Mark Your Calendar...

There are so many events this week. Let's start with Infusion this Thursday. 

Crown Troupe at National Theatre this Friday

Book N Gauge XIII: Fine Boys Are Coming

This month, we would be featuring Eghosa Imasuen, author of Fine Boys and Unoma Azuah author of Edible Bones. 

Imasuen was born on 19 May 1976. He is a medical doctor and lives in Warri, in Nigeria’s Delta State. His short fiction is published online magazines like blackbiro.com and thenewgong.com. His first novel, To Saint Patrick, an alternate History story was published by Farafina. His latest work Fine Boys has been warmly received in literary circles. Eghosa would be discussing his latest work. 

Unoma N. Azuah teaches Composition and Creative Writing at Lane College, Jackson, Tennessee. She is an MFA graduate of Virginia Commonwealth University, Richmond, Virginia, and has an MA in English from Cleveland State University, Cleveland, Ohio, both in the US. Her undergraduate degree in English is from the University of Nigeria, Nsukka. She has received a number of awards for her writings, which include the Hellman/Hammett award and the Leonard Trawick award.

Her latest work, a novel, Edible Bones has been warmly received in literary circles. It follows Kaitochukwu’s journey as an undocumented African immigrant in an unwelcoming American urban square, chronicling the distance between his grand expectations and his ensuing formidable fate. The need for a speedy decision becomes the one tough battle Kaito has to face when he finally visits how home country, Nigeria.

Performers

CLAY (Bianca okorocha) is a Pop/Rock singer and songwriter from Imo state based in Lagos, Nigeria. In addition to writing all of her own music, Clay has written for other artists. Starting in 2011, Clay released her first official single, entitled: “Ogadisinma,” under the indie label “FLAMING MEDIA”. 

Honey Adum is a Benue born multiinstrumentalist, songwriter, composer and singer. He plays a blend of soul, reggae and highlife. He was a top five finalist at the recently concluded Nigerian Idol Season 2.

Auction Session: There will be an auction session. What do you get? Latest books that you can only find online. Hot CDs that are yet to be on the streets. There is also a surprise X auction item, come to find out. What are you waiting for? Let the bargaining begin. 

Also: 

• A platform for book lovers to meet, interact and network. 
• Freebies, lots of it. Let’s start with this. Invite five friends, ensure they come for the event and win a free book.
• Live Musical performances by: Christine and Clay

DATE: June 30, 2012

TIME: STRICTLY 2pm – 5pm

VENUE: Debonair Bookstore, 294, Herbert Macaulay Way, Sabo, Yaba.

RSVP Event here

The iREP Monthly Documentary Film Screening 
This comes up this Saturday, 30th of June, at the Nigerian Film Corporation, Ikoyi, by 2pm prompt, and this time, we bring you THE BIG SELLOUT. You can't afford to miss this.

Abuja Writers Forum

The dynamic duo of award-winning journalist and activist Chido Onumah and debutant novelist Richard Ali, will be the featured writers in the June 30 edition of the Guest Writer Session, an initiative of the Abuja Writers’ Forum(AWF), which holds at Hamdala Plaza, Plot 23, Jimmy Carter Street, off Protea Hotel, Asokoro, Abuja.

The Guest Writer Session which started in June 2008 is generally regarded as the most consistent literary event in the country and has become the template for similar interventions, has this year already featured an interesting mix of writers including Uche Ezechukwu, Steve Okecha, Oyibo Ameh, K K Iloduba, Betty Abah and Abubakar Adam Ibrahim.

Chido Onumah, whose latest book is Time to Reclaim Nigeria (Essays 2001-2011), has worked as a journalist in Nigeria, Ghana, Canada, and India. He has been involved for more than a decade in media training for professional journalists as well as promoting media and information literacy in Africa. He is currently coordinator of the African Centre for Media & Information Literacy (AFRICMIL), Abuja, Nigeria. AFRICMIL is a pan-African centre dedicated to a new vision of media and information literacy as a key component in the education of young people in Africa. From 2002 to 2004, Onumah worked as Director of Africa programmes, Panos Institute, Washington, DC, U.S.A., helping journalists in West Africa, as well as the Caribbean, report in depth on issues that are frequently underreported or misreported — issues such as HIV/AIDS, environmental degradation, and ethnic and religious conflicts.

