₦airaland Forum

.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0KEUYPbwJEE


What is rig slang?
The 'rig' that means "to manipulate or control usually by deceptive or dishonest means" first appeared in an 18th century slang dictionary with the definition "game, diversion, ridicule. See 'fun'." ... Cant is often called "thieves slang," and that's essentially what it is: the argot of an area's sketchier citizens.

killyaselfie:
From the perspective of the “pagans”, they can also refer to the Christians as “pagans” since it’s a convenient way to define others who aren’t part of your group.

So, this “old pagan world” is the time preceding the legalization and codification of Christianity by the Romans.

Did this old pagan world limited to the areas of Roman hegemony or is this “world” more expansive?

When and where did the old pagan world end?

The teachings of Yeshua is not Christianity of the Romans.

The Black Edomite Romans took Yeshua and combined with Zeus to create Jesus. Then later they took Jesus and combined with Cristos a god of Ptolemy worshippers in Egypt to create Jesus Christ.

The true teachings of Yeshua were gnostic teachings or what one may call mysticism. They had no church in the beginning only Black Jews spreading the oral teachings of Yeshua in Aramaic throughout the Roman empire. The Romans ran out the Black Jews as many went into Europe and India and Persia lands that were always Semetic. Not all Blacks were ever African the Asiatics were Noah's sons through Shem. Celts and Franks and other Northern Blacks outside of Africa were of the tribes of Shem.

As for Christianity it has had various orders besides the Roman, Celtic and Arianism were two other orders who had a few churches. The church King James a Black Celt grew up in was never attached to Rome and was hundreds of years in existence. History was revised to say King James broke away from the Catholic church to form his church which is a lie. After taking the Staurt royal family out of power the Catholics just write what they desire to be history.

The duchess nose

killyaselfie:
“Blacks”. What is a “Black”?
What is the old pagan world?
What is New World Order?

pa·gan·ism
/ˈpāɡəˌnizəm/
Learn to pronounce
noun
a religion other than one of the main world religions, specifically a non-Christian or pre-Christian religion.
"converts from paganism to Christianity"
a modern religious movement incorporating beliefs or practices from outside the main world religions, especially nature worship.

killyaselfie:
“Blacks”. What is a “Black”?
What is the old pagan world?
What is New World Order?

Blacks who worship more than one Deity are pagans such as Egypt was Black and pagan.

The old pagan world of Blacks are at the root of the New World Order.

The old pagan world of Blacks are at the root of the New World Order.

The old pagan world of Blacks are at the root of the New World Order.

The old pagan world of Blacks are at the root of the New World Order.

.

.

.

babasolution:
OK,I get your point.I want you to talk about slavery, why were blacks sold as slaves more than any other race

Mainly kings wanted to convert all Israelites that fled into Africa into pagans and have free labor, sex and sacrifices.

Only Israelites were enslaved in most parts of Africa centuries before the kings alliance with the Kahzars who ran the Atlantic Slave Trade.

Devil Worship. The God of the Bible considers all the other gods and goddesses to be demons created by the hands of man.

I will explain this metaphysically so you can understand what I mean by devil worship. You can go into any book store in America and purchase a book on witchcraft and Satanism. It will give you names of demons and spirits you can call upon or pray too. Every religion has prayer, meditation, candles, incense, Alars and some sort of paraphernalia like beads and fetishes but this isn't the secret. The secret rites to true pagan religion is sex and blood magick. People learn witchcraft from book or buy fetishes at the market aren't doing real sorcery. No, they are only using their god given power to generate. True pagan religion is sex cult prostitution, orgies, drinking blood, eating flesh, killing animals and human beings. This is what the elites everywhere are involved in Pan Worship. Pan is just another word for Satan, Baal, Lucifer, Set, etc.

Everything is insane not only in Africa but around the world because of the elites worship the devil. They require anybody desiring to get rich join cults and sell their souls. This allows Azazel the chef over Satan to control the world. All these cults are one giantic cult called the Illuminati. They run the world everywhere!

Only truth sets us free from this in Jesus name we pray against every dark and evil power.

Devil Worship. The God of the Bible considers all the other gods and goddesses to be demons created by the hands of man.

I will explain this metaphysically so you can understand what I mean by devil worship. You can go into any book store in America and purchase a book on witchcraft and Satanism. It will give you names of demons and spirits you can call upon or pray too. Every religion has prayer, meditation, candles, incense, Alars and some sort of paraphernalia like beads and fetishes but this isn't the secret. The secret rites to true pagan religion is sex and blood magick. People learn witchcraft from book or buy fetishes at the market aren't doing real sorcery. No, they are only using their god given power to generate. True pagan religion is sex cult prostitution, orgies, drinking blood, eating flesh, killing animals and human beings. This is what the elites everywhere are involved in Pan Worship. Pan is just another word for Satan, Baal, Lucifer, Set, etc.

