What I've Learned So Far About Pain

On 12 April, I woke up and found I was unable to move without horrible pain. I'd done nothing physical. I didn't fall. For about six months up to that point, though,  I had a series of stressful events that kept piling up and compounding the stress level in my body. I first felt the pain in my left heel. That caused me to stop my morning aerobics. Then the pain moved to my right hip. I took a few ibuprofen each day and managed to get on. Then one day my husband said, "Do you realise you're walking crooked?" Then on 11 April, we rushed to Gaborone to find a place for my daughter to move and to shift her stuff  after she was given less than a week to be out of where she was. That seemed to be the straw that literally broke this camel's back. 12th  April my life changed.

At first, though I was scared by the severity of the pain, I was sure my body would sort itself out. It always had before.Though I could do little more than lay in bed, I was sure it was nothing serious. But then a week passed and then another and then a month. A bit by force I was taken to a chiropractor and then I had Xrays and an MRI and suddenly everyone had an opinion. A disc between my vertebra was herniated and pressing on my sciatic nerve so the pain starting in my lower back shot straight down my leg all the way to my foot. I was advised by one qualified medical  fellow that if I did not get surgery and very soon I would be paralysed.

I kept explaining that I felt the months of stress leading up to the day in Gaborone was the cause, but no one was interested. They saw that disc and it had to be cut out. But I wasn't going to do it. I just knew I would need to find another way.

So more months went by. I swallowed so many pills I was a walking science experiment. I stopped going to the hospital because their only option was more pills or surgery. One was not working and the other I knew would not improve things.

Eventually I found a physical therapist who also does acupuncture who has helped me a lot. After seeing him  only a few times, I could sit on a chair again. I could walk with minimal pain.

As of today, I still have pain in my leg, but nowhere near what it was before. I can do nearly everything. I go for physical therapy once a week. And I've begun to understand a bit about pain. If I'm having a bad day, the pain is more. If I lose hope of ever being pain free, the pain is more. When I just get on with things, the pain is less. When I get scared and think maybe that fellow was right and one day I will be paralyzed because of this, the pain surges.

I know for sure and certain, whatever my MRI shows, my pain started in my head and continues to be produced in my head. Yes, I'm feeling real pain, but it is my brain creating it. If those six months of crazy stress had not occurred, I doubt 12 April would have happened. If I would have paid a bit more attention to my heel pain and my hip pain, paid a bit more attention to how I was coping with the stress, I wouldn't have spent nearly six weeks scared to walk to the bathroom.

I've developed huge empathy for people who live with daily pain. I know what a dictator it can be. It leaves nothing left of your life, it takes it all. I don't know if one day I'll be completely pain free, I hope so. I don't know if I'll have another attack that throws me back in bed, I might. I'm trying to learn to be kinder to myself. I'm trying to let things slide a bit. I've seen what stress can do to me. It's been a tough year, but I'm trying my best to relearn how to live and that's not a bad thing I think.

The V-Team

I wrote this story some years ago about Botswana's national vision, Vision 2016. It's a story for kids but I think we can all get something out of it during this Vision 2016 month.

The V-Team

by Lauri Kubuitsile

     The weak sun barely pierced through the heavy, dark haze of a now typical Gaborone morning. Exhaust fumes from thousands of cars and pollution from the factories were too much for sun’s rays to get through. Though it was mid morning, it could have been dusk, it was so dark. Neo glanced behind into the smoky air and could see the outline of a group of people following them. She knew it was one of the many gangs of unemployed, unhappy youth that roamed the capitol’s streets. She grabbed her mother’s arm and pulled her forward. “Hurry Mama, we can wait for the combi up there in the petrol station. We’ll be safe there.”

     Her mother struggled to walk faster but her legs were painful, the very reason they’d left the safety of the house in the first place. They had finally organised enough money to get her mother to a private doctor to have her legs attended to. The government money for the public health care system had long been mismanaged. Now only those with money could afford to stay healthy. Neo had thought that going out to the doctor in the day would be safer, but as she heard the footsteps coming ever closer behind them, she was thinking that maybe she had been wrong.

      She looked behind and saw the gang approaching. It was a mix of boys and girls as all the gangs were. She could hear them speaking with their American-accented foul language. The gangs hated all things Setswana and held tight to the gang culture they saw at the cinema. They robbed and stole freely. Beating and killing ordinary citizens meant nothing to them. They were angry at their lack of opportunity and took that anger out on whomever they chose.

