Is My Mum Controlled Opposition?
When family secrets throw you for a loop…
Hi folks, I’ve been cogitating on this for many months now, wondering whether I should share or not as it’s somewhat — OK, very — personal. Given the conjecture I consume on this platform and in all the medical freedom group chats, about Leader “X” being an “agent,” Doctor “Y” being a “limited hangout,” and Politician “Z” being a “gatekeeper,” I’ve finally decided to come clean and share my own concerns about a vexing situation that is closer to home. I’m sincerely hoping the great thinkers of Substack will help me figure things out as, for reasons you will come to understand as you read my piece, I might have lost all objectivity.
A few months ago, when I went home to London, obviously I stayed with my mother because a) she is my Mum, and b) she is my Mum. (No mummy issues here, only deep admiration of an incredible human being). Of course, I hung out with my sisters and their families (kiddywinks are the cutest; the younger, the smarter, the sweetest, the funniest) and a few aunts and uncles too, but approximately 88.73% of my time was spent inside my mother’s house.
I went with the specific aim on that visit to help her out as much as I could with practical household and administrative undertakings, chores that she found too complicated aka it required a password (God bless my Mum’s generation, and actually, aren’t we all exhausted by that too?) or heavy (both physically and mentally), to tackle by herself. My father passed away 6.5 years ago and even though I’ve helped her out many a time by tending to such tedious tasks whenever I’ve gone home, the “project” seemed interminable and, no matter how much I accomplished on previous visits, ever-expanding. My mother, like most people who have lived for decades in the same place, has, not surprisingly, what amounts to a lifetime of miscellaneous family “stuff” to sort through.
In a bid to deal with it once and for all, and to alleviate future hassles for my sisters who are closer in proximity and therefore able to help her if immediate needs arise, but who struggle to get to the bigger — macro — tasks since they all have full-time jobs as well as kids, I told her I would spend the entire three weeks at her place. That would allow us a decent amount of time to go through all the many closets, cupboards, drawers, shelves, nooks and crannies that fill a person’s home. The plan was to — once and for all — give away, sell or throw out anything she wasn’t emotionally attached to, didn’t need or was ever going to use
In short, I wanted this trip to be The Mother of All Sorts, pun fully intended.
In almost 3 weeks, with my massive mission to accomplish, I achieved a lot. Documents and papers were either filed away in labelled book-binders or placed in a “to-be-shredded” pile. Superfluous knick-knacks and broken (as well as intact, though no longer used) gadgets were set aside to be thrown away or dropped off to charity shops. Objects she wanted to keep were placed in boxes and stored in cupboards with my large marker pen caps lock font scrawled on a post-it — all the easier for her to locate once I left.
And let’s discuss the trickiest part: items of emotional significance. Every time I came across photos, letters, or bizarro mementos, I’d place them in a large cardboard box in the huge fitted cupboard of my old bedroom, the one I always slept in.
However I needed psychological tricks. (With a body attached to a human mind, who doesn’t need psychological tricks?). As the enthusiasm of the first few days waned, making the monumental sorting task feel more and more like a drag by the end of the first week, I naturally had to convert some aspect of it into a reward. So I saved myself the pleasure of rummaging through the big, cardboard “box of treasures” by seeing it as the fun treat I would earn at the end of my stay.
In the last few days of my time in London, I was finally beginning to feel some satisfaction with my progress and, despite my Mum getting annoyed with me sometimes for reminding her to be ruthless (for example, by daring to suggest that she get rid of a vase that had been left-to-be-forgotten in the darkest corners of a hard-to-reach, high-up cupboard, still in its original box, never opened, now for well over 30 years… sigh), I knew that she also delighted as she watched many not-needed items leave her house.
And of course she got to spend more time with me, the daughter who was overseas who she missed a lot. I very much appreciated the time with her too, even if sometimes it felt a tad claustrophobic. Luckily I was dedicated to my objective (and I guess it helped that the weather was of the typical British summer kind: somewhat grey, a tad grim). The fact that she and I could talk about the Scamdemic freely — she was the only person in my large, extended family who agreed that we were being lied to — cheered me up a lot too.
Three days before I was leaving however, I stumbled upon a pile of Gujarati (one of my mother tongues) magazines and the cover of one issue in particular jumped out at me.
“Mum, what’s this?” I asked, showing her the magazine at the top of a pile, a pile that I had plonked on the bed of the smallest bedroom, the one which had been converted to a puja room after the last of her daughters had left home.
“Oh, that’s one of my magazines.”
“Well, obviously… but what is it about? Why are all these Indian people making this symbol with their hands?”
“Let me see.”
She took the magazine out of my hand, glanced at the cover (I think I saw her smile ever so slightly?), then looked inside at a few pages.
“Don’t throw this away. It has a good recipe for muthiya in it.”
By then, I was used to her putting her foot down over random items whenever we began to battle over whether it should be chucked or not. A few days into the task, I had told myself it was best not to create any undue stress in what was already a tricky negotiation. Having silly arguments over things she wanted to keep, things that I was convinced she ought to get rid of, it just wasn’t worth it. After all, it was her house, her stuff, her prerogative.
