Read King Leopoldo Ghost... Terrifying account of how they ruled the Belgian Congo with limited white soldiers
I did. What I took from it was that the entire thing was operated and financed from the outside. The whites actually operating in the Congo were few and far between, present as the teeth of the machine rather than the whole machine itself. When Belgium pulls out, a large chunk of the whites would pull out too. That didn't happen so much in the South African countries because there was a large white gentry tied to the land as farmers, but in the Congo you'd have bureaucrats and operators of the Belgian government with no reason to stay. You'd have what, maybe a few farmers if they are there?? The missionaries would certainly stick around... still, not convinced it'd be enough to form a government.
The numbers on wikipedia put the white population of the Congo in 1959 to be 0.8%, whereas the white population in 1960 in South Africa was 19.3%.
Can you expand on the practicality on white government in the Congo? I'm no expert, but from what i've read the Congo never really had a fleshed out white bourgeoisie population like the South African nations. I'm not sure a few bureaucrats, missionaries, and steam boat captains could pull together a government.
Of course, I could be wrong, so if you have some info I don't that'd help clear things up.
Everything was black. Then an angelic choir broke out, creating the feeling of light, though no light was visually present.
Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a landslide, No escape from reality Open your eyes, Look up to the skies and see
Unseen piano played as a vision of Sahle's brother appeared, older and haggard, a two dimensional image like that drawn on paper or cut from cloth. He started to sing alone.
I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy, Because I'm easy come, easy go Little high, little low Any way the wind blows doesn't really matter to me, to me
The piano. Yaqob faded away and was replaced by a handsome young Ethiopian man in a black trench coat. He was holding a smoking gun. A feeling of dread welled up as the man began to sing hauntingly.
Mama, just killed a man Put a gun against his head Pulled my trigger, now he's dead Mama, life had just begun But now I've gone and thrown it all away Mama, oooooooooh Didn't mean to make you cry If I'm not back again this time tomorrow Carry on, carry on as if nothing really matters
Piano. Yaqob appeared again, laying on the ground and bleeding next to the handsome man. The impression of colors swirled against the black field. Yaqob's face distorted in pain. Sahle didn't feel his own body, and found he had no way to confirm it in space, but he felt like vomiting. He was nausea as an ethereal force. The bleeding Yaqob continued the song.
Too late, my time has come Sends shivers down my spine Body's aching all the time Goodbye, everybody, I've got to go Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth Mama, oooooooooooh I don't wanna die, I sometimes wish I'd never been born at all
Strange music. Yaqob faded, and action in the form of light exploded against the void. White men and black men in military uniform went to battle, stacked on each other in a way that implied three dimensional space in a two dimensional plane, like the epic painting of Adwa in the national museum. Soldiers on both sides traded lyrics, one line going to one man, another to another.
I see a little silhouetto of a man, Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango? Thunderbolt and lightning Very, very frightening me (Galileo) Galileo (Galileo) Galileo Galileo Figaro Magnifico-o-o-o-o
A white kid mutilated by a passing tank cried out.
I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me
The rest of the soldiers on both sides shouted in unison.
He's just a poor boy from a poor family Spare him his life from this monstrosity
Piano. The blacks were losing the battle, tanks blowing up, guns running out of ammo and becoming spears. They fell back, fighting desperately, and they began to plead with their white enemy. The whites argued back.
Easy come, easy go, will you let me go? Bismillah! No, we will not let you go (let him go!) Bismillah! We will not let you go (let him go!) Bismillah! We will not let you go (let him go!) Will not let you go (let him go!) Never, never let you go Never let me go, oh No, no, no, no, no, no, no Oh, mama mia, mama mia (mama mia, let me go) Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for me, for me
The unseen music surged. Something changed. New people showed up waving many different flags, and they stood by the blacks. Some were recognizably white, some asian, and they suddenly outnumbered the aggressor whites. They continued the song.
So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye? So you think you can love me and leave me to die? Oh, baby, can't do this to me, baby Just gotta get out, just gotta get right outta here
The whites fled for their lives as the music climaxed. Everything faded away, and rising up like a balloon came Sahle. He didn't recognize himself visually - this Sahle was unshaven and wore his hair in a ragged afro like a mountain shifta. But it was him; he felt it. The dream told him so. The mood in the vision died down and went somber.
Nothing really matters Anyone can see Nothing really matters Nothing really matters to me...
Sahle woke up. His head was spinning and he was disoriented. Above him was the blue sky, rushing by him as the wind whistled past his ears. In his arms were two girls, sleeping naked. Beneath them was something metallic.
----------------------------------------------------------------------- May 14th, On a Moving Train in the Danakil Desert -----------------------------------------------------------------------
Two years ago the Sultan of Egypt gave the newly crowned Emperor Sahle a golden train. To the Sultan's credit, real gold leaf had been used in some of the details, but most of the surface was just painted gold. It was, of course, garish. Even Sahle was vaguely aware there was something inappropriate about rolling through poverty-stricken places in such a ridiculous show of wealth. But he was the Emperor, and it was his right, so he did it.
There was something almost Gothic about the design of the train itself. Its busy frame was hardly aerodynamic. One of its flaws was a walled depression on top like the widows walk of an old European mansion, which looked impressive, but collected rain water during the monsoon season and had to be drained by hand. But sometime in the past, he didn't remember when, Sahle had discovered a second use for this feature. When it was dry it was an useful place to take women. It was like something out of a Hollywood movie, giving adventurous girls a cheap thrill as they climbed onto the top of a moving train and ducked from the rushing wind. And when pressed into this space, adrenaline pumping, Sahle had time to make a move...
He'd led the two of them on top of the train the night before, equipped with a strange new drug Rudolph von Lettow-Vorbeck had acquired for him, from a head doctor of all people. There was nothing around for miles, the empty desert hills outside of Djibouti passing them by. The drug came in the form of small paper tabs, the image of a black man with wild hair, a golden cane, and a Victorian way of dressing printed like labels on the face of each one. Sahle ingested as instructed, and helped the two girls they had picked up in Djibouti to ingest theirs. That was the last thing he remembered before the weird dreams.
He woke up disoriented and disturbed. The girls were wrapped with him in the blanket like a threesome kebab. He noticed immediately that they had all lost their clothes at some point, floated away, a gift in the desert for some wandering Afari tribesman to prove to him that the gods must be crazy. The girls woke up with difficulty, and as they knuckled the sleep from their eyes he told them about their predicament. Only one complained. He gave her the blanket to hide her shame from the empty desert and led them both to the ladder. Going first meant he had a good view of the second girl, and he didn't shy away from enjoying it. They all wrapped in the blanket together and went in the car. Rudolph was inside reading, and sipping on a whiskey. He didn't look up at them.
