The Scholar's Corner

Before We Bring Back Our Girls.

2014-05-08T00:39:00.001-07:00

Each generation must discover its mission, fulfil it or betray it. Interestingly, a useless group of individuals, cloaked in an ugly attire of religion mixed with politics, have discovered their mission, and with impressive bravado, is fulfilling it. The task of this bloody group is simple: get politically powerful or kill, to get politically powerful.

Some weeks ago, over two hundred girls mysteriously disappeared from their school’s dormitory in Chibok, Borno state. The notorious Islamic sect, Boko Haram, claimed responsibility for the abduction. In a video released by their leader, Abubakar Shekau, he stated, “I abducted your girls. I will sell them in the market, by Allah. I will marry off a woman at the age of 12. I will marry off a girl at the age of nine." With pride, he spoke about how this was part of Boko Haram’s war against Western-style secular education in Nigeria. "I said Western education should end," he added. "Girls, you should go and get married." How the hell did we get to this point? How did Nigeria fall seventh in the global terrorism ranking?

Simply put, Nigeria went to sleep. In 2003, when the group reared its ugly head, and was led by one Mohammed Ali, the government did nothing to end the group from developing power. Ali was later killed in a shoot out with the police. His death should have sparked constructive research and actions to permanently eradicate such extremism but they were left alone. The group spread their tentacles to other part of the country from Maiduguri to Yobe state, recruiting new members and training their recruits in other countries. They targeted idle youths in various part of northern Nigeria, brainwashed them and introduced them to terrorism. And now, the rest, as they say, is history. Boko Haram has caused over two thousand deaths in Nigeria and the number will continue to grow, if appropriate measures are not employed to stop them.

The president of Nigeria, Dr. Ebele Jonathan stated unabashedly, that the whereabouts of the girls are unknown. Hear the president: “All the information that have been volunteered to us (about their location, we’ve used) and we have searched the places. We are using aircraft – helicopters and planes – that have the ability to scan and see what is on the surface. And we have scanned, but we have nothing.” Some days later, a search committee named Chibok Girls’ Committee was set up to search for the missing girls. The team has failed to get any type of information that would lead to the girls’ rescue.

Nigerians, parents of the abducted girls and individuals worldwide have taken to the streets and onto social media requesting that their girls be brought back. But, seriously speaking, who would bring these girls back? Displaying banners, posting pictures, would do nothing! The girls need more than that.

How can we speed up the “bring back our girls” mission? Just before we bring back our girls why have we not seen pictures of these girls? Before we bring our girls, are there structures created to help these girls, psychologically and emotionally, when they are eventually found?

Nigeria has called for international help. The US and China have deployed their troops to search for the missing girls. It is everyone’s hope that they are found. But for how long would, Nigeria, a so-called free country depend on international help to solve her problems? History has shown that the helper helps for unseen reasons and sometimes might even be behind the chaos.

The death toll keeps increasing. And it won’t stop now. The cancer has eaten deep and an international chemotherapy cannot help. The root of this sect must be traced, uprooted and destroyed if any positive result is to be achieved. A clear eye is needed as well; any eye blinded by politics would do nothing.

Noam Chomsky posits that any structure that cannot handle the burden of maintaining order in a given society is illegitimate and should be dismantled. The question therefore is: should Jonathan Ebele’s government be dismantled? As 2015 draws near, what should Nigerians expect? If the president’s wife can claim that "Even my husband can be defeated by terrorists", it is safe to conclude thus: “Chai! Chai! Chai! When would this “bloods sharing” by vampires stop? Indeed, there is God!

RACISM Is on iTs Way O(ut)n

2014-04-27T14:08:00.000-07:00

I think racism is going to take a long time to leave earth. This week two major events showed racism.

First, in Spain, a footballer eats the banana of racism. He proved to the world that there's another way to deal with racists.

Second, is, is, is, an unbelievable phone conversation; the owner of a basketball team filled with blacks had the following to say. My brother, Dr. Boyce Watkins, talks more on the issue.

How can racism be kicked out of the world? How can it be kicked out of poisoned minds?

