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A test of convictions

Discussion in 'Mahusiano, mapenzi, urafiki' started by BAK, Oct 26, 2009.

  1. BAK

    BAK JF-Expert Member

    Oct 26, 2009
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    A test of convictions

    First of two parts
    By Stephanie Chen, CNN
    October 26, 2009 9:17 a.m. EDT

    Chicago, Illinois (CNN) -- For Jewel Mitchell, it was the worst Christmas of her life, the pain so raw she secluded herself in her bedroom to shield her two young daughters.
    It was 1996, and the man she was supposed to marry - the man her girls idolized - had already been gone two years. But this Christmas, he was supposed to come home and pick up where they had left off:
    Walking Latoni and Latoya to school. Playing Chutes and Ladders with them on Friday nights. Taking their mother on dates to the lakefront to watch the waves of Lake Michigan dance.
    But Jewel's fiancé wasn't returning to their home on Chicago's South Side. Five days earlier, Dean Cage, had been sentenced to 40 years in prison for an aggravated sexual assault he said he didn't commit. Jewel was his alibi. At the time of the attack, she said, he was asleep next to her.
    The day they'd planned to marry had come and gone with Dean in the Cook County Jail, unable to afford bond set at half a million dollars. When his trial date finally arrived -- just two months before this miserable Christmas -- Jewel listened to a young girl describe the man who brutally attacked her as she walked to her bus stop on a dark November morning. She was just 15.
    Reporting of story
    The scenes in this two-part story span more than 14 years and were reconstructed through interviews, court documents and letters.

    CNN writer Stephanie Chen interviewed Jewel Mitchell and Dean Cage and their attorneys and family members. Among the documents she reviewed were Cage's trial transcript and the Innocence Project's file on Cage.

    The quotes in the story are drawn from interviews or documents. The thoughts of the subjects, or the words they recall speaking or hearing, appear in italic.

    Those were difficult days for Jewel, but at least then she could still cling to the hope that the world would soon learn what she knew without a doubt: This was a case of mistaken identity.
    On the day of the verdict, family and co-workers packed the courtroom to support a man who'd never been arrested before in his life. Jewel wore her best navy pantsuit and told her older brother: Today, my fiancé is coming home.
    But the truth did not prevail. Two years after being arrested, Dean was declared guilty, and Jewel's optimism was drained away, her hope annihilated.
    She would put on a happy face to celebrate the holiday with her daughters. But the Christmas gifts she'd bought Dean, a boom box and a pair of black Timberland boots, lay on the bedroom floor, unopened.
    Separated by bars, freedom lost
    It is the most unlikely love story.
    When the world labeled her fiancé guilty of a monstrous crime, Jewel refused to believe it. When the judge sentenced him to four decades in the Illinois penitentiary system, she stood by him.
    "I love him," she would say. "It's as simple as that. He was good to me and my girls. He's a good man."

    Ask a defense attorney how many clients profess innocence. Ask a prison warden how many inmates claim they are not guilty. The answer is the same: Denial is epidemic behind bars.
    "We get about 200 to 300 new letters a month" from prisoners who say they've been wrongly convicted, says one attorney at the Innocence Project, a national nonprofit that works to exonerate the innocent. Since its inception in 1992, the group has used DNA testing to overturn convictions of 244 inmates.
    By the time those prisoners won their freedom -- they had served an average of 12 years -- many had lost the bonds that would help them make a new life on the outside. One study shows marriages are three times more likely to fail when a man is incarcerated.
    There is no movie night or anniversary dinner when a boyfriend or husband is locked up. Even for women like Jewel, single-minded about their loved one's innocence, time tests the relationship. Women face emotional abandonment and the challenges of a long-distance relationship. Sometimes financial responsibilities, the burden of single parenting and prejudice from outsiders drive them away.
    If Jewel stuck by Dean, she'd be the rare exception.
    Who would blame her if she simply moved on?

