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You have our heart, Gaborone 🩵
Two unforgettable days of pure relay magic at the #WorldRelays ✨
From the roar of the crowd to the energy inside the stadium, every race felt like a true celebration of speed, teamwork and history in the making 🔥
See you in 2028, when the World Relays return to Nassau for the fifth time 🇧🇸
“The Golden Idol Burns”
By Babs Spake
He paints himself in halos now,
posts gold-leaf portraits like a king reborn—
not elected, not questioned,
but anointed
by his own trembling hand.
He calls himself chosen,
a messiah in a tailored suit,
while the world counts bodies
behind the curtain.
And now even the sacred is beneath him—
he mocks the Pope,
spits at centuries of faith,
calls holiness weakness
because it will not kneel.
No throne is high enough,
no voice untouchable—
every symbol must bow
or be broken.
In Iran,
the sky cracked open under his promises—
bombs dressed as liberation,
fire sold as freedom.
Cities reduced to dust and headlines,
thousands buried beneath the lie
that war is mercy.
He said it would be easy—
like Venezuela,
where a government fell
like a staged domino,
and power was taken
like a trophy off a shelf.
But nations aren’t props.
People aren’t strategy.
And empires don’t rise clean.
Back home,
in Minneapolis,
the gunshots echo differently—
not across deserts,
but down residential streets.
Two lives—gone.
Not enemies. Not soldiers.
Just people caught in the machinery
of a system that now fires first
and explains later.
Another shot—
a man chased, cornered, bleeding,
while the story reshapes itself
after the trigger is pulled.
And still he posts.
Still he smiles.
Still he lifts his chin toward heaven
like it belongs to him.
He doesn’t see the pattern—
or worse, he does.
War abroad.
Violence at home.
Truth bent until it snaps.
He crowns himself in pixels and praise,
a self-made savior
in a collapsing mirror—
but even idols
melt.
And when the gold runs off his face,
when the smoke clears from Iran,
when the streets fall silent in Minneapolis,
when the dust settles in Venezuela—
there will be nothing left
but the weight
of everything he called victory.