tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18171228995453651362024-03-17T07:52:33.684+01:00The Bookaholic BlogBooks, arts, and more books...sometimes we'll bring you surprising stuff!The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.comBlogger704125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-44773960575056984762013-02-22T21:57:00.003+01:002013-02-22T21:57:38.271+01:00Goodbye...for now<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH156_s1bdjCh-1yhLXuzm8UtSSPiBwsZToqK7CtTj48M0GE6mao9Bg8GgZwq2p0qPX346pZq7deBoQ3f6p3liyDnEBgQoocxQlc2nPTJoE6TVKcW5WQ6MOqt4sqwO27Ug9MOJgCRRcVA/s1600/goodbye+pen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH156_s1bdjCh-1yhLXuzm8UtSSPiBwsZToqK7CtTj48M0GE6mao9Bg8GgZwq2p0qPX346pZq7deBoQ3f6p3liyDnEBgQoocxQlc2nPTJoE6TVKcW5WQ6MOqt4sqwO27Ug9MOJgCRRcVA/s1600/goodbye+pen.jpg" /></a></div>
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Hello everyone,</div>
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This is a note, to break the silence, to explain it, maybe. First, apologies for the long hiatus. We have been away for a while, our last post was on <a href="http://bookaholicblog.blogspot.com/2012/10/arojah-theatre-returns-with-wizard-of.html" target="_blank">October 29, 2012</a>. We have been away, drowned in other things, experienced new roles, learnt from them, yet this blog has been, and is still, close to our hearts.</div>
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It has been an interesting journey, since <a href="http://bookaholicblog.blogspot.com/2009/02/blast-from-past-peter-abrahams-tell.html" target="_blank">the first post</a>. We have learnt many lessons, we are still learning. </div>
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This is that point where we have to take that decisive break, to decide what to do with the blog, going forward. That's why it is, goodbye, for now. We will be back. In what form? We do not know now. Maybe. Maybe not in this format. But surely better and stronger.</div>
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Kind regards,</div>
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Bookaholics</div>
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PS. You can always reach us via email: bookaholicblog@gmail.com. We are always there :) </div>
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Picture courtesy of <a href="http://www.ehrlo.com/when-kids-say-goodbye/" target="_blank">Ranch Ehrlo Society</a></div>
The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com963tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-47742167672373219682012-10-29T01:00:00.000+01:002012-10-29T01:00:07.321+01:00Arojah Theatre Returns with ‘The Wizard of Law’<br />
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The Abuja based group, Arojah Royal Theatre will on <b>Wednesday 31st October</b> return to the stage with the late Professor Zulu Sofola’s play, ‘The Wizard of the Law’ which is being dedicated to the honour of the first ever Chief Justice of Nigeria, Honourable Justice Mariam Aloma Mukhtar.</div>
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The play which will feature the likes of Oyewale Oluwatoba, Jovita Anyanwu-Chukwuemeka, Oluwaseun Odukoya and Zeb John among others; is a satire about an old lawyer, Ramoni who has met with reverse and tries to impress his wife during a festive period by purchasing nine metres of lace material on credit at a time he is penniless. The cloth seller, Rafiu, takes advantage of this opportunity to inflate the prices of clothes in other to make a heavy gain. Unable to pay the debt, Ramoni gets into more trouble and desperately looks for a court case through which he could raise the money to pay his debt.</div>
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The Executive Producer of the play, Om’Oba Jerry Adesewo said “We were planning to stage the play to celebrate the International Day of Justice in July, that was to come immediately after our last outing. We missed the timing and so decided to find another relevance for the play. That was when the idea of using the production to commemorate the appointment by the President and Commander-in-Chief of the Federal Republic of Nigeria, of Honourable Justice Mariam Aloma Mukhtar as the first ever CJN because we feel it is a lanmark achievement.” He added that the whole idea is to celebrate the CJN by hosting her, her family, friends and well wishers to an evening of theatrical performances.</div>
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Directed by Adesewo Fayaman-Bay, the Abuja presentation of "The Wizard of Law", which is supported by the National Centre for Women Development, African Independent Television, NTA Entertainment and the Bureau of Public Enterprise (BPE) will also starred the likes of Zubairu Jide Atta and Lara Owoeye-Wise.</div>
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Arojah Theatre’s last outing was in June 2012, when the group put up a weeklong festival of theatre in honour of the Executive Secretary of the National Institute of rCultural Orientation (NICO), tagged Festival of Barclays Ayakoroma’s Plays (FESTIBAP) which was held at the French Cultural Centre.</div>
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“This is the first of a very busy last quarter of the year for us. Apart from the monthly Play Reading Party we organise in collaboration with the Korean Cultural Centre, we have two other outings this year and I think it is good but for us as practitioners and for the theatre loving residents of the nation’s capital”. Jerry Adesewo said, adding that the group will stil stage two plays, Adinoyi Onukaba-Ojo’s ‘Sssooommmaaallliiiyyyaa’ which will be entered as Abuja’s entry for the annual Festival of Nigerian Plays (FESTINA) and Dr. Seyi Adigun’s HIV/AIDS awareness play, ‘Call for me My Osheni to celebrate the World AIDS Day 2012.</div>
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"The Wizard of Law" comes up on <b>Wednesday 31st October October, 2012 by 6pm prompt @ the National Centre for Women Development</b>, Abuja with a Matinee for students of FCT schools.</div>
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The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com86tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-68107288714406610022012-10-28T02:00:00.000+01:002012-10-28T02:00:01.439+01:00The Wives at Terra<br />
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The Performing Arts Workshop and Studio is back at TerraKulture for the Month of November with another thrilling Play. The play is <i>The Wives </i>written by Ahmed Yerima, and performed by Performing Arts Workshop and Studio. </div>
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The play shows every Sunday in November @ TerraKulture. 3pm and 6pm. Click on the poster for more details. </div>
The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-36480369489951074982012-10-25T16:12:00.000+01:002012-10-25T16:12:25.106+01:00Abuja Literary Society Holds Bookjam<br />
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<b>The Abuja Literary Society </b>features three fast-growing and debut authors in its monthly book feast, known as BookJam. The October edition of the popular and innovative BookJam will headline new authors Sylva Ife Nzedigbo, a vetinary Doctor-turned-writer; mother of three Ukamaka Olisakwe; and, hard-hitting columnist, Tope Fasua,<b> on the 26th of October at the Lifestyle Bookstore of Silverbird Abuja.</b> Joining them will be Abuja Slam Champion and dancehall poet, MacFather G, who recently released a musical album. MacFather G will be performing some of his most popular slam poems and new songs from his debut musical album. </div>
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Nzedigbo, known for his love of social commentary, following his Sunday columns in Daily Times, blog sites and Twitter, recently channeled his passion to the creation of a full-length short story collection, The Funeral Did Not End, a collection of 20 captivating short stories ranging from current and persisting issues of politics, religion, social injustice, culture and tradition. Aba-based Ukamaka Olisakwe is the author of Eyes of a Goddess, her debut novel which throws light on the imperfections of a democratic system that emasculates the people. Tope Fasua is a well-known newspaper columnist, who has put his creativity to the production of the non-fiction, Crushed, an introspective book on the issues debilitating economic and social development, with Nigeria as a case study. </div>
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The BookJam@Silverbird Abuja is a collaboration of the Abuja Literary Society and Silverbird Lifestyle. It holds every last Friday of the month and is anchored by co-host of the Abuja Poetry Slam, Jide Attah. The BookJam consists of book readings, book signings, musical presentations, raffle draw and a discussion by the guest writers. In addition, there is usually a special Slam poetry performance by some of Abuja’s finest Slam champions.</div>
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Sylva Ife Nzedigbo:</div>
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Apart from being a regular blogist and columnist, Nzedigbo has been writing creative non-fiction for several years, gradually honing his craft and building a loyal fan base. His first published work a novella, Whispering Aloud was published in 2008. Several of his works are published in local and international Literary Journals including MTLS, StoryLine, Swale Life, Life As a Human and Sentinel, Nigeria.</div>
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He has won several awards as a writer and an essayist. The most recent, 2012 Grand Prize winner, National Youth Essay Contest. He won the second prize at the Ken Saro Wiwa, Candle Light Vigil Poetry and Writing Competition 2010,an Honorable mention, 2010UNESCO/GIO Peace Foundation Essay Contest for Young People, by Microsoft Internet Safety, Security and Privacy Initiative for Nigeria (MISSPIN) and YGC, Africa, National Essay Competition on CybercrimeCompetition and the Abuja Writers Forum, Short Stories Contest.</div>
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Several reviewers and commentators have described his stories as ‘well delivered with an understanding of where the ordinary blends with the profound.’ Perhaps, a better description is Australian writer and literary critic’s insightful view, ‘The stories in The Funeral Did Not End are varied in scope and theme, but all show the restless energy of a young author struggling and succeeding at encapsulating the tumultuous awakening of a nation convinced it is mighty and willing to show the world exactly what it can achieve.’ </div>
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Nzedigbo wields successfully, the narrative voice, symbolism, simple diction, Irony, Imagery and allusions in telling reality with a dollop of the hyperbolic to deliver in a fresh light the mundane and an open-end technique bound to excite or irritate readers.</div>
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Born in November, 11, 1984, Nzedigbo attended the School for the Gifted, Gwagwalada, and obtained a degree in Veterinary Medicine, in 2007, at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka. Nzedigbo hails from Agulu, Anambra State, the south eastern part of the country which its landscape richly featured in the stories. He also employs a thin line between fiction and realism in his characterization of places, people and scenery. Nzedigbo works in the corporate communications industry; is single, and likes tweeting with like minds, when he is not writing or reading.</div>
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<b>Ukamaka Olisakwe:</b></div>
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For Olisakwe, creative writing began after much encouragement from her friends and while trying to find an escapist means to create, and direct the world to the benefit and empowerment of females and the voiceless in society. She started out with flash fictions published in NaijaStories, an online based blog site for budding writers. Girl to Woman ignited the interest of Sentinel Nigeria, which later published her short story, Running. It was re-published by a South African Magazine, Short Story Day Africa.</div>
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Olisakwe has come some ways and waxing stronger. She is the moderator, AfricaReadsWritesTheVision, an online book club initiated by Dr. Claudette Carr of the Jethro Institute, London. The Book Club aims to encourage reading and thinking in Africans and successfully runs monthly book reading for its writers and readers the world over.</div>
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Her debut prose fiction, <i>Eyes of a Goddess</i>, is the story of a fifteen year old girl, Njideka, whose family gets mired in political intrigue when her father, broken and disillusioned after a peaceful protest, underwent drastic changes. It is the story of hardship, abuse and most importantly the resilient spirit of those gasping for freedom.</div>
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<b>Tope Fasua:</b></div>
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Fasua has been writing for the past six years in the Sunday Trust, newspaper where he has a weekly column. He is also published by other weeklies across the continent like Modern Times, Ghanaian Magazine, Africa Development Magazine, Inside Watch, This Day, Champion , The Sun Newspaper among others.</div>
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In writing his book, <i>CRUSHED</i>, Fasua seeks to examine the peculiar issues militating against economic and social development in Africa, using Nigeria as a case study. It is a hard-hitting book, which emphasises the need for self introspection, pragmatism, selflessness, a knowledge of history, as well as a vision for the future, on the part of Africans themselves, as well as evidence-based appeals to the more advanced countries, for them to see that a better Africa is ultimately necessary for the good of all. The book has been acclaimed by pundits to be one of the best to have come out of Africa, in the non-fiction genre. </div>
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<b>MacFather G:</b></div>
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Born George Obinna Ononiwu, MacFather G is a dance hall poet and singer. A former seminarian and graduate of the Delta State University Abraka, MacFather G is the founder of Love Motion, a youth-focused NGO that seeks to develop the talents of young people for national and global advancement. His creativity has led him into slam and spoken word poetry, radio presentation, facial art, and now, music with the release of his album, Came to Do. In 2011, he won the famous Abuja poetry slam competition.</div>
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For more information, please write to: abujaliterarysociety@gmail.com .</div>
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The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-89886255441282228542012-10-20T15:47:00.000+01:002012-10-25T15:49:07.907+01:00Mission Accomplished: Felix Baumgartner <br />