    A smile that lit up the room
    They met on an icy evening in Chicago in the winter of 1992. A crumpled scarf protected Jewel's face from the sharp wind as she walked home from her job as a waitress at the historic Daley's Restaurant. At her mother's house, where 23-year-old Jewel still lived, she found a stranger playing a video game with her cousin.
    Dean Cage was 25, a thin man who flaunted his muscular 6-foot frame. He wore his hair trimmed short, curved along his head like M.C. Hammer. And he flashed a wide, animated smile.
    "It lit up the room," Jewel remembers.
    The two sipped Pepsi in the dining room and discovered shared passions: Both were raised Baptist and loved card games and children. Dean had three sons in Arkansas from a previous relationship; Jewel had two daughters. Neither Dean nor Jewel had ever married.
    I love him. It's as simple as that. He was good to me and my girls. He's a good man.
    --Jewel Mitchell

    He worked at a warehouse that packaged paper cups. His manners were impeccable. Raised by his grandparents in Hope, Arkansas, he was a Southern gentleman who uttered "please" and "thank you" frequently.
    That made her glow.
    "He said he would come back the next day, but I didn't think it would be so soon," Jewel recalls. "He came back the next, and then the next day and then every day."
    The two became inseparable. They went bowling together, barbequed hot dogs and chicken with cousins on the lakefront. They drank champagne at birthday parties, and giggled and danced until her heels were sore. After six months, they moved into a house with her daughters and became a family.
    Jewel's mother adored her daughter's new boyfriend. An old-fashioned, churchgoing woman who believed in the sanctity of marriage, Jewel's mother, also named Jewel, married once and had nine children. She bombarded the couple with questions: When will you two get married? she teased.
    After two years of dating, the proposal sprang casually from a conversation about children one day in September 1994.
    I won't have another child out of wedlock, Jewel told Dean.
    No silly, we're going to get married, of course, he responded. Will you marry me?
    He already knew the answer.
    The man in the funny hat
    They set their wedding for the following spring: May 13, her mother's birthday. The couple looked at rings, and Jewel dreamed of green bridesmaid dresses.
    But the wedding day passed with Dean in jail.
    He sought a bench trial - putting his future in the hands of a judge - because his lawyer felt the heinousness of the crime and the victim's young age might make the jury biased.
    In October 1996, the girl, by then 17, took the stand at a Cook County courthouse and told her story: A black man wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket and "funny looking hat" jumped her from behind at the corner of Wabash and 70th Street, threatened to kill her and dragged her into the basement of a building. There he sodomized, beat and performed oral sex on her.
    A few days after the attack, police received an anonymous tip: The composite sketch made from the victim's description of her assailant resembled a man at a butcher shop. Police took the victim there and she identified Dean. She later testified that his voice sounded similar to her attacker's.
    Dean testified in his own defense. He said he'd slept late on November 14, 1994, and didn't leave the house until 7:30 a.m., more than an hour after the incident occurred.
    Jewel's testimony buttressed his. She said she and Dean were in bed together late that morning. But prosecutors grilled her about her black leather jacket, which they believed was the same leather motorcycle jacket worn by the assailant.
    Dean's attorney argued there was no physical evidence to link his client to the crime.
    After Dean's conviction, Jewel and her daughters moved back in with her mother, no longer able to live in their own place without Dean's support. Jewel's mother baby-sat the girls while her daughter waitressed and managed the cash register at Daley's, sometimes until 2 or 3 a.m.
    The 45-minute train ride home on the Red Line felt like eternity. Her walk through South Side streets notorious for violence was like sprinting through a two-mile war zone, deflecting hollers and threats as drunks shot dice in the streets.
    The extra money she scraped together went to finding a place she and the girls could call their own, a three-bedroom apartment above a church. Robbers ransacked the place twice while she worked the late shift. Thankfully, her daughters were at their grandmother's house.
    "A lot of things would have been different if Dean were around," Jewel says. "If they knew he had been living there, they wouldn't have come."
    But Dean wasn't there - except in the only way he could be, through phone calls and letters.
    Transferred to four different institutions -- one on the opposite side of the state, more than four hours away - Dean worked in the prison laundry rooms and cafeterias. He was a model inmate who the guards liked so much they sneaked him outside during lockdown to shoot hoops.
    On birthdays and holidays, he mailed cards and money orders to his three boys in Arkansas and to Jewel's daughters. Latoni and Latoya may not have been his biological children, but he treated them as if they were-something that always surprised Jewel's family.
    "Before dad went away, I just remember laughs and smiles," says Latoni Mitchell, now 21. "When he was gone, it was hard to get through -- not just for my mom, but on the whole family."
    With her mother at work, Latoni stepped in to help parent her sister, two years younger. Both girls grieved their father's absence.
    He had brought them strawberry ice cream when their skin itched with chicken pox. He had attended PTA meetings and chaperoned on field trips to the Lincoln Park Zoo. Some kids envied the little girls whose father, unlike their own, visited the school so often.
    Now the students taunted Latoni and Latoya, calling their daddy a rapist.
    Connected by visits and letters
    Nighttime was the most difficult. Dean sandwiched Jewel's perfume-scented letters into his pillowcase. Jewel wore his flannel pajamas to bed, trying to draw him close.
    Despite their faith in God, they sometimes felt lost.
    Why us, they asked. We are good people. Why does this happen to good people?
    "It was almost like he was dead," Jewel says. "That's how bad it hurt."
    Prison visits became a routine part of family life, and the trips were no vacation. The length of each visit hinged on the kindness of the guards. The frequency depended on how much money Jewel could save for gas.
    "She was trying to live her life but never forgetting," says Audrey Vandurhust, Jewel's older sister, who served as the family photographer and sent shoeboxes full of family photos to Dean.
    In between visits, the couple wrote.
    Jewel's colorful cards captured her emotions. "When things get rough," one said, "I can feel God's kindness in your friendship, and I can feel his love lift me up when you reach out to me."
    Dean peppered Jewel with questions about everyday life: "Have you heard anything else about your Section 8? How is your car running? Baby, I know you know you got to check on your oil and brakes every once in a while, right?"
    He signed every letter the same way:
    "Your one and only, Dean"
    The legend of the Innocence Project
    Two words are legend in the Illinois penitentiary system: Innocence Project. The story of one man's freedom becomes another man's hope.
    Shortly after the judge found Dean guilty, an inmate at the Cook County Jail told him about the Innocence Project. Thus began a research project that would consume him behind bars - and, he hoped, set him free.
    "It was a nightmare," Dean said. "Guys look at you funny when you're labeled a rapist. I had to keep defying the lies."
    In the prison library, Dean dedicated hundreds of hours to scrutinizing his case and examining the law. What went wrong, what could have been done better? In December 1997, he filed his first appeal to the First District Appellate Court - and wrote his first letter to the Innocence Project
    In both, Dean focused on tests for sexually transmitted diseases that both he and the victim underwent. He tested negative for chlamydia and trichomoniasis; the victim tested positive. The judge threw out the tests, arguing the results were irrelevant. They were never introduced at trial.
    Guys look at you funny when you're labeled a rapist. I had to keep defying the lies.
    --Dean Cage

