Magnus ambled happily across the street in Arlington, Texas on his way to lunch at his favorite coffee shop. His thoughts were on the Halloween celebration. How wonderful was America! Such fun and spontaneity. As an African American, he was aware of other influences, but only recently had his thoughts turned to his roots in the dark continent.

The awareness of Magnus included the hardships endured by the land of his ancestors, but totally excluded how his ancestor and his pregnant first wife were ripped from their village, and made to take the long walk to the coast. How the slaves had passed the place called "Bagamoyo" (lay down your heart), the town beyond which all hope was supposed to die for the slaves. It was here that Ronile uttered a scornful cry that no chains would every bind him and hope would live forever in his heart. From Bagamoyo, they traveled by how to the spice island of Zanzibar for further shipment over the seas.

Ronile, the powerful African ancestor of Magnus, badly beaten, died in chains, awaiting shipment, while his young wife had to endure the hardships of the journey to the a place destined to be called the land of the free. The slave dealers, remembering Ronile's claim in Bogamoyo, had laughingly buried Ronile in his chains during the year of 1773. The traders were Arabs, and had no knowledge, nor did they care to know of the African burial rites.

In the peaceful village of Ronile, life went on, and the ancestral graves were tended by the families. But there was nothing to mark the existence of the forgotten once much loved son of the Paramount Chief.

In the coffee shop where Magnus spent his lunch-hour, he noticed a man dressed strangely. They exchanged glances. There seemed to be a connection. Grandly attired, in the colorful cottons of his native island, he stood out from the other city folk. Magnus, quite out of character, invited him to join his table. It transpired he was a spice seller from Zanzibar. Magnus glanced around, the air-conditioning seemed to be way too low.

The stranger talked of his newly acquired contacts with an Arlington food manufacturer, who had agreed to become a spice distributor. Cloves, cinnamon, cardamom, nutmeg, ... all the exotic spices from Zanzibar, directly supplied to the distributor - a lucky break for the spice seller, who beamed his satisfaction of the negotiation. And it had been passed by the America Standard of Health!

Magnus was becoming more and more aware of something else. He fidgeted and shuffled his feet - trying desperately to overcome this unexplained agitation. The spice seller turned the conversation to the Halloween and said that he was at a loose end, but would so enjoy experiencing the celebration in the American way. Magnus, now felt himself compelled to ask the stranger to join him at his home, where the children would be dressing up and the neighbors all taking part in the fun.

Magnus felt elated and full of dread. Addresses were exchanged and a time agreed upon.

The loud knock on the door startled Magnus - why not the front-door bell? Knock!   KNOCK!   K N O C K! Magnus opened the door to the stranger. The stranger stood, holding a present. A special package of ground nutmeg, which he assured his host was unique and grew on a tree a few meters from his house. It was a special tribute to his host, hand-ground with a special potency. Magnus stared at the packet... he could not move.

The wind blew softly and then a strong gust of wind, entered through Magnus's open door and rustled the loose wrappings of the package in the strangers' hands. Magnus felt stifled ... he had to get outside. He muttered some remark and propelled the stranger out into the dark night. The wind was rising rapidly. It raced through the topmost branches of the trees. The stranger now disorientated, thrust the package into Magnus's hand. Magnus, felt a violent shudder this time. He dropped the package and saw the contents spill out onto the grass. Both men drew back - the ground nutmeg was taken up by the wind and blown all over the garden. Grit entered Magnus' eyes, and tears streaked down his face at the stinging pain.

Nothing was ever the same again. In the years that followed, Magnus spent time meditating in the garden. It seemed only natural to speak his thoughts aloud sometimes - recounting his hopes and fears ....and just sometimes he would catch a feint smell of nutmeg and feel the warmth of the sun. He felt stronger, he walked taller and felt a stirring in his conscientiousness.

The long-forgotten buried bones of Ronile shifted slightly beneath a nutmeg tree with long entwining roots. The old bones settled in the earth and separated from the chains that bound them. His essence departed, Ronile was free.

It is now the year 2073 and for the first time, an African-American is the president of the United States - more and more of the African culture is being evidenced, more people have African names, .... and the media write articles posing the question ... "Just how did this cultural invasion begin?"

The old man in Arlington, hesitating to form an answer, a slight tinge of red in his ancient white beard, replaces the newspaper, sighs, and surprisingly, smiles ........