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Austria's Felix Baumgartner earned his place in the history books on Sunday after overcoming concerns with the power for his visor heater that impaired his vision and nearly jeopardized the mission. Baumgartner reached an estimated speed of 1,342.8 km (Mach 1.24) jumping from the stratosphere, which when certified will make him the first man to break the speed of sound in freefall and set several other records* while delivering valuable data for future space exploration.</div>
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After flying to an altitude of 39,045 meters (128,100 feet) in a helium-filled balloon, Felix Baumgartner completed Sunday a record breaking jump for the ages from the edge of space, exactly 65 years after Chuck Yeager first broke the sound barrier flying in an experimental rocket-powered airplane. The 43-year-old Austrian skydiving expert also broke two other world records (highest freefall, highest manned balloon flight), leaving the one for the longest freefall to project mentor Col. Joe Kittinger.</div>
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Baumgartner landed safely with his parachute in the desert of New Mexico after jumping out of his space capsule at 39,045 meters and plunging back towards earth, hitting a maximum of speed of 1,342.8 km/h through the near vacuum of the stratosphere before being slowed by the atmosphere later during his 4:20 minute long freefall. Baumgartner's jump lasted a total of 9:03 minutes. Countless millions of people around the world watched his ascent and jump live on television broadcasts and live stream on the Internet. At one point during his freefall Baumgartner appeared to spin rapidly, but he quickly re-gained control and moments later opened his parachute as members of the ground crew cheered and viewers around the world heaved a sigh of relief.</div>
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"It was an incredible up and down, just like it's been with the whole project," a relieved Baumgartner said. "First we got off with a beautiful launch and then we had a bit of drama with a power supply issue to my visor. The exit was perfect but then I started spinning slowly. I thought I'd just spin a few times and that would be that, but then I started to speed up. It was really brutal at times. I thought for a few seconds that I'd lose consciousness. I didn't feel a sonic boom because I was so busy just trying to stabilize myself. We'll have to wait and see if we really broke the sound barrier. It was really a lot harder than I thought it was going to be."</div>
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Baumgartner and his team spent five years training and preparing for the mission that is designed to improve our scientific understanding of how the body copes with the extreme conditions at the edge of space.</div>
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Baumgartner had endured several weather-related delays before finally lifting off under bright blue skies and calm winds on Sunday. The Red Bull Stratos crew watching from Mission Control broke out into spontaneous applause when the balloon lifted off.</div>
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For more information, please visit: www.redbullstratos.com </div>
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The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-19468503599175660212012-10-17T01:00:00.000+01:002012-10-17T01:00:07.484+01:00Introducing: Nothing Comes Close<br />
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<a href="http://www.accomplishpress.com/" target="_blank">Accomplish Press</a> is pleased to announce the official publication of <i>Nothing Comes Close</i>, a debut novel by Tolulope Popoola. The story is a compelling tale of the struggle to preserve love in the midst of daunting challenges. Nothing Comes Close is set in London, Milton Keynes and Lagos, with a cast of intriguing characters that showcase a realistic portrayal of the lives of young, ambitious Nigerians in the diaspora.</div>
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<b>The Author</b></div>
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Nigerian born author, Tolulope Popoola taps into her experience of living in the UK to write a book about familiar themes - real people with ambitions struggling to make the right choices in their romantic relationships. The story also shows the tensions of living within two cultures - trying to maintain a Nigerian identity whilst absorbing British values.</div>
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“I’ve always loved reading,” the author said. “Growing up, I read a lot of books by authors such as Enid Blyton, Louisa May Alcott and Jackie Collins. When I started writing, I wanted to write about characters and situations that people like me would recognise, without the burden of adding to the narrative of what’s expected from an African story.”</div>
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Tolulope Popoola was born in Lagos, Nigeria. She moved to England for her university education where she studied BA Accounting and Business Economics, and a Masters in Finance and Investment. She started blogging in 2006, which rekindled her love for writing and telling stories. In 2008, she left her Accounting job to concentrate on writing full-time. She writes short stories, flash fiction and articles for both print and online magazines. Nothing Comes Close is her first novel. Tolulope lives in London with her husband and daughter. She can be reached through <a href="http://www.onwritingandlife.com/" target="_blank">her website</a></div>
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<b>The Novel</b></div>
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The plot for <i>Nothing Comes Close</i> grew out of an online series titled <i>In My Dreams It Was Simpler</i> that Tolulope created and co-wrote with eight other writers. She created the main cast, and picked two of them as protagonists for her novel. “The online series ended on a cliff-hanger.” She said. “I wanted to get my female protagonist to a point where she was satisfied with the choices she had made for her future. With the novel, I got to make that happen.”</div>
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The story captures the ups and downs in the lives of a Nigerian girl, her group of friends and her love interest as they try to navigate their lives in London. There are issues such as marital infidelity, career decisions, death, heartbreaks, loyalty and cultural expectations. Each of the issues is dealt with in a sensitive, exciting and entertaining way.</div>
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For an enticing preview of <i>Nothing Comes Close</i>, visit the Accomplish Press website to download sample chapters and view <a href="http://www.accomplishpress.com/" target="_blank">its exciting trailer</a>. <i>Nothing Comes Close</i> is available as an ebook and paperback from Amazon.com, Waterstones, WHSmith, Barnesandnoble.com, and other online retailers. The book will be officially launched on the 27th of October 2012.</div>
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If you want to share the story with your readers, I'd be happy to send you a copy of "Nothing Comes Close" for a review, feature or giveaway; or I can arrange an interview with the author.</div>
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<b>Reviews</b></div>
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<i>Nothing Comes Close explores the usual love story in a very fresh manner, employing lovely prose, suspense and the posing of serious questions to tell an immensely entertaining story. I enjoyed every moment spent reading it. Highly recommended."</i> ~ Richard Ali, Editor-in-Chief, Sentinel Nigeria Magazine.</div>
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<i>Tolulope Popoola is a good communicator. Her writing connects readers to the story in a way that makes it easy to relate to the characters. I particularly like her description of objects and events, and how they are tied into the story effortlessly. Nothing Comes Close is a book I will really love to see as a movie, I can actually picture the characters and scenes in my mind already! I hope that day will come. ~ </i>Shola Okubote, Editor of Femme Lounge</div>
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<i>In her debut novel, Nothing Comes Close, Popoola, explores a theme familiar to most of us, which is that of finding love. However, an unexpected death, imprisonment, betrayal and dark secrets, add twists that make this book much more than a boy meets girl story.</i> A fine debut. ~ Yejide Kilanko, Author of Daughters Who Walk This Path</div>
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<i>One word: Riveting. Sometimes unsettling. That’s how I can best describe Nothing Comes Close – Tolulope Popoola’s novel. I appreciate her ability to create believable characters that readers will find themselves rooting for when it comes to that sometimes complicated life challenge of initiating and building love-relationships.</i> ~ Lara Daniels, Author of Love in Paradise and Love at Dawn</div>
The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com40tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-35897993259180859992012-10-15T01:00:00.000+01:002012-10-15T01:00:03.625+01:00World Cultural Council Seeks Arts Nominations<br />
<a href="http://www.consejoculturalmundial.org/" target="_blank">The World Cultural Council</a> pays tribute to individuals or institutions that have made outstanding achievements in science and arts, granting annually the Albert Einstein World Award of Science, for work in the field of Physics-Mathematics-Astronomy; Life Sciences: Biology, Biochemistry, Medicine, Paleoanthropology, Ecology or Chemistry; and every two years the Leonardo da Vinci World Award of Arts, which may be conferred upon a renowned artist, sculptor, writer, poet, cinematographer, photographer, architect, musician or other performing artist, whose work constitutes a significant contribution to the artistic legacy of the world.<br />
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The laureates are typically preeminent researchers or other leaders in their field, whose work has had a significantly positive impact on the progress of human culture. After almost 30 years of such ceremonies across the five continents, these prizes are now widely recognized and highly esteemed in the scientific, educational and arts communities.<br />
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All nominations should be submitted with the curriculum of the candidate, clearly stating his or her achievements in the respective field and showing how he/she has made a definite contribution to the betterment of our world.<br />
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The nomination requirements are detailed <a href="http://www.consejoculturalmundial.org/nominations/index.php" target="_blank">here</a><br />
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The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com48tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-73180327018878087372012-10-12T09:56:00.001+01:002012-10-12T09:57:00.286+01:00Editiq: Business Writing Workshop<br />
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<a href="http://www.editiq.com/" target="_blank">Editiq </a>is one of the leading companies when it comes to providing editorial services in Nigeria. Now, they are holding a business writing workshop. This is for everyone who writes- emails, letters, proposals, stories- as long as you use words, this workshop is for you.</div>
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EditIQ's Effective Business Writing Workshop holding from <b>Oct. 23-25</b> is aimed at professionals who write a lot in the course of their work and who would like that writing to get them better results. </div>
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<li>It's intensive, with lots of writing exercises and feedback sessions.</li>
<li>It's interactive, with classes being limited to 15 participants to allow for individualized instruction.</li>
<li>It's affordable at N50,000 per participant for the three days, including food, snacks and materials.</li>
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And, a principle that will come up often during the workshop is that business writing doesn't have to be boring! If you'd like your writing to be more fun to write and more compelling to read, you should book your seat for the<b> Oct 23-25 </b>session which will hold at <b>City Hall on Lagos Island</b>. </div>
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<b>Questions? Don't hesitate to call 0808 524 3423.</b> </div>
The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-31739223641629795692012-10-06T11:27:00.000+01:002012-10-06T11:27:32.210+01:00iRead: Back with a Bang<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>There was a break, now the gathering of book lovers seems to be back with a loud bang. Check out the impressive list of writers for the next reading. </i></div>
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Writing in a socially challenged society: going the social commentary route. In a nation where many have come to view works of art, be they visual, auditory or the written word, as an escape from harsh reality, some have argued that making these problems the main thrust of works or art constitute a form of double torture. They argue that the man on the street would rather read about happy people, rich people, people in love and people having fun, rather than the problems that stare them in the face every day. They don’t want to read about poverty, sickness, corruption and the like, because they know all about it, these ills stare at them from their mirror, and from the eyes of every stranger they meet on the street. No matter how plausible these arguments sound, the truth is that they are a very false premise with which to judge what one should write or should not write about. That people want an escape is something that everyone can readily agree with, but that they still have to come back to the same reality is another that should not be ignored. It is therefore of great import to record the society as it is, not to mock, but to show. And by showing, attention can be brought to these ills and perhaps a redress began. Perhaps it is with this need to show and become a catalyst for the much needed societal change that a crop of new age Nigerian writers are shunning the urge to pander to the wishes of those who advocate for writers to provide escape for the average man on the street, by making social commentary an integral part of their work. With the support of Coca-Cola’s “1 Billion Reasons to Believe in Africa” campaign, iRead will be hosting some of these young people whose writing have given ample voice to a new generation seeking to change their society for good. Four writers, drawn from across Nigeria, all with strong elements of social commentary in their works published this year will be reading from their work and interacting with the audience about the Nigeria they see now and the one they hope to usher in through their writing.</div>
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<b>Venue:</b> CORA House, 1st Floor, 95 Bode Thomas Street<br />
Surulere,Lagos.<br />
<b>Date: </b>Saturday 13th October 2012<br />
