By: Leon Kwasi Kuntuo-Asare

At the age of maybe eight or nine years old, I learned that loving someone didn’t mean that you would not betray them. I remember the incident like it happened yesterday, even though it happened decades ago.

I woke up sick one morning before school, vomiting the meatloaf my mom cooked for dinner the night before. My vomit covered the bathroom toilet and floor. I walked down the hallway in our small one-story flat, after leaving the bathroom with a now empty stomach. Afterwards, I knocked on the bedroom door of my parents, expecting to tell them both that ” I was too sick to go to school”. Instead my mother came to the door alone, I assumed my father had already left for work; I figured he probably left early to either go to the wholesale or to wait for early morning deliveries from his vendors.

I told my mom I was sick and I did not feel good enough to go to school, she agreed with me after seeing the vomit on my face and smelling its odor on my breathe. I quickly went back to bed and soon fell into a deep sleep. I felt like I had slept for a couple of hours, when I was awakened by the loud noise of two people, I first assumed my mother forgot something, when I heard the voice of my father, I thought he probably came back to retrieve something for his store.

Soon after, I heard the voice of a woman, but the voice I heard didn’t sound like my mother. I rushed to the bedroom of my parents, forgetting to knock which was custom in our household. What I saw next I will never forget and it still makes me sick to this day; much sicker than I was when I vomited. Hell I would of vomited on my father if I had any left in my childhood stomach. My father immediately rushed to the door, and forced me to leave. I waited outside for a few minutes, moments later my father now fully-clothed, grabs me by the shoulder, looks me in the eyes and tells me:

“Never tell your mother!”

Soon after, my father told me to go back to my bedroom.

THE TOOTH (Short-Story)

missing teet

By: Leon Kwasi Kuntuo-Asare

I walked away with one of the man’s canine teeth in my right shirt pocket, of my favorite long-sleeved red and black plaid shirt. I kept the tooth as a reminder, not so much as a souvenir for myself, but as a reminder to the racist creep, who had the nerve to attempt to put his hands on my girlfriend.

“So, please have a seat, and tell me what happened, Mr.Gunner?” the police officer said to me”.

I replied “I left the Moonlight NightClub with my girlfriend at around 1:00 am. A thug, who was hanging outside the club seemed to get very angry when he saw my girlfriend Sara and I holding hands. The sight of an educated black man and his white girlfriend holding hands seemed to make him irate. His face soon turned a fiery red, he got so mad a vain in his neck started beating rapidly and strongly. As we walked down the street, he called me a n#gger and he called my girlfriend a n#gger lover”.

I kind of smirked at the officer and said:

“Being from the Midwest, I’ve been called a n#gger more than a few times, so I did not really get upset, it’s kind of expected, sometimes. But, his words made my girlfriend, become very upset and protective of me. She called him a white-trash, trailer park bigot. In response to her sweet words, he lifted his right hand in an aggressive manner, like he was going to hit her with all of his power. His hands came just a few inches away from her face, but unfortunately for him, my hands were a lot quicker than his, and I knocked him out”.

I omitted that I put his tooth in my pocket, I did not want to ruin the image of us being victims of a hate crime,(which we were) that I believe the police officer had of my girlfriend and me.

“No need to give this racist abuser of women any sympathy”, I quietly said to myself”.

The police officer walked me and my girlfriend over to the frontt of the large gray two-story former warehouse, that now held the Moonlight nightclub. Intoxicated clubgoers were still hanging outside with some of the very burly African-American and Samoan security crew, who were these scary-looking men dressed in all-black with staff written on the back of their shirts in white letters. Those guards secured the interior and perimeter of the club, and looked out for us, just in case the bigot had some friends in the club that we didn’t know about. The lead police officer pulled the Security manager to the side, and lucky for me, he completely backed-up my side of the story.

The police officer looked at me and my girlfriend and said:

You’re free to go.”

The officer then looked at the bigot, who was handcuffed, sitting on the curb, half-dazed with a missing tooth and told him:

“You’re going to jail”

The Cause (Short-Story)

By: Leon Kwasi Kuntuo-Asare

Kwame Kodjoe, 34 , writer and activist. Kelsea Swanton, 28, psychologist and activist .


Seated across from my friend, confidant, and fellow activist. We are waiting for our meals to be given to us by the waitress, before the protest. With a big smile on my face, I jokingly tell Kelsea:

“You better eat up, you don’t want to go to jail on an empty stomach.”

Usually, she would laugh when I made a joke like that, she loves how I could bring light such a dark situation. But, she didn’t laugh this time, I knew she was still upset, she cried all day when the verdict was announced for the cops who shot the unarmed mentally-challenged boy 22 times. I noticed 15 minutes after the waitress delivered our food, that Kelsea still has not eaten a single thing on her plate. I reached across the large table that was wedged between us in the diner, grabbed her hand, looked deep into her beautiful green-emerald colored eyes, and tell her:

“We are not going to stop fighting, not until we get justice.”


“I can’t believe that they actually murdered a fucking child in plain sight, and that racist all-white jury said not guilty; I bet they wouldn’t of said that if five black cops murdered a white boy who was mentally challenged .”

I was so emotionally down after the trial, that my close friend, Kwame encouraged me to go to a protest with him. That was a couple of days ago. Now we are sitting across from each other, in this classic 1950’s style cafe in downtown, Seattle. A few blocks from where the protest is to take place. It is in front of the federal court, in the city hall area, where the verdict was announced. Kwame “cracks” a joke, I usually laugh at most of his jokes, but right before a protest, for the brutal and violent murder of a child is a little too inappropriate for me at this moment. Kwame is a wonderful friend, his big brown almond shaped eyes look deeply into my green eyes, he grabs my right hand from across the cafe’s large vintage looking brown table, that looks like an exact replica from the tv show “Happy Days”, and whispers to me:

“We are not going to stop fighting, not until we get justice.”

I am not sure I believe him, even though I so much want to…

The story is fiction, but it was inspired by a real murder trial in San Francisco. I went to the protest and where friends and family gathered to demand justice for Alex Nieto. The story it is based on is in the link below:


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