William Kamara Cull – the soldier in the picture – is my wife’s little brother.
I am real glad that he is too.
Like Maggie, Will is the descendant of a blackbirded slave.
Kamara is the slave family’s name.
Will is fucked up, but he is no slave.
He did three tours of Iraq, to try and keep us and the good people there safe.
Horrible things happened, and it messed with his head.
My youngest daughter and her Uncle Will. My little brother. My son. My hero.
Right now Will is somewhere on the streets of Los Angeles, wandering lost and alone because the US Army chew people up and spit them out, and hurl them into a pit of hurt and pain and madness.
It is Will’s 40th birthday, and I have no way to contact him, other than by writing this story and hoping he reads it.
Happy Birthday little brother.
Happy Birthday son.
I love you.
Heaps.
Come home.
We need you back.
C’mon mate.
Please come home.