     Neo could see the petrol station. “Come Mama, they won’t trouble us if we’re in here.”  She opened the door and snuck inside just as the gang came near.

      A tall, thin woman at the cash register said,” Hey you two! What do you want in here?”

     Neo looked at her. “It’s the gang... My mother is ill… we need to wait for the combi.” She could see from the woman’s face that she had no interest in their problems. She wanted them out. With a stern look, she raised her thin arm, dangling with gold bangles, and pointed at the door.

     Neo knew there was no use in arguing. “Come Mama,” she said, and she helped her mother outside.

      They stood as near to the shop as they could, hoping that they would not be noticed, but luck was not on their side. A short, dark boy with an acne scarred face approached them first. “Hey Baby, how ya’ll doin’? “

      Neo looked away, hoping he’d leave them alone, praying that the combi would arrive.  Another gang member approached. At first Neo thought it was another boy, but as the person neared them she saw she was a girl, not much more than 12 or 13. “Hey, he’s talkin’ to ya? Dontcha hear? Ya think ya too good? Maybe you gotta education, gotta job. That it? Think you betta than us?”

     The small girl put her face very near Neo’s and poked at her chest with her small finger. Neo could smell she’d been drinking. “I just want to be left alone,” Neo said.

       Suddenly, they were all on her. Someone punched her and she fell to the pavement. The small girl tried to grab Neo’s bag, but she held fast to it. Then she heard her mother shouting, “Leave her alone you tsotsis!”

      The gang stood back. Laughing, the acne-scarred boy, who seemed to be the leader, said, “What you gonna do ol’ lady?”

      “You have no respect for your elders!” MmaNeo said, standing tall and proud, fearless against the youths that surrounded her.

      “Respect for my elders? How’s this for some respect?” The acne-scarred boy pulled out a knife from his pocket. With the click of a button, a sharp, thin blade appeared. Before Neo could do anything, he drew the knife across her mother’s neck and blood shot out like a fountain.

        The gang ran as Neo fell to where her mother lay on the dirty pavement, spread with tins and plastics, and she tried to stop the blood, tried to save her mother’s life, but it was all in vain.   “Why? Why? ” Neo asked of no one, while her mother died in her arms.

         “What has happened to my beautiful country? What has happened to Botswana?” she cried.

***

      Around a long wooden table, six people sit paging through letters. They wear masks to hide their faces. They use code names to keep themselves secret from others and also from themselves. The door bursts open letting in the clear sunshine from outside. In walks a tall, strong man, wearing a red suit and a black mask similar to the ones worn by the others around the table. They look up when he enters.

     “Dumelang ditsala tsame! What a beautiful day it is! The event was a wonderful success!” he says as he shuts the door behind him and takes the last empty seat at the table. “Really fantastic!”

     “Tell us about it, United,” a woman at the end of the table says. She wears the same black mask and suit, only her suit is green.

      “The whole of Bobonong was there. Families of all kinds working together in such harmony. It was beautiful! It’s no longer a one off event, I can see that now.  I truly believe Batswana have re-found the strength of their families. We are definitely on our way!” United’s enthusiasm was spreading and a wave of energy circled around the table.

      The green suited woman held up one of the letters in front of her. “It’s here! Finally it’s here!”

      “What is it, Educated?” a short man in yellow at the end of the table asks.

        “We just got the results back from the last census. You guys won’t believe this. Last year, 2015, we finally achieved 100% of our children finishing secondary school!”

      A cheer went up, shaking the roof and rattling the windows. “Educated, I think we’re starting to see the pot at the end of the rainbow!”  Moral, a woman dressed in a purple suit, said. “The V-Team has been a success!”

      “Don’t get too excited,“  a quiet man in a blue suit says. “I’ve got a family here that might just dampen your spirits.” He holds up a letter. “The mother is handicapped, the father disappeared years ago and none of the children are working. They need help. What can we do? Where is the Vision for them?”

      “Prosperous, I think first we need to attend to their current needs- food, clothing, and shelter. Caring, can you get on that?” United asks turning to the masked woman to his right.

       “Sure, no problem. Every business in Botswana has a social responsibility policy in place to help the community when people are in need. Thanks to that, help for that family is just a phone call away.”