<b>Time: </b>3-6PM<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2OCq5SknrQas5dHYcP2qMYFQ5JiPPDRUTiWxEmU1WiU4gIb6GhJglzw5l6IWnT3QogvBsL3BWrSsTLR2qfa4J8R45ZCgtaAo3Unfc6z7e6eGGZyt6P71Ccg-6to6NfYSnX5TLEq3cBxI/s1600/ukamaka.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2OCq5SknrQas5dHYcP2qMYFQ5JiPPDRUTiWxEmU1WiU4gIb6GhJglzw5l6IWnT3QogvBsL3BWrSsTLR2qfa4J8R45ZCgtaAo3Unfc6z7e6eGGZyt6P71Ccg-6to6NfYSnX5TLEq3cBxI/s1600/ukamaka.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b>Ukamaka Olisakwe:</b></div>
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Ukamaka Olisakwe is a new generation Nigerian novelist with amazing talents. Her debut novel Eyes of a Goddess will draw tears out of her readers. She is a banker in Nigeria with a degree in Computer Science. Ukamaka is currently pursuing a graduate degree in Communication and Linguistic Studies at the University of Port Harcourt. She is a young mother of two daughters and one son, and lives with her husband in Eastern Nigeria.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj5FZi9QJDdeX9OYihTUV1c5x2EKkzzvi0x0c0dqaK5vfXfBy5MeM5jWEL3ZZyobxk4RXxo8qWZNBwXjY_kUQRH7MyEyFHwXQnUfMXd9gKPFIDp7Hm-bcBgOqGk9SLf7sl_RLxte9m9sk/s1600/richard+ali.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj5FZi9QJDdeX9OYihTUV1c5x2EKkzzvi0x0c0dqaK5vfXfBy5MeM5jWEL3ZZyobxk4RXxo8qWZNBwXjY_kUQRH7MyEyFHwXQnUfMXd9gKPFIDp7Hm-bcBgOqGk9SLf7sl_RLxte9m9sk/s200/richard+ali.jpg" width="148" /></a></div>
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<b>Richard Ali: </b></div>
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Richard Ali is a lawyer who hails from Idah, Nigeria. He was born in Kano, lives in Jos, Nigeria, and is presently Publicity Secretary [North] of the Association of Nigerian Authors. He is the Editor-in-Chief of the Sentinel Nigeria Magazine. His novel “City of Memories” was published this year.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMFNgMOEAShg_-xaiaQw0BBlOdSoGoeVZJ3_mWcdx679nYsPdkYQZRW0LQaLVyT3IDm63iGyajJuDY1n9vdJyUOS3tQWXYRTNJSAuZhJgjIOWjqNWpUgSOWSeRtIqbHEukD1sEldzkyEU/s1600/emmanuel+iduma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMFNgMOEAShg_-xaiaQw0BBlOdSoGoeVZJ3_mWcdx679nYsPdkYQZRW0LQaLVyT3IDm63iGyajJuDY1n9vdJyUOS3tQWXYRTNJSAuZhJgjIOWjqNWpUgSOWSeRtIqbHEukD1sEldzkyEU/s200/emmanuel+iduma.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<b>Emmanuel Iduma:</b></div>
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Emmanuel Iduma was born in Akure, Nigeria. He obtained a degree in Law from Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-Ife. His interests range widely, including web technology, digital art, visual art, and creative writing. Emmanuel works mainly as a writer of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, and has won awards and received recognition in each genre.Emmanuel is the co-founder of Iroko Publishing, which has published Saraba as an electronic magazine since February 2009. His work in Saraba has been acclaimed globally, including in The Guardian (UK). He is currently the editor of 3bute.com an online mashable anthology of African modernity. He is the author of the novel “Farad”.</div>
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<b>Sylva Nze Ifedigbo:</b></div>
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Sylva Ifedigbo is a Doctor of Veterinary medicine, a writer and a Corporate Communications professional. He is an award winning essayist and author of the novella, “Whispering Aloud” and collection of short stories “The Funeral Did Not End”.Sylva’s Essays have appeared in The Punch, The Nation, 234Next, Nigeria Village Square, Nigeria Dialogue, amongst others. He manages a weekly column on Daily TimesNG. He is also the features & Reviews Editor of Sentinel Nigeria and an Ambassador for the Coca-Cola A Billion Reasons To Believe in Africa Campaign. </div>
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The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-1384447592574963772012-10-06T11:19:00.000+01:002012-10-12T09:44:49.505+01:00Red Bull Stratos: New Date Set<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr0WJhi6RElvpGH4dWXXf0efNbhVrdg7LAShHvrwJMIoA0eOhuivuBptlvAd_tjTyim_12caqNseKxBXmg-c5t7hIkKWQZ51o5BKe6sv9oSE3b059iGQbp7eo9OC1_nB4pixv812POANw/s1600/RBST_FBAUM_JM_0030.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr0WJhi6RElvpGH4dWXXf0efNbhVrdg7LAShHvrwJMIoA0eOhuivuBptlvAd_tjTyim_12caqNseKxBXmg-c5t7hIkKWQZ51o5BKe6sv9oSE3b059iGQbp7eo9OC1_nB4pixv812POANw/s320/RBST_FBAUM_JM_0030.jpg" width="320" /></a><i>Speaking of the power of the human mind, all things are possible. You've been thinking of that novel? Maybe this story would inspire you enough to take a dive.</i><br />
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Monday October 8th, a record-breaking skydiver, Felix Baumgartner backed by a team of world-leading scientists, will take a stratospheric balloon flight to 120,000 feet/36,576 meters above the Earth’s surface and jump.<br />
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The mission is dubbed: “RED BULL STRATOS”<br />
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Red Bull Stratos, a mission to the edge of space, will attempt to transcend human limits that have existed for 50 years. Supported by a team of experts Felix Baumgartner plans to ascend to 120,000 feet in a stratospheric balloon and make a freefall jump rushing toward earth at supersonic speeds before parachuting to the ground. His attempt to dare atmospheric limits holds the potential to provide valuable medical and scientific research data for future pioneers.<br />
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The Red Bull Stratos team brings together the world's leading minds in aerospace medicine, engineering, pressure suit development, capsule creation and balloon fabrication. It includes retired United States Air Force Colonel Joseph Kittinger, who holds three of the records Felix will strive to break.<br />
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Joe's record jump from 102,800 ft in 1960 was during a time when no one knew if a human could survive a jump from the edge of space. Joe was a Captain in the U.S. Air Force and had already taken a balloon to 97,000 feet in Project ManHigh and survived a drogue mishap during a jump from 76,400 feet in Excelsior I. The Excelsior III mission was his 33rd parachute jump.<br />
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<b>The Jump did not happen as scheduled. Thus a new date has been fixed. </b><br />
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Felix Baumgartner was surprised and disappointed that his attempt to become the first person to break the sound barrier in freefall had to be scrapped due to gusts of wind near the top of his 30 million cubic foot balloon. Weather permitting, the Austrian will likely get another chance to write history while breaking four world records with his jump from the edge of space on Sunday.</div>
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Felix Baumgartner had just climbed into his space capsule and was only moments away from lifting off on his journey to the edge of space when a strong 22-knot gust of wind near the top of the 750-foot high helium-filled balloon forced the Red Bull Stratos team to abort Tuesday's attempt to make the world's highest skydive from 120,000 feet. Even though there was hardly any wind at ground level when the Austrian adventurer strapped himself into the capsule, the gusts of wind at the top of the 30 million cubic foot/ 834,497 cubic meter balloon made it impossible to continue.</div>
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The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-70760616477563670672012-10-05T01:00:00.000+01:002012-10-05T01:00:06.932+01:00Commonwealth Writers' 2012The Commonwealth Writers' Prize needs no introduction. There is the Short Story Prize and the Book Prize. Visit their<a href="http://www.commonwealthwriters.org/prizes/" target="_blank"> website </a>for more information. It is officially open on the 24th of October though ;)<br />
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All the best to all the writers who'd apply! This is the best time to start writing :)The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-30829060293496592522012-10-03T01:00:00.000+01:002012-10-03T01:00:02.759+01:00GCLF 2012<br />
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Port Harcourt, UNESCO World Book Capital 2014 is also the home of the <a href="http://www.gardencityfestival.com/" target="_blank">annual Garden City Literary Festiva</a>l. The festival, which is in its fifth year, is an annual celebration of Literature and the Arts and also a platform for networking between players in the book chain industry. The main features of the festival include; The Garden City Book Fair, Writers’ Workshops, Symposium, book readings, Drama Performances and children’s events. The GCLF will hold between <b>October 15 and 20</b>. There is something for everyone.</div>
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The workshops which run for 3 days, are facilitated by seasoned writers. The workshops takes participants through the rudiments of writing, then gives them an opportunity to revise their work and finally present their finished work to their peers, who critique it and offer valuable feedback. On completion of the workshops, participants are given a certificate of attendance. This year Doreen Baingana will facilitate the fiction class and Dr. Obari Gomba will take the Poetry class. Cpt Elehi Amadi and Veronique Tadjo will handle the Master’s classes. The workshops are free but require pre-registration.</div>
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The festival also features events, like creative workshops for children, book signings and seminars. </div>
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<b>Booksellers</b></div>
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The Garden City Book Fair, another key feature of the festival, is open from 8am to 6pm daily for the duration of the event. The book fair is open to booksellers, publishers, gift shops, education establishments, banks and others. Patrons to the exhibition in the past have included, Longman Nigeria PLC, Heinemann, Book Craft, Bible Wonderland, Litramed Publications among others. Port Harcourt is fast developing as a book hub, and with the city clinching the much coveted title of UNESCO World Book Capital 2014, the book industry in the city is expected to thrive even more. Schools, universities and the general public are invited to come and maximise this opportunity to shop for a variety of books and learning resources all under one roof and at competitive prices.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>For more information</b> please log on to www.gardencityfestival.com and www.portharcourtworldbookcapital.org.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-68674377930329102742012-10-01T14:55:00.000+01:002012-10-01T14:55:02.203+01:00What Are You Reading?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXfNuRgWv_rBeopF9Xknowgd5HRqABt5D5ZjRx6UjAuMLCWaG93-c4lBaoGJv2VJkVgF9JVI9U3pppU2pOlceu1gKx5CImvrM2oFVLZGuzjGyZyjKbgcjyjKYkl2q77JWtjGunLSmOw-M/s1600/Ayodele.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXfNuRgWv_rBeopF9Xknowgd5HRqABt5D5ZjRx6UjAuMLCWaG93-c4lBaoGJv2VJkVgF9JVI9U3pppU2pOlceu1gKx5CImvrM2oFVLZGuzjGyZyjKbgcjyjKYkl2q77JWtjGunLSmOw-M/s320/Ayodele.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ayodele Arigbabu reading from his book "Fistful of Tales"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Happy Independence Day Celebrations to Nigerians that our blog. Today is a public holiday so no work for many people, so a chance to dig into a book, not that you should not have your nose buried in one most of the time...<br />
<br />
Tell us, what are you reading? Some interesting online reads, essays, review, and a free book download.<br />
<br />
Igoni Barrett, <a href="http://www.themillions.com/2012/09/i-want-to-be-a-book-on-becoming-a-writer.html" target="_blank">on Becoming a Writer</a><br />
<br />
Free Download of <a href="http://www.parresiapublishers.com/richard_Ali.php" target="_blank">Richard Ali's City of Memories</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://newsfeed.time.com/2012/09/27/j-k-rowlings-the-casual-vacancy-the-reviews-are-in/" target="_blank">Reviews of JK Rowling's first adult fiction</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://caineprize.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/my-caine-prize-story-by-tolu-ogunlesi.html" target="_blank">My Caine Prize Story by Tolu Ogunlesi</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.granta.com/New-Writing/People-Dont-Get-Depressed-in-Nigeria" target="_blank">Ike Anya: Nigerians Dont Get Depressed</a><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-20859338524395367852012-09-28T01:00:00.000+01:002012-09-28T01:00:04.431+01:00Book Excerpt: City of Memories<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpAOLchoDS_CEJh8VIo8qkIi_lTlZGLoD4oWQ50bm-Vv6JzouGSQ0p2gk0qtZHkaE985eXA07TAIMySgSR62g7PtylR649IfKUrn1o_lwzHb4k81I7KWj6Tb0sQ65Bcj7zljWbvztiz6g/s1600/cover+-+city+of+memories.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpAOLchoDS_CEJh8VIo8qkIi_lTlZGLoD4oWQ50bm-Vv6JzouGSQ0p2gk0qtZHkaE985eXA07TAIMySgSR62g7PtylR649IfKUrn1o_lwzHb4k81I7KWj6Tb0sQ65Bcj7zljWbvztiz6g/s320/cover+-+city+of+memories.jpg" width="201" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span>A week after his fiancée left, Faruk’s car
treaded a steady seventy on Nigeria’s northeast highway, easing up only when he
paused to change gears. The sun bore down on the white Toyota so relentlessly
that every few minutes he cursed his not having fixed the air conditioner. He
sweated profusely, even with both windows wound down—the underarm and chest of
his crème cotton shirt was streaked with brown patches. It was just about 11
a.m. and he already felt lost in the featureless vegetation, fleeing as he was.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">He drove past towns no larger than some
suburbs of his native city and often, mirage oasis shimmered at the far end of
his vision. Long stretches of road were poorly maintained, so every now and
then the highway broke up into vague stretches that threw up geysers of dust
the minute the tyres touched them. On both sides of the road, dry savannah bore
the intense heat without bursting into flames. Yet, there were nomads all along
the way in all the heat, herding more cattle than he had ever seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">When he drove past herdsmen, Faruk
responded to their calls by tooting his horn and raising a fist through the
window. All he and the herdsmen had for company were numberless cattle egrets,
who were more interested in the cattle anyway. The mostly white cows, equally
uncommunicative, wandered about minding their own business—eating grass and
occasionally letting drop large blobs of dung. The muscles of his neck strained
and twitched as he battled his thoughts, which always returned to Rahila and
the flurry of his departure from Jos City. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“See, Faruk, be na son ka kuma. We have to
call it off. It cannot work anymore, please.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Ba ki so na? What the hell does that mean?
