Segun Ozique

I am sitting in front of the head psychologist waiting to begin what he had called me to his office for. He rubbed one hand against the other, and smiling gleefully, said ‘hey Al, how are you feeling today? Good?’ I shrugged but said nothing. ‘Good?’ he said, ‘you should be because it’s good news, really good news - trust me, it won’t be long now before we’ll be talking about the last session. I’d hate to let a client like you go, particularly because over these past,’ he looked down the papers in front of him, up again and then asked, ‘two years?’ then answered, ‘yeah, two years it is. In two years, you’ve become my most interesting client and a friend.’ He then went on to inform me of how through personal observations and reading through the transcripts of all the other doctors, he has noticed remarkable progress. I want to believe him, I really do. Because that would spell the beginning, a new start to my freedom; to reclaiming all that I have lost through one night of drunken mi

By SIMEON .U. CHARLES There is a slender line between the promise of making it through short cut to success and the reality of moral breakdown, spiritual emptiness and systemic destruction of true values. In this very important book, the author, Simeon makes a compelling and well-documented case that fraud in form of cheating is actually delivering a fatal blow not only to our individual lives but also to the family value system and societal well-being. Radical as such declaration seem, they actually reflect process that had steadily gained momentum around the country. ‘YOU CAN SUCCEED WITHOUT CHEATING’ provides an overview of what this situation is, of the actions needed to reverse the trend and what are the best alternatives for the individuals, as well as a detailed agenda for social change. Simeon shows that to have a virtuous, humane, and progressive society, cheating and malpractices as embodied in the craze for short-cuts, must be eliminated in favour of endeavour based o

By DUL JOHNSON 1. I want to start from the very beginning – the opening; What does a reader want in an opening? First is to have the writer introduce the main character(s) and intimate something about the situation she/they are in-i.e the conflict that will provide dramatic twine for the story; (2) to get us interested and involved; and (3) to do it all in a timely fashion, i.e. it stops being an opening as soon as possible and gets on with the story.... ‘WHY WOMEN WON’T MAKE IT TO HEAVEN’ succeeded in doing just that...it introduces us to the characters, showed us where they were, and showed that they’ve gotten concerns or problems. And it does all these in the first page; starting with a long paragraph and quick five short paragraphs. After this, the story is up and running as the conflicts between a husband and his wife, then similar issues between other husbands and their wives escalates with disastrous consequences. The second story is more leisurely, comparably. Reading throug

By Faithful Ohiani In my opinion, it is best to, from the start, talk about the books in the context of books on the shopping list of those looking for something on morals rather than on form; meaning, books that purely written as art for art sake; i.e. though thematic, simply stylistic and artist writing. The importance of contextualising here is that unless we do so, and see beyond literary critical response, the connection between the lessons we are presented books and them making contribution to literati tends to disappear. A formalist approach will serve as a distraction from what is ‘really’ at stake in the text. The approach based on the ethic of human relations allows us ask the following questions and for Faithful Ohiani books to answer them: Are the books morally uplifting? Are the Issues addressed; i.e. Adultery, homosexuality, lesbianism, faithfulness; attraction and affection, prayers before the choice on who to marry, commitment; the use of the words; I love you, t

Have you absolutely loooooong for something you couldn’t, never have? Counting, waiting, expecting, imploring, exasperating, disoriented That certain, sort of expectation, the ones that keeps you up as infantile Of the nature once it sucks you in sends you on the trail of mysteries and lost winks That was it of her I inhaled with us at the playground, and never found enough air Spending days at the library, the beach, cooling off at bars, sailing the ocean, since air sick I was the perfect undergraduate for everything they say about the devoted and the longing Imagination ever wired, stuporous daydreaming: lips spouting; rhythmically synching When I think now about her, that very tinny play chum with the long raven hair Of her rosy, mouthwatering, chubby cheeks, her freckles, her red-earth spattering face The lips, as they lusciously, luxuriously move; at masticating, conversing, revealing Her eyes; the sparkling in amazement, excitement, adoration; piercing,