    Dean also raised questions about how he was identified. He pointed out that he had no prior record, and that there was no physical evidence linking him to the crime.
    At the Innocence Project's New York office, Dean's letter did not go unnoticed. The attorneys wrote him back. They could not take his case - yet. But they would put it on a waiting list to be reviewed.
    The nonprofit has limited resources to handle the thousands of letters they receive from inmates each year. It accepts only cases in which DNA testing can yield conclusive proof of innocence.
    Wrongful convictions, the group found, occur in a number of ways: faulty witness identification, false confessions, police misconduct and poor legal representation. Witness misidentifications are responsible for three-fourths of wrongful convictions. And of those, about 70 percent of the inmates are minorities like Dean.
    He was determined to leave the place he called a "hellhole."
    In letters and visits, Dean told Jewel about the group that could fix this terrible mistake. By August 1998, they'd already used DNA to exonerate 11 inmates in the Illinois prison system.
    Jewel dared to feel hope that Dean would be next.
    A new proposal
    Jewel was exhausted as she pulled into Danville Correctional Facility in central Illinois, a three-hour drive from her home in Chicago. Since Dean's arrest seven years earlier, she was working late to support her family and slept unusual hours. Her girls, now 13 and 11, could push her buttons, and she was tired on this particular day from dealing with their rebellion.
    It was the summer of 2001, and Dean was still on the Innocence Project's waiting list - three years after he'd first written them. The courts had rejected his first appeal; the second, filed in 1999, awaited a response from the state of Illinois.
    Sitting down across from Dean in the visitors' room, Jewel thought he looked weak and hunched over. The toll prison took on him sometimes came through the phone. He would call crying after witnessing a stabbing or a rape. Or tell her about cellmates who had killed family members and showed no remorse.
    Dean had lost weight from the strain. So had Jewel. He knew, too, the unseen impact of his incarceration on Jewel.
    He knew people in the community gossiped about her, called her crazy.
    A childhood friend treated Jewel like an irrational teen. How do you even know Dean will want you when he gets out? she asked.
    Friends offered to set her up on blind dates. Potential suitors flirted with her.
    When Mitchell politely rejected the matchmaking offers, rumors swirled that she might be a lesbian. Even her older brother nudged her casually to reconsider: "Dean might be innocent" he said, "but it don't look good."
    Dean didn't want Jewel to suffer any longer - or to remember him this way. He wanted something better for the fiancé he called "Baby." He swallowed his selfishness and made a very different proposal from the one he'd made on the day he asked her to marry him.
    Move on, he told her.
    Her cheeks grew warm, her heart raced.
    What was he saying? Why would he tell her this? Had he found someone else?
    It wasn't fair. She'd waited patiently for him.
    Seven whole years.
    Now what? Would she finally have to let go?
    TOMORROW: The conclusion
  2. TANMO