Face the issue and say what it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it
you don’t love me anymore or that you are leaving me—which is it, Rahila Pam?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Sudden anger sparked in her eyes as she
yanked her arm from his grip, shocking him with her force.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“It doesn’t matter. Let me go!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“It does matter, and you know it. Both
things are not the same!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">But he had known. Her family. A foreign
influence. Like witchcraft.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Her words kept running loops in his mind,
broken only by Miles Davis’ 1959 ‘Kind of Blue’ album playing from the
speakers. But when the music no longer soothed him, he slipped into his
awareness of the heat and thoughts of Rahila—and the love she threw back at him
as if it were ash.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">He glanced at the rear-view in time to
remember that on that particular stretch of road he was alone and had been for
quite a while—an hour since he’d passed a lorry laden with assorted farm
produce and rustic farmers hanging on to the tailboards of the old Bedford,
laughing and singing. They had saluted him noisily, making faces and raising
their fists. He had tooted his horn. He smiled at the memory, caught himself
looking at the mirror yet again, sighed, and resumed whistling to the modal
jazz. Rahila made him think of his mother Ummi al-Qassim, and her madness. She
made him think of many other things. Faruk smashed his fist half-heartedly into
the steering wheel, tilting his head back like a ram to be slaughtered, his
eyes leaving the road momentarily. Rahila—he hated her now, for leaving him,
and for leaving him confused. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">But his thoughts of her led him to thoughts
of her mother, Eunice Pam, who even at that moment was seeking to have him
killed. Eunice’s meddling had already seen to the return of his engagement ring
and the end of his affair with her daughter. By the time he visited Hussena
Bukar, his mother’s closest friend until she died, he was anger-filled enough
to burst.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The highway started up a sudden rise so he
downshifted his gears, his mind running over the events of the last days, along
with the wheels of his car as the Toyota laboured up the steep incline.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">***</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The first thing she said on his entering
the house was; </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">"My God, what is the problem? Your
face is as long as the Ka’aba’s door!"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">And he did look drawn, sullen eyes beneath
finely arched brows, thin lips; a lithe young man, he had an ovoid face,
pleasant to see. Smooth dark complexioned skin. But only the mole just below
his left eye remained untroubled. Hussena Bukar had been at the far side of her
porch filled with potted plants, mulching compost with gloved hands unto the
roots of a rose bush. She led him to a sofa and shouted for the maid. An old
woman, soon sixty; grey hair peeked in neat cornrows from under her Dubaijin
headscarf. Her skin was as pale as his mother’s had been.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Ga abinchi, it’s just a snack, eat up. .
.”</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Hussena Bukar always adopted the spirit of
a young girl with him. Smiling like a coquette, she listened to him. But it
seemed to Faruk that a film appeared over her eyes while he spoke of Rahila, as
if his words reminded her of something else. He did not know he was shovelling
dirt off an event buried for three decades. Déjà vu coursed through Hussena
Bukar’s mind as Faruk sat on her porch, telling her about his danger fraught
love for Rahila Pam. She had heard these words before—from his mother.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Thoughts like a swirl around a whirlpool
spun through Hussena Bukar’s mind. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">She shook her head, placing her still
supple thin-fingered palms behind her neck. Her thoughts flit to the face of
General Hassan Abba, her friend. Hassan Abba had helped her make the most of
it—when the twin eclipses of the love mad Arab and the fanatic Usman Waziri had
come to destroy her friend. Bolewa! Now, the bloody Bolewa past demanded
sacrifice. It wanted Faruk!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Hussena Bukar realized she could not just
tell Faruk what had happened at Bolewa. She thought: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘He needs to travel; he must discover what
happened himself.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Faruk looked up at her. She smiled—then
took in a deep breath.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">"Faruk, my love, this is indeed very
complicated.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Yes, yaya.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“And there is so much you do not know of
what has happened before. Just as there is plenty I don’t know of what is
happening now with this Rahila and her mother,” she said, slowly ticking off
her fingers, shaking her head. ”Faruk, everything that happens has a
background. In knowing the background of what is going on, lies clarity and
strength.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">"I don’t understand."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">"I know, my love, I know you don’t.
But what is happening to you now has happened before. I’m thinking what I can
do, so that the result won’t be the same as last time. I think we will pull
this thing apart and then try to put all the pieces together again, hopefully
better,” she said, turning out her palms to heaven. “But you can’t remain here.
It will start with you leaving . . . then you will come back knowing. That is
how to understand the past, my son. Come, my love, I have some of your mother’s
things, her diaries, I think it’s time you had them."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Diaries?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Hussena Bukar led him into the familiar
house past the living room to her quarters, a small room with large windows and
a gold and green Oriental rug. He fiddled around with a paperweight, uncertain
why she wished to give him his mother’s diaries just after telling her about
his troubles. What did that have to do with foreknowledge, what was all her
talk about the ‘past’? How did it all tie up?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The elderly woman straightened up and
placed herself beside him on the ottoman, putting a large brown wooden box in
his hands.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Two days later, Faruk went to the
Employment Directorate and was informed of a placement for a teacher in the
Northeast, if he was interested—a six-month stint while the substantive teacher
was on sabbatical. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Fine. Where? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Federal Government College, Bolewa. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">He remembered what Hussena Bukar always
said, that something coming was on its way all ways. Or, had she manipulated it
all? It did not matter, for Faruk trusted Hussena as much as he did his father.
He was whistling when he left the Directorate. Yet, within hours of that, his
assault on Rahila’s brother had given Eunice Pam the bloody excuse she needed
to come after him openly—the protection of her daughters’ love was already
stripped off him. Faruk become, in one week, merely the expendable son of a
formidable opponent. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The day before his journey, Faruk sat in
his father’s office for awhile before the secretary came in with a Thermos
flask and coffee things. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“The Colonel will be here shortly, Faruk.
Meantime, why not have some coffee?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Faruk, embarrassed he had forgotten her
name, smiled.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Did my father go far?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“No. He is in the business district; he
called to say you were to wait. Do you want it black?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Yes, black. Thank you. I’ll add the
sugar.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">His father, Ibrahim Dibarama, arrived just
as he finished the cup of coffee, smiled at him and went around the large desk;
“Make me a cup,” the older man said, “I see you’ve already imbibed.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">It had been four weeks since they last saw
each other and an hour passed before Faruk brought himself to state why he had
come, and for that hour his father restrained himself. Each knew the great love
they bore the other yet each felt the need for an unexplainable caution.
Ibrahim Dibarama’s caution came mostly from pride, of having raised a strong
and independent son alone.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Father, I shall be leaving Jos tomorrow.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The older man did not reply.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“I shall be going to Bolewa,” Faruk stated.
At the mention of that word, his father’s eyes came alive with a malevolent
thunder. Just as quickly, Faruk saw the rage suppressed with a simple,
superhuman will. The older man looked his son straight in the eye.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Why?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“You refuse to tell me about my mother. I
intend to find out for myself.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Viper-of-a-son!” Ibrahim spat out, “is
there anything I’ve not done for you? I have told you all there is to know
about your mother, Allah rest her soul, what more do you want for God’s sake?”
His voice rose with each question. The secretary, in her office fifteen meters
away, felt the tension as one feels the heat of fighting lions even from the
confines of a touring vehicle. Faruk, for his part, felt like a young lion
caught between the passions of his mounting anger and his respect for his
father. He stared back at his father for less than half a minute, opening his
mouth to say the first thing that came to his mind. But prudence overcame all
and he sipped from his coffee which was now so cold it tasted salty. He steeled
himself.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Father. Is it wrong for a son to want to
know all about his mother, to visit the land of his parent’s youth?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">At these words, his father drew back,
knowing there was nothing he could do to stop Faruk from this journey. Ibrahim
Dibarama knew that not even a fight would sway this boy, his true son—it upset
him to be on the receiving end of an obstinacy he himself had instilled.
Ibrahim Dibarama’s eyes still held anger, but his mind was far from where they
were—his mind on his last days at Bolewa; guns going off everywhere, the
shattering windscreen of his car, his wife’s scream, the corpses and the
billowing smoke. Bolewa. City of memories, a town of death; a town that had
unhinged his life and taken his wife from him slowly, as a virus eats a memory
chip. Bolewa. How could he protect Faruk from the legacy of Bolewa?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“You are not going to Bolewa!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“I am, father. I ask only for your
blessings.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Ibrahim shook his head sadly. He had feared
this argument for a decade now and the reasons he had feared it were still the
same. His eyes settled briefly on his only child. Faruk sat still in his chair,
unsure if his father would try to force him to change his decision again,
wondering by what means—if he would. Faruk knew he would not be forced, no
matter what. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Just then the grey intercom on the table
beeped and was hastily picked up. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Yes. . ? Who? Okay,” at this the older man
nodded an apology to his son before saying, “Okay, put him on. . ,” proceeding
to converse with the person on the other end of the line. Faruk poured himself
another cup of coffee and finished it to find his father still speaking.
Another glance passed between them.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">While he answered the phone, Ibrahim
Dibarama’s thoughts were on the situation before him. What was he to do? All
over the country, unexplainable fanaticisms were breaking out and he and his
friends realized that the existence of the Nigerian State was at stake. But,
what were they to do about it? And now, his own son wished to leave him and go
to Bolewa, that den of fanatics, he thought, that fortress of loss.
Viper-of-a-son! Ah, but he could not say he had not expected this day. It was
at this point the disturbing thought of his son’s liaison with Eunice Pam’s
daughter first crossed his mind. He ended the call and dropped the handset
carefully into its cradle.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“You want to go to Bolewa?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Yes father.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Are you telling me everything?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Yes I am,” Faruk lied without losing his
composure. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Fine then, Faruk, you are a man. You have
my blessing.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Surprised but glad at his fathers words,
Faruk wanted to tell his father he loved him. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">But he did not.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The music stopped but Faruk did not play it
again nor place another CD in the tray. He drove on, his thoughts still far
away in Jos.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“It cannot work, Faruk. It’s all broken
down. I cannot marry you, I’m sorry.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Rahila, her head bowed in tears, tried to
remove the ring then. Faruk, angry, held her hand. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Why are you doing this?” he demanded. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">But she did not answer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Here’s your ring.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Rahila turned away and looked out the
window. He grabbed her by the forearm and turned her slowly so she could face
him. He wanted to play a game they used to play but his voice had grown husky. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“What are you?” he whispered. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">She looked up at him. “I am the mountains;
you are?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Breeze,” he said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“We cannot be.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“I am the sun,” he tried, desperately.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“But, you are not.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“You are rain.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“I am not. Not anymore,” she said sadly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The waters between them broke at that
moment. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">She tried, against the wall of his silence:
“Faruk, I am sorry, I hate to be, but I am, now. You are from the Northeast;
I’m from Central Nigeria, we are separated by a whole complication of history
and things. I thought it was possible, but I cannot, we cannot, be indifferent
to our distinct selves. I am my mother’s child; you are your father’s son.
Neither of us can undo that.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">He stayed silent awhile longer—then he bent
forward and pressed his lips on her cheek, feeling her shudder. His eyes were
closed. Rahila’s eyes were closed as well. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“You are breaking my heart,” he said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Then he turned away, leaving her alone amid
the contradictory swirl of her emotions. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Thirty minutes later on the Northeast
Highway, Faruk came to a junction. Straight ahead was Maiduguri, 200 km away.