So came the day we were in procession Of craniums hung, bowed Watching helplessly, Our mildewed buds of love, fallen Like pollen blown On perched earth, withering Like a drop of rain in the desert; Like the hot tears that challenges A dried and fevered pit Like seeds planted on burnt moorland Or process pouring of water to chill a hearth Here I memoir acting for everyone, left back, you felt affection for. I pray, like you, it is quite simple: Crafting it was a delight: Seasoning, too much seasoning Had shrivelled our petal, Unspent, charred ether, Sprinkling through the acreage alcove Adieu, Itoya, we miss you like famine: As when to earth pellet the petchary As when, the kin’s china is broken; You, the source of desire was wrenched; And the Pervading passion of feasting, lost. Adieu, adieu Alabi Itoya Ejedenawe. Though your passage was of God’s while, It was too soon: a li.

I looked hopefully to the wise for answers To quench my taste and hunger For knowledge, insight and direction But the wise, elected and selected Spent their time running helter and skelter In food, wine, gold, and silver pursuit Churches opened their doors offering succour Making promises of paradise lost to gain And like the desperado I was, I’m lured in, jubilantly expectant But promises of come with nothing Became punctuated with the compulsion of Offerings, ten percentages and of a life no longer mine Mortally; strained, resistant and estranged I was accused of non conformity, undedicated, Faithless...dialectical and worldly Dragged I soon was before the altar To answer to his most rostrum high, Pontius Pilate.

The natural ontological make of mankind is creativity Every human aspiring to transform their world Exploiting, exploring ever new possibilities Searching for richer, fuller prosperities To which they can relates and accept But to which they must be cautious A task, they must, with care, perform That is why, woman, you must act, and now, you must React you must to transform your environment Tear down the wall, the shackles and cuffs The manacles, the fangs, the battalions That is perpetually in wait to keep you caged Yes you do have your doubts Yes you do have your hopes Yes, your seeing of the other side maybe skewed You seeing only the perception of the limitation of you Based on your religions, beliefs, laws and all the other baggage and bandages But must, you must still, everyday and under every circumstances Strive to use materials at your disposal To perform, overcome and recreate history To impel, negate and reorder the present order

I grew, finely groomed Taught the notion of the importance of good family values Of the need to make something good of my life A life that should transcend immediate bodily material things And on leaving home, made society my extended family And on her behalf, at rooftop, screaming, scribbling, scripting An occupational hazard that apparently pitched me head on With authority that thought I should I be humble, subservient I could not restrain me, so in shackle, they provided me a boarding Within a wall barely 2.00 x 0.9 metres And under a coarsish, rough, rouge and nightmarishly plight A chunk of my life living with moths, lice and mice My youth defined by the many daily and nightly push-ups But the push-ups gradually faded with age, leaving time to ramble and ponder And then, my mind began to wonder fonder It began with the realisation of the loss of youthful years Of the years of dreams deferred but later dumped And once i began to go that path

Eddie Onuzurike There is that certain sort of book, the type that you read when you are outside a particular area where you grew up or have lived, which when you then come across, you absolutely love it because it sends you back on memory lane. That was what the book ‘The Stable Tripod’ did to me when I first read it – it sent me back to the streets of Lagos; reminding me of some of the girls I knew, the things they did to survive, of the one room dwellers, nosey neighbours, Lagos victims of lynching, the intrigues, sometimes bloody intensity of chieftaincy or royalty rivalry, the police and their bias role and, you know, that wish ( I still do) that somebody, anybody incorruptible would someday come up to clean-up the police establishment. So, if I could do it I would send copies of this book to every Nigerian embassy in the world - it is the perfect bit of writing for the nostalgic who long, absolutely for something to remind them of the magic, intrigues and weird, real weird happ