But, as always, I tried.
“Couldn’t you just write the recipe out?”
“No, I want to keep it.”
“Okay.”
I let it go. Dems the rules.
Later that day, I walked past the puja room and glanced inside to see her — no surprise, as it was early evening — sitting on a chair, praying in front of the altar. (Due to problems with her knees, she was no longer able to sit cross-legged on the floor as she had in her younger days). The homemade altar had about a dozen small- to medium-sized bronze and silver statues placed on the shiny red cloth, as well as several framed colourful pictures leaning against the wall, all depicting her favourite Hindu gods and goddesses. An incense stick was burning and the heavy perfumed smoke entered my nostrils as I peeked in. Her eyes were closed and she was chanting her mantras, something I had seen her do twice a day, morning and evening, when I was a child and as an adult, a practice she had been doing most of her life. However this time, I happened to notice that she also had her hands in her lap with her fingers in the shape of a triangle with the thumbs connected and the two index fingers pointing downwards, touching.
Now, of course, I know that plenty of people reading this will immediately roll their eyes at me, and say that that was obviously a Hindu mudra but to me she was clearly displaying an Illuminati symbol. And where had I seen that recently? Oh yeah, on Rumble. My mind started racing.
At the dinner table, I decided to ask her a few questions.
“Mum…. um… so can you tell me about your relationship to Andrew Tate, please.”
No beating around the bush for me!
“Huh?”
“Andrew Tate? He’s the most Googled man on Earth?”
Yes, I had questions for her!
“Gurgle? Eee su ché?” she asked in our mother tongue.
“Google, Mum. It’s a search engine. You’ve used it. Remember when I showed you how to look up reflexology pressure points on your 'phone the other day?”
“Google-boogle? Engine-bengine? Sometimes, I have no idea what you’re talking about!” she exclaimed. She took the ladle from the big pot on the table and gestured that I hand her my empty bowl. “Here, have some kadhi, it came out so good today!”
“Mum, but Andrew Tate…”
“But who is this Andrew-Bandrew?!” she asked in an irritated voice. “Did he go to school with you? Why are we talking about him?”
“Never mind,” I replied, wondering if I’d have had more luck asking about Russell Brand. Was my Mum feigning ignorance? Hadn’t she told me a couple of weeks before that she was watching a ton of YouTube videos these days, as a result of my sending links of doctors and scientists who were asking questions and pointing out how “The Science™️” made no sense whatsoever. After 3+ years in the truther space (granted, by proxy, through one of her daughters), surely she’d be aware of the names of these apparently red-pilled celebrities by now?
The thought crossed my mind: My Mum was perhaps a very good actor.
I decided to drop the subject and slurped down the hot, spicy, yoghurt soup. She was right, it was delicious; her dishes were never not delicious. My Mum is renowned, even amongst her own sisters — and all Indian women of that generation are amazing chefs — for her superior cooking skills.
But, I wondered, how much did I really knew about her? I was determined to get to the bottom of things. Good job, I’m a micro-Columbo at heart.
After washing the dinner dishes, I went upstairs, deciding I would finally sift through the cardboard ‘box of treasures’, starting with the massive pile of photos. I mean, I needed to do that anyway as I was intending to sort them into categories:
| Mum and Dad as kids | M&D Wedding | Us as kids | Us with aunts, uncles and cousins | Family weddings | Grandkids | etc.
I looked through maybe a hundred photos, making piles as I went along, and then there it was, finally… a photo with incontrovertible proof:
My Mum, heavily pregnant in a sari, standing in front of a row of terraced houses with the number 33 on the door directly behind her!
I took the photo and went downstairs. Mum was in the sitting room watching her favourite afternoon quiz show whilst shredding old bank statements.
“Mum, so… um, can you tell me about this, please”
I placed the photo on the coffee table in front of her and stood by the door, pointing at it, accusingly.
“Yes, that’s in Manchester. You were just about to be born.”
I picked it up to look at the back of it and saw the street name.
“33, Sinclair Road. So that was the address of the bedsit you and Dad were living in?”
“Yes. Mrs Molly’s house. Mrs Molly adored you! She got you a tiny teddy bear for your box-bed.”
I knew the story of us living at Mrs Molly’s house in Manchester when my parents and older sister had moved from Uganda to India to the UK, and how we were so poor that my bed was a cardboard box insulated on all sides with a small but heavy velvet blanket. It was a cute story. But I was determined not to be distracted by cute stories.
“How did you end up staying at Mrs Molly’s again?”
“Well,… Mrs Molly’s husband worked with your Dad when he was a driver at Woolworth’s, and they had a spare room for rent.”
“Hmm, oh yeah. I remember you saying.”
I stood there in silence, alternating between looking at the photo and watching her looking at the screen. She seemed so innocent. (“She is such a good cook!” I said to myself) As I looked at the photo, another thing suddenly jumped out at me, something that had been there all along. (Why had I not noticed that detail right away?)
The photo is black and white!
And we all know about the Freemasonic love of black and white… am I right or am I right??!