He took the road that led to Nguirama and then on to Maidunama and Bolewa. He
still had 300 kilometres before he could present himself to the native land
from which he had been for so long sequestered, unsure as he was if he was a
pilgrim to his mother’s story or a fugitive from the avenging mother of his
lover.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB"></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj5FZi9QJDdeX9OYihTUV1c5x2EKkzzvi0x0c0dqaK5vfXfBy5MeM5jWEL3ZZyobxk4RXxo8qWZNBwXjY_kUQRH7MyEyFHwXQnUfMXd9gKPFIDp7Hm-bcBgOqGk9SLf7sl_RLxte9m9sk/s1600/richard+ali.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj5FZi9QJDdeX9OYihTUV1c5x2EKkzzvi0x0c0dqaK5vfXfBy5MeM5jWEL3ZZyobxk4RXxo8qWZNBwXjY_kUQRH7MyEyFHwXQnUfMXd9gKPFIDp7Hm-bcBgOqGk9SLf7sl_RLxte9m9sk/s200/richard+ali.jpg" width="148" /></a><b>Richard Ali,</b> was born in the early 80’s and has lived in Jos most of his life. He holds an LL.B from the Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria and a BL degree from the Nigerian Law School and was duly called to the Nigerian Bar.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB">Ali has experience in both print and digital publishing, having been Editor of Sardauna Magazine, Kaduna [2004-2007] and being presently Editor-in-Chief of the Sentinel Nigeria Magazine [www.sentinelnigeria.org]. He is at present a member of the PEN Nigeria Translations Committee.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB">His poetry has been published internationally in reputable journals such as the African Writing Journal and the Prosopisia Journal. </span><br />
</div>
The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com39tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-63794389028187094792012-09-24T01:00:00.000+01:002012-09-24T01:00:01.558+01:00Book Excerpt: The Whispering Trees<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><i>The Cat-eyed
English Witch, </i>an excerpt from Abubakar Adam Ibrahim's collection of short stories, <i>The Whispering Trees</i></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQkd5QUt6xOr5mRG22Eb76qFzPEItSqGXUfMaP_HIDOkI5tc1PzQbzCrW2RPNg0DVU0mnJk6Mi-zxjsCED5_zAGQLq4uB-Zhovurr6Q-birgACJ_SI0Ah_EGhFaW2zYA9Sdq3s4OXVHXM/s1600/TWT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQkd5QUt6xOr5mRG22Eb76qFzPEItSqGXUfMaP_HIDOkI5tc1PzQbzCrW2RPNg0DVU0mnJk6Mi-zxjsCED5_zAGQLq4uB-Zhovurr6Q-birgACJ_SI0Ah_EGhFaW2zYA9Sdq3s4OXVHXM/s320/TWT.jpg" width="201" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">T</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">he tiny
corpse lay in a multicoloured bundle, cradled in the mother’s arm. She held out
the bundle to me, showing me the innocent face that could have been sleeping
but was now very dead. The mother’s brown eyes gleamed, not with grief but with
a fiery hostility.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You killed him, you wicked witch,” she hissed
angrily.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The words
stung me, like a vicious blow, like the heat had struck me when we first
arrived Abuja. It was not particularly strange that she called me a witch; they
all did anyway. They found my blonde hair attractive but my grey eyes
unsettling. I don’t think they have seen many white women here. They call me
The Cat-eyed English Witch and then I’d thought it was kind of…I don’t know,
amusing perhaps. But with Manasa standing in front of me, a dead child in her
hand; a child I‘d adored, and accusing me of having killed him, it
was…shocking, to say the least.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">It had begun
in London one fine Saturday morning in Trafalgar square, six years ago, when I
first met Bawa. I was sitting by a fountain, watching the pigeons strolling,
pecking at the bread crumbs, pairing up and cooing, doing what pigeons do on a
fine summer day. Behind me, I could hear the fountain, sighing sweetly like a
lover’s voice. Then the pigeons fluttered their wings noisily, cooing wildly
and scattered into the air from a threat I hadn’t noticed. Their soft under
feathers seesawed gently down to the ground and then, there he was, standing.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“I didn’t
mean to scare you,” he said. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I looked at
him. He was young and handsome, and very dark. I guessed he was Nigerian but
couldn’t be sure.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I’d thought
he wanted to eat them but felt embarrassed immediately. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“Oh, never
mind,” I said instead and giggled at my thought. When I drew out a cigarette
from my purse, he lit up a lighter.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“Care for a
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">He shrugged,
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<br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">We got talking. He’d been a student on
international scholarship. He was studying law, he said. He was thirty then and
didn’t mind that I was two years older. I told him I was a financial consultant
and he wanted to know exactly what that meant. We actually hit it off, sort of.
He too loved parties and Dan Rhodes but found English theatres “lame”. He said
they lack the “African vibrancy”. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">A year
later, after he’d graduated, we got married. He too didn’t want anything
elaborate so we had a private ceremony at a small chapel overlooking the
Thames. His family in Nigeria called. Half the time, I didn’t figure out what
they were saying. Bawa told me they were so excited but his parents weren’t too
pleased.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“We have to
go and get their blessings,” he said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“Someday,
darling,” I said. “Right now, I don’t think I can get away from the office
after this honeymoon business.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“Neither can
I,” he said.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I crushed
the cigarette in my hand in the ashtray and said, “Come to bed, Hon, we’ll
figure that out later.” </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">One night,
he’d come home and told me that his father had died and he needed to go back to
Nigeria, where he hadn’t been in seven years. He asked me to come along and I
agreed. We landed in Abuja and made the 130 kilometre trip to his village,
Akwanga, by car.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>didn’t have a clear idea what to expect but
had half-expected to see semi-nude children, barely able to raise their
skeletal hands, their wide, hungry eyes imploring, begging to be saved
from…well, whatever. That was the image of Africa I had always seen on the BBC.
But these people were vibrant, running about their businesses, displaying their
colourful wares everywhere, their sweating faces smiling. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">We were
lodged in a single room – it used to be Bawa’s room. His grieving mother would
not look me in the eyes as most of the others. We didn’t seem to have got off
on the right footing. I hadn’t knelt to greet her, as my husband did. When I
offered her a handshake she just put her head down. I later understood I’d been
disrespectful. You waited until she offered you a handshake or a hug first. The
family was large, the house was small but no one seemed to be complaining. I
felt cramped by their communality but yet envied it. The way they did things
together, like fetching water from the wells, preparing meals and just about
everything else impressed me. Though, most of them spoke a kind of English;
mostly pidgin actually, some of them were well schooled but still, they had
problems understanding me.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“You speak
English English,” one of Bawa’s cousins said, “you talk through your nose.”</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Bawa was
hardly ever around. He had to take care of the funeral and sort out his
father’s assets, mostly with his uncles and aunties and just about everyone
else in the extended family.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“Do you have
to do everything?” I asked. “Your brother could handle it, couldn’t he? He
seems responsible to me. He’s got three children, after all.”</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“Lala may
have three children but that doesn’t make him the first son. I am.” He didn’t
need to add that the family’s been unhappy with him because he hadn’t visited
home for quite a while. I think they hold me responsible for that too; apart
from the fact that I hadn’t given the first son a child after six years of
marriage. I’m a career woman, for Christ’s sake, I don’t want a baby!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Well after
the funeral, Bawa was still kept busy with inheritance issues. I spend most of
the day trying to read a book in the sun or watching the women work, pounding
grains in mortars or blowing their breath into the embers in the tripods in
order to cook faster. I could work on my tan that way. But Mama asked Lala to
tell me that I am a married woman and ought not to be indecently exposing
myself and smoking like that. Lala was very diplomatic in doing so but still, I
felt trapped. I waited for Bawa to return that night.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“I’m going
back to London.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“Why? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“I’ve got a
great job with a nice corner office at Canary Wharf to think about.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“But you
took time off.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“I’m mostly
alone here in the middle of people who don’t understand me and you are not here
most of the time!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">That got him
angry and because I was wound up already, we had a row. He slammed the door on
his way out. I needed a drink, so, I went out looking for a pub. I found a beer
parlour instead; at least they had beer. I drank a little more than was good
for me and someone had to call Lala to rescue his sister-in-law before she
embarrassed the family any further. He made coffee for me and tucked me in. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The next
morning, Lala came back carrying his baby.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Thanks for everything,” I said, embarrassed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“You are
welcome.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“Made a mess
of myself, didn’t I?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“Well, I
have done worse.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“Is that
your child?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“Yes, a
boy.”</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The boy,
just five months old, was cute. He made me think of having one of my own. I
held him while Lala talked to me. He told me why most of them would not look me
in the eyes because they thought them cat like. Only witches have such eyes,
they believed. He told me a lot of things about his family and culture that
made me understand them better, made me think of having a go at making things
work. We became friends. It was so easy being friends with Lala. He was a
teacher at a local secondary school and it surprised me how well read he was.
Only he’d never heard of Dan Rhodes before. I lent him “Anthropology and A
Hundred Other Stories.” He was so thrilled when he brought it back.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I curtsied
when greeting Mama and though we needed an interpreter, her smile said more.
Though I could hardly manage any of the chores, they appreciated me for
offering to help. Mostly they declined, saying the guest should rest. They
seemed less afraid of me and less scary to me as well; most of them anyway,
apart from Manasa, Lala’s wife. She was not well educated and had grown less
friendly since Lala and I became close. She seemed to have developed this
notion that we were equals of sorts because we were both married into the
family. I had, at a point, thought that Lala didn’t spend hours talking with
her as he did with me; I couldn’t imagine them doing that because he seemed a
notch or two above her, well, a lot more notches actually.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I have come
to appreciate this people perhaps as much as they appreciate me and I have
learnt that we tend to be afraid because we build fences instead of bridges.