Play Words

2014-04-21T07:30:00.000-07:00

Weather: Sunny.

Location: Lakeside, Essex.

My Mrs and I went shopping today at the above location. I was struck by a sweet idea—to play with the name of five shops. I got these results:

Should we call it EXPRESS VISION? To elaborate further, try to EXPRESS your VISION no matter what? It has a motivational side to it. Or should we PRESS-EX VISION? There are various ways to look at it.

I love this. I turned it to 21 FOREVER. So imagine you could be 21 FOREVER. Did Jay-Z get inspiration for his song from the above? EVER-FOR 21?

This is quite boring. There is a need for a verb in between the names. So I came up with JONES IS ERNEST.

I kept playing with this one. I came up with: HOP SPOT, SPOT HOP, POH STOP. I didn't think of any definition.

I simply came up with MAN-POT and AN OPT-M. May be OPT-M could morph into one character in my script. hmmmm.

So, next time you go shopping try playing with the words. It's fun.

What Music Said...

2014-04-19T06:40:00.001-07:00

Open your ears, hold your fears, and let me in, near your heart. Allow me to sit while you judge my gist; do I deserve to be in you?

I come in different forms. From the hip, I hop into brains; I roll like rocks in cars; give rhythm to blue eruptions from souls. But, how do you use me? To dance? To reason? To curse? Whatever, men!

I form in human hearts, unfold into inks or sometimes released through mouths. I'm never wrong or right. I’m me. I was born about fifty thousand years ago, in a particular community. I was taken from that community, married, beaten, raped, and formed into many things. Happy I'm to be able to put smiles on faces, make people think, make people cry, hmmm, yes and aha! make you love!

Have I made humans kill? Well, that’s what they say. That since I'm in their head, I make them do what they don't want to do. Awful. I do such things not. Humans know how to read wrong meanings into my existence. I am not a tool. Or maybe I am. Like all tools, you use as you see fit.

But, whatever, men! I'm still proud of what I've done. I'm in politics, sports, just name it. Filling your ears, teaching your kids history and making your life better and damn, you need me everyday. I mean it, everyday! Just enjoy me!

Best,

Music

The Evening Restaurant

2014-04-18T03:56:00.000-07:00

The evening restaurant on Apollo Street opened only in the dark. Its light blue walls, outside the restaurant, matched the azure skies that overlooked it. The menu contained two meals: Fried Golden Fish, Vegetable Salad and No Drink.

Mr. Pig owned the restaurant. His father, Mr. Horse, bequeathed it to him. Mr. Pig has two employees: Mrs. Chicken and Mr. Porcupine. Mr. Pig took orders and served dishes; Mrs. Chicken made vegetables while Mr. Porcupine fried the golden fish. The evening restaurant used to open twenty-four hours, seven days of the week and three hundred and sixty-five days of the year during Mr. Horse's time but Mr. Pig always believed that evening meals were the most important, that any food eaten in dark was the sweetest and it must be vegetable salad plus golden fish with no drink.

The clean sea by the evening restaurant brought in yellow airs and green noises from far lands. He saw the air enter, heard it rearranging plates and spoons, witnessed it dancing around the three thousand square feet space and felt it gently tapping his chubby cheeks. It lifted the red table clothes, moved the napkins and went out through an open window near the toilets. He prayed for the hundredth time that nature threw in his first customer.

After three seven seasons of bright rain, dusty sun and heavy harmattan, the first customer, since Mr. Horse galloped to the other side, stumbled into the evening restaurant. The customer wore a white tuxedo suit, an orange bow tie, white shirt and a dark pair of Ray Ban shades. He found his way to the first seat and placed himself on it.

A fresh stream ran across Mr. Pig’s heart. His wide smile revealed his golden teeth; he cracked his fingers and watched his expensive looking customer. He sniffed in the perfume of the customer and noticed as the man looked around his beautifully arranged restaurant.

“Welcome,” Mr. Pig spoke with excitement, “to the best restaurant in the world where we serve the most important meal of the day.”

“Can I see your menu?” asked the customer.

Mr. Pig rushed to the customer’s table and pushed the menu closer to the man’s right hand. He studied as the man tried to feel the words on the paper.

