dreamszilla

In a time when Arab slavers were plundering African coastal towns, Nasieku is captured by a rival tribe. Image generated with OpenAI The night was quite aged but Nasieku was wide awake on her mat of straw. She was too excited to sleep. In two days, she would be leaving her mother's hut for her own. In the morning she was getting married to Kamande. And how lucky she felt, as far as arranged marriages go. She liked him and he seemed smitten by her. Kamande's family had finally completed paying the agreed upon dowry of a hundred goats, ten cows and several gourds of honey and beer, according to Sambara customs. She lay awake on her mat thinking of her life as a married woman. As the night was quite advanced, Nasieku was thus deeply alarmed when she heard the rumble of the village drums. At this hour it could only mean bad news! She listened more keenly to the drums and frighteningly understood their beat - the village was under attack! Panicking, she shook her mothe...

In Tokyo's entertainment district, a wealthy man passes the pachinko parlour every day and gives money to addicts. Image generated with OpenAI There is a Japanese proverb that says: Nana korobi ya oki . Fall seven times, stand up eight. It's the kind of phrase that appears on motivational posters, in graduation speeches, on those ceramic mugs people buy at airports when they don't know what else to give. What the proverb doesn't mention - what no motivational poster dares to say - is what happens when someone helps you up every time you fall. What happens when that outstretched hand is not salvation, but a sentence. Kenji Nakamura knew. He knew with the clarity of a scientist and the patience of a sculptor. Because Kenji Nakamura had turned that help into an art, into a science, into something that had no name in any language but which he, in the privacy of his mind, called simply: the experiment . Kabukichō, Tokyo. Midnight. Asia's largest enter...

Late at night on Christmas Eve, Julie heads out of London to visit her grandmother, but the journey does not go smoothly. Image generated with OpenAI London 1997 The night is fresh and very cold. Tangled flurries of snowflakes pirouette up from the pavement, creep along street signs, in and out of doorways, and swirl onto rubbish bins, vehicles, people scurrying to get out of the bitter wind. It's Christmas Eve and I am leaving Harrison & Eccles, the law firm where I work. The art deco building that houses the offices is solid and stately; it stands proudly right on the bank of the river Thames. I am sheltering in the portico, preparing to emerge out into the cold and the snow. Two arcs of poinsettias have been placed on either side of the front doors, garnishing the entrance. The red leaves are aflame in the chill of the evening, shavings of snow circling them in the brisk wind. I pause for a moment to look more closely and realise that there, in the centre of th...