Richard Ali, whose debut novel, City of Memories, was published in May 2012 by Black Palms Publishers and has received generally warm reviews, hails from Idah in central Nigeria andwas born in Kano into the family of Mr. Adejo Ukwubile Ali, a Chartered Accountant, and his wife, Ajuma [nee Ocholi], a Grade II teacher, in the early 80’s.

The June 30, 2012 edition of the Guest Writer Session starts at 4pm and will include the usual side attractions of poetry performance, mini art exhibition, and a raffle-draw as well as live music. The Abuja Writer’s Forum meets three Sundays each month and hosts a reading on every last Saturday at the International Institute of Journalism, Hamdala Plaza, Jimmy Carter Street, Asokoro, Abuja.

Book N Gauge IV: Musing en Male...

In the month of September, PulpFaction Book Club would be hosting you to four emerging voices on the Nigerian literary scene. There will also be two soul artistes and a spoken word poet and you don’t want to miss this. It’s an afternoon of readings, live performances and YOU.  Be our guest! And yes, bring four friends and win a free book!

Time: 2pm

DATE: Saturday 24^th September, 2011

Venue: Debonair Bookstores, 294, Herbert Macaulay Way, Sabo, Yaba.

Chimeka Garricks: Author of PulpFaction Book Club’s September Book of the Month, is a lawyer by day, a writer at night and a football fanatic at weekends. Tomorrow Died Yesterday is his first published novel. He has read the book at different literary gatherings including Rainbow Book Club and Infusion. His debut novel was featured at the 2011 Garden City Literary Festival. Chimeka Garricks lives with his wife, Biyai, in Port Harcourt, Nigeria. 

Eghosa Imaseun: Born on the 19th of May in Ibadan, 1976, Eghosa is an alumnus of the inaugural Adichie-Wainaina-Fidelity-Bank Creative Writing Workshop that held in Ikoyi in 2007. He grew up in the oil city of Warri. His first novel, To Saint Patrick, an Alternate History look at Nigeria from the Civil War onwards, was published to critical acclaim by the Farafina Imprint of Kachifo Ltd, Lagos, in 2008. His second novel, Fine Boys, a look at Nigeria's post-Biafra generation through the prism of the IMF conditionalities of the 1990s, is expected from Farafina in late November 2011. He lives in Benin City with his wife and twin sons. He is also a medical doctor.

Samuel Kolawole: His fiction has appeared in Jungle Jim, Eastownfiction, Translitmag, Superstition review, Sentinel literary Quarterly, amongst others. His stories are forthcoming in ISFN anthology, an American-based imprint where his writing life will also be showcased. A recipient of the Reading Bridges fellowship, Samuel lives in Ibadan, southwest Nigeria, where he has begun work on his novel Olivia of Hustle House. He blogs regularly at Samuelkolawole.wordpress.com.

Charles Ayo Dada: A poet, playwright, prose writer and publisher, Charles Ayo Dada was born in Brussels Belgium, in 1971. He had an opportunity of an early exposure to the culture of the Arabs, the Europeans and the Americans.His collection of poem, the Ghost of Zina was nominated for The Pat Utomi Literary Award. Excerpts of the work have been published in several international journals and can be found online at numerous websites. He has been invited to several universities (where his book is studied) to speak on his work and has had The Ghost of Zina performed at the department of English, faculty of Arts, at The University of Lagos. ‘The King’s Clarion Call’ is his first stage play..

Performances
ESE PETERS: Ese has a knack for making beautiful music. A self-taught guitar player, He started out as a solo performer after graduating from the university in 2008 the Alternative Rock/Soul genre. A young man who sings from his heart, Ese carefully crafts his songs which come from his experiences and a wealth of influences, citing John Mayer as a  major reason why he decided to pursue music as a career, Ese  puts an interesting spin on guitar-driven pop music.