Helon Habila The novel is essentially about the time and life of a family – the Lamangs. It follows the birth and growing-up process of two twin brothers; Mamo and Lamamo – how their mother died while giving birth to them and the role their father played contributory to her death. It showed the bitterness that grew in them when they heard all the exploits of their father and how their mother, desperately in love, was ignored by him. This bitterness would define their path and shape their character in life. Lamamo was the more vibrant, ‘strong’ and extroversive of the two brothers. His dream of fame and wanting to escape from home leads him into series of adventures outside his village where he joins rebel groups fighting in various part of Africa as volunteer soldiers. In the course of doing so, he losses an eye, then marries in far-away Guinea but eventually returns home to lead a revolt in the village. His brother Mamo, though equally ambitious and also eager to escape the clu

By Ngozi Onyioha-Orji So, what are the questions at the heart of The Knots of Karma? Ask almost any parent about love, and they'll probably describe to you of the ultimate love sacrifices by them to their children like, the skilfully crafted sacrificial, all suffering love of Romeo to Juliet or, - vice versa depending on your side of the divide. But their kids, sometimes, particularly, as in these instances, often, have different views. So, the questions are; do these parents know that by their very idealistic love, insistent on channelled paths to ‘ideal proper life style’ etc, that these children may get affected unhelpfully? As Kubie is dead, your answer, is in the game played out in the stories the other five girls told of their teenage years arising from misguided parental misconceptions, ignorance, overzealous love, faulty upbringing, psychotic conceptions and, of course, the beautiful strokes of Ngozi’s imprinted words. Thematic ideas of loved, suicide, solitude and s

By Segun Ozique William’s Quest is a story about child to child kindness, about the bond and divides between two culture. It throws spotlight on the issues of child abuse but most of all, the book is a creative narrative on HIV/AIDS, with emphasis on the need to know about the HIV virus; stressing its reality and spread and of the ruin of the AIDS disease. The story is mainly about a boy called William; a ten years old who lives in England with his parents. His secret birthday gift plans for his mother, was disrupted by a telephone call from Nigeria, and afterwards, in a series of questions following the call, he got to learn about HIV/Aids, how the virus is spread and what not to do, so as not to be infected. Shortly after he got the information, he travelled to Nigeria where, for the first time, he met his grandmother. In Nigeria, William also met two brothers – Ahmed and Nurha. Nuhra was living with the HIV virus and dying of the Aids disease. And though William had been

By Teju Cole Every Day is for the Thief is the story of a youngman who decided to visit home – that is Nigeria - after several years residing in Europe and America. The homecoming brought him face to face with the stark reality of modern day Lagos society; you know the poor living condition of the ordinary people, their susceptibility to manipulation and the general disillusion and resignation to fate. It shows in raw details, life on the street, the political, cultural, religion manipulations and the contradiction in terms of what is claimed and the true situation. The story followed the unnamed narrator’s exploratory journey home. Starting at the embassy in New York, where in the mix of a normal and orderly society, he found himself face to face with a brazenly exploitative and corrupt Nigerian official who happens to be solely person in charge and faced with the choice of either conforming to being manipulated to obtain normal service through bribery or stubbornly demand for

By DUL JOHNSON 1. I want to start from the very beginning – the opening; What does a reader want in an opening? First is to have the writer introduce the main character(s) and intimate something about the situation she/they are in-i.e the conflict that will provide dramatic twine for the story; (2) to get us interested and involved; and (3) to do it all in a timely fashion, i.e. it stops being an opening as soon as possible and gets on with the story.... ‘WHY WOMEN WON’T MAKE IT TO HEAVEN’ succeeded in doing just that...it introduces us to the characters, showed us where they were, and showed that they’ve gotten concerns or problems. And it does all these in the first page; starting with a long paragraph and quick five short paragraphs. After this, the story is up and running as the conflicts between a husband and his wife, then similar issues between other husbands and their wives escalates with disastrous consequences. The second story is more leisurely, comparably. Reading throug