"Whatever you gave me fucked me up." Sahle said.
"Lysergic acid diethylamide" Rudolph replied, still not looking up.
"Sounds like a poison. Did you poison me, Rudolph?" Sahle slipped out of the blanket and walk across the train car.
"The Emperor has no clothes." Rudolph said dryly.
Sahle opened a cabinet and grabbed three robes. He tossed two at the girls, and they dressed underneath the blanket. "What the hell was that stuff?"
"I told you."
"You want to know what I saw?"
"You can't tell me what you saw." Rudolph looked up, "That's the point. You had a brief glimpse into your inner psyche. All those questions we have as humans, about religion and our true nature within the universe, that tab gives you a little window view into all that. You saw your soul, your majesty, and you can't very well explain your soul to me now that you are sober."
"Well if that's my soul, I'm fucked." Sahle took a bottle of wine and took a swig.
"Maybe that is the point." Rudolph looked back down to his book.
Sahle snapped his fingers in the general direction of the back of the coach where a guard stood. Guards always stood there, to the point they were invisible to their Emperor, at least until he needed them. "I need real clothes. How far are we from Dire Dawa?"
"One hour, your majesty." the guard said.
"We'll need to find a place for my guests. Get... uh... get somebody on that." The guard went for another car.
Sahle tossed the bottle of wine to the two girls, who were clothed in robes that were very baggy for them. Now they had clothes though, they committed mitosis from the blanket and became two separate entities once again. The guard came back with a wave of servants. Some whisked the girls away with their wine while the rest dressed the Emperor. The baggy emergency clothing was replaced with a fitted robe with embroidered detail, and a thicker robe over it, so that he looked presentably imperial.
"What is a head doctor doing with those kinds of drugs?" Sahle asked, sitting down, propping his booted feet on an unused chest board.
"Experiments I suppose" Rudolph said, "Stress tests for the psyche. I can't say I completely understand the psychiatric profession."
"Keep me abreast on whatever weird stuff you find." Sahle said, "But I don't think I want to see that one again. The dreams..."
"Perhaps your majesty should stick to cannabis?"
"No" Sahle "I get bored of just one thing. People don't realize how boring it is to be an Emperor. If they knew that, they'd feel more sorry for me."
"I weep." Rudolph replied. He glanced up at the window in front of him. "It looks like we are coming into Dire Dawa"
Sahle looked up and saw the same thing. The Danakil desert gave way to climbing foothills. Plant life returned to the scenery, in the form of scrub brush and wiry trees. Desolation extreme was replaced with desolation in the regular sense, like traveling from Mars to Arizona. A town was cradled in these hills, an out of place garden of green trees interspersed by buildings as dusty as the surrounding lands.
Dire Dawa means "Empty Plain", a name that conjures the image of shrugging founding fathers coming down from the highlands, finding a place with no outstanding features, and trying to make a name for it. It was not put here for any feature attractive to life. Dire Dawa was built only sixty years ago as a mid-way stop for the railroad connecting Addis Ababa to Djibouti. There was a town here now, a mixture of Afaris and Somalis coming up from their deserts to live with the Ethiopian mechanics and merchants.
The train slowed down, passing humble churches, mosques, and personal homes. It approached the train station, came to a stop in front of the platform, where a small delegation of officials waited to board Sahle's personal car.
Zemichael Hagos was secretary to the Minister of the Pen. He was a stone-faced bureaucrat with a short patch beard. Sahle swung around and smiled when he saw the man come in. "Hey look, the Minister of the Eraser is here!" Sahle said jovially. Zemichael's expression didn't change. "Your majesty." he said politely. Sahle motioned for him to sit down, and he sat.
"How is Desta Getachew? Is he ready for his party?"
"The Minister is fine." Zemichael replied.
"I bet he is, the old dog! Did he send you to hurry me up?"
"I'm here to discuss government matters. The minister wants you to review these before he signs them."
"Ah." Sahle's smile died.
Zemichael had a leather case with him, and he opened it to produce papers, sliding them over to Sahle when appropriate. "Are you ready, your majesty?"
"Lets get this over with." Sahle sighed.
"First, there is the cost of the party in..."
Sahle signed the paper in front of him. "Done. Next."
Zemichael paused broodingly. "The ambassador to the Philippines is requesting a metric ton of teff seeds for an agricultural project in their homeland."
"Don't they eat rice?" Sahle scrunched up his face. "Never mind, I don't give a shit, send them the grain." Zemicheal slipped him a paper and he signed it.
"Ras Hassan of Adal regrets to inform your majesty that he will not be able to attend the Minister's birthday celebration."
"Okay." Sahle shrugged.
"Your brother has returned home. We have been informed that his meeting with the Rhodesian government did not go well. Your brother preached to the Rhodesian president about the behavior of his government toward their blacks."
"Mother Mary..." Sahle cursed, "Why did God see fit to give me a priest and a nun for siblings? I try to live my life without headaches and there they go, making headaches for me. I give them enough to entertain them, they have all the money they need to enjoy themselves, why do they spend their leisure time fucking with me?"
"Taytu hasn't caused you any headaches since she left for America." Zemichael said.
"Yes, and I am grateful for that, but it is more difficult to send Yaqob away. He is the heir."
"You are healthy. If you get married, you can do away with that necessity..."
"I don't... shit. I've heard all this." Sahle complained. He put his head on the desk as if he were going to sleep. "I'll think about Yaqob. I can't send him to America though."
"Why?" Zemichael asked, "The Americas are already Europe's trash can, why couldn't it be ours as well?"
"Be careful." Sahle sat up straight and warned. Warning done, he slackened again. "I don't want them together, working each other up into a noise. Where would I send him if not there?"
"This is a conversation for the minister." Zemichael said.
"You're right." Sahle replied, "I'll put it off until then."
-------------------------- The Maltese Sahle --------------------------
Addis Ababa is a hard town, like the asphalt that crowns its central street. The people who call this corrupt moshpit home have a saying: "Live slowly or live quickly, you'll die eventually". And it's true. It's always been true in this goddamned place.
Samuel Selassie sat underneath the only working ceiling fan on the block, watching it chop up the smoke he'd filled the room with after a morning's worth of smoking. From his seat, he saw his name printed backwards on the door to his office. If he were standing outside, it would read correctly, but as seen from the glass on the inside, it was backwards, and he wouldn't have been able to read it if he didn't know it was his own name.