.
ISEBIAMA: A product of the MUSON Diploma School of Music, ISEBIAMA is a sensational singer, songwriter, guitarist whose love and passion for music has taken him through phases most focused and accomplished musicians pass through. From the basic music foundation, to sight reading & writing his music, to understanding the connection that should exist between different instruments and performers in small ensembles, group performances and chamber groups. Isebiama is indeed a musician of purpose; his genre of music is deeply rooted with originality and cultural credibility in Soul and World Music. Though born and bred in Lagos, Isebiama hails from Okrika in Rivers State. His songs which are written & delivered in English, Yoruba, Okrika and Pidgin English, are an expression of his experiences and the stuff that goes on in his heart.  His dynamic play of the guitar with speed, passion, mental strength, balance and panache, and his remarkable vocal intonation through his mid to high notes registration are assets to be reckoned with. ISEBIAMA is the new sound of music. 

EFE PAUL: Widely regarded as one of Nigeria’s leading Spoken Word Poets, Efe Paul has been a headline performer in many of the nation’s premier performance poetry venues, including Anthill 2.0 and Taruwa. For over a decade, Efe has continued to deliver Spoken Word Poetry locally and internationally, gracing platforms at seminars, workshops, conferences, tertiary institutions, community development fora, as well as churches. He is the voice of a generation, a seeker and speaker of truth, an entertaining poet and performer. 
 
There promises to be:   

* A one-on-one interaction between authors and readers

* A platform for book enthusiasts to meet, interact and network. (Members of PulpFactionClub on Facebook and followers on Twitter would have a grand opportunity to meet).

* Freebies, lots of it. Let’s start with this. Invite four of your friends, ensure they come for the event and win a free book.

* Live Musical performances by:  guitar masters Ese Peters, Isebiama, and

Spoken word performance by One of Nigeria’s best, Efe Paul.

* Book signing and Book Bazaar.

Remember: Bring four friends and win a free book! Gifts are available for early birds too

www.nodsms.com

www.wordsmithymedia.com

www.pulpfaction.org.ng

http://www.debonairbookstore.com

Till Death By Eghosa Imasuen

We featured Eghosa Imasuen in October. Here's a short story from him. Warning: it's quite long. Enjoy! 
  
     He stood in the doorway. Out of the dank tree-lined culvert where it was just starting to drizzle outside. Beads of water ran in rivulets down his jacket – an equally expensive accompaniment to the slightly more faded trousers he shook as he stepped out of brown horse-leather shoes. He toed the shoes to the corner of the doormat and spoke, “Is she ready?”

     The undertaker was worried for the man. The things he had asked for on his first visit, they made no sense. But they did make sense. The more the undertaker had dwelt on them over the last week; the demands had become easier to understand.

     The man did not want his wife buried. He had said so in a quiet voice when the hearse had dropped the corpse off a week ago. He had repeated the demand after the undertaker asked him what he had just said.

     “But sir, this is most unusual,” the undertaker had said.

     “There must be something you can do, undertaker. There must be some chemical or machine or something.”

     “I don’t know . . .” The undertaker had felt uncomfortable under the glare of the man’s eyes. They were big and doe-like. The earnest stare irresistible.

     The man mistook the undertaker’s shiftiness for an imminent refusal, “See, mister. Her people will not know. She died four days ago and I have already insisted on a small ceremony. I don’t care what they say about burying their own in the village . . . So you see nothing can go wrong. This casket will be buried in a private mausoleum in my compound.”

     If it wasn’t so sad it would have been funny. Both men had circled each other around the coffin that first visit a week ago. As though the man wanted to touch the undertaker and as though the undertaker didn’t want to be touched. But watching their eyes you knew they were doing something different. They both stared at the figure in the open coffin. Only God knew what was going on in the man’s mind but on the undertaker’s was how beautiful she looked in repose. How her fair complexion made her look pale in death and not grey like . . . How much she reminded him of . . .