Everything is insane not only in Africa but around the world because of the elites worship the devil. They require anybody desiring to get rich join cults and sell their souls. This allows Azazel the chef over Satan to control the world. All these cults are one giantic cult called the Illuminati. They run the world everywhere!

Only truth sets us free from this in Jesus name we pray against every dark and evil power.

Devil Worship. The God of the Bible considers all the other gods and goddesses to be demons created by the hands of man.

I will explain this metaphysically so you can understand what I mean by devil worship. You can go into any book store in America and purchase a book on witchcraft and Satanism. It will give you names of demons and spirits you can call upon or pray too. Every religion has prayer, meditation, candles, incense, Alars and some sort of paraphernalia like beads and fetishes but this isn't the secret. The secret rites to true pagan religion is sex and blood magick. People learn witchcraft from book or buy fetishes at the market aren't doing real sorcery. No, they are only using their god given power to generate. True pagan religion is sex cult prostitution, orgies, drinking blood, eating flesh, killing animals and human beings. This is what the elites everywhere are involved in Pan Worship. Pan is just another word for Satan, Baal, Lucifer, Set, etc.

Everything is insane not only in Africa but around the world because of the elites worship the devil. They require anybody desiring to get rich join cults and sell their souls. This allows Azazel the chef over Satan to control the world. All these cults are one giantic cult called the Illuminati. They run the world everywhere!

Only truth sets us free from this in Jesus name we pray against every dark and evil power.

Devil Worship. The God of the Bible considers all the other gods and goddesses to be demons created by the hands of man.

I will explain this metaphysically so you can understand what I mean by devil worship. You can go into any book store in America and purchase a book on witchcraft and Satanism. It will give you names of demons and spirits you can call upon or pray too. Every religion has prayer, meditation, candles, incense, Alars and some sort of paraphernalia like beads and fetishes but this isn't the secret. The secret rites to true pagan religion is sex and blood magick. People learn witchcraft from book or buy fetishes at the market aren't doing real sorcery. No, they are only using their god given power to generate. True pagan religion is sex cult prostitution, orgies, drinking blood, eating flesh, killing animals and human beings. This is what the elites everywhere are involved in Pan Worship. Pan is just another word for Satan, Baal, Lucifer, Set, etc.

Everything is insane not only in Africa but around the world because of the elites worship the devil. They require anybody desiring to get rich join cults and sell their souls. This allows Azazel the chef over Satan to control the world. All these cults are one giantic cult called the Illuminati. They run the world everywhere!

Only truth sets us free from this in Jesus name we pray against every dark and evil power.

babasolution:
You still do not understand, my question is how come the for example Hausa elites in Nigeria, do not care about the massive poverty and killings,shedding of innocent blood by bandits upon the Hausa masses population,no other race will standby,probably except some of the Arabs,will standby and watch their people suffer in crushing poverty and death.The black race,especially Africans ,most especially Nigerians do this alot,Nigerian elites no matter the tribe do not value the life of their people,60 people were just killed by a explosion in a mine in Burkina Faso yesterday,60 souls gone in an instant, this kind of thing happened too frequently in black Africa,without the leaders ,giving a hoot about it,they carry on like nothing happened. I struggle to phantom my African elites are so wicked no matter the ethnicity,whether moor,Hebrew,Hausa,Yoruba,Igbo,ijaw,igala,jukun,Benin etc they all the same.What is the cause of this African wickedness towards their own people.It was for this reason the elites were so easily convinced to sell slaves from time immemorial, stretching back to even Arab slavery of blacks,Black elites of all ethnicities are so ever willing to sell their people as slaves,they love to see their people suffer.This phenomenon doesn't occur so well in most other races.What is the problem with Africans.That's my question

Devil Worship. The God of the Bible considers all the other gods and goddesses to be demons created by the hands of man.

I will explain this metaphysically so you can understand what I mean by devil worship. You can go into any book store in America and purchase a book on witchcraft and Satanism. It will give you names of demons and spirits you can call upon or pray too. Every religion has prayer, meditation, candles, incense, Alars and some sort of paraphernalia like beads and fetishes but this isn't the secret. The secret rites to true pagan religion is sex and blood magick. People learn witchcraft from book or buy fetishes at the market aren't doing real sorcery. No, they are only using their god given power to generate. True pagan religion is sex cult prostitution, orgies, drinking blood, eating flesh, killing animals and human beings. This is what the elites everywhere are involved in Pan Worship. Pan is just another word for Satan, Baal, Lucifer, Set, etc.

Everything is insane not only in Africa but around the world because of the elites worship the devil. They require anybody desiring to get rich join cults and sell their souls. This allows Azazel the chef over Satan to control the world. All these cults are one giantic cult called the Illuminati. They run the world everywhere!