"This is a hard city. Like the asphalt that crowns its central street" he muttered to himself, flicking ashes into an ashtray. Chain-smoking had made his originally white clothes, a robe and a shamma, the yellow of unclean teeth. His straw hat also bore the stains of tobacco abuse.
That is when she came in, pushing through the door, letting it swing in so that Samuel could briefly read his name from the right side before it swung shut again. She was a young kitten of a woman, her richly embroidered clothes telling him that she had money. Her legs didn't quit until they hit the floor.
"Weyzero" Samuel greeted, "What can I do for you..."
"Shanani Haile" she sat down and swooned just a little, "I hear you can find lost items?"
"I can do that, and so can a dog." Samuel smashed his cigarette into the ashtray. "How did you lose this... item?"
"It was..." she looked both ways nervously, like she was crossing a street where all the cars were driven by her ex-lovers. "...it was stolen."
"Stolen. That is my kind of business." Samuel said. "What is the item?"
"A golden bust of the Emperor." she said, still nervous, but now Samuel understood why. The Emperor gave busts of himself out to close friends every year on his birthday. Such an item was priceless, and if the Emperor were to visit the young lady and find out she hadn't kept track of the bust, she could hurt his feelings. Emperors were sensitive souls. Soft. Not hard, like this town.
"I think I can find your missing head. What is in it for me?"
"I'll pay you." Shanani said. "My family has a lot of money. We could give you an island in lake Tana if you desired. The bust is important enough for that. The Emperor gave it to my father..."
Samuel waved, and she went quiet. "I don't need an island. What can I do with an island if I do not have a boat?"
"We could give you a boat too." she offered.
"Well that really is generous." he paused to drag on another cigarette. "But I think I will take the money. Money has more... possibilities."
"It's settled." She said, "Now, what will you need from me?"
"I will need to see the place where the bust was last seen." Samuel said, "Is there a good time for you?"
"Three this afternoon. That is when my roommate comes back from work. She is a civil servant, you know."
"I will be there. In the mean time, did you have any enemies?"
"No"
Samuel shrugged. "That's the only question I have. Go about your business for the rest of the day. I will be at your place at three. I will just need the address..."
She wrote down all he needed to know and left. He spent the rest of the early afternoon considering how hard this town was.
--
Samuel Selassie arrived at the woman's flat around three. She lived above a shoemaker's shop. Samuel inspected the place briefly, but made the determination that there was nothing suspicious about the shoemaker except for his workmanship. He knocked at the door to the flat, and a younger woman who he had never met before answered. She also had noteworthy legs, and heavy eyelids that made her every glance sort of seductive.
"Excuse me, is Shanani home?" Samuel asked.
"I'm here!" he heard her voice from the back. The younger girl let him in. He was greeted by a room decorated in wicker and wooden furniture of the nice hand-crafted type.
"You look like the hard-boiled type." the younger girl said, "Like the egg in a spicy doro wat."
"I am." he said. "Who might you be?"
"I'm Tigist" she said, "The roommate."
Samuel found Shanini swooning a little in the back room. "This is where it was, before..." she swooned a little more. Samuel found the place; a dusty table with a great big undusted spot conveniently marking where the base of the bust once had been. Samuel ran his finger along the table. It tasted like dust, and a little bit of something else..."
"Cocaine." Samuel said excitedly, "Do either of you partake in satan's powdered sugar?"
The girls look confused and shook their heads.
"Of course you don't. Cocaine has another nickname in this hard town. Some people call it 'The Emperor's Nose Jizz.'"
"Does that mean the Emperor stole it?" both of the girls asked, startled both by the idea, and the fact they had said it at once in exactly the same words.
"No, but it tells me that the statue was authentic. A regular golden statue would just shed gold and dust. Only a statue in the presence of the Emperor would shed this much cocaine."
"Tigist." Samuel grabbed the girl before she could react and held her by the shoulders. It was like he was trying to drill out her eyes with the power of his own eyes, that was how intense his look was. "Did you steal this bust?"
"No!" the young girl squealed, "Let go of me you hard-boiled egg!"
He decoupled from her dramatically. "I must believe you. This means I am out of ideas. There is only one other option..."
"What is it?" Shanani asked, sounding worried.
Samuel took out a smoke and started to smoke it. "Don't you worry, sugar. I have my ways. My mysterious ways..."
--
"You sure you need that many berries, friend?" the fruit seller in the bazaar asked, giving Samuel a sideways glance. "That many berries are liable to put you into a coma, or maybe some kind of trance like state."
"I know what I am doing." Samuel answered, his voice as hard as this town. He took the berries away to his office, where he mixed them with the ingredients handed down to him from ancient generations. He smashed the berries into a juice, staining his hands red so that when he pulled his hands up, they looked as if they were covered in blood stains. The finished pulp looked like somebody farted out their beating heart into a cup. He covered it with a lid and went outside, walking down those hard streets, alone. He walked along the gravel path until he saw a young boy playing in the mud. As natural as a cat, Samuel pulled out his gun and approached the kid.
"Hey kid." he said, opening the cylinder and taking out a bullet. "I'll give you this bullet if you drink what is in that cup."
"Woah, a bullet!" the boy said. "If I hit it with a hammer, would it go off?"
"Probably." Samuel said. "But first, you must drink."
The kid shrugged and drank. "This tastes bad." he complained.
"Life is bad. Keep drinking if you want the bullet."
The kid finished the concoction with a constipated look on his face. "I feel bad. Did you poison me?"
"No." Samuel said, "Feeling bad is normal. That's why people drink. Lay down and the feeling will pass."
The boy seemed to fall asleep, but at a snap of a finger, his eyes shot wide open. The boy's eyes were completely vacant.
"A bust of the Emperor Sahle was stolen from this neighborhood. Do you think you can find the culprit?" Samuel asked.
The boy said nothing. He ambled off dead of soul like Frankenstein's monster. Samuel followed from a distance. He watched the kid turn corners, moving as if every turn had a scripted purpose, no question about where he was going. Of course. How many busts of the Emperor had been stolen? Just this one, like, since forever. Whatever magic fed this result of the drug had no background noise to contend with. The boy went inside somebodies home. Samuel sprinted across the street and burst in, where he saw the child go to sleep on a couch.
"What is going on here!" a fat man came from the back, "I will have you know that I am a very important falasha, and I don't need people treating my front room like a bar! What is the meaning of this!"
"A Jew, huh?" Samuel smirked. "I have you dead to rights."
"Excuse me?" the man was surprised.
"Where did you hide the bust of the Emperor?"