     “I will help you,” the undertaker said.

     The earnestness on the man’s face slowly cleared and morphed into, first, thankfulness, and then, incredulity. He looked up from his wife, the light reflected off her white lace dress making his big eyes look like they had disappeared into mammoth-sized sockets. “But how?” he asked. “You must know that what I want will not be easy to accomplish. I do not want my house stinking like in here . . .”

     While the man spoke, the undertaker allowed himself a moment of self-pride. About what he had achieved, about what he could do for the man. He interrupted the man in a slow and even voice that became more and more excited as he dove deeper into his exposition: “You do not understand, sir. I can help you. Everything you need, I can help you.”

     They slowly resumed their dance around the coffin, this time with their eyes never leaving the other.

     “You see, I have invented this chemical. It’s nothing new, just a new mix of the same old constituents. You might think the reason for this new mix is that it preserves better, no? Ah, but that’s not the reason. My new mix is slightly less efficient than the old one. You stare at me like I’ve gone mad. I’ll tell you, sir, the reason for this. The problems with keeping a body looking alive and fresh are not with the chemicals. It’s with getting the chemicals deep within the body. For that I have constructed a machine. A new machine that will make your wife forever young. Just like she looks now. That’s the reason why my new mix is so light. I do not need it concentrated.”

     He searched the man’s eyes for understanding that day, but only saw the big eyes unblinking under the glare of the overhead, dangling, swinging light bulb, the shadows of both cheekbones lit up from below by the sheen-like reflection off the wife’s dress.
  
     Is she ready?
  
    He searched the man’s eyes for understanding today and still came up blank. The honk-o-tonk of the raindrops on the roof’s corrugated sheets increased in tempo and became a blur, a constant drone that, intriguingly, receded into background silence like that of office air-conditioning. He wanted to tell the man not to bother taking his shoes off but instead replied the question, “Yes, she’s ready.”

     On the man’s second visit the undertaker had shown him the machine. It sat in his basement, a not-so-secret subterranean extension he had dug up when his wife, God rest her soul, complained that his business was making the neighbours uncomfortable. That just the other day Mrs. Ogbomo had smirked at her, asking what her husband prayed for during church service; whether they prayed for business to be good. He had to admit he had found it incredibly funny. On that visit he led the man down the short flight of steps, unconsciously sweeping at the now absent cobwebs he had swept soon after the man’s first visit.

     “There it is.”

     The man took a step forward and leaned into the upright, redlined box of gleaming masonia wood. “How does it work?”

     “It’s a pump. It pumps, through those needles you see at the bottom, my special chemical around the body constantly replenishing and changing the fluids. And that bottle of reddish goo, that’s the chemical mix. I’ve coloured it red so that the subject retains his, sorry, her complexion as it was in life.”

     “Have you ever tested it?” the man asked.

     “This is the second one I have built. The first was for my wife. After her suicide . . .”

     In grief it seemed both men understood themselves perfectly. The undertaker saw, or thought he saw, understanding in a slight movement of the man’s shoulders. He saw the man’s eyes turn away from the red inner lining of his brand new eterno-meter (yes, people, that’s the name of the machine) and flicker back at the machine. Yes, the man understood grief.

     Yes, she’s ready.

     The man came into the light. The centre of the room where they had first met eight days ago. He looked worse. The rivulets of rain slowly sunk into the fabric of his expensive wool jacket. What would have otherwise been his big hazel eyes had taken on an air of death, eyelids halfway down, the irises red-rimmed.

     “How was the funeral?” the undertaker asked.

     “Like I said, the family had no idea the casket was empty. The funeral went well.”

     A moment of silence passed. Both men stared at the unopened six foot long box in front of them.

     The man nodded and the undertaker understood. He opened the lid of the coffin.

     The man gasped. He leaned forward into the light and said, “She’s so beautiful . . .”