Only truth sets us free from this in Jesus name we pray against every dark and evil power.

Richwallet:
Devil's Web: Who Is Stalking Your Children for Satan?

Date Published 1989
Length 216 pages
Annotation
Motivated by her son's suicide after his brief experience in the occult world, the author, a private investigator, explains to both the layperson and the professional how the violent cult underworld operates in the United States.
Abstract
The book describes how members of criminal and satanic cults stalk and recruit children, teenagers, and young adults for violent and criminal purposes. She documents incidents of murder, rape, animal mutilations, and graveyard desecrations related to satanic worship. Sections of the book explore the influences of violent entertainment, including heavy metal and black metal music, fantasy role- playing games, and the current rash of horror television programs and "slasher" movies. In addition to discussing her own family tragedy, the author explores in detail the series of killings in Matamoros, Mexico, which many investigators believe were ritualistic sacrifices. Other cases of ritualistic human sacrifice are also discussed. A chapter on the history of the occult is followed by appendixes that discuss crime-scene clues that provide evidence of black occultic rituals having been performed, as well as forensic aspects of ritual crime. The author advises that the key to dealing with the problem of criminal cults is to understand their nature, be aware of indicators of their operation and influence, and know how to distinguish between fact and fiction when confronted with the possibility that a family member or friend has become involved in harmful occult activities. A 48-item bibliography and a glossary of occult terms

Gangstalking is a government operation and it uses technology only available to them government such as rfid chip tracking and a fusion center to dispatch agents. The agents come from all walks of life yet have similar psychological profiles of being degenerates. As per Ted Gunderson a retired FBI chief satanists are in control of certain departments of government and they use government institutions to carry out their religious activities which involves sex trafficking and child sacrifice. This phenomen isn't limited to just the United States most gangstalking as well as human trafficking are state operations everywhere.

So y'all want to put the needle of vaccine poison in millions of people so you can be gay and human sacrificers?

Yes that's what the New World Order is old Babylon.

The fake Jews who are the sons of Moors through harems have both the same nature.


Stop blaming all White people when y'all knew pedophilia was in Africa. And stop supporting these fake Jewish people. They are not true Jews raping babies.

Richwallet:
A 1958 Visit to a Dakar Boy Brothel

MICHAEL DAVIDSON

In 1949, Dakar was still the administrative capital not only of Senegal but also of a number of vast tribal territories [French West Africa], which today are sovereign nations.1 The French still ruled, and Dakar was already the “gay” city of West Africa. When I returned nine years later, the French rulers had gone, and Dakar was gayer than ever. … For some reason, buried in history and ethnography, the Senegalese—the people who inhabit the vast plains on either side of the Senegal River, raising livestock and harvesting the easy-growing peanut—have a reputation in all those regions for homosexuality, and in Dakar, one can quickly see that they merit this reputation. …

The Dakar of 1958 was the Paris of Africa. … That one didn’t have to be shy in Dakar, and even less furtive, if one was queer, became pretty plain to me almost my first evening there. … I’d been introduced to an official of some sort in one of the Ministries: a middle-aged Senegalese of great charm and culture—and himself a lover of boys. Would I care to see a very special side of Dakar night-life, off the regular beat of most foreign visitors to the city? And so, one night after dinner—it must have been toward 10 o’clock—we set off in his car for some outlying suburbs. We soon left the “modern” town beyond and drove through miles of dimly lighted districts of the ville indigène—long acres of “native quarters”: low-walled cantonments containing, according to tribal customs, either thatched beehive huts or parallelograms of one-room dwellings built of sunbaked brick. Then we came into a world of bidonvilles—a twilit, dismal, shantytown constructed of corrugated iron and empty oil drums and any sort of do-it-yourself material that the owner-builder could lay his hands on. From the endless rows of dark and unwelcoming hutments there came a low muttering of human life—the life of the crowded families that lived in them, and, here and there, the throbbing of some deep-voiced drum, beating for a wedding or other family festival. But there was nothing festive in the aspect of these sad districts: behind the general air of squalor and dejection, I got the impression of latent hostility and watchfulness: a notion that all these sullen shells, which were the scene of human love and passion and family devotion, were on the defensive, on the lookout, in a state of mental siege. That sort of peripheral slum always attracts police interference, to say nothing of those little government busybodies obsessed with things like rates and taxes. …

Somewhere near the core, it seemed, of this labyrinth of sad—and even a little sinister—dreariness, my friend stopped his car and said: “Here we are. There are a couple of places we can look at here. I think you’ll see something to amuse you.”