"What are you talking about?"
"You gonna play it like that, huh?" Samuel grabbed the man and took firm hold of him. "We'll see what the magistrate says."
--
After depositing the suspect at the Magistrates house, Samuel retrieved Shanani and brought her as a witness. It was the four of them there in the Magistrates front room - Samuel, Shanani, the criminal, and of course the Magistrate himself.
"What is the meaning of all of this?" the magistrate asked.
"This morning Shanani Haile reported a missing Imperial Bust." Samuel began, "An investigation of the crime scene revealed traces of cocaine where the bust had once sat..."
"The Emperor's Nose Jizz" the magistrate said astonished, "So it was a gift from the Emperor himself!"
"Precisely as Shanani reported. She is an honest broad."
"So how did you discover this man was the culprit?" the Magistrate asked.
"I'm not!" the guilty jew cried out.
"Shut up." Samuel shouted. He turned to the magistrate. "At first I though Shanani's roommate Tigist was the culprit. She's poor, shown by the fact that she works outside of the house like a prostitute, even when she has the example of Shanani sitting around the house like a swooning vegetable, which is how a true lady should act."
"Naturally." said the magistrate"
"That lead me to the ancient ritual of Liebasha. The boy I chose for the ritual lead me to the house of this man." Samuel motioned to the writhing Jew.
"Liebasha is admissible as evidence, this is technically true." the Magistrate said, "But modern judges do not consider it legitimate, since Western methods fail to reproduce it. Plus there are many problems that might arise if the ritual of Liebasha is improperly acted. For instance, did you correctly administer the potion?"
Samuel smirked. "You know me. Have I ever failed to drug a young boy?"
"Perhaps not." the Magistrate conceded, "But I want something more than the Liebasha as evidence in this case. Did you recover the stolen statue?"
"No." Samuel admitted, "But this man is a Jew."
"That's enough for me. I declare this Jew guilty of theft!"
Shanani broke down crying. "Why did you do this to me?" she pleaded at the bewildered Jew. "Did I ever do anything to you?"
"I didn't steal the bust." the Jew replied. Shanani went running from the room, her hands pressed against her bawling face.
"You are sentenced, you thieving Jew, to have both hands cut off at the wrist as punishment for your crime."
"What the fuck!" the Jew screamed, "What the fuck am I supposed to do now? Beg? Entertain men with my mouth? I can't do that! My teeth are too sharp!"
"Shut up or I'll take your balls." The judge threatened. The Jew shut up.
Samuel left the building and found Shanani crying around the corner behind the Magistrate's house. "It is over. This town is hard, but you cracked it."
"Why is the world so cruel." she looked up at him.
Samuel pulled her close. "I want to hold you like a refugee holds onto their worldly possessions." he said, "I would kiss you like that too. Together, sweetheart, we'll crack every hard town in this whole universe. This town won't mean an amba of teff to me if I am with you."
"I love you, Samuel Selassie" she swooned, "Even though I only met you this morning."
"Secretary of State. He tried to work out some deal with Ethiopia where they would airlift Negroes to safety. It was a fucking back to Africa movement disguised as humanitarian aid. I think the Ethiopians just laughed him off."
---------------------------------------------------------- October 27th, 1916: The Battle of Segale ----------------------------------------------------------
Hassan al-Himyari was only fourteen years old the first time he mounted a horse for battle. His strongest memories of that time came from the harrowing ride from Hargeisa to the mountainous homeland of the Abyssinian Christians in the fall of 1916. So many years later the pain and hardship of that time melted into vague impressions, but the romantic was magnified until it became dominant. The tribal infantry of his grandfather's army had been left behind by the flying cavalry. They rode on swift horses, their ammo limited to what they could carry in a single pouch, a scimitar hanging by their side to do the rest. They wore no armor, no steel helmets like the Europeans on their Western Front, but only the white linens of desert dwellers to protect them. Most of them were armed with Mauser carbines of the kind that had once outfitted Bismarck's cavalry, but this was the only modern aspect to this army. Otherwise they looked like they'd rode straight out of Arabian Nights. The romanticism especially touched the younger members like Hassan. It was buoyed by the chanting of prayers, making it easy for them to imagine themselves in the place of those first Muslim warriors who struck out from the deserts fifteen hundred years before, riding toward battle with the infidel Persians along the ancient banks of the Euphrates.
Their destiny was much more muddled than the simple truths of holy warfare. Their leader, Khalid al-Himyari, Hassan's grandfather, had launched them into the middle of a civil war between their Christian neighbors. They rode through hostile territory, eyed suspiciously by the women and old men whose husbands and sons would be either with them or against them when they arrived on the battlefield. Their flapping banners presented sayings of the prophet and prayers to allah, reminding the natives of older battles between the two faiths, battles that lived in the persistent memory of East Africa; a land keenly aware of its living past.
The call "Allahu ackbar" rose up lyrically in the roaring wind, and Hassan added his cracking voice. He kept up the best he could. Amongst all of these veterans, he felt like an imposter, unready to be a warrior. Would he ever be ready at all? But he was here, driven by the intense passions of youth, and the pressure of his birth. Most important to him, he wanted to see history, and was afraid that it would leave him behind to rot as an inactive observer in Hargeisa.
"Allahu ackbar!" they cried out. The valley filled with their manly worship. Hassan questioned if his voice added anything at all.
The battleground came at them in slow, awe-inspiring pieces. They heard the muted thump of artillery from far away, and saw a stream of frightened refugees fleeing. An unnatural dry-season rain fell around the battlefield, leaving only the places where troops fought dry, as if Allah set an arena of lightening around the fight as a backdrop for greatness.
Next came the appearance of Ethiopian soldiers, going to or limping from the field. These were wild looking men with months of untamed growth on top of their heads and along their faces, pointing out wiry and wooly as if they had been hit by the lightening. They wore sturdy clothes, mostly homespun, wrapped in shammas and strung with bandoliers. The peasants had given their Somali visitors weary looks, but the soldiers looked surprised, even delighted.
Rifles cracked and machine guns quaked. The smoke produced by the fight rose into the air and obscured the distant lightening, creating an otherworldly sky that seemed like the very ceiling of hell. The Somalis ululated, announcing their arrival. Khalid mounted a knoll so that he could be seen. His white beard and stoic expression made him look like the resurrected ghost of one of the Rashidun. He barked orders, but Hassan could not hear him over the fiery warfare. The men in the front of the riding column split from one another and dismounted, advancing up the hill and toward the battle on foot. The rest, including Hassan, lurched forward on the swift war horses. War-cries called out. Hassan imitated.