     She was. Her pale skin pulsed in time with the small droning pump just on the other side of the red lining. Imperceptible changes in colour that the unconscious human mind registers as signs of life. Her eyes were open and fixed. The whites impossibly white, the irises . . . A deeper shade of brown than they had been in life.

     “Did the chemical do that too?” the man asked.

     “No. I tried but preserving the eyes is extremely difficult. Those are glass. Actually it’s impossible to preserve the eyes to the standard you wanted. There’s a reason why market women pricing fresh fish always check the eyes for milkiness.” The undertaker had this irritating habit of rambling into trivia whenever he felt nervous. “I hope it is to your satisfaction.”

     The man nodded and replied with the question, “Was the money you received to yours?”

     “Very much so, sir. Thank you.”

     But the undertaker knew the man had stopped listening to him. The undertaker watched as the man leaned into the coffin.

     A kiss.

     A kiss on warm pulsating lips. The undertaker could hear the man gasp. For joy. It was good that the undertaker used the body as the heat dissipater – the radiator, so to speak – for the machine. The eterno-meter was a wonderful machine.

     A blur of motion.

     Warm goo splashing on the undertaker face, breaking his thoughts. He refocused his eyes and saw what the man was doing. What the man was saying.

     The man had a long suya knife in his right hand. And with each slash and each stab the man spoke.

     You think say you smart?
     You thought you could take this easy way out!
     Bitch. Whore. Twenty years of torment and then you die in you sleep?
     No, you’ll suffer every week, every visit, until I die.
     For what you did to me. For what you did to her.

     The undertaker screamed; for his work, and jumped at the man’s shoulders grabbing his right arm from behind.

     The man struck him across the face with the back of his left hand and threw the undertaker to the ground with such force that the poor grey-suited fellow slid across the floor on his wash-and-wear clad bottom and bumped his head against a wall.

     He came to exactly four seconds later. The man flashed the blade, dripping goo, across the undertaker face. The man’s eyes were dead now, sunken and dead. His breadth smelt like tobacco and a brothel’s spittoon.

     “You are going to fix her? Nod if you understand. Yes, you’re going to fix her every week. A visit a week. You’ll be paid well. Just like this time. Nod if you understand.”

     The undertaker felt his head shaking up and down. But he froze when he heard what the man said next.

     “You said you built the first machine for your wife. Take me to her, now.”

     The undertaker whimpered as he was pulled up and dragged down to the basement. He pointed at a corner to the man and slumped down when the man dropped him. His head hurt. He stared as the man went over to the box that contained his wife, the cream-lined one.

     The undertaker’s heart broke when he heard what the man whispered, what he said as he took the undertaker’s wife’s face in his hands, hands that were dripping with the red goo, “You should have waited. You should have waited. Now she’s dead and it’s too late. You should have told me about that phone call. What did she say to you, Martha? That I wouldn’t leave her because you were pregnant? (The man was crying uncontrollably now.) You should have waited, Martha. We would have left both of them together.”

"Till Death" was first published by African Writers here.

Meet Eghosa Imasuen

What’s the meaning of each of your names?

Eghosa means “God’s time;” Imasuen means “We have only just begun.”

Which talent would you most like to have?

I wish I could play a musical instrument.

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

Absentmindedness. I tend to get lost in things, in the moment. I would like to not need to study everything so intensely.

What is the last thing you read that made you laugh?

Why do I say these things? A memoir by Jonathan Ross; he is a British comic so you can imagine.

What kind of book would you call To Saint Patrick?

A novel. An Alternate History novel. A thriller.

What is the worth of a book?

I know I am supposed to give a profound answer to this question but I cannot think of anything. What’s a book worth? The story it contains? The paper it’s printed on? The hearts and minds that are touched by it?

Why did you choose to base your work on Nigerian past history?

I guess it was something I was comfortable with. I suppose it was something that needed doing. You know? You read all these books, all these books about exotic locales, and spies, and beautiful women. And you think, “Why can’t my place be exotic? Why can’t my women be beautiful? How do I interpret my own stories for the modern thriller, the modern suspense novel?” To Saint Patrick is my attempt to do so.