Their situation is not ideal; not to me at least. Power supply is epileptic,
they have problems getting clean water and I waste a lot just to shower. I
simply can’t imagine life without a steady power supply or clean water but yet,
here are people, living in the midst of these challenges and are able to smile
and laugh, even under the scorching heat, the corruption, the institutional
brutality and everything else. I realised I lived in a luxury I hardly
appreciate.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I had
carried Lala’s boy, strapped to my back, as children are carried in these
parts. I found it tiring but enjoyable. And the next morning, his mother,
Manasa, had come to me with a dead boy, demanding that I bring him back to life
with the witchcraft I used in taking him the first instance. She made such a
racket and woke the whole house. I cried.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Everyone
came out and spoke to Manasa but she wouldn’t budge until Mama came out of her
room and slapped her across the face. Then she broke down and cried. Mama
hugged me and I wept on her shoulder.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">How can I
tell Manasa that I could never hurt her child because I adore him so much that
it made me want to have one of my own; that I actually have one growing in me?</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">It’s just
that I can’t say precisely whose it is.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZw30lrv2jWQFVfJ2x8KGFSSZ1oXbuSthkHylMa788qhDECtfSuhrmKBKYTqgvzZmbakf97qc6QB2qEHaL9hON_c9cI0hAKmfoczpzneoucegqvqOTr4YY7Oro-MBCTGd0LIfI5dK2OSY/s1600/Abubakar+Adam+Ibrahim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZw30lrv2jWQFVfJ2x8KGFSSZ1oXbuSthkHylMa788qhDECtfSuhrmKBKYTqgvzZmbakf97qc6QB2qEHaL9hON_c9cI0hAKmfoczpzneoucegqvqOTr4YY7Oro-MBCTGd0LIfI5dK2OSY/s1600/Abubakar+Adam+Ibrahim.jpg" /></a><b>Abubakar Adam Ibrahim</b> holds a degree in Mass Communication from the University of Jos, Jos, Nigeria. He has written for Vanguard, one of Nigeria’s foremost newspapers, and his short fiction has been published locally and internationally. In 2007 he won the BBC African Performance Playwriting Competition and his first novel, <i>The Quest for Nina</i>, is due out in 2008 in the United States. His latest work, <i>The Whispering Trees</i> was published by Parresia.</span><br />
<div>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-25797508714992321722012-09-21T01:00:00.000+01:002012-09-21T01:00:08.188+01:00Book Excerpt: Farad by Emmanuel Iduma<i>Earlier this year, we had a post about <a href="http://bookaholicblog.blogspot.com/2012/06/paressias-first-triplets.html" target="_blank">Parresia Books</a>. In the coming days, we will post excerpts from each title, competitions and giveaways by the publishing house. We start with an excerpt from Emmanuel Iduma's</i> Farad<i>. Do let us know what you think of the excerpt. Have a great day!</i><br />
<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">The Museum of
Silver Lights (An Excerpt from Emmanuel Iduma's <i>Farad</i>)</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB"> I</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuq3LAONI4Pik75E7Vb7Q14ghJbTVGOQOOL89bhANyYEPlNpvDlHIz8TtI6LYE-krRxTSG2qazUmDKkzX-LB1uEJl_NpLV9gA8NNND1o8ZK_AuHUhBhEZrRXQzJQBspmzzqTX2NgdTIqk/s1600/iduma_farad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuq3LAONI4Pik75E7Vb7Q14ghJbTVGOQOOL89bhANyYEPlNpvDlHIz8TtI6LYE-krRxTSG2qazUmDKkzX-LB1uEJl_NpLV9gA8NNND1o8ZK_AuHUhBhEZrRXQzJQBspmzzqTX2NgdTIqk/s1600/iduma_farad.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">She was gone
before I remembered. Her voice had sounded like the pouring of water into an
empty cup; her eyes had seemed as though they could see things yet to be. Her
life had always seemed to be on the verge of happening. She used to talk of
doing something. Even when my elder brother was alive, and laughter bounced
about within the walls of our house, and music was an early morning gift. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">There was a
mahogany plank fixed to the front door of my brother’s house. On it he had
inscribed, “Because it is mine” underneath the words “Peace Villa,” the name of
the house. The letters seemed to have been painstakingly engraved, such that
they seemed buried deep in the wood. Even before he had died, she had spoken of
changing those words to “Because it is ours.” She was my brother’s wife, see. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">She was tall and
appeared effortlessly athletic, and there was a gaze in her eyes that seemed
awakened yet vulnerable. Her complexion, which I considered peculiar, appeared
to roam through the shades—she could seem dark-skinned today and albino-yellow
tomorrow. And she spoke of the Museum of Silver Lights. I heard her argue with
my brother once about turning the hallway of his brick house into the “first
phase” of the museum. He asked her, in a mocking tone, what she’d keep in the
museum. She told him the word “museum” was a variant of the word “muse” and
that it could mean “a place for muse.” </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">My brother, in his
usual dissatisfied manner, asked, “What do you mean?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">And she told him,
“I want to keep old photos in the museum.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">My brother shook
his head and looked at her in a way that spoke of her longstanding madness. Her
eyes met mine, and I bowed my head.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">My brother died
the next day in a big fight. He was a car dealer. His was, by all standards,
the biggest car shop in Jos. The fight had started two shops before his
warehouse. It went the way all big fights go. His shop was burnt. He went with
his shop.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Her crying was the
least pronounced. Our neighbours shed more tears than she did. They spoke to me
in her stead. But even in my brother’s days, they would have talked to him to
talk to her—even if she sat with them in the parlour. When a group of Igbo men
came to commiserate, they considered me old enough and talked to me while she
sat with us. If you had not known, you’d have thought she was an apparition
sitting in the parlour while we mourned.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The Igbo Community
in Jos staged a protest against my brother’s death—on the manner in which the
authorities had treated his case. It was a clear case of ethnic hegemony. On
the morning of the protest, I asked her if she was going to join. She shook her
head and asked me if I had eaten. She was the kind of person who tied two
unrelated things together—a protest and a meal, a death and a museum. So I
wasn’t surprised when she asked me next, “You think I can start the museum
now?” </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I could have said
I didn’t think museums were started, or that it was an inappropriate thought
given the circumstances. But instead I said, “Yes.” And when she nodded,
smiled, and rubbed my shoulder, I said, “Yes,” again. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I did not join
them in the protest. I heard that only ten men had shown up, and that they had
called it off when no one else joined them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">She replaced the
mahogany plank that read “Peace Villa” with “The Museum of Silver Lights,” and
underneath the words, she inscribed “Because it is ours.”</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Yes, she had confronted my
brother about the words he had inscribed on the plank. Incidentally, it had
been the day just after I had come from our parents—they had insisted I go to
my brother, so he could ‘speak some sense into my head’, for my decision not to
go to university.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She talked about the
phrase in a manner that showed she had spoken about it before. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">“You can’t just
declare that this house is yours. If nothing, there are other people living
here.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">My brother said,
without turning to her, “Leave me alone.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">She pursed her
lips and looked upwards then shook her head. She walked away from him. I
wondered why she spoke of the words on the plank—I thought she shouldn’t be
bothered about such little things. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">She was the kind
of person that was bothered about small things. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">One day, she
called me. She had come home earlier with photographs in silver frames. Now she
had driven nails into the wall of the hallway and hung the photographs in a
criss-cross manner. She still stood on the stool onto which she had climbed to
cover the yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling with a silver screen shade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were photos of my brother and her on
different occasions. She spoke of each photograph as a guide would do in a
museum— “We took this in Abuja”, or “He had just come back from China, at the
airport.” But I was angry. She hadn’t asked for my help in putting up the
photographs. She said, “We’ll fill the house with more photographs. Maybe we
can open it up to the public. They would see his face.”</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I walked away from
her. She spoke of my brother as though he had had no mind of his own.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">While she slept, I
took down all the photographs—all twenty three of them, despite the way the
hallway glowed like silver. I carried them outside the house. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I took a stone and
broke each of the photographs into bits. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">In the morning
when I woke, she was gone. There was a white sheet of paper on the table in my
room. She had started to write something, but cancelled it. I could see where
the pen had torn the paper while she scratched off the words she’d written. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The Igbo Community
in Jos told me they were going to stage a protest against the manner of her
death. I told them it was unnecessary. Their spokesman, a Reverend Father who
kept dreadlocks asked me why. I told him I was going back to my parents in
Ibadan. That was all. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Is that all?” he
asked. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I said, “Yes.
That’s all.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I told him that if
he wanted to do something for her memory, he should have something important
written on her grave. He asked what. I told him “Because you were ours.” Then I
told him no. He should have them inscribe “Museum of Silver Lights” instead. He
frowned. I told him to call off the epitaph idea entirely. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">On the day she was
buried, someone came with a handwritten invitation he claimed she had given
him. It read, “Please attend the opening of the Museum of Silver Lights.” And
our address was written on it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">They said she had
been hit by a car while distributing her handwritten invitations.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">II</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I often dreamt of
an empty room with light bulbs covering its ceiling. In my dreams, I watched
the lit room from a distance, usually unable to go in. Sometimes this dream
happened when I was awake. I knew then that it was fixed in my memory; I knew
my dreams by heart. I had come to that point when I was the one who determined
what I dreamt about, what I made-believe. And this capacity, this ability to
stretch myself to such lengths, did not come by chance.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">When my
sister-in-law died, in the process of distributing invitations to her Museum of
Silver Lights, my parents came to Jos and took me away. They had decided for
me. I was going to Ife; I was going to study law. There are times when I assume
I was beguiled, brain-washed. In my earlier stubbornness, I had not conceived
that my parents’ could prevail over me. Yet, in a matter of time, it became my
own wish to study Law in Ife; I made my dream. There were so many things that
had happened – my brother and his wife, their deaths – that perhaps my grasp on
what was real and what was not, the dividing line between both, had become
blurred. In circumstances of this kind, you would ask yourself whether you were
certain of what was and what wasn’t—and when you thought you had found the
answer, the question would present itself to you again. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">There were other
reasons why I chose to attend the Chapel, aside from the fact that a classmate
whom I admired had invited me. She was a girl I thought I loved, until I told
her and she said we would spoil things if she accepted. So, even though she
stopped attending the Chapel, and I began to see her with another boy in
another Church on campus, I kept attending the Chapel. There was something
about the size of the compound that intimidated me, made me believe that I
couldn’t understand its complexity even if I tried. The hall could probably sit
about five thousand, and; illusorily, less than five hundred were regular
members.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I joined the Youth
Fellowship as soon as I made the resolve to be a member. On my first Sunday,
Tutu – that was her name – had given me a copy of<i> Seeds</i>, a monthly publication
by the Youth Fellowship. Then, in my first year, I had decided that I wanted to
write poetry. Seeing that Seeds had no poetry, I considered joining the
Editorial Team so that I could contribute some. I asked Tutu to introduce me to
the Editor. His name was Jackson, he was in his final year, and was bored;
editing <i>Seeds</i> had become humdrum. In another two years, by my third year, I had
become the Editor of<i> Seeds</i>. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Oko Egwu wrote for
<i>Seeds</i> occasionally. He told me, after a Youth Fellowship meeting, that he
wanted to write a short piece about the Choir, or that it would be better if I
wrote it. I told him it was going to be difficult, seeing as we had a short
time, a little over a week, before the next issue would be released. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">He told me why he
wanted me to write it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“You think it’s
going to be sensible?” I asked him. “</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Well, let’s try.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I shook my head,
understanding the import of what he was asking. “We’re really inconsequential,
here,” I told him. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Really?” he
asked. I took it to mean he was asking, “You want it to remain so?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Before he left
Ife, Jackson had introduced me to a friend of his, a medical student. He said
that his friend was a good poet, the best he knew, and that while poetry bored
him, his was an exception. Jackson said he had always been unable to get his
friend’s poetry into Seeds, and that I could try, that I could succeed. So he
introduced me to his friend, a certain Damilola Ajayi. I asked Damilola for his
poems on the evening when Oko Egwu spoke of writing about the choir, and he
searched in the bag he was carrying for something he had scribbled that
morning.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I decided to use
Damilola’s poem for the coming issue of <i>Seeds</i>. I had typed it on my laptop, but
when I decided to write about the Choir it became likely I would do away with
the poem, for space. I decided, also, to do away with an excerpt from C.S.
Lewis’ “God in the Dock”. Yet, there were lines in Damilola’s poem that
answered the question Oko had asked me. He had asked me “you want it to remain
so?” and I had been unable to answer. It was like the feeling of not knowing
what was real and what was false, not knowing when you had caught a plague or
when you were dying from natural causes. The lines from the poem were:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The story is a
tragedy</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">But it’s a story
nonetheless.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Oko’s objective
was to get the young people in the choir, which he happened to head, to agree
with the Assistant Choirmaster’s proposition to hold an election during the
forthcoming retreat. <i>Seeds</i> was due to come out two Sundays before the retreat.
I told him he was relying on a fluke, that not many people took our work in
<i>Seeds</i> seriously. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">He looked at me. I
understood his concerns. It was surprising even to me that I edited Seeds but
did not believe in my work. It was surprising that my life seemed to comprise
of things I didn’t believe utterly in—commonplace, lacklustre, elements gave
form to my life. Despite having accepted to write about the Choir, I did not
trust myself, or my writing—Damilola had once told me a writer’s life was a
hybrid of moments of intense doubt and moments of stellar brilliance. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I called Oko when
Seeds arrived. There was a fight in my head even before he said he wasn’t sure
we could distribute it. It was the first time he read what I wrote—our schedule
had been tight. I smiled and asked him why. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“This is
dangerous, Christian.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I knew he was
afraid but I asked myself if I was any different. We sat in a small room that
served as an office for the Youth Fellowship, filled with musical instruments,
a computer, a small collection of Christian literature and undistributed past
editions of<i> Seeds</i>. I had called him because I had wanted him to see what I had
written. And he had worsened what I felt by saying what he had said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“That’s
impossible. You know it.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Are you ready for
what will happen?” He asked. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I smile again.
“You expect trouble when you are speaking the truth.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">He chuckled,
nervously. “Is this the truth, Christian? Agreed, it might be our truth,
because we want to believe it is. But there’s the truth of the older people,
and they won’t fancy our truth, I tell you.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I held his
shoulder, showing affection I felt was unnecessary, and said, “It doesn’t
matter whose truth it is . . .” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">He retorted,
sharply, “It matters.” But that was all he said; he looked crestfallen, a look
that showed he was leaving things unsaid. He walked out. I wanted to call him
back, talk to him, and convince him that I was not as scared as he was. But I
could only see his hunched shoulders, the way his body seemed to sag when we
talked, and I knew mine wasn’t different. It was sagging and unsure. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">There was man in
the Chapel, Dr. Addo, who always sat in the first pew. He was considered
eccentric and unreasonable, but he had a Ph.D. in Electrical Engineering and
lectured in the same department. His students said he cursed in class, called
the Yoruba gods of thunder and lightning on all those who taught them that it was
unnecessary to memorize whole textbooks or substantial parts of his lecture
notes. But in the Chapel, during the sermon, mostly, he raised his hand in
agreement, asserting himself in a way that made me think he was putting an end
to doubts of his irrelevance. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I saw him walk up
to the Choirmaster just after the Church service had ended. He walked as though
on fire, casting his legs in front of him with absolute certainty. The Chapel
was still filled with members who were chatting amongst themselves, making
small talk before leaving. I stood behind, some yards from the Choirmaster,
talking with Charity, Tutu’s friend, who had remained committed to the Chapel.
We heard Dr Addo saying, “Did you see this?” over and over to the Choirmaster.