Down along a river belching with unseasonable rainfall was a battle scene from a Boschian nightmare. The splendid parade-ground images of war were replaced here with a chaotic killing field. Bullets whizzed by, and the mechanical jerking of machine gun fire spoke of a terror newborn to the world. The screaming Muslim riders charged with a force that felt like they were being pulled by a runaway train. Hassan pulled out his scimitar and wailed. His hand gripped the hilt of his weapon so hard that his fingers went white, but he could not feel them. His extremities were numb.
A man fell from his horse, a spurt of gore leaving his back like an exhaust jet, and his confused horse ran wild out of the column. Hassan passed by stunned enemies, but the war was going too quick for his battle-addled brain to comprehend, and he held his scimitar steady in front of him and screamed for his life, swinging at nobody.
It all ran together; the bloody water kicked into the air, the screams rushing by so fast that Hassan couldn't run together context, the sight of mangled bodies and his comrades falling into the muck dead or wounded. It was over when they wheeled back around and took a stand of artillery sitting on top of the hill. After that the battle seemed to dissipate in the way a thunderstorm does.
In the end, Hassan didn't kill a man at the Battle of Segale. He didn't even swing his scimitar. Even as he grew older, this would be come his deepest secret, the thing about his life that shamed him the most. He would make his battlefield kills later, but those future fights carried none of the greatness of Segale, where the fate of East Africa for all the twentieth century was decided. He did nothing there but use his voice and shadow the men who really did make a difference.
-------------------------------------------------------------- May 1960: The Deserts of northern Somalia --------------------------------------------------------------
Hassan sprinted forward and threw his scimitar. It whistled through the air, struck the hanging target, and split open the bag. Sand spilled out, making a satisfied hiss as it returned to the desert from whence it came. Several other bags hung next to it waiting to be opened, dangling testicularly from the barrel of a tank, which was colorfully painted in the Africa fashion. This particular one was made to look like a raging fire, though the dusty desert storms of central Somalia had scoured the paint and caused the original brown color to peek through.
"Well struck." Rais Said said, his tone formal even though it was only the two of them. Rais was a thin and nearly hairless man, looking like a living mummy dressed up in a starched General's dress uniform.
"Don't let them say that I'm old" Hassan replied, chuckling as he walked away from the target. Hassan wasn't old, but he was middle aged, a ring of salt and pepper hair clinging to his temples. He was a barrel chested man, and middle age was starting to give him a barrel gut to match. But there was a hardness to his face, a mix of Somalian black from his mother and Yemeni Arab from his father, and a battle-won scar on his cheek to compliment this hardness.
Rais pulled a scimitar stuck in the sand beneath his feet and lined himself up with the target. His stance was rigid, but his method was precise, and when he threw, he stuck his target. The scimitar lodged itself in a bag and stayed there.
"Good. Good. You're not old either." Hassan said.
"Have you made your decision?" Rais asked.
"About?"
"Rhodesia."
"Oh." Hassan pulled a scimitar from the sand. "Lutalo will veto it one way or another. I do not know what friends the Emperor expects to make with this move."
"White faces." Rais said.
"Yes." Hassan lined up and threw. His scimitar struck Rais's and sparked, making a shrill clang. Hassan punched the air and laughed. "That is how you do it, my friend. And look at that, I am spilling your sand."
"Should you be in Addis Ababa then?" Rais said.
"No need" Hassan leaned against the tank, "Lutalo's veto is enough. There is no point in me sticking out my neck. In politics, my friend, you only fight the battles you have to fight."
"And what if Lutalo doesn't exercise his veto?"
Hassan shrugged. "Then welcome white Rhodesia, welcome to the African Congress! We apologize for the sunburns, but our sun does not like white faces."
Rais threw. It clipped the bottom of a bag, dumping its sand all at once. In the distance, the lyrical droning of an Islamic call to prayer came hauntingly across the dunes.
"It's time" Hassan said. They picked up and left.
The two men walked past the tank, passing a number of silent mud-brick buildings. Long diesel trucks sat in front, their beds outfitted with benches to carry troops, completely unmanned but recently used. The crying adhan seemed to be coming from below. They walked up a dune until they came to a place where it ended abruptly. Below them was a giant corkscrew pit, large enough and deep enough that most of the buildings in Addis Ababa could be dismantled and thrown inside before it was filled up again. At the bottom, like men seen from the air in a plane, a larger number of small bright-white figures bent over in prayer.
The Dervishes were the best warriors in Hassan's Somalia. The nation was held together by localized regiments of regular soldiers sequestered in barracks and given police duty when there was nothing else to do. It was only the best of them that had a chance at becoming a Dervish. These soldiers were clad in the white, the loose clothes hearkening to the Bedouin nomads, though the robes were replaced with shirts and pants. There heads were wrapped in a scarf so that only their eyes were visible. Whereas the uniformed regiments of the regular army were awkwardly armed, the Dervishes wielded new assault rifles and sharpened scimitars. Better then the glory and fresh equipment, the Dervishes were the only members of the Somalian government to receive a pension if they lived to old age. It was the most sought over position in Hassan's government. That was the way he wanted it.
The pit was one of his gold mines. It helped him to pay the promised pensions that caused so much competition for Dervish service. He wondered, when he held drills out here, if their presence in the place that paid them had any effect in reminding them of their duty.
"We serve Allah and the Emir" their voices said all at once, loud enough that Hassan and Rais could hear. Emir was one of his conflicting titles. To some, he was the Emir of Somalia to the Somali people, and he was the Ras of Adal to the Ethiopians.
Hassan stood still, the wind scouring the back of his neck. For a moment, all was quiet.
The men in the pit broke formation and spread out. They headed for the walls. A road corkscrewed into the pit, but they did not use it. Instead they climbed straight, moving up the steep walls like mountain climbers, their rifles on the backs and their scimitars dangling from their sides. Some, whether for dramatic flourish or to keep from getting snagged, held their scimitars in their mouths.
"These men could take Mombasa." Hassan said proudly.
Rais looked at him. "Is that your plan?"
"No. No." Hassan said. His eyes stayed on the clambering Dervish troops. "Let the Reds do that. I have no friends among white faces or red flags."
"They could take Mombasa." Rais agreed. Hassan had sounded liking a bragging father, but Rais sounded like a scientist giving a professional opinion.
"If they had to swim."