“What do you serve, Mr.?”

“The menu is right in front of you.”

“I see.”

“You’re not blind, are you?” Mr. Pig queried.

“Yes, I am.”

“My first customer can’t be blind! How would he appreciate us? Get up, Mr! Time for you to leave!

Mr. Pig grabbed the customer by the hand, pulled him up and pushed him out of his restaurant.

“Not for the blind!”

Mr. Pig cleaned the table and chair where the blind once sat then resumed his wait for the next customer.

The Ice-cream Girl.

2014-04-09T13:03:00.000-07:00

She loves ice-cream. Her best flavours: caramel, vanilla, strawberry, raspberry and banana flavour. Banana stands out. Every morning, she takes three to four scoops before brushing and at night, four to ten scoops before sleeping. Before and after every meal, she takes it. At work, that’s the only thing she thinks of. When she drives to and from work, she has one in hand. Any shape of ice-cream—cone, stick, bowl etc, etc.— is good and she knows how to swallow and lick; lick and swallow.

Once upon a time, she bought ice-cream named F. F changed her taste bud because it was her first. She loved it. After months of lick, lick and licking, she left F, threw the stick into the abyss of memory. F also choked her but she misses F because it was her first.

That experience made her curious. On her way back to the town of ice-creams, she saw a hawker carrying B. B was cold, dripped water and gifted the air with pristine odours. Excited, she bought it. B was curved on the tip, such that it filled every corner of her mouth. She squeezed and licked it thoroughly. After the journey, she kept it in her mouth. Her friend saw B in the kitchen; her friend tasted it and stole it. She became angry.

Angered, she walked, walked and walked until she found herself in a shopping mall where she found U on the floor. She picked U and tasted it. She spat. Spat. She cursed U for spoiling her tastes. U was old. Tasteless.

For some seasons she stayed away from ice-cream because she could not tell which was sweet or bitter.

One day, she went into Mr. Biggs and after deep contemplation, she bought R. R was a soft ice-cream. When she tasted it, she screamed: “sweet!” She studied the size and was thrilled by it but R was too soft. R needed electricity to be hard. R likes to be in the fridge a lot because R melted easily. She took R everywhere she went and boasted about R. she promised never to take any other ice-cream. However, whenever she thought of B, she ran to it for quick tastes. She loves ice-cream. She took R and B for a long time until they finished.

Another season, lost in the middle of nowhere, a friend introduced her to M. She was tempted by the M’s look but she promised not to buy it. Everywhere she went M was there. One taste of M and she was hooked. She bought a mobile Fridge and kept M there. Every morning, every evening, everyday she would lick M. M never finished.

Even when she left M in the fridge without turning on the switch, it never melted. One day, she went into the market, she was told about K and immediately decided to taste it. She was told that K was on another part of town but she searched for it, found it and bought it. K was big. So big that it almost cut the sides of mouth. After every lick of K, she would go home and top it up with M. That was her new modus operandi.

When she went to another town. By the bus-stop, she saw a girl carrying V and D. V was long and thing. D sitting on a cone, looked juicy and inviting. She loves ice-cream. She took V, slurped once, twice and thrice and then got bored and threw V away. She picked D and it blew her mind away. She licked it for long. Kept it and went back to M. M never melted. It was there. She licked M like she didn’t know the taste. Then she would return to where D was placed and lick and return to M then lick hard again.

In another country, she found S. S was big. S was exclusive to another. But S was big and curiosity made her want S. Just three licks and S changed her life. S made her fat. S made her beautiful. S made her tongue red. S made her skin fairer. S increased her height. S made her eyes whiter. S was good, too good.

Then she started taking S, D and M at different places and different times. She liked M. She like D. But didn’t like S that much. She took D till she got confused that it was M. One day, one sad day, after she took D she went home to take M for top-up like always then found something that changed her life for ever— M had melted and flowed out of the room.

She still loves ice-cream.

Kissing Democracy Goodbye in Nigeria.