      “Then, Prosperous, you need to see what can be done to get them back on their feet. There are so many new factories and tourism attractions, as well as the whole new agricultural sector. I’m sure you can help them get jobs, don’t you think?”

      Prosperous took another look at the letter. “It says here they live in Palapye. That’s great; the juice factory will be opening there next month. I’m sure they’ll find employment there.”

***

     The auditorium is dark. Quiet whispers and the ruffling of evening gowns and tuxedos give evidence of the people filling the hall; everyone waits for the event to start.  The soft sound of African drums can be heard. Slowly, they build, loud and strong they echo off the walls of the huge auditorium. A spotlight suddenly lightens the dark stage and the drums stop.

     “Ladies and gentleman, the President of the Republic of Botswana, Her Excellency Mrs Galaletsang  Thabiwa!” The African drums beat again, pushing excitement into the already electric air.

     The crowd jumps to their feet with wild applause as a handsome, tall woman comes onto the stage. She wears a beautiful rhinestone studded evening gown in the sky blue colour of Botswana’s flag. She raises her hands to quiet the crowd.

       “Dumelang Bagestsho!” she says. “Tonight we are here to celebrate an incredible achievement. A short 20 years ago, the then president, President Festus Mogae, challenged the people of this great nation. He launched Vision 2016, a vision of what Botswana could be when she turned 50 years old. I am happy to say that today, all Batswana should be proud that we took up that challenge and we have succeeded!” The crowd jump to their feet, cheering and clapping.

      The President raises her hands again. “Behind our success are the faceless people; humble hardworking Batswana, who chose to make a difference, to grab up the Vision and make it their own personal goal. Tonight, Ladies and Gentlemen, I want to introduce you to the V-Team!”

       The drums beat again. The curtains open and behind them stands rows and rows of masked people, wearing beautiful suits in every colour of the rainbow, stretching far back in the distance to where the eyes could no longer see.

     Neo sits in the audience next to a big Afrikaans speaking man, who bounces up and down in his seat with excitement, “It’s wonderful! Just wonderful!” he says turning to Neo with a smile spread across his wide face.

     On her other side, is an elderly man, his clouded eyes swimming with unshed tears of happiness. “We’ve done it, Ngwanake,” he says in a calm, respectful voice.  Neo feels her heart warm in her chest; she feels love and joy all around her.

     On the stage, the President steps toward a small woman dressed in a blue suit at the end of the first row of V-team members. She takes the corner of the woman’s mask in her hand and pulls it over her head. It is time to reveal the faces of those who made the Vision come true.

     Shocked, Neo takes another look. It is her on the stage! She is the blue suited member of the V-Team! She watches herself turn to the red suited man next to her on stage.  She pulls his mask off to reveal his face. And they continue down the line- revealing lanky teenage boys and middle-aged fat ladies, stern faced old men and blond girls with pink makeup. They are Batswana of every age, every colour, of every creed. Neo turns to the old man next to her, “It’s us! We are the V-Team!”

    The elderly man nods his head; he has known it all along.

***

     Neo sits up in her bed, suddenly wide-awake.  She takes a few short breaths as she looks around her familiar bedroom and tries to get her bearings. She hears her mother singing in the kitchen preparing her breakfast. She is safe and sound, healthy and alive. It was not true after all; it was all a dream.

       Neo sits still for a moment. She looks at the reflection of herself in the mirror across the room. Suddenly, it all becomes clear. The dream was a call. She has a choice to make. She can hide and hope someone, somewhere will make things right, and then -when it is too late- she can regret what Botswana will most certainly become. Or she can take up the challenge herself. She can decide the future of her country by designing it everyday with both big and small actions. She can join the V-Team!

       Neo hops out of bed. It is clear now what she needs to do. There is no more time to waste, she needs to start today- she has a lot of work to do!

Three Dangers of the Post Office

(My second City Press column)

As innocuous as the post office might look, don’t be fooled. Dangers lurk there, and, as my public service, I want to highlight three. 

1. The queue

The queue, at least where I live, is always long and turtle slow. You must come prepared- mentally and physically. Do not fight it. No shaking of head, no sighing. No questions about the fact that there are six windows but only one of them has a person behind it. Embrace the queue! …and bring provisions in your handbag.