The Reds had asked him about helping with Mombasa. He'd ignored them. This was the normal dance among the East African Confederates. It was not a true confederation of course, but rather a vague submission to Addis Ababa, and once held together by a fear of recolonization that was beginning to fade in the modern world. Mombasa, where the last of the white settlers of Swahililand resisted the rise of Lutalo's reds, was under an uncertain siege by the confused Communist revolutionaries. That was fine. Let the Reds chew on Mombasa until their teeth were worn to the gums. Let them break in and in frustrated rage murder every last white man. The weaker they were, the happier Hassan would be in his power. He'd even throw them a bone or two if it helped make their conflict bloodier. But his Dervishes were more than a mere bone, and he would not throw them until it was worth it.
When the Dervish soldiers made it to a stretch of the road, they dashed across it. To Hassan's pleasure, they treated this drill as a sort of race.
"Could any man in Africa ever stand against these men?" Hassan asked.
"Probably not." Rais answered.
"Definitely not" Hassan said. "I'd pit them against the world. They would win."
Okay, I turned the 0th page of Character Sheet section into a generalized reference sheet. I'm not necessarily keen on making a generalized character sheet, but I'm trying to keep track of other reference material for the RP. If there is anything you want to add, ask a mod.
Houism is a Chinese model of socialism. Nominally referred to as Houism by outsiders for the presence of the current Grand Secretary of the Chinese Politburo Hou Tsai Tang in Chinese politics and political theory. In China, it is referred to as Chinese Socialism or the Analects of New China, encompassing a broad left-wing platform for not just 'rebooting' China and Asia to bring it on level with the modern world, but for achieving a state of socialism as a process and Communism as a end goal. Combining facets of Taoism, Buddhism, and Confucianism to offset the dangers of what is considered the overly conservative neo-Confucian schools emphasized by the Qing and the militantly conservative Kuomintang of the old Republic of China.
The school of thought uniformly embraces notions of broadening the family and speaks more of the family as being less nuclear and broader and more communal, suggesting community-oriented care and nations as a body of families themselves among a community of families, who may or may not be estranged through the process of history. Similarly, it critiques power structure, proposing the responsible distribution of power is at the most democratic.
On a whole the movement is derived more from the Pure Socialist and Scattered anarchist movements of the Chinese left prior to real-life Soviet influence in China. Though while the Soviets are gone, former Bolsheviks from Russia who fled into China or the far-east lended to the early development of Chinese Socialism a loose framework.
Documents without available text -Houism: A Crash Course. (English language, Not written by Hou) -Selected Essays of Hou Sai Tang, Translated by Kifle Mesrak. (Amharic language, Articles by Hou, Includes On Power and Politics)
POW FRANCHISES
Military Products
-Weapons Manufactures --New England Weapon Industries (NEWI): American based weapon and airplane developer.
-Airplanes --Colibri Fighter Plane - Smaller than your average fighter, built for dirigible service. Armed with 2x20mm cannons, can reach speeds of 720km/hr. --Féi é: Massive big-bellied seaplane. Produced by China. --Fokker As: German made fighter plane. --KK Zorya Polunoshnaya: Made by Khil-Kobets in Russia. Sleek. --Mitsubishi-R77: A long-range fighter-bomber plane. --NEWI Jackrabbit: 2nd US Civil War-era American fighter. --NEWI Big Stick: 2nd US Civil War-era American bomber. --Sopwith Goat: Bulky Fighter made in Britain. Has pinched nose that looks like radiator. --The Angel of Death: Rhodesian-produced bunker buster. Slow, low flier. Uses napalm and rockets.
-Airships --Cormoran Class Dirigible - Double gasbag airship aircraft carrier. Capable of speeds up to 120km/hr, has a range of 11,000km and can launch/recover 12 Colibri Fighter planes.
-Helicopters --Otchestvo Transport Helicopters: Made by a Ukraine.
-Ships --Heroe-Class Battleship: Spain. 50,000 tonnes, 15inch guns, three currently in service. Flagship is the RSN Don Quixote.
-Side Arms --Weerlig Pistol: Carried by cops in Salisbury, Rhodesia. Has fifteen round magazine.
-Small Arms --K4 Carbine: A simple, mass produced, semi-automatic, rifle-stocked carbine with a 30-round magazine and bayonet. The average Armenian foot soldier is armed with the K4. Functionally equivalent to the real-world SKS. --Scorpion: A makeshift rifle created by Chechens in the field as an alternative to professionally made rifles. Crafted from scrap metal and pipes. --Stinger: A makeshift antivehicle weapon created by Chechens from scrap metal and pipes.
-Tanks --Amrots Landship: Originally tanks constructed by the Ottoman Empire during the Great War, these landships were abandoned or stolen, refitted with modern weaponry and armor, and put to use by Armenian military forces. --Nerthus Kampfpanzer MKII: German. Older model. --Nerthus Kampfpanzer WKI: German. Newer model. --Tortuga Tank: Medium tank, flame thrower capable, four crew, 75mm gun, older models have a fixed cannon and no turret. --Zorro Medium Tank: Mainstay of the Spanish Armored core. Fast, well armed, and heavily armored.
Commercial Products Aircraft: -Khil-Kobets: Russian firm that designs and produces aircraft. Alcohol: -Aygestan Brandy - Brandy distiller in the rural Artsakh, Armenia. Producing brandy from grapes grown in Martakert region. -Château de Poster Fagot: American wine. Served in restaurants in Sun City. -Rote Hütte: German Beer. Prince Friedrich's favorite. Banking: -Bangko Sentral: Bank of the Philippines. Clothing: -The Algerian Silk: Algerian clothing store. Coffee: -Negus Coffee: Ethiopian based coffee company owned and operated by Desta Getachew, Sahle's Minister of the Pen. Department Stores: -Beaumont's: American-based, worldwide department franchise. Fast Food -Luigi's Place: Italian fast food joint based out of Chicago. Albanians using it as laundering front. Flight School: -White Flight: Rhodesian firm. Narcotics: -Collazo-López cartel: Mexican cartel. Personal Hygiene: -Pennington and Pippin: American made razors. Based in New England. Petroleum: -Constantine Petroleum: Algeria's state-owned oil company. -Dixon Oil: Fueling America since 1894 -Ukragaz: Ukrainian national oil and natural gas company. Processed Food: -Vorsprung Zuckerkugeln: German made. Sweet balls of grain. Produce: -Fruta y Comercio de Centroamérica: Central American fruit monopoly. Sells internationally. Soft Drinks: -Sun City Sasparilla: Cowboy on label, facing forward, winking one eye while shooting at an Indian sneaking up (USA) Tobacco: -Cornell Brand: Rhodesian firm. Internationally sold. -Red Apple: Japanese cigarettes. Toys -Beanies: A line of cheap plush animals filled with plastic beads. Emir Ramzan is a notable collector.
