In the wild notations of histories lore, Morocco and Libya found themselves once again, the love nests of disaster councils.

Let us wander around the streets of Morocco.

Casablanca and Ingrid, all sartorially fine, as clean and crisp as the democratic denunciations abroad.

Bogie, all brotherly protection, bowing out gracefully.

Dear Morocco,

Your problem is your geographical location.

Perhaps we could move a waterway although the Chinese have simply laid down and created a patch.

Runways and buildings and concrete structures to hide so much and more.

Derna, a Wagner stronghold? The odds.

MUSIC

And there I was thinking, the Piraeus Port was no problem.

Dear Morocco,
Your problem is your location. With love,
The West.

MUSIC

Intellectuals will say that there is no West. That the West is a configuration that we have conjured from thin air.

And yet there we are, blue and yellow, wearing the stripes against the Dreaded Red, China and Russia, the Motherʼs of the East, proxy wars surround us unlike Dolby, a sound not as clear as the waves that send the signals through the ocean mount.

Buoys protect us and yet, so much more. What is it that you want for them? Lebanon, Iraq, Iran, Syria, swathes of Africa.

The chessboard ongoing.

Has the game ever stopped?

Unlikely.

MUSIC

So the problem it would seem, is the Atlas Mountains. I see.

Can we discuss the repercussions of this terrible deed?

Libya, also a place that has geography, a shady mercenary group - named not for a German composer but an American movie star, lost overboard - with Russian ties, a devastating earthquake.

And alongside the beauty of it, the brilliance of the cammo lot, neat and tidy, ready and clean is Sudan.

Now, how and why have two brothers decided to go each other?

These history folk tales are weaving a shiny brew, letʼs look closer and see what is beneath the cheesy smiles of incredible capacity and brawny capability.

At the front or not at all. That was my deal. 

MUSIC

Sudan.

A Russian naval base. No, just a war.

Proxy anʼ all.

There are a few rail tracks across the continent. Who built them and why?

MUSIC

The Sahel.

So many coups, so much cammo, uranium and more.

My hand curls around my green tea with authentic anti- oxidant, my hemp porridge clasped by an arm with cotton organically grown, the faded green flapping in the wind.

The Frenchies depart but why?

Did they get what they wanted?

Will they be back?

Local control and ....the legality of it allows them to slip unnoticed back into Not Under Our Command.

Slippery little suckers.

These legal minds know exactly how to craft their exit. Black warlords?

A polyester vibe caked in lilac frill.

MUSIC

And so the tents are built quickly and the movements of the people trapse across the landscape.

Do we care?

Has there been a deal?

Apparently, Armenia is out and Azerbaijan is in.

But Turkey.

What games must be played.

A swarming mass would be my view.

A few ocean shores around there.

The Ukrainians bogging the Russians down while Pacific moves afoot.

MUSIC

Solomon Islands is not going to play the game.

Or is it?

Japanese stepping stones, Guadalcanal, The Slot. Chinese investment but Tulagi is not for sale.

The Yanks withdrew and then re-conquered. Nice yarn that, innit?

MUSIC

Marape heads to Jerusalem.

A juicy little detail that makes Mookie look like the loser. Naturally, not in my tale.

Is Marape - a name to behold if ever there was one - ahead of the curve or simply paying tribute to the Top Dog?

I hope the Guardian Class save you. Remember, only certain people can serve. We decide who is in and out.

So democratic and loving.

Surely a path to follow.

MUSIC