He parked the car and locked it, and I got out and stood in the sultry, near-tropical night and suddenly found that I was listening to the muffled rhythms of some kind of dance music. There were drums of course, there are always drums in Africa, and I love drums, but I also heard the nasal noise of something like a saxophone. … Full of misgivings, what with the rather weird surroundings, now almost pitch dark, and the saxophone, I followed my guide along a number of narrow and unlit alleyways, branching off abruptly at right angles one way or the other, till suddenly he stopped at a wooden door at the end of a blind alley—and now, all at once, I became aware of a large arc of illumination being thrown into the night from whatever might be beyond the door.

The door was opened. My friend talked to somebody or other—whether it was a club with an entrance fee I can’t now remember—and then we were let in and walked across what was an open-air dance-floor of polished and hard-trodden earth, veneered and admirably dressed with cattle dung, and found a table handily adjacent to the door whence the drinks came and as far as possible from the saxophone. We sat down, ordered some beer, and looked around. Couples were dancing vaguely European dances—after all, Europeans had been dancing in Dakar, among their other European activities, for two or three hundred years; people were sitting in tables round the dance-floor in twos and threes—and a few in solitary expectance. The whole small circular arena was brightly lit. Our beer was brought. By now I was really looking around.

The place was full of adolescent Africans in drag.

In drag. I mean that most of them were indeed in girls’ clothes: some in European, some wearing the elaborate headdress of the West African mode. It was in fact a drag party, and apart from ourselves and perhaps two or three African onlookers of adult age, nobody there, I judged, was more than 18 years old and most were around 15.

They danced together. They camped around like a pride of prima donnas. They came to our table and drank lots of beer with us, simpering, blinking their white-powdered eyelids, widening their great carmined lips. … They have pleasant manners, these transvestite Senegalese boys. They were friendly and undemanding and bubbling with jokes of a tartish kind. They seemed, on the surface, to be as cheerful as boys of that age ought to be. But one couldn’t, through all that paint and camp hilarity, see beneath the surface—

The pedophile dirty Moors is no different than the pedophile dirty Askenaskis who run Washington DC and elected Barack Obama as their president.

A 1958 Visit to a Dakar Boy Brothel

MICHAEL DAVIDSON

In 1949, Dakar was still the administrative capital not only of Senegal but also of a number of vast tribal territories [French West Africa], which today are sovereign nations.1 The French still ruled, and Dakar was already the “gay” city of West Africa. When I returned nine years later, the French rulers had gone, and Dakar was gayer than ever. … For some reason, buried in history and ethnography, the Senegalese—the people who inhabit the vast plains on either side of the Senegal River, raising livestock and harvesting the easy-growing peanut—have a reputation in all those regions for homosexuality, and in Dakar, one can quickly see that they merit this reputation. …

The Dakar of 1958 was the Paris of Africa. … That one didn’t have to be shy in Dakar, and even less furtive, if one was queer, became pretty plain to me almost my first evening there. … I’d been introduced to an official of some sort in one of the Ministries: a middle-aged Senegalese of great charm and culture—and himself a lover of boys. Would I care to see a very special side of Dakar night-life, off the regular beat of most foreign visitors to the city? And so, one night after dinner—it must have been toward 10 o’clock—we set off in his car for some outlying suburbs. We soon left the “modern” town beyond and drove through miles of dimly lighted districts of the ville indigène—long acres of “native quarters”: low-walled cantonments containing, according to tribal customs, either thatched beehive huts or parallelograms of one-room dwellings built of sunbaked brick. Then we came into a world of bidonvilles—a twilit, dismal, shantytown constructed of corrugated iron and empty oil drums and any sort of do-it-yourself material that the owner-builder could lay his hands on. From the endless rows of dark and unwelcoming hutments there came a low muttering of human life—the life of the crowded families that lived in them, and, here and there, the throbbing of some deep-voiced drum, beating for a wedding or other family festival. But there was nothing festive in the aspect of these sad districts: behind the general air of squalor and dejection, I got the impression of latent hostility and watchfulness: a notion that all these sullen shells, which were the scene of human love and passion and family devotion, were on the defensive, on the lookout, in a state of mental siege. That sort of peripheral slum always attracts police interference, to say nothing of those little government busybodies obsessed with things like rates and taxes. …

Somewhere near the core, it seemed, of this labyrinth of sad—and even a little sinister—dreariness, my friend stopped his car and said: “Here we are. There are a couple of places we can look at here. I think you’ll see something to amuse you.”

He parked the car and locked it, and I got out and stood in the sultry, near-tropical night and suddenly found that I was listening to the muffled rhythms of some kind of dance music. There were drums of course, there are always drums in Africa, and I love drums, but I also heard the nasal noise of something like a saxophone. … Full of misgivings, what with the rather weird surroundings, now almost pitch dark, and the saxophone, I followed my guide along a number of narrow and unlit alleyways, branching off abruptly at right angles one way or the other, till suddenly he stopped at a wooden door at the end of a blind alley—and now, all at once, I became aware of a large arc of illumination being thrown into the night from whatever might be beyond the door.