How does being a Nigerian influence your writing?

I guess it’s mostly with the language. There is a way we speak. And I try my best to interpret this on the page. I do not apologise for sounding and writing the way I do (unapologetic. Another Nigerian trait.) And also with the story-telling – something I feel every Nigerian is blessed with.

When is the best time to write for you?

Late at night. When the twins and wife are asleep.

Can anyone be taught how to write?

Yes. Almost everything can be taught. What cannot be taught is the ability to see stories in the most mundane of activities; to see beauty in the simplest of things. That ability is inborn. It cannot be taught and very few writers actually have it. But the craft? That like most crafts can be taught.

Have you ever bought a copy of your book?

Plenty-plenty. My stingy friends think I need to buy it for them since they were there when I wrote it. So I have bought maybe 28 copies of my book.

Writers that influenced you

Not the usual suspects, I’m afraid. Mostly the Sci-Fi greats Isaac Asimov (for his simplicity, his perceived artlessness); Kurt Vonnegut (for his immeasurable brilliance); Ben Elton (for his wit); and Chimamanda N Adichie (for her skill.) they are many more but I would like to think that in the future when I am read people will say, “Hey this writer’s influences are obviously [insert any of the names above]. You understand what I’m trying to say?

What is the book that changed your life?

The Lord of the Flies, by Golding. We studied it in secondary school. And I read and re-read it even after passing the exams. It was just a beautiful book; an achy, dark ride through the human nature, threading the very thin line that separates us from savagery. And Golding made the telling seem so easy, so doable. I think a seed was planted then.

What inspires your writing?

You know those ideas you get that won’t let you go? When there something nagging, and nagging? You postpone and postpone until one day you just sit down and write? Do you know those? Stuff like that inspire my writing. It’s not a continuous thing; it comes and goes. The only thing that’s constant is that masochistic tendency to want to go through the entire painful exercise again.

What is your advice to young writers?

Work on your craft. Work. Nobody owes you anything. Write and be the best you can be. (And note the caveat in the last sentence. You cannot be better than you actually are. Find out quickly if you have any talent. If you do not, quit quickly; there is nothing romantic about this profession.)

What do you think of publishing in Nigeria?

Crawling. Soon it will stand again. Na small-small. Remember the Warri adage: Person wey escort beggar go cinema na’im dey carry come back. We started this thing, we will bring it home.

What should we expect from you in the near future?

A second novel. A few more short stories. I have been working forever on the second novel. Hopefully it should be done soon.

Define literature in a sentence

A Slice of Life; a slice of life taken and preserved for eternity.

What’s the hardest thing to write about?

Sex. There is a very fuzzy boundary here. When do you present its beauty; when do you overdo it and become silly and over-poetic? How do you present the reality of it; when do you stop writing fiction and deviate in porn? Funny conundrum, eh, for something so common-place.

What is your greatest fear?

That I will fail. I fear that. And shame. I fear shame too. These drive me; make me try my best to succeed.

What book would you give to someone who had time-travelled from another era, to paint a picture of the 21st century?

I think it still too early for books on the 21st century. But to risk it I would pick a book from the end of the last century. It’s titled “Stark!” It’s a dark, eerily prophetic, satire about the near future by Ben Elton. Your readers should look it up in Wikipedia. It’s a brilliant book.

What sort of books would be your guilty pleasure?

Medical books. I actually enjoy reading them. Very unsexy, eh?

Philosophy of life

Know your limits; there is nothing as unattractive/unsexy as a self-deluded optimist with a superiority complex. That’s why I don’t really send the new secular Pentecostalism: this motivational speaker thing.

What does it mean to be a writer?

You hold the trust of your readers. You promise to hold them, always, in the highest esteem and treat them with respect, you promise to make them laugh, make them cry, make them think. All this without disrespecting their intelligence. And you owe your people the promise to tell their stories.