2014-01-31T07:01:00.002-08:00

Political corruption is one of Nigeria’s besetting ills, and there has been plenty of it in the so-called democracy, but of course it is not our collective responsibility to care. There are other important things to do—goals to reach, dreams to dream of and daily battles to conquer. In that light, kissing democracy goodbye is unavoidably right? False!

It is up to the new leadership in 2015 to show us ‘true’ democracy. The task of cleaning would not be easy but can be done. That new leadership must reject the idea of getting votes by appealing to religious sectarianism, tribalistic jingoism, and petty thuggery.

All parties must desist from bribing and corrupting the supporters and achieve results by the ballot box. They must show that Nigeria is not in the grip of any new imperium. A definition of Nigerian democracy must be created.

For a nation of one-eighty million to make any kind of sense of democracy, it must base itself firmly on the concept of multiplicity, of plurality and tolerance, of devolution and decentralization wherever possible. There can be no one way—religious or cultural—of being a Nigerian; let difference reign. That is democracy.

But alas, the romantic relationship between certain individuals and the seat of power would be the reverse of Jack Dawson’s love for Rose Dewitt Buktaker on the RMS Titanic ship. Rose must die for Jack to live. In other words, Nigeria must die for them to remain in power.

Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it. 1966? Nigeria, a delicate child of fifty-four, has not really enjoyed the benefits of democracy. If anything, she has only shared some shards of the scattered definitions of freedom.

There are deep uncertainties about where the country is heading. With events springing up like thorns one may conclude that the kiss is everlasting. Issues: defection of PDP members to APC; Suntai denies rumoured resignation; boko haram; homosexuality and human rights, etcetera, is Nigeria.

It’s easy to say that the new administration, should, and in all likelihood will, attempt to simply change the societal ills; that would be a tricky conclusion. The social malaise is gargantuan. And, the question lingers: who/what is the new administration?

Our knowledge of Mr Goodluck Ebele Jonathan is of an inexperienced leader. Add his team and you have a gathering of languorous elements running the engines of an unstable regime. What next?

It’s only a matter of months before we can stop this progressive lunacy. What must be done? It is simple: choose the right devil. All politicians are devilishly-good or devilishly-evil.

Many, with good reason, are extremely nervous about the outcome of the approaching general election. Sabre-rattling individuals want GEJ to remain and in other factions, another individual is preferred. The general populace want a human being in power.

Calling Nigeria a democratic state, to many observers, is absurd. At any rate, the question remains: if the situation of Nigeria continues to deteriorate, will the people be bold enough to turn against the ruling class? What happened after Occupy Nigeria?

Two clichés about Nigeria must be dismissed. First, the probability of a military coup is possible. Second, the idea of a united, democratic, secular Nigeria is attainable under this leadership.

For the moment, however, all of us who are Nigerian by citizenship, or birth, or race, must accept that we are gradually kissing our democracy goodbye. It would be a shame on us all if we let it slide out of our hands.

We must find the strength to act with honour in the months to come. To struggle to retain this freedom before us and to ensure, by any means necessary, that we choose that individual who would lead us, devilishly, into a heaven where we can begin to craft new ideas, reach new heights and burst into new dynasties.

Our stories must not be left in the hands of an unscrupulous few. We have the right to re-shape the plots of our lives and re-define it. Let’s start today.

God bless Nigeria.

The Life of a Writer

2014-01-28T09:21:00.002-08:00

I wrote my first article when I was eight years old. It was about military oppression in Nigeria. I loved it. But Uncle Monday, my primary school teacher, didn’t like it because he thought I copied it. “I didn’t,” I cried. I was hurt.

Secretly, I continued writing. I wrote for myself. I was scared of what people might say. Fear of scorn and fear of rejection made me embark on necessary nonsensical career journeys.

To become successful in Nigeria, I was told, you have to be an accountant, an economist, an engineer etc etc. Indeed, I followed the bandwagon. What do I know? For years, I sat at home looking for that university that would admit me into their noble department. My talent suffered.

A writer’s life might begin with these doubts: whether, truly, he/she is doing the right thing or maybe, just maybe, that professional profession is better. These aporias fuelled a mediocre living.