The door was opened. My friend talked to somebody or other—whether it was a club with an entrance fee I can’t now remember—and then we were let in and walked across what was an open-air dance-floor of polished and hard-trodden earth, veneered and admirably dressed with cattle dung, and found a table handily adjacent to the door whence the drinks came and as far as possible from the saxophone. We sat down, ordered some beer, and looked around. Couples were dancing vaguely European dances—after all, Europeans had been dancing in Dakar, among their other European activities, for two or three hundred years; people were sitting in tables round the dance-floor in twos and threes—and a few in solitary expectance. The whole small circular arena was brightly lit. Our beer was brought. By now I was really looking around.

The place was full of adolescent Africans in drag.

In drag. I mean that most of them were indeed in girls’ clothes: some in European, some wearing the elaborate headdress of the West African mode. It was in fact a drag party, and apart from ourselves and perhaps two or three African onlookers of adult age, nobody there, I judged, was more than 18 years old and most were around 15.

They danced together. They camped around like a pride of prima donnas. They came to our table and drank lots of beer with us, simpering, blinking their white-powdered eyelids, widening their great carmined lips. … They have pleasant manners, these transvestite Senegalese boys. They were friendly and undemanding and bubbling with jokes of a tartish kind. They seemed, on the surface, to be as cheerful as boys of that age ought to be. But one couldn’t, through all that paint and camp hilarity, see beneath the surface—

A 1958 Visit to a Dakar Boy Brothel

MICHAEL DAVIDSON

In 1949, Dakar was still the administrative capital not only of Senegal but also of a number of vast tribal territories [French West Africa], which today are sovereign nations.1 The French still ruled, and Dakar was already the “gay” city of West Africa. When I returned nine years later, the French rulers had gone, and Dakar was gayer than ever. … For some reason, buried in history and ethnography, the Senegalese—the people who inhabit the vast plains on either side of the Senegal River, raising livestock and harvesting the easy-growing peanut—have a reputation in all those regions for homosexuality, and in Dakar, one can quickly see that they merit this reputation. …

The Dakar of 1958 was the Paris of Africa. … That one didn’t have to be shy in Dakar, and even less furtive, if one was queer, became pretty plain to me almost my first evening there. … I’d been introduced to an official of some sort in one of the Ministries: a middle-aged Senegalese of great charm and culture—and himself a lover of boys. Would I care to see a very special side of Dakar night-life, off the regular beat of most foreign visitors to the city? And so, one night after dinner—it must have been toward 10 o’clock—we set off in his car for some outlying suburbs. We soon left the “modern” town beyond and drove through miles of dimly lighted districts of the ville indigène—long acres of “native quarters”: low-walled cantonments containing, according to tribal customs, either thatched beehive huts or parallelograms of one-room dwellings built of sunbaked brick. Then we came into a world of bidonvilles—a twilit, dismal, shantytown constructed of corrugated iron and empty oil drums and any sort of do-it-yourself material that the owner-builder could lay his hands on. From the endless rows of dark and unwelcoming hutments there came a low muttering of human life—the life of the crowded families that lived in them, and, here and there, the throbbing of some deep-voiced drum, beating for a wedding or other family festival. But there was nothing festive in the aspect of these sad districts: behind the general air of squalor and dejection, I got the impression of latent hostility and watchfulness: a notion that all these sullen shells, which were the scene of human love and passion and family devotion, were on the defensive, on the lookout, in a state of mental siege. That sort of peripheral slum always attracts police interference, to say nothing of those little government busybodies obsessed with things like rates and taxes. …

Somewhere near the core, it seemed, of this labyrinth of sad—and even a little sinister—dreariness, my friend stopped his car and said: “Here we are. There are a couple of places we can look at here. I think you’ll see something to amuse you.”

He parked the car and locked it, and I got out and stood in the sultry, near-tropical night and suddenly found that I was listening to the muffled rhythms of some kind of dance music. There were drums of course, there are always drums in Africa, and I love drums, but I also heard the nasal noise of something like a saxophone. … Full of misgivings, what with the rather weird surroundings, now almost pitch dark, and the saxophone, I followed my guide along a number of narrow and unlit alleyways, branching off abruptly at right angles one way or the other, till suddenly he stopped at a wooden door at the end of a blind alley—and now, all at once, I became aware of a large arc of illumination being thrown into the night from whatever might be beyond the door.

The door was opened. My friend talked to somebody or other—whether it was a club with an entrance fee I can’t now remember—and then we were let in and walked across what was an open-air dance-floor of polished and hard-trodden earth, veneered and admirably dressed with cattle dung, and found a table handily adjacent to the door whence the drinks came and as far as possible from the saxophone. We sat down, ordered some beer, and looked around. Couples were dancing vaguely European dances—after all, Europeans had been dancing in Dakar, among their other European activities, for two or three hundred years; people were sitting in tables round the dance-floor in twos and threes—and a few in solitary expectance. The whole small circular arena was brightly lit. Our beer was brought. By now I was really looking around.