    TANMO JF-Expert Member

    Oct 27, 2009
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    Too long to read..
  3. BAK

    BAK JF-Expert Member

    Oct 27, 2009
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    Mkuu Ndugu, nobody forced you to read long articles on this forum. If the article is too long for you read just move on to another "short" article.

    Have a great day :)
  4. BAK

    BAK JF-Expert Member

    Oct 27, 2009
    Joined: Feb 11, 2007
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    Last of two parts
    By Stephanie Chen, CNN
    October 27, 2009 8:57 a.m. EDT

    [​IMG] [​IMG]

    Prison letters keep love alive

    • Jewel Mitchell waited by her fiancé and helped the Innocence Project with his appeal
    • DNA tests of saliva samples revealed Dean Cage didn't commit the crime
    • Illinois exonerated Dean in May 2008 and compensated him with $170,000
    • Dean and Jewel live in Chicago with their eldest daughter and grandaughter
    Chicago, Illinois (CNN) -- Was Jewel Mitchell crazy?
    Her fiancé was in prison for a crime he said he didn't commit. She'd stood by him ever since his arrest just a month after he'd asked her to marry him. But now, seven years later, Dean Cage was telling her to give up.
    It was August 2001, and in the prickly heat inside a prison visitation room four hours from Chicago, Dean said the two words she'd hoped to never hear:
    Move on.
    If there was anything left he could do for Jewel, Dean figured it was to set her free. From a situation that left her a single parent, juggling several jobs to make ends meet. From the suspicions of others who thought Dean must have done something or he'd be out of prison by now. From three-hour drives to visit him, and all the loneliness in between.
    Family members had been telling her the same thing.
    He may never get out.
    Your daughters need a man in the house.
    You're not getting any younger.
    Dean had been found guilty of sexually assaulting a 15-year-old girl. The victim's testimony had convinced a judge to sentence him to 40 years.
    But Jewel knew her fiancé was innocent. He'd been asleep beside her the morning of the attack.
    Read part one of Jewel Mitchell's story here.
    For years, she'd believed justice would prevail. That this case of mistaken identity that would finally get cleared up. But three appeals had failed. And the Innocence Project, a nonprofit that works to exonerate the wrongly convicted, still had Dean on its waiting list. He'd first written to them three years ago.