“Beta,” my Mum interrupted my spiraling thoughts and smiled at me, “why don’t you go on this quiz show? You’re so clever with words. I bet you know the answer to this question.”
She pointed at the TV and I turned my attention from the photo to the screen.
The question was “What category of animals does a crocodile belong to?”
The answers contestants could choose from were:
| Mammal | Amphibian | Reptile |
Hang on a minute… “REPTILE”?
(Did someone say “REPTILIANS”?”)
A tortured squeal left my throat. My mother looked up at me, flummoxed.
“Beta, why are you reacting to a simple problem when there is a simple solution?”
Oh my gosh, did I just hear my Mum refer to the Hegelian Dialectic in code? Why would she do that? And why in code? Were we being listened to?!
“Here, if you don’t know the answer, why don’t you Google-boogle it?” She picked up her phone, and handed the device to me. Her screen background had a familiar symbol on it: the palm of a hand with one eye in the centre. Up until that moment, I had always thought of that symbol as the Eye of Hamsa, which many people believed could ward off evil spirits but I realized now, after 3.5 years of “research,” as I like to call it, that it was in fact…
… the All-Seeing Eye of the Illuminati!
I looked at her. I looked at her phone. I suddenly began to wonder if the CIA was listening to us through her device. Don’t be silly, I told myself. Remember it was us, her daughters, who had bought her the phone when Dad had passed away, all the easier for us to stay in touch with her.
But no, I suddenly remembered she had wanted a particular model, she said she preferred the colour of it to the one we had originally picked out. Had she been advised to buy that particular model of gadget by her predator class bosses?!
Not even caring now how I appeared to her, I snatched from her hand the bank statement she was about to shred — it was from 2007 and the closing balance was $186.66.
666!
And then I realized that 18 is made up of 3 sixes too…
My gosh, they always put it in your face, don’t they?! They like to tell you! Revelation of the Method, and all that…
My frazzled mind then made another connection: my mother was the only person in my family who believed me about all the Covid stuff. From the outset, she had patiently listened to me every time I called to give her updates on the nonsense. Right away she had said she agreed. Right away, folks! I always assumed that that was because she was naturally distrustful of Big Pharma having grown up understanding the principles of Ayurveda — how one does not treat the symptoms but the whole being — but now an uncomfortable suspicion was forming inside me.
Is my Mum controlled opposition?!”
I looked again at the old bank statement I was holding in my left hand, and studied her name at the top. Scanning my eyes quickly around the room in search of a pen, I saw one on the coffee table in front of her, and grabbed it. Using the bank statement to scrawl on, I made a chart with two rows and quietly whispered the numbers to myself.
4, 1, 12, 19…
“Beta, why are you… what are you counting? I closed that bank account years ago. There’s nothing in it now. Here, give it to me so I can shred it.”
She stretched out her hand but I ignored it, staring at her and looking at the numbers I had just written out.
My Mum’s name in Gematria added up to 87. When you do the reduction on that number it becomes 15, and when you reduce 15, it becomes…
6!
My head was spinning as I recalled, bit by bit, everything I had told her about my learning journey these last few years, my creation of The Navy Blue Venn Diagram FB group, my founding of Team Sanity, and then Sane Francisco, how that had grown, the parallel communities we were building in the Beige Area… my Mum, she knew about it all! I had trusted her with everything. I had unthinkingly given her all my intel, all my knowledge and insights about events as they happened. A thought suddenly occurred to me…
I had been sorting out all her files but was she helping the CIA keep a file on me?
The room now began to spin too, as the thought of something else, even scarier, hit me.
If my Mum is controlled opposition, am I controlled opposition too without knowing it?!
And is that why I called myself Agent 007.3? There’s me thinking I was being funny, trying to make people giggle, but maybe I had been MK-Ultra’d all these years ago and convinced that I was an artist?
After all, in the artwork for one of the singles I released in 2019, I am kinda doing the one-eye thing:
And I am also covering one eye in a photo that has been a profile pic for one of my Google(-Boogle!) accounts, created about 7 years ago, which was a contender for my third album cover. (Oh man, and I thought it looked “cool”).
[INSERT SECOND INCRIMINATING IMAGE]
And I am clearly covering one eye in this image found within the 28 page booklet that comes with my first album, which I released in 2005:
And, hang on a minute, 2023 minus 2005 = 18. So yeah, that first album was made 18 years ago, and 18 is — as I’ve already shown above using a complicated mathematical equation — 3 sixes!
But most damning (trigger warning to all those who can’t deal with the creepy satanic shit: turn your heads away now)…
… there is a pentagram in the middle — right in the middle, where it says “WE ARE HERE” — of The Navy Blue Venn Diagram.
(Gasp!)
I rest my (family-sized suit)case.
You guys, you know what this all means, right?
I should not trust my Mum.
Or myself!
Or anyone!
And you should not trust me.
Which means I should not trust you.
Which means nobody should ever trust anyone…
Now what an ingenious PsyOp that would be!
Brilliant satire of our paranoid times! 😂🙏❤️
What a great way to start the day reading that!
I can’t help thinking how lucky you were to get out in one piece!