The Choirmaster was surrounded by Choristers, who had assembled after the
Recession. Then Dr. Addo stopped asking the question, and began to tear Seeds
into shreds, bit by bit, littering the Chapel. There was now a substantial
number of Choristers standing by as he tore up Seeds. Some members of the
Chapel walked to where he stood. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Two minutes later,
I heard Dr. Addo say, “Where is that Christian Ike? Does anyone know him?” A
part of me wanted to walk to him, and surrender myself to any consequence they
were going to mete out. But I considered that foolhardy. I walked quietly out
of the chapel, hoping that someone saw how I escaped from the limelight, or
whatever it was that could have happened if I had spoken to Dr. Addo. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">As I walked away
from the Chapel, I tried to think about whether it would be trite to put that
issue of <i>Seeds</i> in a glass, and hang it in my room in school. Perhaps it would
be better to take it home, where there were reminders of the life I had lived
in Jos—the life my brother’s wife had<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>lived, the lights she had seen, her botched Museum of Silver Lights. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">As I walked, I
wondered what Oko was thinking, if he had got what he wanted, if he had not
given himself the excuse that he did not know what he wanted. I imagined there
were young people who would have been stirred by what I wrote, and I imagined
there were those who wouldn’t have cared, for whom the Choir had no need for
change. And there might be those in-between for whom nothing was right or
wrong—for whom all that was necessary was the continued functioning of the
Choir, irrespective of what I wrote, or did not write. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I heard my name
being called. I stopped, and saw that it was Oko. He was panting from running,
but he was smiling. I wanted to ask him why he was smiling, but I can only
imagine that he had dreamt my dream, of an empty room, whose ceiling was
covered with light bulbs, waiting for us to enter, awakened, dreaming no more. </span></div>
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<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<span style="line-height: 23.33333396911621px;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMFNgMOEAShg_-xaiaQw0BBlOdSoGoeVZJ3_mWcdx679nYsPdkYQZRW0LQaLVyT3IDm63iGyajJuDY1n9vdJyUOS3tQWXYRTNJSAuZhJgjIOWjqNWpUgSOWSeRtIqbHEukD1sEldzkyEU/s1600/emmanuel+iduma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMFNgMOEAShg_-xaiaQw0BBlOdSoGoeVZJ3_mWcdx679nYsPdkYQZRW0LQaLVyT3IDm63iGyajJuDY1n9vdJyUOS3tQWXYRTNJSAuZhJgjIOWjqNWpUgSOWSeRtIqbHEukD1sEldzkyEU/s320/emmanuel+iduma.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<span style="line-height: 23.33333396911621px;"><b><a href="http://gclfph.blogspot.com/2012/09/favourite-five-emmanuel-iduma.html" target="_blank">Emmanuel Iduma</a> </b>is a writer of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, and has received recognition in each genre. Emmanuel is the co-founder of Iroko Publishing, which publishes Saraba. In 2011, Emmanuel participated in the Invisible Borders Trans-African Photography Initiative, a road trip aimed at creating photographic and written material that addresses Africa from a more individualistic viewpoint. <i><a href="http://parresiablog.wordpress.com/2012/09/01/farad/" target="_blank">Farad</a></i> is his first novel. </span></div>
The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-83245940089567696722012-09-18T00:30:00.000+01:002012-09-18T00:30:00.072+01:00EditIQ Writing Courses<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://www.editiq.com/" target="_blank">EditIQ</a> will be offering the following writing courses in October and November 2012. <br /><br /><b>Effective Business Writing Workshop</b><br /><br />A three-day intensive workshop for people who may not consider themselves writers but who write a lot at work: emails, letters, reports, proposals. In this workshop you’ll learn how to write with purpose, structure your writing, strike the right tone, communicate your key message and be concise. The workshop is practical so come prepared to write and to see your writing improve.<br /><br />This workshop is suitable for managers and professional staff and will include up to 15 participants.<br /><br />Dates: October 23-25 2012 OR November 13-15 2012<br />Venue: City Hall, Lagos Island</div>
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Price: N50,000 (includes lunch and refreshments)<br /><br /><b>Winning CV and Cover Letter Writing Workshops</b><br /><br />Two half-day workshops for people who want their CV and cover letter to get them their dream jobs. In these workshops you will learn how to edit and format your CV, choose power verbs and ‘sell yourself’ using words. You’ll walk away with a new and improved CV and/or cover letter.<br /><br />These workshops are suitable for graduates, junior and mid-career professionals, and will include up to 20 participants each. They may be taken singly or combined on one day at a discounted rate.<br /><br />Date: November 17 2012</div>
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Venue: City Hall, Lagos Island</div>
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Time: 9am-1pm for CV writing workshop, 2pm-6pm for cover letter writing workshop<br /><br />Price: N15,000 per workshop or N25,000 if combined on one day (includes light refreshments)</div>
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For more information, email: info@editiq.com or call: 0808 524 3423.</div>
The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-32427646162022814202012-09-13T00:30:00.000+01:002012-09-13T00:30:01.460+01:00Man Booker Prize: 2012 Shortlist<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkyEJaO8paEtFGiDpST-1YWfNI8s6OxqjmFYdsXQcjG_zTn31bLG4gQOA1HxwO-nlA5DDSW_rpExtUjUBVnws-phC2tYAUFX8kDl4qm2RGaF22YwfKkRyS7zWn3k6lCiB0Oxbo0Nl_EPU/s1600/Shortlist+pack+shot+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkyEJaO8paEtFGiDpST-1YWfNI8s6OxqjmFYdsXQcjG_zTn31bLG4gQOA1HxwO-nlA5DDSW_rpExtUjUBVnws-phC2tYAUFX8kDl4qm2RGaF22YwfKkRyS7zWn3k6lCiB0Oxbo0Nl_EPU/s320/Shortlist+pack+shot+1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.themanbookerprize.com/news/2012-shortlist-announced" target="_blank">Man Booker Prize</a> announced six books for their 2012 shortlist. The books were chosen by a panel of judges chaired by Sir Peter Stothard, Editor of the Times Literary Supplement. The winner of the 2012 prize will be announced at a dinner at London’s
Guildhall on Tuesday 16 October, in a ceremony covered by the BBC. Each
of the six shortlisted writers is awarded £2,500 and a specially
commissioned beautifully handbound edition of his/her book. The winner
receives a further £50,000.</div>
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<i>*Drum roll*</i> Here are the shortlisted books:<br /><br />Tan Twan Eng, <i>The Garden of Evening Mists</i> (Myrmidon Books)<br />Deborah Levy, <i>Swimming Home</i> (And Other Stories/Faber & Faber)<br />Hilary Mantel, <i>Bring up the Bodies </i>(Fourth Estate)<br />Alison Moore, <i>The Lighthouse</i> (Salt)<br />Will Self, <i>Umbrella </i>(Bloomsbury)<br />Jeet Thayil, <i>Narcopolis</i> (Faber & Faber)</div>
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Have you read any of these books? What do you have to say about this shortlist? </div>
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The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-27645048837563961132012-09-12T15:12:00.001+01:002012-09-12T15:12:15.683+01:00Creative Wings Announces Shortlist<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://www.ugreenfoundation.org/content.php?266-2012-Shortlist-Creative-Wings-Prize-Fly-Away-With-Us" target="_blank">Ugreen Foundation</a> is glad to announce that after a long journey of entries collation, and a rigorous selection process by our three judges - Jayne Bauling, Onyeka Nwelue and Myne Whitman, we are happy to announce the six stories that have made it into the shortlist.<br /><br />A total of 65 entries came in from South Africa, Botswana, India, Morocco and a bulk of the entries came in from Nigeria.<br /><br />The six shortlisted stories are:<br /><br />1. An Opportunity From Above - Ekene Noel Ezeagulu<br />Lagos, Nigeria<br /><br />2. Small Head - Oyebanji Ayodele<br />Ile-Ife, Nigeria<br /><br />3. The New Word - Cuba Ukoh<br />Jos, Nigeria<br /><br />4. Watching and Hoping - Efembe Eke<br />Calabar, Nigeria<br /><br />5. Portrait of a Mad Woman - Adeola Salan<br />Ile-Ife, Nigeria<br /><br />6. When Grandpa Came to Stay - Remi-Roy Oyeyemi<br />Lagos, Nigeria<br /><br />We also want to inform that all entries were read 'blind'. The name of the entrants and their countries of origin were scraped out and only the stories with title were sent to the judges. We congratulate the shortlisted writers and wish them good luck as the judges work to announce the two winners in two weeks to come.<br /><br />We wish all the shortlisted authors good luck as we wait on our judges to announce the final two winners.<br /></div>
The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-68935670997025554782012-09-10T14:09:00.001+01:002012-09-10T14:16:07.311+01:00Book Launch: The Funeral Did Not End<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK0hNK-QBjl3E-cjGfQhX5yUY2b3BenFiJqEt7s8h_CH0VbIkn1e_POIPSrW-tI2GzZQsBCEjczowNNFLi8yjF1b_Js5OzuvD9JkbHkb1W5y9kyrw73I-mH0OJ6oOFPBtD97_zpEEJefM/s1600/tfde.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK0hNK-QBjl3E-cjGfQhX5yUY2b3BenFiJqEt7s8h_CH0VbIkn1e_POIPSrW-tI2GzZQsBCEjczowNNFLi8yjF1b_Js5OzuvD9JkbHkb1W5y9kyrw73I-mH0OJ6oOFPBtD97_zpEEJefM/s1600/tfde.jpg" /></a><b>The Book: <i>The Funeral Did Not End</i>,</b> </div>
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The collection presents twenty punchy stories, adroitly written by a tempered writer who has successfully merged his penchant for social commentary with his capacity for observing that same society with a keen eye and a mind that understands perfectly well, how to negotiate the threshold where the profound meets the mundane.</div>
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<b><br />Review</b></div>
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<i> "Amazing! Brilliant! The claim that the short story is an underdeveloped
genre in Africa has finally been laid to rest by Sylva Nze Ifedigbo in
this scintillating debut. Ifedigbo is the undisputable master of his
landscape and his characters. This is art tout court."</i> - Pius Adesanmi, winner of the Penguin Prize for African Writing</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQETG9eokkU1Zyd_vErPFD8F-f1YloK1FkGWr_tlKLtXKUmFD0xfEXBqglY1xMmpUzCO0-r-AFcYQgRZolE-FHnGaiDcsxAj0tARHYUo_uUzk-O3YVnJVHeVqBeY2xY0o85OtEgJ9DfAI/s1600/sylvenze.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQETG9eokkU1Zyd_vErPFD8F-f1YloK1FkGWr_tlKLtXKUmFD0xfEXBqglY1xMmpUzCO0-r-AFcYQgRZolE-FHnGaiDcsxAj0tARHYUo_uUzk-O3YVnJVHeVqBeY2xY0o85OtEgJ9DfAI/s200/sylvenze.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<b>The Writer: Nze Sylva Ifedigbo</b></div>
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Trained as a Veterinary Doctor at University of Nigeria Nsukka, Sylva Nze Ifedigbo who now works in Corporate Communication, is an award winning fiction writer and essayist, he has written widely on Nigerian Socio-political issues both online and in the print media, with Next Newspaper and Daily Times having carried his by-line regularly. His novella- Whispering Aloud was published in 2008 by Spectrum Books Ibadan.<br />
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<b>The Launch</b></div>
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<i>The Funeral Did Not End</i>, his second published book which has been long anticipated, is published by DADA books and is being presented to the public on <b>Saturday the 15th of September</b> from <b>5pm-7pm </b>at the <b>Kongi's Harvest Gallery, Freedom Park, Hospital Road, Lagos Island</b>.<br />
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There will also be a presentation of Takada! the digital book application by Wayne & Malcolm. <i>The Funeral Did Not End </i>will be available as digital downloads at www.takada.com.ng from the 15th of September.<br />
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<a href="http://dadabookspresents_tfdnebysylva.eventbrite.com/" target="_blank">RSVP the event</a>. For more information, email: books@dadaenterprises.net</div>
The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-54003863938788369642012-08-22T15:56:00.000+01:002012-08-22T15:56:01.463+01:00BookNGauge 15 features Parresia Writers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3_iLRhrFmJ4GkeN0ZderJ5PU9wi1_KrsHyXyGdlIIkrg4FCpqUKVhwqTu_TaUshQgqYeQPOeky1ec20S4_MPl7I4yOFKebY718TCd8KQOJTb53NE090_BLk4NvwC1PY1WjyOS8floVis/s1600/book+n+gauge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3_iLRhrFmJ4GkeN0ZderJ5PU9wi1_KrsHyXyGdlIIkrg4FCpqUKVhwqTu_TaUshQgqYeQPOeky1ec20S4_MPl7I4yOFKebY718TCd8KQOJTb53NE090_BLk4NvwC1PY1WjyOS8floVis/s1600/book+n+gauge.jpg" /></a></div>
Parresia writers, Abubakar Adam Ibrahim (author of <i>The Whispering Trees)</i> and Richard Ali (author of <i>City of Memories</i>) will be featured in the 15th edition of Book N Guage.<br />
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<b>Date:</b> This Saturday August the 25th. Venue: Debonair Bookstore. Sabo, Yaba. <br />
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<b>Time: </b>2pm-5pmThe Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-20916693036019650932012-08-19T01:30:00.000+01:002012-08-19T01:30:01.067+01:00Bob MajiriOghene : Abuja Writers’ Forum<br />
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Poet, short story writer and public commentator Bob MajiriOghene will be the major featured writer at the <b>August 25 </b>edition of the Guest Writer Session, an initiative of the Abuja Writers’ Forum (AWF), which holds at <b>Hamdala Plaza, Plot 23, Jimmy Carter Street, off Protea Hotel, Asokoro, Abuja. </b>The other writers will be Onyinyechi Nwadinma and Ibrahim Zakama.</div>