    Gallery: Together again


    [​IMG]Editor's note: Reporting of the story

    Who would blame Jewel if she took the easy way out? Wouldn't it be better to move on, to meet someone who could help raise her girls?
    Her fiancé's words made Jewel cry. She wondered, for a moment, had he met someone else?
    She knew better. When she processed his words and then spoke her own, they came from the heart.
    Marry me, she told him.
    She had never stopped believing in him. And she wasn't about to give up now, not after seven long years.
    Their original wedding date - May 13, 1995 - had long ago come and gone. Dean still wanted her to have the ceremony she'd dreamed of.
    Sitting in the plastic chairs in the visiting rooms, Dean accepted Jewel's proposal, but made her agree to wait. They would marry when he gained his freedom - no matter how long that took.
    Suddenly, it seemed, Jewel's life was a wedding party.
    Siblings, cousins and friends were all getting married, and she played bridesmaid.
    Weddings even became a part of her job. Working at a food company that catered $50,000 weddings at the Chicago Shed Aquarium, Jewel helped happy couples decide between roasted chicken and filet mignon.
    Attending the lavish weddings, watching the beautiful bride and handsome groom sashay on the ballroom floor, Jewel always thought of her fiancé.
    "I would put myself in her shoes and Dean in his," she says. "I would just visualize that being us one day."
    But the arrival of that day seemed anything but certain. Four more years would pass before the Innocence Project would accept Dean's case. When it finally did, in September 2005, he'd been incarcerated 11 years.
    Lawyers worked quickly to file for the release of evidence for forensic testing, but the process was painstaking. Jewel became a reliable source for the attorneys working on the case, calling them to check in every few weeks. She hunted for Dean's original attorney, who had moved to a new practice in Michigan after quitting midtrial. Perhaps he would hold valuable information for Dean's new attorneys.
    "She was willing to do whatever it took in terms of being cooperative with us," said Alba Morales, the Innocence Project attorney who represented Dean and exchanged notes with Jewel on several occasions. "She was very brave."
    The attorneys retrieved evidence saved from the crime scene, including saliva samples and the victim's underwear. DNA tests had never been performed because investigators couldn't find semen on the victim's clothing and at the time, the testing of saliva was rare.
    To do those tests now, Dean's lawyers would need the permission of the Cook County State's Attorney Office. One in five prosecutors opposed post-conviction DNA testing in 225 Innocence Project cases, a University of Virginia study found. Luckily, Dean's did not.
    On March 2008, three years after the Innocence Project accepted his case, Dean's attorney delivered the good news by phone: DNA tests of saliva from the victim's body and clothing positively excluded Dean.
    The couple's family members screamed and clapped when Jewel told them the news. While they bounced up and down and hugged each other, she was quiet.
    Hadn't she told them all along that Dean was innocent? That he was in bed with her on the morning of the crime. She knew the test results would be favorable. Her question was whether they would mean anything. Would Dean really come home this time?
    Just as Jewel suspected, time moved like molasses. Days went by. Then weeks turned to months. Dean was not home.
    She was 39, and had finished putting two girls through high school in a neighborhood where many students end up on the streets. She couldn't help but calculate the years -- and the way they should have been different.
    If Dean were there, he'd have seen his girls graduate. They would have known what to look for in a relationship -- honor, respect and responsibility -- instead of falling for boys who drank and smoked.
    When Latoni, an honor roll student, became unexpectedly pregnant at 17 with a man four years her senior, Jewel was devastated. If only their father were there.
    On May 27, 2008, the phone rang at 8 a.m. The noise rattled Jewel from her sleep.
    It was Alba, the lawyer from the Innocence Project. Legal review of the evidence exonerating Dean had eaten up two months. Now the waiting was over. Dean is coming home, she said. Can you get him today?
    Everything after that call is a blur for Jewel. Her eldest daughter remembers seeing her mother glued to the phone, confused about what do to next. Finally, she headed to the ATM to get cash to buy Dean new shoes, pants and shirts.
    Dean's sister drove his mother and Jewel the four hours to the prison in Canton, Illinois. They were slapped with a speeding ticket on the way down Interstate 55, but they didn't care. Family members and friends kept frantically calling their cell phones, pounding them with questions. Are you there yet?
    It was black outside when they arrived at Illinois River Correctional Center. When they entered the prison, Dean was walking toward them, wearing the same oversized, infectious smile Jewel remembered from the night they met.
    She screamed so loud she almost fainted. They embraced.
    "It was a hot kiss," says Jewel, giggling. "Like the kind in the movies."
    On May 27, 2008, Dean Cage tasted freedom. But across state lines in Indiana, a woman's world unraveled. Old wounds tore open.
    How was it that someone had botched her case?
    It is CNN policy to not identify victims of sexual assault. But the woman who was attacked and sodomized at age 15 spoke to CNN about her ordeal and how Dean's exoneration affected her life.
    She still believes Dean was her assailant.
    She worked hard to overcome the nightmares and flashbacks that haunted her after the assault in November 1994. The bashful 15-year-old who sang first soprano in the choir and loved to go to the movies with her stepfather became isolated and withdrawn. She feared men, and could no longer be alone with her stepdad.
    But she found the courage to face four months of painful physical recovery and to testify against Dean. She graduated high school and college despite the emotional turmoil. She'd learned to love and trust again.
    But discovering that Dean Cage would be set free, she found it difficult to even be around her husband and four sons.
    Many victims find themselves in limbo after the exonerated are released. In most cases, attorneys say the victims continue to believe the exonerated are guilty. Many fear the person will seek revenge or that the perpetrator will find them.
    "It's extremely hard to give up something that you have fervently believed for a long period of the time," said Rob Warden, director of the Center on Wrongful Convictions in Chicago.
    No one has been arrested in the assault for which Dean served 14 years.
    "I don't trust the justice system anymore," the victim said. "I thought I had closure, and I would be safe for 40 years. But you're never safe because look what happened."
    It's extremely hard to give up something that you have fervently believed for a long period of the time.
    --Rob Warden