The place was full of adolescent Africans in drag.

In drag. I mean that most of them were indeed in girls’ clothes: some in European, some wearing the elaborate headdress of the West African mode. It was in fact a drag party, and apart from ourselves and perhaps two or three African onlookers of adult age, nobody there, I judged, was more than 18 years old and most were around 15.

They danced together. They camped around like a pride of prima donnas. They came to our table and drank lots of beer with us, simpering, blinking their white-powdered eyelids, widening their great carmined lips. … They have pleasant manners, these transvestite Senegalese boys. They were friendly and undemanding and bubbling with jokes of a tartish kind. They seemed, on the surface, to be as cheerful as boys of that age ought to be. But one couldn’t, through all that paint and camp hilarity, see beneath the surface—

A 1958 Visit to a Dakar Boy Brothel

MICHAEL DAVIDSON

In 1949, Dakar was still the administrative capital not only of Senegal but also of a number of vast tribal territories [French West Africa], which today are sovereign nations.1 The French still ruled, and Dakar was already the “gay” city of West Africa. When I returned nine years later, the French rulers had gone, and Dakar was gayer than ever. … For some reason, buried in history and ethnography, the Senegalese—the people who inhabit the vast plains on either side of the Senegal River, raising livestock and harvesting the easy-growing peanut—have a reputation in all those regions for homosexuality, and in Dakar, one can quickly see that they merit this reputation. …

The Dakar of 1958 was the Paris of Africa. … That one didn’t have to be shy in Dakar, and even less furtive, if one was queer, became pretty plain to me almost my first evening there. … I’d been introduced to an official of some sort in one of the Ministries: a middle-aged Senegalese of great charm and culture—and himself a lover of boys. Would I care to see a very special side of Dakar night-life, off the regular beat of most foreign visitors to the city? And so, one night after dinner—it must have been toward 10 o’clock—we set off in his car for some outlying suburbs. We soon left the “modern” town beyond and drove through miles of dimly lighted districts of the ville indigène—long acres of “native quarters”: low-walled cantonments containing, according to tribal customs, either thatched beehive huts or parallelograms of one-room dwellings built of sunbaked brick. Then we came into a world of bidonvilles—a twilit, dismal, shantytown constructed of corrugated iron and empty oil drums and any sort of do-it-yourself material that the owner-builder could lay his hands on. From the endless rows of dark and unwelcoming hutments there came a low muttering of human life—the life of the crowded families that lived in them, and, here and there, the throbbing of some deep-voiced drum, beating for a wedding or other family festival. But there was nothing festive in the aspect of these sad districts: behind the general air of squalor and dejection, I got the impression of latent hostility and watchfulness: a notion that all these sullen shells, which were the scene of human love and passion and family devotion, were on the defensive, on the lookout, in a state of mental siege. That sort of peripheral slum always attracts police interference, to say nothing of those little government busybodies obsessed with things like rates and taxes. …

Somewhere near the core, it seemed, of this labyrinth of sad—and even a little sinister—dreariness, my friend stopped his car and said: “Here we are. There are a couple of places we can look at here. I think you’ll see something to amuse you.”

He parked the car and locked it, and I got out and stood in the sultry, near-tropical night and suddenly found that I was listening to the muffled rhythms of some kind of dance music. There were drums of course, there are always drums in Africa, and I love drums, but I also heard the nasal noise of something like a saxophone. … Full of misgivings, what with the rather weird surroundings, now almost pitch dark, and the saxophone, I followed my guide along a number of narrow and unlit alleyways, branching off abruptly at right angles one way or the other, till suddenly he stopped at a wooden door at the end of a blind alley—and now, all at once, I became aware of a large arc of illumination being thrown into the night from whatever might be beyond the door.

The door was opened. My friend talked to somebody or other—whether it was a club with an entrance fee I can’t now remember—and then we were let in and walked across what was an open-air dance-floor of polished and hard-trodden earth, veneered and admirably dressed with cattle dung, and found a table handily adjacent to the door whence the drinks came and as far as possible from the saxophone. We sat down, ordered some beer, and looked around. Couples were dancing vaguely European dances—after all, Europeans had been dancing in Dakar, among their other European activities, for two or three hundred years; people were sitting in tables round the dance-floor in twos and threes—and a few in solitary expectance. The whole small circular arena was brightly lit. Our beer was brought. By now I was really looking around.

The place was full of adolescent Africans in drag.

In drag. I mean that most of them were indeed in girls’ clothes: some in European, some wearing the elaborate headdress of the West African mode. It was in fact a drag party, and apart from ourselves and perhaps two or three African onlookers of adult age, nobody there, I judged, was more than 18 years old and most were around 15.