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Author of <i>Tears for a Birthday </i>(poetry) and <i>Deep Sighs</i> (short stories), Bob MajiriOghene began expressing his writing flair as a student-columnist with the Nigerian Observer in 1991 with a column that gained rapid popularity called Acada Gist. He later worked with TELL news magazine first as staff, then as senior writer. He was also editorial assistant and columnist with Daily Independent Newspaper, Nigeria. His column identity then was Avant-garde.</div>
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MajiriOghene is published locally (Daily Independent, Pointer-on Saturday, TELL, The Guardian, The Nigerian Observer and Vanguard) and internationally by Associated Content aka YahooVoices, Equatorial Press, the German Kulturaustausch, Nigeriansinamerica and South Africa’s Urban Green File.</div>
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MajiriOghene has written numerous literary critiques and was also a thoroughbred SAT/TOEFL/Advanced Level Literature-in-English tutor with a track record of student success in those exams. He has manuscripts, one is SAT/TOEFL Essays: lesson notes, questions & Answers, being considered for publication in the United States of America as an e-book. The other is Secrets of a Diary, a story of love and hate narrated by a diary.</div>
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A graduate of English from the universities of Benin and Lagos, MajiriOghene was the recipient of two German fellowships organized by the International Institute of Journalism, IIJ of InWent, first in Ghana (Reporting on ECOWAS & its Institutions) and next in Berlin Germany (Environment Reporting) in 2008. He is in the process of undertaking postgraduate studies.</div>
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He runs his own media and publishing agency, Bob MajiriOghene Communications, and works as office manager and editorial consultant with the law firm of Jackson, Kargbo & Associates. His interests include chess, music, philately, writing, sports.</div>
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On the August bill with MajiriOghene will be Onyinyechi Nwadinma and Ibrahim Zakama. Ms Nwadinma , whose short story, “My Vacation”, is published in the recent anthology of stories, Dreams at Dawn edited by Helon Habila, Tsitisi Dangeremgba and Madelieine Thien and published by Fidelity Bank, organizers of the annual International Creative Writing Worskhop, is a graduate of University of Jos and intent on making a career in writing.</div>
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More information <a href="http://www.facebook.com/notes/kabura-zakama/august-guest-writer-session-features-bob-majiriogheni/10151096305989626" target="_blank">here</a></div>
The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-45154931688994571882012-08-16T01:30:00.000+01:002012-08-16T01:30:01.697+01:00Word UP: Poetry is in Town!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSDedefW4WYI1N10geRNoX4ZXs5LC3V71nIXMbh1kUxPaqMY-Y-XPutIV0vka-fEG498vV8hCjZeSX5kd3xH7NwR_hLG4zSDwDApou8ZiLFgwAWoA8ZgvFZyU6FjFuj1qYGlxaArlM0gI/s1600/word+up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSDedefW4WYI1N10geRNoX4ZXs5LC3V71nIXMbh1kUxPaqMY-Y-XPutIV0vka-fEG498vV8hCjZeSX5kd3xH7NwR_hLG4zSDwDApou8ZiLFgwAWoA8ZgvFZyU6FjFuj1qYGlxaArlM0gI/s1600/word+up.jpg" /></a>i2X Media Company Limited presents WORD UP (a Spoken Word Poetry and Soul Music Event)</div>
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We will be having all the A-List Poets in Naija, likes of Sage Hasson, Efe Paul Azino, Plumbline, Olulu, Bob Ekat, Chiedu Ifeozo, Uche Uwadinachi, Atilola, Nini Efem, Enigmatic Olumide and many others.</div>
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Soul Music by: D Tone, Kafayat Quadri and Etcetera</div>
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We will also have Celebrities who will perform poetry on stage. It will be an evening of Poetic Expressions in Words and Sounds.</div>
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Venue: Lecture Theatre, UNILAG Guest House, Akoka, Lagos</div>
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Date: 18th of August 2012 </div>
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Time: 3pm to 6pm<br />
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RSVP the event <a href="http://www.facebook.com/events/333878176703232/" target="_blank">here</a></div>
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The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-35981223717634168182012-08-14T17:49:00.003+01:002012-08-14T17:49:34.813+01:00FNL Writing Competition on Forgiveness <br />
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<i>This contest has a Christian slant to it. Interested? Dive in!</i></div>
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11 Corinthians 5 18 -21 “All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of RECONCILIATION that God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting men’s sins against them. And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation. We are therefore Christ’s ambassadors, as though God were making his appeal through us, We implore you on Christ behalf: be reconciled to God. God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God”. (NIV translation)</div>
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<b>Why?</b></div>
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By the wondrous mercies of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, on the 5th of September 2012, I Dr. Abimbola Oyindamola, Odumosu, nee Denloye, will turn 60. How time flies?? I can still remember my 12th Birthday party in Mary Hill Convent School in Ibadan and a lot more!!! I give the Lord thanks, for this journey has been like every journey of life a pathway of hills and valleys but through it all the Lord has given me victory upon victory and lots of JOY, in my families (Odumosu & Denloye) and career.</div>
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At an early stage of my life my mother, Omotunde, Nelly Denloye (Nee Nottidge) taught me and my siblings the art of forgiveness, by the way she lived her life. She lived a life of continuous forgiveness on a daily basis. I well recall a time when a friend hurt me badly and the friend was having a party and I vouched not to attend and to cut the friend off, my mother’s response is “this friend a Christian?” and I replied in the negative and then, she said why are you expecting her to behave better than she has done, just forgive her, and love her. She taught me to lower my expectations from friends and families and be more ready to forgive and apologise, and move on. As you guessed, I forgave the friend, bought her a present and attended the party, though grudgingly in obedience to my mother. I can recount countless other stories but will stop here. Her favourite word to us her children in Yoruba is <i>“Iyen lo ma se ti o ma fi jun won lo.”</i> Her charge to us was for us to walk a higher path, to demonstrate that you are above pettiness in life. She taught us to harness the power of hurt, turn it into love and walk a higher level. All my brothers and sisters know exactly what I am talking about. She often reminded me of the likes of Martin Luther King. My mother loved everybody freely AND above all, demonstrated the power OF FORGIVENESS BY FREELY FORGIVEN THE MANY WHO HURT HER AND she taught all of her children to do the same thing. As such, I have decided to honour the life she gave me and her other children by sponsoring the following activities on the <b>theme of forgiveness. </b></div>
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<b>RULES</b></div>
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<li>Candidates must be under 35 yrs. of age. </li>
<li>No entry fee is required.</li>
<li>All entries must be original works, in English. Plagiarism, which includes the use of third-party poetry, song lyrics, characters or another person's ideas, without written permission or proper acknowledgment will result in disqualification.</li>
<li>Entries may not have been previously published in professional media.</li>
<li>Poetry must not be more than 30 lines.</li>
<li>Entries must be submitted electronically.</li>
<li>All entries must be double spaced, with numbered pages.</li>
<li>Each entry must have a cover page with the title of the work, the author's name, a short bio of the author, full mailing address, telephone number and email address. Every subsequent page must carry the title and a page number, but NOT the author's name (to facilitate fair judging).</li>
<li>Each entrant may submit up to three poems.</li>
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<b>Essay Writing </b></div>
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<li>Rules 1- 4 and 8 above applies in addition to the following ones:-</li>
<li>The story writing must be a true story of not more than 2 pages</li>
<li>All entries are final. No revisions are accepted.</li>
<li>The decisions of the judges are entirely their own, and are final. </li>
<li>Five of the stories, will be chosen for display on the day of the play as posters.</li>
<li>Winners will be individually notified of the results by email. </li>
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<b>Closing Date for submission: </b> 30TH OF SEPTEMBER 2012. </div>
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All entries should be submitted to Syreeta Ufeli by email: syreetastone@yahoo.com</div>
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<b>The Prizes</b></div>
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Poetry:</div>
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First Prize: 1 Kindle and 100 US dollars </div>
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Second Prize: 1 kindle and 50 US dollars </div>
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Third Prize: 1 Kindle </div>
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<b>Story: </b></div>
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All the persons whose stories are chosen for display will receive a gift of 100 US dollars each.</div>
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The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1817122899545365136.post-52305149422670056182012-08-10T16:34:00.001+01:002012-08-10T16:34:39.791+01:00Invisible Borders 2012<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfD6ce5soHTPLqTJFnAEMYeJHaKHdP7iIJ88HCXCv26DWMUSCMdrRi11mFwke2IVaPfUFqAkBsgVYWlqUMQKGKBBChm_O5nHfaQBwMaaidlN3o0KLUZdm3bAPfpiozn14D13Fsp717-Sk/s1600/LOGO4.3ce54c2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfD6ce5soHTPLqTJFnAEMYeJHaKHdP7iIJ88HCXCv26DWMUSCMdrRi11mFwke2IVaPfUFqAkBsgVYWlqUMQKGKBBChm_O5nHfaQBwMaaidlN3o0KLUZdm3bAPfpiozn14D13Fsp717-Sk/s1600/LOGO4.3ce54c2.png" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://invisible-borders.com/about-us/about/" target="_blank">Invisible Borders Trans-African Photographic Initiative </a>is an art-led initiative, founded in Nigeria in 2009 by passionate Nigerian artists – mostly photographers – with a drive and urge to effect change in the society. <b>The mission</b> of the Initiative is to tell Africa’s stories, by Africans, through photography and inspiring artistic interventions; to encourage exposure of upcoming African photographers towards art and photography as practiced in other parts of the continent.; to establish a platform that encourages and embraces trans- African artistic relationships within the continent, and to contribute towards the socio-political discourse shaping Africa of the 21st Century.</div>
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<b>The Fourth Edition (</b>August 23 – October 9, 2012)<br />
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Route: Lagos (Nigeria) – Lubumbashi (Congo)<br />
After successful completion of the IB 2011 from Lagos to Addis Ababa, the Invisible-Borders team plans to travel from Lagos, Nigeria to Lubumbashi, Congo for the 2012 edition. This year’s trip will feature ten artists from different countries in Africa traveling over 13,000 km within 48 days (through mostly rough terrains) from the 23rd of August to the 9th of October 2012. The trip is anchored to the “Rencontres Picha, the biennale of Arts of Lubumbashi and will be organized in collaboration with its organizers.<br />
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The group will make stops of about five to seven days in the capital and important cities of Nigeria, Cameroun, Equatorial Guinea, Gabon, and Congo (Kinshasa and Brazzaville) to create artistic works in collaboration with the indigenous artists in the cities, while networking within the art community. However intermediary stop will be made in towns between cities according to the on-ground reality of the trip.<br />
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Participants of Invisible Borders are dedicated to creating works, which portray the dynamism, richness as well as contradictions of the various modes of existence of the African people. In doing this, they reject a simplified notion of Africa nor a tidy definition of it, but instead hopes to create an archive of works which “complicates” the depiction of contemporary Africa, one which sees the continent as work-in-progress, rather than a foregone conclusion. However, this will not deter from exploring themes centered on socio-political discourses prevalent in the continent such as women’s right; the role of China and other economic world powers in the shaping of the African economy, nature and wildlife preservation/sustainability, as well as the Infrastructural boom. They will equally explore fashion and music and their role in creating Trans- African relations. Artists are allowed to work from a more personal angle as well as create conceptual photographic, video and textual works. The aim is to tackle diverse but presently relevant issues as seen individually by each of the ten artists involved in the project. In 2013, a book will be published which will be a compilation of the four editions from 2009 – 2012.<br />
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You can read more about the project and the trip on <a href="http://www.invisible-borders.com/" target="_blank">their website</a>.<br />
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The Bookaholichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16403758109717848396noreply@blogger.com0