    Today, Jewel and Dean live in a two-story house in South Chicago with their two daughters, grandchild and a fluffy white puppy named Dora. On the front porch are two chairs where the couple likes to sit and watch their granddaughter play.
    Yakee is Latoni's daughter, a wide-eyed 3-year-old in braids and a denim dress. Like her grandmother Jewel, the toddler's words flow freely. She calls Dean, her grandfather, "Papa."
    Dean, now 42, bends down to the floor to let Yakee climb on his back. He chases her and reads her books about colors and shapes. He spoils her, and enjoys getting to do with his granddaughter the things he missed doing with his own girls.
    These scenes give Jewel peace. She admits she was worried about whether her relationship with Dean would work like before. Or had prison changed him too much?
    "Then, I remember, I've changed too," says Jewel who turned 40 this year. "If we made it before, we can do it again."
    There is no doubt that reintegration is challenging. Dean still stands with his back straight, arms clasped behind him. Some habits from prison are hard to break.
    Jewel has suggested he seek some counseling to alleviate the memories of beatings and rapes he witnessed in prison, but Dean assures her he is OK.
    A group of students and professors at Loyola University-Chicago's School of Law have helped Dean learn how to use the Internet, manage cell phone bills and text message. Known as the Life After Innocence Project, the group has also guided him to create a resume on a computer.
    "It's kind of rough trying to adjust," admits Dean.
    Laura Caldwell, director of the Life After Innocence, gives a lot of credit to Jewel. "Jewel believed in him and that was amazing. He has a house to live in. He has people who want to support him."
    It took eight months for the state to expunge Dean's criminal records. In September, he received $170,000 from the state for the time he wrongfully spent in prison.
    A civil suit filed against the Chicago Police Department in June, alleging police negligence, has yet to be decided.
    "It is extremely easy to get convicted for something you didn't do with eyewitnesses testimony," said Jon Loevy, Dean's lawyer whose firm has represented a dozen exonerated prisoners. "Dean is clearly innocent and the police built an airtight case that he was guilty, so something went wrong."
    On average, Loevy's successful clients receive about a million dollars for each year they were wrongfully imprisoned. But it can take years for the courts to reach a conclusion.
    In the meantime, the exonerated are often penalized in their new lives for the time spent behind bars. The jobs they find pay less than what they would have made before incarceration, and nearly all of them lose their savings, homes and cars.
    If we made it before, we can do it again.
    --Jewel Mitchell

    Even with the settlement, Dean works 35 hours a week at a minimum-wage job in a barbeque restaurant. The couple has no savings and no car.
    But Dean says he is happy to be with Jewel and the family.
    "She makes me feel good," he says. "She makes me feel happy. I don't think things would be the same without her. I don't know if I could've kept the faith all those years."
    As they begin their second year reunited, Dean and Jewel find their plans for a wedding shuttered once again, this time by the rocky economy. They will marry when things get better, Jewel says, perhaps on her mother's birthday as they once planned -- 14 years ago.
    "Honestly, I don't care," she says. "I will marry him anywhere."
  5. NGULI

    NGULI JF-Expert Member

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    Hii hadithi inavutia sana ila kwa sisi wafanyakazi inakuwa ngumu kusoma yote hii ni ndefu sana, hivi kusummerize ngumu? au ulibandua na kubandika?
  6. BAK

    BAK JF-Expert Member

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    Hakuna ubaya wowote wa kubandua na kubandika. Kila mtu hapa ukumbini ana namna yake ya kutuma jumbe anavyopenda yeye. Sikumbuki kuwekewa masharti na yoyote yule ni namna gani jumbe zinatakiwa zitumwe hapa. Kama ufanyakazi kila mtu ni muajiriwa.
  7. NGULI

    NGULI JF-Expert Member

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    mh! Thanks.