Tag Archive | #Racial profiling

What are we doing? Stream of consciousness Saturday.

Concentrated emotions tend to erupt one way or the other when the proper channels of expressing and addressing these issues are not being explored and the end results are not always pretty.SoCS badge 2015

A lot of social issues that we are currently battling are the build-up of so much hurting and unresolved issues that society has been sweeping under its huge carpet that it keeps mounting until there’s hardly any more space to squeeze in more rubbish and with the aid of our new improved social mediums to stir the hornet’s nest,  ‘Kaboom’ the combustion is let loose and we are left bewildered, hurt and in pain.

We truly can’t continue the way we are going. Holding in oppressive feelings, ignoring and suppressing them, violence or hiding heads in the sand has never resolved any problems; channels of dialoguing should be opened up to deal with concentrated issues of the past and present.

I remember when I was reading stories about Auschwitz gas chamber, the concentration camps and watching escape from Sobibor, I couldn’t stop crying for days. It was a hard read!
I just couldn’t fathom that amount of deep-seated wickedness and concentrated effort to annihilate others just because they don’t fit into a certain category of someone’s description. People were profiled and marked out for destruction.

If we look into history, the depth of man’s inhumanity to fellow man in these concentration camps, on slave ships, plantations, and so on, is despicable and you would think that we learn, however, the sad news is that we simply haven’t learnt from history or maybe some choose to ignore history and write their own.

It seems that we haven’t learnt that racial profiling only builds hurt and harm. We forget so quickly and if things are not properly handled they will certainly spiral off the hook.

I’m very much attuned to what happens around me and the society at large, so in as much as I may not be in the vicinity of an incident, history has also shown that a war can be triggered in one place and its effects ricochets everywhere and for several weeks these disheartening news have pierced my skin and derailed my concentration on my writing.

I sincerely hope that people begin to think clearly and understand better and that we get a grip of these turmoils sooner than later.

I believe that the indomitable spirit of humanity to hunger for greater good and peace will prevail.


Below is my first just published Poetry Book “Out of the silent breath” which is available on Amazon and Smashwords.

When you buy my book, you support me in an invaluable manner.

Stars, Five Stars, Logo, Icon, Symbol, Five, Rating

Wonderful, evocative poetry by a talented writer. Left me hungry for more. Jacqueline can write! Linda Bethea

Out of the silent breath

If you enjoy my works and would like to do so, you can fuel my creativity with a slice of cake or coffee😉

May I Share With You?…



May I live
Unafraid to breathe
Free from a choke-hold
That becomes a stronghold
May I live
Unafraid to live
Clinging to my expectations
With feral desperation


May I share space
Unafraid of being encased
Free from condemnation of race
That becomes a strong base
Purple, White, Olive, Black and every hue within
May I share space
Knowing that we are first a human race
…And all blood are red in this place.


May I speak of belief
Unafraid and in relief
Free from contentious eyes of disbelief
That becomes thresholds of grief
May I wear my mask of belief
Understanding that to achieve
Peace would be a welcome reprieve
…Which we must seek to retrieve.


May I love you
Unafraid to be bound to you
Free from censors of broken whispers
That becomes harbingers of cold shivers
May I love freely my love
Unafraid to expose my naked bust
Knowing that in you lies my trust
Encased in the warm embrace of your love.

© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

Writing 101, Day 5 Freedom

Unlikely thief…

cafe thief

It was still a slow day in “The Hive” as it is called. Customers strolled in; in ones and twos, some lingered and some did not. She walked in pushing a baby in a stroller. Her dressing was quite interesting. She wore a pair of bright yellow gold and brown studded boots, soft flannel blue loose pants, a brown woolly top coat which hung around her midriff and a belt in the same color as her boots around her waist. The rest of her white flabby tummy was exposed. Her hair was an interesting mix of brown and orange strands.

The square aquamarine glasses which were perched on her nose were all spangled up with sparkle dusts of different shades. Her ear-rings, shoulder drop length of twisted metals with little round festive looking balls at the ends, swung and tinkled as she walked by.

Her wrists were encircled in individual bands of various designs and multicolor, each side had at least five bands with a big pink cocktail ring on her middle finger. She was a burst of colorful sight for sore eyes. She was a stamp of eccentric individuality.

The baby looked very healthy and cherubic, her short sparse brown hair capping her round plump face and ruddy cheeks.

The little one was dressed up in a short baby top and pink sweater with her little rotund stomach sticking out. Her baby bottoms were adorned with a white and purple animal print diapers and her tiny feet had nothing on them. They simply kicked the air without restraints.

Baby was just gorgeous with her folds of plump pink flesh and her dribbling mouth which had a thumb stuck in it all the while.

Ms. Bright Colors (lets call her that), took a position in The Hive and surreptitiously did a quick scan of the occupants. There were two young black men- a dread-locked chap and a nondescript one; they both had big headphones over their heads and covering their ears, with faint vibrations of the music they listened to seeping through the muzzled earpiece; their heads were bent over their laptops. A middle aged white lady sat in the corner, she was working on her needlework craft of lovely handmade and embroidered cover cloth, and a young  Caucasian lady who seemed to be deeply engrossed in the book she was reading.

She gathered a couple of publications and flipped through them absentmindedly. She observed how intense the attention of the two black men and the young lady were. She observed that the handicraft lady went for bathroom call ever so often. She observed that nobody paid much mind to the scanty people seated in that corner, then she waited.

Now and again, her babbling baby fretted a little bit and she fed her from an uncapped bottle labeled cupcake. It cast the impression of a homely, caring mama, all at the same time.

Once again, the need for the lavatory arose and Mrs Handicraft shuffled off. As soon as she left, Ms. Bright Colors calmly gathered her things and efficiently swooped on the Mrs. Handicrafts bags and belongings; her precision like that of a hawk that was marking its prey. With her stolen booty nicely ensconced in the stroller beside the baby, she strolled out unnoticed, back into the San Antonio high street, into the crowd of hurrying shapes.

Mrs Handicraft came back to her seat and was aghast to find her belongings gone. She looked under the table, on the counter top by the corner and in every possible nook and cranny, her face taking different shades and splotches of pinkish red color as each second ticked past, her pursed lips muttering angry unintelligible swear words.

Raising a hew and cry, she roused the attention of other occupiers and the accusations started to fly. Her knobby fingers assuredly pointed at the two black men in accusation. The men got upset and a big row ensued. The officers were called, arrests were made, and they were shuffled off to the county jail, no questions asked. Their protests fell on deaf ears, their color was enough judgement.

Assumptions were made; a missing white woman’s bag and craft basket, two black men = two thieves. What would these men do with a craft basket? No one cared to ask. Maybe they stole it to sell her yarn and needles, and who knows, possibly for the credit card and change in her wallet?

The old lonely observer who saw it all through the designed vitrine of The Hive, tried to offer his espionage services to the officers, but no one was interested in the ramblings of a homeless, drunken black man, who seemed to be in dire need of a good bath.

Mumbling as he shuffled along, he was glad that he was not arrested along with the others.

© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha