s mistress"--I just never understood why people in the media attacked me as unfairly as they did in the beginning (or at least once they realized that "Arab Mistress" Naima Bint Harith was black and not white). Hopefully, by the end of this book, every question that anyone has about Kola Boof will be answered, that’s my intention. I know things about Somi that not even his four wives (or sister-in-law Carmin) could tell--so regardless of what people believe or don’t believe--I’m going to tell my story with as much naked truth as possible.
19 Diary of a Lost Girl It’s true enough that I’ve had unbelievable tragedy in my life, but even more so--God has been there for me in very big ways. I was adopted by Black Americans at the age of eight (I returned to North Africa via Israel in 1994 as a young adult). I don’t know when I was actually born--my Auntie Ramah says March 3rd, 1969, the government of Sudan says March 3rd, 1972, and one of my Egyptian uncles says that I was born in 1970 or 1971--and it is not uncommon for displaced Sudanese people to not know their age--so for the duration of this book, I am just going to pick "7" as the age I was when my birth parents (Arab Egyptian archeologist Harith Bin Farouk and his only wife...MommySweet Jiddi...a "blue black" Gisi-Waaq Oromo) were murdered for speaking out against slavery in our country--and age "8" as when I was let for adoption by Black Americans. My parents, Marvin and Claudine Prell Johnson, were a generous and loving couple in South East Washington, D.C., raising seven other children when they took me in. I couldn’t speak a word of English and they couldn’t speak Arabic, but they wanted me--so it didn’t matter, you see. And although they fully support me in my career (and as I’ve said, there are radio interviews with my parents online), they have paid dearly for having Kola Boof as a daughter. In 2002, when death threats were being made against me from Arab Muslim extremists--I could not be found--so it was my Black American parents and my seven siblings who were terrorized and forced to move from their homes, and back in Egypt and Sudan, several of my Arab Muslim uncles were arrested, jailed and beaten just for being related to Kola Boof. This book, of course, is going to go into much greater detail about my origins and my families--everything is in this book--but the point I’m making is that through all the horrendous events you’ll soon be reading about--I never was and am not now a "victim". As a very young child, I had to witness my birth parents being murdered in front of me. The murhaleen (part of Sudan’s gestapo)
20 Kola Boof burst into our home one night and escorted my Madhi Pappuh and Mommysweet out to the backyard to be executed. Mommysweet had already tucked me into bed, but my bedroom overlooked the backyard. I could have gotten up and went to the window and looked, but I thank God that I did not. For in quick Arabic fashion, my parents were put out of this world. I heard it and I still hear it, and there are no words to describe the obscene sound of what I not only heard...but opened up to receive. I am still mentally, emotionally and spiritually sick from it--I am truly a damaged person--but I am not a victim. When I was born, my Pappuh decreed: "This is Naima...the one who is victorious...the one who is praying." And that, I believe, is why I’m an artist. That feeling of not having enough room to live in ones own body--so that you must engage the world around you. This is why I don’t ever back down from life--because I am still that child, carrying that sound. I am still an orphan, alone in this world, and there is no time for any of us, I assure you, to back down...from our lives. As a teenager, my American parents sent me to psychiatrists. They wondered why it was that I could remember so much of my life in Sudan, but could not remember the tools necessary to command the English language? As I told you earlier, I didn’t really master English until I was about fourteen. And the psychiatrist explained to mother and father that because I had witnessed the murder of my birth parents and become "possessed" by it--I was holding on to every single moment that I had ever shared with them; every single memory. And that is true. I have never forgotten what it was that created me. That infused me with a ballad-like fearlessness. I call it...blue sky.