They danced together. They camped around like a pride of prima donnas. They came to our table and drank lots of beer with us, simpering, blinking their white-powdered eyelids, widening their great carmined lips. … They have pleasant manners, these transvestite Senegalese boys. They were friendly and undemanding and bubbling with jokes of a tartish kind. They seemed, on the surface, to be as cheerful as boys of that age ought to be. But one couldn’t, through all that paint and camp hilarity, see beneath the surface—

A 1958 Visit to a Dakar Boy Brothel

MICHAEL DAVIDSON

In 1949, Dakar was still the administrative capital not only of Senegal but also of a number of vast tribal territories [French West Africa], which today are sovereign nations.1 The French still ruled, and Dakar was already the “gay” city of West Africa. When I returned nine years later, the French rulers had gone, and Dakar was gayer than ever. … For some reason, buried in history and ethnography, the Senegalese—the people who inhabit the vast plains on either side of the Senegal River, raising livestock and harvesting the easy-growing peanut—have a reputation in all those regions for homosexuality, and in Dakar, one can quickly see that they merit this reputation. …

The Dakar of 1958 was the Paris of Africa. … That one didn’t have to be shy in Dakar, and even less furtive, if one was queer, became pretty plain to me almost my first evening there. … I’d been introduced to an official of some sort in one of the Ministries: a middle-aged Senegalese of great charm and culture—and himself a lover of boys. Would I care to see a very special side of Dakar night-life, off the regular beat of most foreign visitors to the city? And so, one night after dinner—it must have been toward 10 o’clock—we set off in his car for some outlying suburbs. We soon left the “modern” town beyond and drove through miles of dimly lighted districts of the ville indigène—long acres of “native quarters”: low-walled cantonments containing, according to tribal customs, either thatched beehive huts or parallelograms of one-room dwellings built of sunbaked brick. Then we came into a world of bidonvilles—a twilit, dismal, shantytown constructed of corrugated iron and empty oil drums and any sort of do-it-yourself material that the owner-builder could lay his hands on. From the endless rows of dark and unwelcoming hutments there came a low muttering of human life—the life of the crowded families that lived in them, and, here and there, the throbbing of some deep-voiced drum, beating for a wedding or other family festival. But there was nothing festive in the aspect of these sad districts: behind the general air of squalor and dejection, I got the impression of latent hostility and watchfulness: a notion that all these sullen shells, which were the scene of human love and passion and family devotion, were on the defensive, on the lookout, in a state of mental siege. That sort of peripheral slum always attracts police interference, to say nothing of those little government busybodies obsessed with things like rates and taxes. …

Somewhere near the core, it seemed, of this labyrinth of sad—and even a little sinister—dreariness, my friend stopped his car and said: “Here we are. There are a couple of places we can look at here. I think you’ll see something to amuse you.”

He parked the car and locked it, and I got out and stood in the sultry, near-tropical night and suddenly found that I was listening to the muffled rhythms of some kind of dance music. There were drums of course, there are always drums in Africa, and I love drums, but I also heard the nasal noise of something like a saxophone. … Full of misgivings, what with the rather weird surroundings, now almost pitch dark, and the saxophone, I followed my guide along a number of narrow and unlit alleyways, branching off abruptly at right angles one way or the other, till suddenly he stopped at a wooden door at the end of a blind alley—and now, all at once, I became aware of a large arc of illumination being thrown into the night from whatever might be beyond the door.

The door was opened. My friend talked to somebody or other—whether it was a club with an entrance fee I can’t now remember—and then we were let in and walked across what was an open-air dance-floor of polished and hard-trodden earth, veneered and admirably dressed with cattle dung, and found a table handily adjacent to the door whence the drinks came and as far as possible from the saxophone. We sat down, ordered some beer, and looked around. Couples were dancing vaguely European dances—after all, Europeans had been dancing in Dakar, among their other European activities, for two or three hundred years; people were sitting in tables round the dance-floor in twos and threes—and a few in solitary expectance. The whole small circular arena was brightly lit. Our beer was brought. By now I was really looking around.

The place was full of adolescent Africans in drag.

In drag. I mean that most of them were indeed in girls’ clothes: some in European, some wearing the elaborate headdress of the West African mode. It was in fact a drag party, and apart from ourselves and perhaps two or three African onlookers of adult age, nobody there, I judged, was more than 18 years old and most were around 15.