By Jerry Agada The book explores the significant shift that occurs in inheritance as a means of showing the challenges that patterns succession - displaying how at the end, one has to choose a path that either leads to success or failure. The beauty, ugliness, morality or otherwise of the path is not the ultimate message in this book. ‘The Successors’ is the story of who comes next and how they got there - in this case, the fictional life history of Okoh Ameh and Terkura Atsen and the succession by David and Ifenne. And what did they learn - that Industry and hard work pays. So, as I mentioned earlier, the story is mainly of these two young men Okoh Ameh and Terkura Atsen who met in a hotel as junior workers. Terkura is very ambitious and dreams of one day owning a hotel as big as the one he is working in. Okoh on the other hand is the opposite - very unassuming. All Okoh wants is to do well at his job, get promoted, marry a nice and obedient girl with whom he’ll forever live

By Eugenia Abu Many poems in this Eugenia collection are distinctly shaped by her ease with and perhaps mastery of the prose genres-that is; fiction. Her poems mostly engage intimately with our daily lives, blending her poetic imagination and awareness of her environment with real places she had been, that is, in addition to real occurrences and events she’s participated in. As primarily the only speaker in her collection, she has carefully and exquisitely lace together and in tones of beautiful and romantic words and phrases, poems that can only come characteristically from a woman who has tasted, touched, loved and been loved. The last stanza from ‘I miss you when it rains’ continued to resonate in my memory long after I was done with the book and went to bed. It did because the poem marvellously captures the way someone away from a love one tells it ... deep from the heart; ‘I miss you’ is a precise start off in a declaration of absentia, ‘I nibble, I wobble, I nestle,’ are obv

By Abidemi Sanusi ZACK’S STORY is a response to Kemi’s Diary; that is, stories of two narrators in love but unlike in the earlier story where we shared kemi’s diary, here we’re taken on a journey of reflection of the other half- Zack Kariba. Zack gave a testimony of how within two years leading to their ten years anniversary, on where he had been, how he and his fiancée who eventually turns out wife had lived in his one room apartment, his emotional turmoil within the period and an usual discovery of his past. The story is a real, palpable documentation, that streak of actual record. Zack’s character Abidemi Sanusi shows aptly, writes his story in a different style from Kemi - showcasing the typical male orientation and worldview. She writes with the precision of highly literate prose novelist with very well crafted dialoguing. Zack is shown to have the habit of interrupting himself, as if impatient with the fictional convention of telling a story linearly. For instance, let me qu

LAST ODA... tells the story of confraternity in Nigerian university as started by Professor Wole Soyinka and others with the Pirates at The University of Ibadan. The writer uses the opportunity of an insight to the background and formation of the other groups like the buccaneer, Eiye, etc, to weave together a most surreal storyline of bloodletting violence, sex, intimidation, and breakdown of law and order at these universities. Last Oda is the story of group of students who got admission to the universities but it turns out, they were not there to read or learn. As far as the book goes, nothing about confraternity connects to real or normal life. In fact, anything normal is a sign of vulnerability. Issues with the secretive families come to a head as the everyday students lives are played out between the classes, their relaxation centres and the male’s domineering ego. The need to prove oneself through assigned enforcement, just as the death of first line top rank member opens the

Whenever the ill wind blows And, I’m caught in my sea of troubles When I get tempestuously out of control Something has supremely always stared me right.

The sleeping dog Is best left snoring? For it is best we; Make historical slumber Our collective harvests Let’s make a hero of him Forget we must! Of his Avariciousness in the land; Deaths of children, mothers Fathers and those we revered Act we must! As if he was not killed By his poisonous bosom friend The slicking, snickering snake He once dined and wined with Just keep the hero in him, Damn historical rightness For its been herein decreed At the mention of his name, Every right-thinking head shall bow

She walked onto the rostrum A torturing treacherous arena Where most stoic would Wither, swizzle or sizzle. There, she built herself A queenly castle; A most beautiful chateau. Appearing In an all black ensemble Her exposed skin brown like candy Her nose dipped and without blemish Her eyes, a surrounding pale-gray Black in the mid and dreamily seductive Her lips, sweet and succulent Her smile, dazzling, glorious, infectious Yet, that was not the best of her: Think of crisp delivery and articulacy Think of whistling, mumbles and sensuality Think of an imploring, connecting and beseeching ode Think of raw animalistic, body and soul snatching tenor She was my sing-song fantasy female sensations in one The highest point of my poetic climax Her grace, poise and swift gestures Spoke volume: A glance here; an extended expression there All, of deep essence; Spiritual gesticulations that once it caught the eyes, Kept them captive, Tak