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NEXT CHAPTER: _____________
Bint Il nil
cqqvc My creation began as the result of an arranged "blue sky love" between two extraordinary people, neither of whom were from Sudan, but both of whom found themselves settled there, circa 1961, in a love nest right on the banks of Omdurman’s Nile River.Mahdi Pappuh (my father, my God), Harith Bin Farouk was an extremely tall, butterscotch-colored White Arab Egyptian with coily "mixed" hair--more nappy like Hebrew hair than slick like an Arab’s hair. He was an archeologist and was studying religious coffees in Somalia when he first laid eyes on my mother (Mommysweet), whom he told me he fell in love with the very tender moment he saw her. She was a fourteen year old charcoal-colored Gisi-Waaq Oromo girl--Gisi (her family name), Waaq (her lineage, The Crow), Oromo (her tribe, Nomadic coffee worshippers). Her name was Jiddi and her father was her tribe’s Chief, which is why she was called Princess Jiddi. In our world, men pay a dowry to the girl’s father for marriage rights, and in Sudan (where Pappuh owned a large house), the Northern men generally have only one wife. Pappuh Mahdi immediately attempted to purchase Mommysweet for marriage, but because her father was the Chief and because they considered Pappuh a "white man" (as non-black Arabs are categorized
23 Diary of a Lost Girl-b as white in Africa), the dowry price was extremely high...and the most Pappuh was able to do was deposit a down payment. He told me that it took him until Mommysweet was seventeen to pay it off (in cattle), but that it was well worth it. Pappuh married her twice. First in a ceremony with her clanspeople and then at his family’s mosque in Egypt. He was thirty-five to her seventeen, which is normally considered an ideal match, but the fact that she was so incredibly dark skinned--what we call "Biblical Days Black"(charcoal people, the originals)--didn’t sit well with Pappuh’s White-Beja-Turkish identified Egyptian family. And please note, that although there have recently been colleagues of my father’s in London who claim that he was Kushaf (a type of mixed race Nubian-Turkish tribe who live in North Egypt), that is not true--my father was Arab Egyptian, yes with Turkish blood, but no immediate Nubian blood. Regardless that these men in London worked with and knew my father, they are mistaken about his ethnicity. Pappuh’s family, the Kolbookeks, had spent decades trying to breed any signs of Africa out of their bloodline. My grandmother, Najet, in fact, never forgave Pappuh for bringing the root back into the family tree. She cursed him and complained bitterly about his lifelong obsession with the "Hemetic blood" (the blood of the original authentic ancient Egyptians), which was now considered a defect of the Cushite, Ethiopian, Somali, Nuba and Nubian peoples--as well as the dark Egyptian ghetto people of the Upper Nile (Southern Egypt is called "The Upper Nile", with many blacks living in the Kom Ombo region)--but this blood is "not a stain", you understand, when it’s in the veins of the Beja and Arab ruling class in Egypt (of which our family was still not accepted by, because of grandmother Najet’s own great grandmother--a pureblooded Falasha--a Black Jew). Najet would weep openly and complain about Mahdi Pappuh’s tenure at the University in France years earlier where all he ever wrote about was his fascination with the "abeed" (Arab word for "slave stock" 24 Kola Boof-fr but used as "nigger") and their grand history in Egypt. He had not returned home with a lovely, blond French wife--but instead with a high yellow, big-lipped nappyheaded Black American girl from Georgetown, D.C. (1956). Grandmother Najet had nearly had a heart attack! (to Egyptians before the civil rights movement, Black Americans were considered to be "the lowest of all niggerstock")--and when he married Princess Jiddi in 1961, Grandmother Najet all but disowned him. She commanded him, "Leave Egypt and take Sheba with you! What will my friends think of me!?" And not only Grandmother Najet, but the entire family worried tremendously about the way they (as a clan) would be perceived by having a charcoal black wife in the stead. It was too radical. So, you see, this was why my birth parents settled in Sudan instead of Egypt. Mahdi Pappuh wanted very desperately to be considered "a black man", and in fact, he spent his entire life depressed about it, to the point of becoming a heroin addict, because of course, in Africa--you have to be black to be black, and even more importantly, you have to possess the Crown (the nappy African hair) to truly be an African and a black person. There is no one drop rule--anywhere on the continent. You’re either black or you’re half-caste (mulatto) or Berber-Beja (mixed race). Arab is white. Black Arabs (like me) are "abeed" (niggers). It is not how Black Americans claim ("Africans come in many colors")--that is not how we live in Africa; there are terrible caste systems, and most mulattos and mixed people would rather die than be called black or be grouped with blacks. The Dinkas, Nubians, Nuers, Shilluks, Lothu, Oromo, Masai, all of whom befriended and studied by my father, all of whom greatly respected and loved my father, all of whom accepted him as one of their tribe--would never--accept him as a "black man". To his face, they told him: "you de white man, be proud." And this used to kill him inside. He often told me that this was why he married charcoal Mommysweet. He said that it was
