A Vitória é Certa

In today's text we resurrect Patrice Lumumba (PL), the first elected vice-president of the Congo, who died at the hands of his compatriots at the behest of foreign intelligence services (Belgium and the United States of America).                                          Patrice Lumumba Congo's Prime Minister-elect This, considered a hero by the people that chose it was denominated of form codified by "Satan" by the services of Belgian intelligence. But what did Patrice Lumumba defend that earned him a nickname so negatively powerful? In his last letter to his wife he wrote: "No brutality, mistreatment or torture has ever forced me to ask for grace, for I would rather die with my head held high, my firm faith and my deep trust in the fate of my country, instead of living submissively and despised in these sacred principles. one day his word, but it will not be the sto...

The death of a nation - 19 graves Without warning my father took the family on a walk from the capital city of Kinshasa to a remote area. He was 6 years old at the time. After miles traveled long hours we entered a rural area where the car traveled unpaved rails and the grass passed the roof. And it was in the middle of this high grass that we were covered by the vision that I saw my father abandon his car and run. Without understanding the reason for so abruptly rushing inside that labyrinth of grass, I followed it with the same haste, leaving my mother behind. Feeling the rough grass cut into my childish skin, I found my father kneeling and crying in front of three mounds of earth. Graves in front of an old house that with its windows and open doors seemed to want to vent what in the smallest division of the house would have happened. We went through all the divisions completely bare of evidence and filled with echoes from a past of 5 years. But with my height as a child I never ...

A morte de uma nação - 19 sepulturas Sem aviso prévio o meu pai levou a família num passeio desde a cidade capital de Kinshasa a uma área remota. Tinha na altura 6 anos. Após quilómetros feitos em longas horas de viagem entramos numa área rural onde o carro percorria trilhos sem asfalto e o capim passava o tejadilho. E foi no meio deste capim alto que nos tapava a visão que vi o meu pai abandonar o carro e correr. Sem entender a razão para tão brusca correria dentro daquele labirinto de capim segui-o com a mesma pressa, deixando a minha mãe para trás. A sentir o corte da erva áspera na minha pele infantil, encontrei o meu pai ajoelhado e chorando frente a três montes de terra. Sepulturas frente a uma casa antiga que com as suas janelas e portas abertas parecia querer desabafar o que na mais pequena divisão da casa teria acontecido. Percorremos todas as divisões completamente despidas de provas e preenchidas de ecos de um passado de 5 anos. Mas com a minha altura de uma criança nun...