2. The Security Lady

The Security Lady is heady with power. Nothing gives her more joy than to exert her power on you. Are you standing out of single file in the queue? She will be there to put you right. Is that your cellphone? Before the second ring, she will be at your side pointing to the typed notice that forbids them. The only way to survive the Security Lady is to submit completely. She will grow to love you for your pliable uselessness. Once at that point, things improve. I know, I’m there.

3. The Man Behind the Glass

The second before your legs give out and after you’ve been bullied by the Security Lady for chewing gum, encouraging poor posture, and having a hairstyle she doesn’t approve of, you will finally meet the Man Behind the Glass. His job is to ensure that whatever you have come to do will fail. Posting a package? Wrong tape. Sending a registered letter? Your lines are not straight enough.

I have found the best way to deal with the Man Behind the Glass is to pretend you hear nothing. If you’re old enough or odd looking enough, just don’t respond. He’ll think you’re hard of hearing or mad. You can also pull the language card. Whatever language he is speaking, you don’t know a word of it.  

Luckily, the Man Behind the Glass is tired and he caves-in quickly. With a heavy sigh, your tape is suddenly fine, your lines straight enough.

And finally, you’re safe, you've survived…until the next time.

DIY-D: A Yet to be Discovered Genetic Disorder

(I have recently wrote a few short humorous columns for the South African paper City Press. Some friends are unable to get it so I thought I'd post them here. This is the first one) 

You know that friend. That one. The one who owns a drill. The one who fixes her own leaky sink and thinks a nice weekend is one spent painting her entire house. Yeah, that friend. Ms DIY. Yeah, I’m not her.

I have three DIY tools: Bostek, tape and super glue. If the problem cannot be solved with one of these amazing products then either the thing with a problem must be thrown away or you must change your lifestyle to adjust for the situation. For example, accepting that you’ll have to mop up the water in your bathroom every half hour. I don’t see the problem.

I won’t lie. I would have liked to have been Ms DIY. I would have liked to own a nail gun and known how to use it without blinding people. But, sadly, I am among the yet to be diagnosed people suffering from DIYD (yes it is pronounced -died): Do It Yourself Dysfunction. It’s a genetic disorder. I’m doomed-it’s in my chromosomes.

The reason I know I have DIYD is my father, a man in denial. He bought every tool known to humanity. He bought those DIY encyclopedias sold on Shopping TV at 3 am. He bought the encyclopedias but never progressed past the diagrams. They gave him the vague idea, enough to get started- he’d “sort out the rest along the way”.

That sorting out the rest led to the problems. One such DIY project was the picnic table aka “the rocket launcher”. It proved entertaining when guests arrived. They would sit down on one side and, once safely in place, one among us would plop down on the other side so as to launch the unsuspecting guest into the air often with drink in hand. We also had the most beautiful and much envied brick doghouse which was, in fact, a braai stand.

So, don’t snicker when I pull out the super glue when the skirting has come loose or the duct tape when the roof is leaking. I have a disorder, show a little compassion.

Finally Back...Cross Fingers!

Today is 12 August and I last posted on my poor neglected blog on the 26th of June! I can't believe it. I have an excuse if one is needed, I've been recovering from this very stubborn sciatica. I will not write about how living with chronic pain is damn debilitating. I'm tired of talking and thinking about that. I am better but not yet completely sorted. I feel confident I will eventually be back to my dog walks and my aerobics DVDs, though a mean little person occasionally raises his voice in my mind and says-"This is your life now", but I ignore him. I think he is a ghost. I'm hoping in the end to have an exorcism to banish him. But that's all in the pipeline. In the meanwhile, I am going to physiotherapy and getting poked with acupuncture needles and doing my exercises and keeping a good attitude. AND most importantly I am back in my office WORKING!! Work the saviour.

So what have I been thinking about during this time you ask??? Mostly controversies among African writers it seems.