25 Diary of a Lost Girl--b his life’s dream to have black sons. Unfortunately, Mommysweet gave birth to six boys in a row--all born dead with their umbilical cords wrapped around their necks. I was her seventh pregnancy (and it’s my understanding that I’m not the only seventh born-first girl after six stillborn sons in the literary world--the American author Gayl Jones, I’ve been told, is also the seventh born first girl in her family--so yes, it obviously does happen, and I refuse to believe that it’s witchcraft). My Auntie Ramah (Mommysweet’s best friend and dressmaker) told me that when I was born (which took place around noontime right on the banks of the Nile as Mommysweet was washing clothes) and they washed off and presented me to Pappuh, announcing that I was a healthy baby girl, he took one look at me and cried out, indignantly, "Bitch!" Auntie Ramah and I would get such a bellylaugh whenever she told me this story, because it was the way that Auntie Ramah could tell a thing. She was one of those plump, down-by-the-riverside African women who can take anything hurting inside a person and transform it into ferris wheels of laughter. Metaphor was her gift. Anyway, after I was born, Mommysweet never became pregnant again. It was amazing. People all over Omdurman declared her to be a jinn (a powerfully evil spirit) and avoided her whenever possible. They declared Pappuh a wimp for not killing her (as some Muslim men are known to do in our world if a wife bore no sons), and they truly believed--with good reason--that Mommysweet was a mute. In fact, Mommysweet made sure that people thought she was a mute. I can honestly say that in my entire seven years as her daughter, I think she only spoke (using her mouth) maybe eight or nine times tops. This is not an exaggeration. Only Auntie Ramah could speak Mommysweet’s Oromo language (Ramah being a red skinned Oromo from a clan in Tanzania that had bright orange-brown complexions), and although Pappuh had taught Mommysweet how to speak flawless Arabic, her
26 Kola Boof-fr. religion of silence hurt me very deeply growing up. I was, after all, the only child in Omdurman whose mother never spoke to her. She would come to the doorway of my bedroom every morning, just before the sun came up, and stand there with a basin of water until I woke up. Her presence, of course, woke me. Then she would smile and come to bed, roughly washing my face and hands with a hot rag, which was followed by brushing my teeth and having me spit and chew guddaim rinds. After that, she would give my hair 150 brushstrokes exactly--all the while studying my facial features intently, as though her stare could magically transform them. I looked more like my father and I think she had been waiting for me to look more like her, but sadly, I never did inherit Mommysweet’s beauty, and yet I was just as spellbound by it as Pappuh and the men in town were. I remember her face to be the black perfection of moon-lit nightwater on an African lake. Her body was firm but waif-looking, very thin as most East African women are thin, with a long swan’s neck and delicate little hands and feet (which I did inherit). Her hair swung down her back like thick flowing robes of rough, knotted dark foliage and her nose was more slender and "upper class" than Pappuh’s bulbous Arab one. She had full lips and high cheekbones, a large forehead (which I also inherited) and knife-life eyes, black and shiny as a crow’s(Mommysweet and Ramah’s tribes both worshipped the Crow as their God). She moved about the streets of Omdurman like an S-shaped cobra defiantly floating over lava coals--always with a basket atop her head, always dressed in flowing white. The Nubian women would call her "Baby Sister" to her face, but behind her back they would make fun of her name, Jiddi, because it means "bearer of sons." After washing me up and brushing out my nappy, shoulder-length hair, Mommysweet would kiss me three times--once on the forehead and once over both eyes, very gently and with a linger. Then I would be draped in one of the white cotton dresses she made for me
27 Diary of a Lost Girl-b
by hand and a burka placed over my hair. Pappuh would usually be waiting downstairs for me, so as to share the first of his five prayers for the day (which is not normal). In our culture, the men are served their meals first, before women and children, and must eat separately from the women and children. Boys, once about twelve, can start eating with men...but in our home, there were no boys, no live-in uncles, so Mahdi Pappuh broke the rules and had me eat all my meals with him. He taught me to keep this a secret and to never speak of it outside our home, because the mosque could have him imprisoned or even stoned to death for such a transgression. Mommysweet would let me help her prepare the meals (to learn cooking, of course) and breakfast time, because of Pappuh being home in the mornings and telling us jokes from the newspaper, became my favorite time of day. Mommysweet would fix Pappuh’s breakfast of Aseeda (a sweet porridge like cream of wheat) with panfried perch or tiger fish crumbled up in it, and with that she would serve him a stack of Kisra with honey poured over it (Kisra is a flat bread made from corn that everyone in Sudan eats every day, several times a day). To wash it all down, Pappuh would have a tall glass of fruit juice--usually tabaldi juice, orange juice or aradaib juice. Mommysweet and I would have Jbna (coffee), but we’d make it Oromo style--fried first--and then hot water added to the caramel from the beans and poured into tiny porcelain cups with two lumps of sugar and a little goat’s milk. For our breakfast, we’d have the same Aseeda porridge, but with a side of crunchy deep fried locusts (which tastes like a combination of shrimp and french fries)...and then Pappuh would be reading his newspaper, and all of a sudden, he’d look up as though startled and proclaim, "Why Naima!...they’ve written about you in the newspaper this morning!"