Vehicles Armenia -Independence class merchant ship - Steel, mid-size transport ships commissioned in Armenia for the purpose of trading across the Black Sea. They take just a year to build from start to finish, but their reliability has been called into question. Armed for defense against pirate elements with a cannon and six heavy machine guns, and crewed by Merchant Mariners. Equivalent to the real-world US Liberty ships of WWII.
Austria -Straßenmeister (Years ?-1945-?): City car. Used as cheap staff car.
Greece -Alexandros Automotives: Greek National Auto Company. Slogan: "Reliable from Greece to India"
Turkey -Atingucu (Years ?-1944-?): Turkish sedan used commonly as a staff car.
Rhodesia -Melsett: Off road car. Large, military tires, painted a deep green, small windshield for the driver -The Beast: Military off road vehicle. Used by Rhodesian Security Forces.
Somalia -Doofarka: Dune buggies produced for Somalian military. Available commercially. Not mass produced in Somalia, but an easy design to copy.
United States -Buick Bonanza (Years ?-1932-?): Four-Door sedan. -DeSoto Firefly: A two-seater convertible car. -Ford Florentine: Car popular with the feds. -Ford Franklin: Long flashy car with a retractable hard-top -Packard Stallion: Convertible. Fast car.
Unique Cultural Details China -Huangju: Yellow Wine. -Kaoliang: Sorghum Wine.
Phillipines -Barong Tagalog: A translucent white formal shirt made up of pineapple fibres.
Sports
Baseball -LA Dukes: Los Angeles based pro baseball team. --Billy Carter: Famous black professional baseball player.
Media and Movies France -The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928): Movie about Joan of Arc's trial. Popular with French Nationalists and Leftists.
Germany -Schwingradio Deutschland: German radio station playing swing.
Greece -Peripeteies tou Ioanni kai tou Aristoteli: Adventures of Ioannis and Aristotle. A radio show set in the Byzantine Empire, about two men named Ioannis and Aristotle, who solved mysteries and protected the Byzantines from danger.
United States -Pinnacle Entertainment: Hollywood Studio dominating American Film and Radio. --The Shecky Lemon Program (Radio comedy) --Shall We Dance?: Hollywood Movie. Starring Raymond Hollisteras as nice guy engaged of a shrew of a woman. The shrew demanded that he take dancing lessons before their wedding. Enter Bridgette Davenport as the beautiful dancing instructor. They fall in love. Sold well partially thanks to the real life murder of supporting actress Claire Beauchamp. --Bums in Baghdad (1959): Jimmy Fastsitter and Bobby Chambers comedy. --Tramps in Tripoli (1960): Jimmy Fastsitter and Bobby Chambers comedy. --Private Champ: Loosely about the military service of Champ Dennis. Includes musical numbers with Edward Sisters.
Music Germany -Damen von Swing: German Swing artist. Songs include "Am die Steilabfall". -Julien Schmidt: German musician. Songs include "Spinnende Netze".
Rhodesia -Rock and Roll --Peppermints: Underground band. Members are mixed race brothers Feo and Veo, and woman Mindhy. --The Wilted Roses: Underground band. --The Evan catz: Underground band.
United States -Country Western --Deuce Hopper and his Oklahoma Orchestra: Country band. Songs include "Shame on you" and a cover of "Cotton Eye Joe" -Folk --Harvey Edwards: Left-Wing Blues musician. Blind. Sings Union hymns. -Rock and Roll --Little Sadie Hamilton: New-fangled rocker. --Petey Peterson: New-fangled rocker. --Plump Poker: New fangled rocker. Sings "I hear you knocking." --T-Bone & The Bone Patrol: New-fangled black rock band. -Swing and Jazz --Mariano and the Moonlights: Big band band. Songs include alt-universe big band "Runaround Sue" --Edwards Sisters: Three "sister" singing group. Songs include "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" and "Don't Fence Me In." --Petey Peterson: Sings "American the Beautiful".
Writing Albanian Language -Atdha: Nationalist track. Can be found at the link, under the heading "Popular Civil Guard HQ". -The Right of the Nation-State (Gjergj Kastrioti): Argument for nationalism. Can be found at the second scene here.
Amharic (Ethiopian) Language -Aymero: Ethiopian National Newspaper
English Language -Books --The Adventures of Leonid Secshaver. Series written by Reginald Heap. Many books including... ---The Adventures of Leonid Secshaver: A Man of Many Meatings ---The Adventures of Leonid Secshaver: Ten Thousand Ticklish Tallywhackers -Magazines --Whisper Magazine: Hollywood celebrity tabloid. Slogan: "From your lips to our pages" -Newspapers --The Tehrani Courier:The main English-language newspaper in Iran, it caters mostly to expatriates. Government censorship is therefore much lighter than on Farsi papers. -Political Tracts --Houism: A Crash Course (Left Wing) --LAPD: KKKorupt KKKops (Left Wing) --Who Will Survive in America (Left Wing)
German Language -Books --The Art of Manipulation
Greek Language -Eleftheria: Athens newspaper.
Persian Language -Books --Lower Skies (Farrokh Mirza Ramjan): It's the story of two siblings, Arvind and Miryam, in the early 20th century, whose life is rather unremarkable, coming to terms with the disillusions of growing up in the world. --The Tortoise (Ahmet Fulnani): Has closing line "Whereupon one cannot properly speak, one must remain silent."
Places Armenia -Trabzon --Trabzon Shipyards - The main center of maritime industry, ship production, and drydock maintenance in Armenia. Located in the western city of Trabzon, close to supply routes. -Tsaghkadzor --Tsaghkadzor Heavy Industry Plant: A tank manufacturing facility tooled for updating Great War equipment for modern use.
China -Beijing --Forbidden City ---Zhongnanhai: The White House of China. Used by the Politburo. ---Xinhuamen gate: Built along the south wall during the Republican era. --National Congressional Complex ---Congressional hall -Tianjin --Hou's House
Ethiopia -Addis Ababa --Entoto Mountains: Range that forms Addis Ababa's northern border. Populated with Eucalyptus trees. ---Gebi Entoto: Abandoned palace of Menelik II. --Gebi Iyasu: Sahle's pad. --Vin Rouge: French language and cultural club. --Ras Hotel: Big fancy hotel. --Emebet Eleni School for Girls: High school. Self explanatory. --Negus Mikael Military Academy: Officers training school. Shotel Offices located on campus. -Danakil Desert --Lake Afrera: Salt mining lake. Nearby volcano home of Dr Sisi's mad science lab. -Mogadishu --Grand Admiralty
Germany -Berlin --Dicke Frau: Little out of the way pub. Frequented by Prince Friedrich. --Einheitswand: Prison for political prisoners. --Fischadler: Royal German Zeppelin.