I have wondered about speaking publicly (meaning outside of my Facebook friends) about the craziness that has been filling the African writing internet world.  The first bit of craziness comes from an interview with Chimamanda Adichie published in The Boston Review in which she said a few things folks found controversial. It is this bit that has caused the controversy:

AB: I would love to ask you about the Caine Prize. I find it interesting that so many Nigerians are on the short list this year—that it’s four Nigerians out of five . . .
CA: Umm, why is that a problem? Watch it.
AB: Well, none of them are you!
CA: Elnathan was one of my boys in my workshop. But what’s all this over-privileging of the Caine Prize, anyway? I don’t want to talk about the Caine Prize, really. I suppose it’s a good thing, but for me it’s not the arbiter of the best fiction in Africa. It’s never been. I know that Chinelo is on the short list, too. But I haven’t even read the stories—I’m just not very interested. I don’t go the Caine Prize to look for the best in African fiction.
AB: Where do you go?
CA: I go to my mailbox, where my workshop people send me their stories. I could give you a list of ten—mostly in Nigeria—writers who I think are very good. They’re not on the Caine Prize short list.

The people upset by this feel that her calling Elnathan John "her boy" was derogatory. And people also didn't like that she said her mailbox  is where she looks for good African writing not the Caine shortlist. I've felt bad about this furor which in many ways I think is unjustified.

I was at the Farafina Workshop taught by Chimamanda and attended by Elnathan John. It was the same year that I was shortlisted for the Caine Prize. In fact, I went from Lagos directly to London for the Caine activities.  Elnathan John was in our group though he says in his blog- "(he)  had been told by some well meaning but not so literary friends that you didn’t need any workshop". 

I think to anyone not spoiling for a fight, it is obvious that "boy" in the context Chimamanda uses is meant in a way that implies that John is one of her workshop attendees. As for her thoughts on the Caine, I can say she was lovely to me about my shortlisting and wished me luck as I was off to London. She even spoke about my shortlisting at our public awards ceremony. From my seat, she did not seem to look down upon the Caine Prize, if anything the opposite.

But anyone who knows the breadth of writing on the continent would be foolish to say that the Caine Prize is the decider of what is and isn't considered quality writing on the continent. In the most obvious case, the Caine Prize is only for short story, what about novels and creative nonfiction and poetry? There are many people who have appeared on Caine shortlists who have hardly been heard of again. Every prize has its positives and negatives, the Caine is no different. Subjective humans run it and subjective humans decide it. It is the nature of prizes.  In any case, she is entitled to her opinion, and it is just that- her opinion. She never at any point said she was the voice of Africa, and yet those most critical of her stance seem to position her as such. It's very unfair.

Another controversy and big talking point among the African writing community as of late is the winning of the Caine Prize this year by Tope Folarin. Folarin was born in the USA and has never lived in Nigeria, though his parents were born in Nigeria. According to the Caine Prize guidelines he qualifies as an African writer. Still, some have queried this.  I consider myself an African writer, but some might not agree. I'm the opposite of Folarin, I'm born in USA but have now spent the bulk of my life in Botswana and am a citizen of Botswana, only. According to the Caine Prize I am an African writer but according to the recently announced Morland Scholarship I am not, nor was I an African writer for the Kwani? Manuscript Project.

For contests and other such creatures, it is up to the organisers to decide the parameters. I find it quite unfair that people want to question Folarin's win after the fact. The guidelines have always been there. This African writing community is a querulous lot in general. I suppose trying to lump 55 countries, each full of diverse people, in one basket was always going to be difficult. The question of who is and who isn't an African writer and what is and isn't considered African literature is a perennial one. Some even want to abolish the entire subject and do not want to be considered as an African writer at all. I doubt the question will ever be answered decisively. But it is always discussed. Always asked. Always.

And on a completely different note- in the middle of all of my pain and genreal yuckness, I managed to finish a short story and it has been long listed for The Short Story Day Africa contest. It's titled Black Coffee Without Sugar, about a motivational speaker and his wife.   The stories on the longlist will appear in the first anthology for Short Story Day Africa, something I'm quite pleased about.

Why Your Publisher is Probably Not a Crook

The other day someone said to me, “I’m going to self publish because these publishers are crooks.” I asked why he was saying that and he said because the publisher only gives the writer 10% of the income and they take 90%.  Obviously this person has a long road to travel to understand the industry that they are intending to enter. The hope is they will take the time to learn.

 Traditional publishers take all the risk with your manuscript. They get it edited and proofread at their cost. The book design and cover is paid for by them. They are responsible for all marketing and distribution costs. And they’ve hopefully been in the business long enough that they built up skills in all of these areas that will make them good at what they do. This is what justifies the 90%. They may never re-coup those up front costs. They take a financial risk on your book.