They danced together. They camped around like a pride of prima donnas. They came to our table and drank lots of beer with us, simpering, blinking their white-powdered eyelids, widening their great carmined lips. … They have pleasant manners, these transvestite Senegalese boys. They were friendly and undemanding and bubbling with jokes of a tartish kind. They seemed, on the surface, to be as cheerful as boys of that age ought to be. But one couldn’t, through all that paint and camp hilarity, see beneath the surface—

People got many thinking I'm losing my mind. I am wisdom. The Moors conquered Spain Portugal Sicily and Italy and made White women prostitutes. Call it a harem but they were nothing but brothels. And this where White Christians were considered slaves and to become free many became Jews and Muslims. The Askenaskis trace their lineage back to 4 White women who converted to Judaism during this period the Moors enslaved all White Christians on the Iberian Peninsula.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fd06PZG3u-o

People got many thinking I'm losing my mind. I am wisdom. The Moors conquered Spain Portugal Sicily and Italy and made White women prostitutes. Call it a harem but they were nothing but brothels. And this where White Christians were considered slaves and to become free many became Jews and Muslims. The Askenaskis trace their lineage back to 4 White women who converted to Judaism during this period the Moors enslaved all White Christians on the Iberian Peninsula.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fd06PZG3u-o

babasolution:
my question is why other races do not have this problem,the white race helps it's people prosper and value the life of its people, the protect their people to the core and can kill other races just to protect their people, likewise the Asian they generally want their kind to prosper. My concern is why does the black race,the black elites joy in subjugating it's people, living it's people poor, they do not value the life of their people.if you in Nigeria you will understand this.instead they joy in selling their kind to slavery, seeing their kind suffer so much

Race is a social construct created by man that is not in the Bible, Quran or the Torah.

God created ethnicity that is father's bloodline. In the Bible it says this man begot this one and he begot another. Sometimes brothers such as Cain and Abel take different paths. Even twins can be different such as Esau and Jacob and come to clash with one another.

It's a religious war within the original ethnicities of the Black race. The religion of Egypt v.s the religion of Abraham and both can't be correct.

When Barack Obama an African by bloodline became president of the U.S my family became a target. The Nubians whose tribe Obama belongs warred with my family the Knights Templar. My family is a royal family and we created the Knights Templar. We are the Franks and bloodline of Jesus and Mary Magdalene. I became a target the very day Obama won the election and have been under watch ever since by government agents.

I understand the spiritual war from a perspective most never will understand. I have personal testimony not opinions.

babasolution:
My problem with you diaspora blacks, you mix up a lot of issues.My point is,the yoruba were not saints like you guys like to portray, the Yoruba sold their own people into slavery,the Yoruba who were not a united group in the recent past,but were made of numerous tribes fought among themselves, in fact the Yoruba united because the whites made them do so,only the ijebus were united in their fight against the British,the under Yoruba subgroup s had disjointed views,some supported the British against their own people, therefore you classify the Yoruba probably as victims, many were in cahoots with the British.My point is most African tribes are rooted in subjugating their own people, they simply don't want their people to prosper,most tribes are in on this,I don't think there are special righteous tribes and evil tribes.All or most African tribes are in on subjugating and enslaving their own populations, the reason for this is what i have never found

Yes you are more familiar with the nuances seeing that you live there in Africa and have a close hand observation of sensitive history. Yet do not underestimate my views because they are in generalized form. I am aware of my own history here and much of yours so naturally I could never outwit you in yours.

The subjugation you speak is of a religious nature. Some tribes have the conscious beliefs they are superior to others but deep down they feel inadequate. Pagan religion makes people feel like they are gods and goddesses this is pure rubbish. Narcissism is a disease from pagan religion and this idea of self worship. These people have cut themselves off from the source of all light the Most High and now must suck energy from others. All bullies feel superior to the smart child who they force to do their homework. Most of the empires if not all benefitted from slave labor and slave talent yet all had the proud feeling they were better than their slaves. I say it's religion at the root of man's issues with himself and nothing else.

Change your beliefs beliefs of how you see yourself and the world around you changes. Yet religion can't be forced upon another so if a man believes a tree is God he will eat bark until he grows out of it.

Richwallet:
Gang stalking
An activity carried out by perverts, nerds, and sad disabled people trying to feel a sense of ego, identity and belonging.

Often used in pair with radio frequency imaging and surveillance technology very few even know exists. It stays hidden because of gaslighting and it’s complicated technical nature.

Just like in the days of Rome emperor Nero emptied out the brothels to use prostitutes and perverts to persecute the followers of Yeshua the modern rulers have done the same. Under King Louis the 14th the Catholics used sexual degenerates called Dragonades to harass the Hugenots. And Adolf Hitler his brown shirts of homosexuals, Muosilini his black shirts and America has its gay state paid Mafia. Let's be honest most sexual degenerates are mentally challenged because drained sexual energy depletes brain power. Many stalkers I see look horrible and low energy and this leads me to this conclusion above.

The government has rfid chipped the entire society without many knowing they have been chipped. Tracking the people and putting everyone under surveillance is all New World Order.