Greece -Athens --Le Petit Paris: French language club. -Argyrokastro --Maja e Malit: Dive Bar. Well known hang out for Albanian nationalists and monarchists. -Ioaninna --Souroupo: Night club popular with working class. Was site of suicide bombing in June '60.
Japan -Hiroshima --Naka-ku Ward: Central ward. Home of the nightlife. ---The Rose: Nightclub. -Keijō: Colonial capital of Korea. --General Government Building: Neo-classical style with large dome that looks more western than other buildings in Keijō.
Philippines -Manila --Cathedral of the People: Greek style cathedral with left-wing frescoes.
Rhodesia -Salisbury --"Gas Town": Mixed-race working class neighborhood. --"Little Zimbabwe": Black working class neighborhood. --Salisbury Airforce Base --Village Idiot Club: Club between Little Zimbabwe and Gas Town, on 10th Street near 4th Avenue. Four story brick building. Drug den. Plays rock music.
Russia -Chechnya --Grozny ---The Redoubt: A Fortress in Grozny made from a modified kremlin, home of the Emir of Grozny. ---Zaqqum Research Center: Bio-Warfare research lab.
Spain -Barcelona --Basílica i Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Família: Basilica. Commonly called Sagrada Família. -Dakhla (Spanish Western Sahara): Town with tango clubs and beaches. -Madrid --Hospital de San Sebastián el Mártir: Catholic Hospital in center of Madrid.
Swahili People's Republic -Fort Portal --Maisha-Marefu Hospital: Anarchist ran hospital. --Tooro Palace: Old monarchical palace on hill. The palace is abandoned and the hill used for Anarchist meetings. -Kisumu --Mbaya-Hispania Hospital: Colonial era Flu clinic, turned into insane asylum, then shut down and occupied by Communists. --Umoja Hotel: Old colonial style hotel used as Communist Headquarters. -Mombasa --Fort Jesus --Motel Execution: Motel where prisoners were kept during Mombasa siege. Executions done via hanging from second story. -Revolution-Town: Walled cluster of white buildings crammed into a square mile on a peninsula near Kampala --Senate of the People's Will: Compact and bland Romanesque. Has dome and many carvings of laurel sprigs. --Temple of the People's Will: Built of marble and limestone, looks like miniature parthenon, white-washed with paint. --Walls: Made of marble, communist leaders painted on them
Ukraine -Kiev --Mariyinsky Palace: Residence of Hetman. --St Sophia's Cathedral: Most important Cathedral in Kiev. Where Coronations are held. --Verkhovna Rada: Home of Ukrainian Legislature. -Poltava --Potemkin Military Base -Odessa --"Little Vladimir" Refugee Camp: Russian refugee camp. --Richelieu steps: Massive outdoor staircase connecting Odessa to ocean.
United States of America -Washington DC --Occidental Grill: Nice restaurant, has paintings of the presidents on its walls. Exists in real life. -Arizona --Kingman ---Kingman Gardens: Casino on Rte 66. --Petrified Forest Inn: Near painted desert. --Sun City (roughly corresponds with Brenda, Arizona IRL) ---Desert Rose Hotel & Casino (Ran by Chicago Mafia) ---King Arthur's Court (Ran by LA Mafia) ---Lucky Gent (Ran by New York Mafia) -California --Cloud Nine: Airship casino, carrying capacity of 1000 people, travels a scenic route around California. --Los Angeles ---Baxter Hotel: Across the street from Convention Complex. ---Beaumont's: Large department store. ---Convention Complex: Across the street from Baxter Hotel. ---Daily Bread: Leftist speak-easy. ---The Voodoo: Black club. Voodoo/Witch Hunter design theme. --Malibu ---Malibu Beach Clinic: Beachside mansion specializing in under the radar services for celebrities. -Montana --Jordan's Crossing: Boom Town ---Mac's: Bar in a Quonset hut -Nevada --Boulder City ---Hoover Dam: (Arizona side includes marker for Battle of Hoover Dam) ---Statue of Nevada Militiaman --Goodsprings ---Goodsprings Saloon --Las Vegas ---Oddie Airport: Small hardly used town airport. ---The Bloody Knoll: Casino in a barn-like building. ---The Sands: Bungalows operated by Nobert Noonan. --Magnesium: Small town southeast of Las Vegas. -New Mexico --Prewitt ---Liberty Land: Small Rte 66 theme park. Has vampire Karl Marx coaster and merry go round where horses have President's heads.
WestAfrika -Douala --Kaiser' Bierstube: Beerhall serving mostly German imports. --Royal Douala Academy --War Museum: National exhibit detailing the West-Afrika Civil War.
-Everybody Wants to Rule The World - Tears for Fears -Road to Zion - Damian Marley -Shame on You - Spade Cooley -Get Yo Shit - Black Joe Lewis & The Honeybears -Bohemian Rhapsody - Queen -Mr Blue Sky - Electric Light Orchestra -Joe Hill - Pete Seeger -Runaround Sue - Dion -The Lion Sleeps Tonight - The Tokens -I Hear You Knocking - Fats Domino -Blue Moon of Kentucky - Bill Monroe -Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy - The Andrews Sisters -Jump Nyabinghi - Bob Marley -Il Cielo in Una Stanza - Mina -Night Rally - Elvis Costello -Don't Fence Me In - Bing Crosby w/ The Andrew Sisters -With a Little Help from My Friends - The Beatles -America the Beautiful - Ray Charles -Almost Blue - Chet Baker -Big Iron - Marty Robbins -Renegade - Warren Zevon -Onward Christian Soldiers - Mormon Tabernacle Choir -The East is Red - Communists -Rebels - Tom Petty -Hallelujah - Leonard Cohen -Milky White Way - Elvis Presley -Blue Bayou - Roy Orbison -Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On - Big Maybelle -The Internationale - Communists -If We Were Vampires - Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit -Pasion de Arrabal - Spaniards -After You Get What You Want You Don't Want It - Irving Berlin
I'll stay on the record saying that forcing this particular level of division is arbitrary and will only serve to hamper people's ability to organically develop a Russian storyline.
I think people should be allowed to recarve the Russia map so long as they can sell it as a sensible idea. Requiring people to follow the Russian NPC map exactly seems ridiculous.
Timemaster