 If you self publish you will need to pay all of those costs yourself. And in most cases you’ll be going into the game with very little experience. This needs to be taken into consideration. The key to the traditional publishing arrangement is the contract. Before anything starts, a contract needs to be negotiated and signed. As I’ve said before, writers must understand their contracts. Do not sign a contract that you not understand or agree with. A contract is a legally binding document. It links the two parties to certain obligations. Keep in mind that all contracts are negotiable to a point and in all cases a writer can walk away from a publishing deal if the terms are not agreeable.

 So, having said that, I have a real problem with people crying over terms with traditional publishers, calling them crooks, when they are only following the terms of the contract that you both signed.

 But When Might Your Publisher Really Be a Crook?

 This is in no way saying that there are not some crooks out there. In Botswana, the biggest contract infringement I’ve come across involves the paying of royalties. Many publishers violate the contract and pay royalties late. Writers should know that late payment of royalties is a violation of the legal contract and can mean the publisher is in breach to the extent that the contract is broken.

Contracts should explain clearly when accounts close and when the royalties are to be paid. Since most publishers in Botswana only pay annually, one can clearly see the stress caused by late payment to writers since they only get one pay cheque a year.

The other place where local publishers fail is in their accounting of sales and the reporting of that to the writers. In the cases I’ve come across, getting comprehensive royalty statements is difficult. And to get a statement that has been audited is rare.

 Many Batswana writers are searching internationally for publishers nowadays. More and more, the line between self publishing and traditional publishing is blurring and some crooks try to keep the water as murky as possible so as to confuse the writer. There are various permutations of what the writer and publisher do. The writer might pay some of the up front costs and then take a bigger percentage from sales.

 For example, I have a deal for one of my books where I paid the up front costs but the publisher took care of getting the job done. They organised the designer and editor and the printing. Since they are skilled in publishing they also market and distribute for me. I can take as many books from the print run that I want, for those I keep all of the money from sales. The ones they sell I get 70% and they get 30%. I felt this was a fair deal for me. I got my money’s worth. I recently read an article where some overseas agents were helping their clients self publish. The writer paid for and did everything and the agent only worked on distribution, but they took 40% of sales. This I felt was unfair. It is important to understand the entire picture before agreeing to anything in the current changing situation.
 

In My Post

I've had a few nice packages in the post recently. The first was my author copies for a children's book I wrote for Macmillan UK called Elephants.

Writing for these new, young readers is challenging. You need to be careful with your vocabulary as well as your sentence structure. Also, there is a lot of jargon in educational publishing that you need to understand before you even get started. I was trained as a teacher but that didn't give me much of an advantage. It was a good learning experience writing this book.

The next package contained the new anthology from Fundza Literacy Trust, a project I have a lot of love for.  I've written quite a few stories for their Mobi platform. The stories go out a chapter a day onto the kids' cellphones. If you like immediate engagement with your readers, Fundza is the place for you. The kids give you immediate and honest feedback.

Big Ups! is a print collection containing some of the stories which appeared online. I'm proud to say my story The Good Girl is included. (click the link if you want to read it online)

Almost back in Action

I can't believe it's been more than a month since I blogged here. My sciatica was suddenly a herniated disc and then it was MRIs and visits to doctors. Since I'm a normally healthy person it has all been a bit upsetting but I coped knowing eventually I'd have my life back. I'm not yet 100% but I'm on my way. I can't quite sit at my desk in my office since sitting is still too painful, but I can sit up on a sofa with pillows and get back to work. And here I am.

In the meanwhile, I've had a few acceptances which always give joy. One is for my story called In Grace-land, up at the fantastic literary magazine, The Kalahari Review. Here is an excerpt:

The prison band played Graceland, the singer singing like Paul Simon except with a Setswana accent, while the green and white tent blew in the hot breeze almost in time with the beat, but not quite. MmaYaone wiped the snot from the nose of Baby Number Ten and got rid of it on the edge of her skirt. She was tired of sitting. She could feel a drop of sweat making its way down her back. The baby was niggly. MmaYaone suspected the singer was not pronouncing Memphis correctly. The speeches hadn’t even started yet, there was still a full programme to get through. She had no choice but to sit and wait it out. She wished it was over, but she knew it never would be, really. She knew they had a piece of her now, it was the price she had to pay, she knew there was always a price.  

Maybe I've a reason to believe
We all will be received
In Graceland...

Read the rest of the story HERE.