28 Kola Boof-fr. And each morning I would look to Mommysweet with a panicked expression of shock on my face, wondering what the story of the day would be, and Mommysweet would give a hearty giggle (but never say a word), and then Mahdi Pappuh would go on to read some silly imaginary story, "Why it says right here...blah, blah, blah."In our mosque..."music" was considered evil. It wasn’t allowed. But every morning, Pappuh would take Mommysweet’s hand and sing to her after breakfast. He would grab her and kiss her and make her laugh. He would sing: "O...blue sky love." And those were days of heaven for me, my little life...before the evil angels descended upon Sudan. Or rather--before I was old enough to recognize that even in blue skies, they do flutter about.
dlaccq
Pappuh Mahdi began to shoot heroin when I was around six years old. I’m taking my Egyptian Uncle Kar’s word that that’s when it began, anyway--and I think he’s right. I honestly did not know about it in the sense that he was "on drugs". Of course, no one explained anything to me and I had just assumed that he was suffering from some Muslim men’s disease (that had so many mysteries to them) that couldn’t be discussed with females and was being treated for it. In retrospect, now that I’ve grown up and seen much of the world, I can recall that he had mild hallucinations and that he did look possessed, as though he wasn’t Pappuh Mahdi anymore but rather someone imitating Mahdi Pappuh...and yet because he and Mommysweet would be murdered by the time I was seven...I never did get to really witness the destructive and dramatic effects of heroin abuse. I thank God, in fact, that I didn’t have to watch my father reduced to such a state, although, as I said, 29 Diary of a Lost Girl-b evil angels began to flutter about. In writing this autobiography, I have tried very hard to piece together everything from our lives in Sudan as accurately as I can (with the help of my Uncle Kar and several people), but I still don’t have definite command of some of the intricate details of Pappuh’s problems with varied officials in Sudan. But I do think (from memory) that our trouble started when the mayor’s office wrote a note to Pappuh threatening to take our house away if he didn’t shut up about something, but exactly what that first matter was all about, I don’t know. Pappuh began to complain that he needed to earn more money to "finance his opinions." Our home in Omdurman was very large and comfortable. Our financial status came in cycles; we would be dirt poor for six months straight and then very wealthy for perhaps an entire year in alternating cycles. Six months poor, one year rich--over and over again. I believe that Mahdi Pappuh was involved in adventures that were not clean, although, I have no idea what they could have been. I only know that he took trips out of the country to "hustle", as he put it, and always returned with lots of money, gold bracelets, fine silks and fresh lion’s meat from Ethiopia; chunks of raw diamonds for Mommysweet (she collected diamonds as a hobby). For me, he would bring beautiful pairs of shoes that little Greek and Turkish girls had been privileaged enough to throw away. Our home was a happy one and our lives felt secure. But then, Arab soldiers (white ones) came to our house one afternoon while Pappuh was away on a dig. I myself was at kwalwa (school for Muslim girls), but Auntie Ramah told me all about how she and Mommysweet had handled the situation. The soldiers banged on the kitchen door while Mommysweet and Auntie were snapping peas and shouted that they had been given a "tip" that Mahdi Pappuh owned a collection of devil music (although it’s widely spoken in Sudan, Pappuh was the only one in our home
30 PURCHASE "Diary of a Lost Girl" at AMAZON.COM http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1592320120/ref=nosim/aalbccom-20
CONTENTS
The Diary of Kola Boof:
Naima...15-22 Bint il Nil...23-47 Night of the Living Dead...48-67 Goodbye Africa...68-76 My New Family: The Black Americans...77-94 The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of...95-132 Goddess of Trees...133-155 An Evening with Osama Bin Laden...156-172 The Devil’s Pass Key...173-183 I Know the Rooms In Hell By Heart...184-202 Osama’s Lake of Fire...203-225 Be and Be Not Afraid...226-247 Make Way...for Kola Boof!...248-305 I Never Married My Husband...306-324 So Much Things to Say...325-340
Inheritance (womanist prose):
Being and Becoming the Red Dragon...343-354 See What the Boys In the Back Room’ll Have...355-364 The Authentic Black Man (A Letter)...365-398 God Is a Black Man....399-409 MommySweet...410 I Put a Spell On You...411-415
___________ The daughter of Arab Egyptian archeologist Harith Bin Farouk and his only wife "Jiddi" is orphaned in Sudan and eventually adopted by Black Americans--Marvin and Claudine Prell Johnson of Washington, D.C.
She grows up to become not only North Africa’s most controversial and despised woman writer, but also the mistress to both Osama Bin Linden and his mentor, Hasan al Turabi...the two most powerful terrorists on earth.
Writing her life story with the same blunt sentences that have enriched her classic poems and novels...KOLA BOOF talks openly about the hardships of having a "circumcised" vagina, about being put up for adoption by her colorstruck Egyptian grandmother, about the 2003 firebombing of her Ethiopian publisher, about Arab Islamic death threats issued against her life because of the "Soulful" novels she writes...and about her efforts fighting against slavery and genocide in the Sudan.
A remarkable memoir...by Sudan’s most hated daughter.
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