Your place, your pinnacle pose, Still prevails deep in my heart Your hanged, pleasing picture; The chic of its elegance forever My inspiration

I saw the lightening, and then thunder And everyone made haste for the inner stable Touched to make way, brought me back from recall And I prayed the god to fill the empty void in my heart My window shows the surrounding hills on that day The trees, dark mysterious, off darker green Moving father off, the houses huts in brownies Mud, palm trees, rafter tach, gradually replaced The vehicle squiggle up the top of the height Ricketily, clangorously, groaningly, labouringly Bellowing from the exhaust obscured the rear view Some we taste and choked So many households empting of able-bodied youths All in haste to clean out their forefather’s footprint What would happen to the time, tide and stories? Heard and told under tree and around burn fires Some say someday we still may sing them Able to relight the fire with foreign films and strings Restoring the lingering desire of deserted hearts And bring succour to those in foreign lonesome dead bed

It is that time once again When truth becomes a virtue none of them will display When societal ill would be pandered at roof tops And those seeking elective office would become endearingly Reborn and untainted and not be judged by what they should have but didn’t do Time like no other time over again When acidly tacit tongues are let loose When clod of vomits are let to rain And the banished and tarnished regain spirit To unleash and light the fire of rancour Inevitably so it must be That the red lights must colour the clean water crimson That victory dance would accompany touch of political dearth That the cholesterol heart must breed more And that the chaos and confusion must be hailed as due process And by the time the deed is done When the virtuous are beaten, rattled and weary Their shoulder limpidly made bare in rags Thinking thing cannot get worse It would be time upon them to start all over once again

My life is of burdensomely drudgery I need an adventure, something exciting To take my mind away from my dreary scribbling What shall I do? Something off the cuff Then, there before me was this vast, dark and mysterious bounty Beautiful, luscious, inviting, irresistible, I was salivating Count down to a thousand, reason, my sixth sense cautioned But you are a man, my indulgent sense exploded Made of flesh of ego, supremely created With foresight to pregnant tomorrow Laden with the hope of today The pre-eminent over lives on earth and beneath Licensed to pursue glories with furiosity Commander of waking interspaced with sleep Captain of ancestors, kindred and races To whom every space and head curtsy To whom, of whom which, what, why Shall there be that, which the man can’t have? What then is the joy of living? If restrain or fear dictates the joy of existence In this space age and time Of competition, expeditions and adventurism With chari

POST MORTEM I unbreakably meet a savoured in briefs Looking to next meet in fond memory Hardly ever seen the fairer in convene And not for what it was, is and should be * No! I shall not be a weakling for a good tang. You are saccharine, syrupy, and not sugary You are fastidious, finicky, and not lovely You are anything, but what I see you are * To thinking you are sweet, nice and cute Admitting you are my gluttonish fancy object Agreeing I make a fuss of a flightily briefs Despite my homely, lovely and strifeless queen

SPELL Pages, smoothened Eyeglasses Adjusted Every movement precise Every movement pure * Delicate fingers traced the lines Plucked eyebrows rose and fell Superbly defined nostrils quivered Pulsating flushed lips, controlled * Lulled was I, not by the burr voice Not by the phobic pocket space Not by words from the pages But the sweet flavour of her aroma

THE DESERT STORM I sat squashed in my guest room My safe heavenly observation line Parched in a cubicle that pinched sized By the minutes as I grow castrated Watching people move about in frenzy In anticipation of what is old, inevitable Though a stranger, feeling one and thesame As we awaited the moment of joyous encounter *** The head was scotched and burnt Prior to the rampaging tempest Then came the cloudburst Stampede race on desiccated soil Escorted by crazed larger drops Like wet slash on parched earth Natural impediments made beggared By season of cheerless and biting vapour