After four years of waiting and wasting time and JAMBing, I finally made it into university to study literature. The arts called me back. Like Okigbo, I returned to Mother Idoto naked.

I studied various writers’ works and their lives. They have one thing in common, they love words and most of them were considered as weirdoes, geeks and misfits.

As I continued my trip into this sometime solitary life, I discovered some strange truths. First, people you love and those who love you always say something positive about your writings. Even when it is crap, they sing your praise. They encourage you.

Second, there are those, as a writer, you hate to love or love to hate. Those who run around defaming your personality and wishing, most importantly, that you amounted to nothing. Every move you make is devilish in their eyes. That writer smokes heavily, uses drugs, and copulates with two hundred women a day before he writes. These ones add to the spurious myths held about writers.

Depression. Boredom. Energy. Envy. Love. Hate. Madness. Negativity. Positivity. They come, yes. They visit a writer once in a while. And in these moments of visitation, the writer may let the guest rule those hours or decide to rule the guest. Whatever the choice, a result comes out: good, bad and good-bad.

The life of a writer may mean a lot to some and mean nothing to others. For example, in a party, I was dancing to Davido’s Skelewu and, screaming “Skelewu!” until I found myself outside. I met this lady, a conversation ensued and we got to that awkward part where you’re asked, “What you do for a living?” I answered proudly, “I am a writer.” A fake smile emanated. “You look like a banker. You guys try sha. You creative people. It is always good to have you people as friends. You never know. I know what writers are like.”

As a writer, you must learn to work for free most times. Friends, family members and even enemies send you stuff to proofread, re-write, and some tell you stories that need urgent writing. You must not say no. You must not charge. You are supposed to be a voice for humanity. Your pay is in heaven. You can feed your family with your goodness.

Discipline is key. Practise is essential. Every good thing comes to the writer who writes regularly and consistently. Life has made it that way.

The life of a writer is patience and determination filled. Forty rejection letters later, the writer keeps writing. When bills strangle the writer’s neck, when life’s harsh realities punch the writer into a coma, why does he keep composing words?

Story telling is part of a writer’s life. He can conjure characters from the air and make them live. He has the power to make you believe a woman can create gold. He has the power to make you cry, laugh, just to mention those two.

I’m still writing. My life is writing. Writing is my life.

In this career, I’ve learnt lessons. One of them remains important: never give up and never allow what anyone says about you or your work derail you from your set goal(s).

GEJ VS OBJ: CLASH OF THE BARBARIANS

2013-12-23T06:23:00.002-08:00

‘It was Mark Twain that said never argue with a fool, onlookers may not be able to tell the difference. Letters are flying everywhere and as Twain preached, we can’t tell who the real fool is. GEJ or OBJ?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The letters na. Where have you been all this while?’

‘I have been looking for job my brother. I have been to all the companies on Marina road, sent application letters out, yet no call for interview or test. I must get that job, in Jesus’ name. That’s how busy I have been. What’s my business with letter and no letter? I heard about it but, truth be told, I can’t be bothered.’

‘I’m bothered brother. I’m.’

‘Who wrote the first letter? Lecture me about the whole saga.’

‘Baba. Baba wrote the first letter. Baba shot first and did it under the watchful eyes of every Nigerian. In the letter he said that GEJ was a manipulative liar, a disgrace to PDP (People Destructions’ Party) and an embarrassment to the whole world. Many things are in the letter.’

‘Chai, you don’t mean it. Baba can vex sha.’

‘Yes, senseless annoyance. Not only that, he mentioned some names in the letter as well. The people, who, according to him, run the country and who owned the country and the deciders of how the country works were watching GEJ. He took GEJ to the bathroom and washed him and treated him like a primary school boy and tongue whipped him. In fact, there are so many things in the letter that I can’t remember.’

‘How can I get hold of this letter?’

‘You can buy it in any shop or from street hawkers. It is doing well in the market. Even Iyabo, baba’s daughter, has put mouth in the matter. She told daddy that he did not own Nigeria and should desist from writing nonsense.

‘Really?’

‘Yes. She told her daddy to shut-up and let the man GEJ do his work.’

‘Are you exaggerating the facts my brother?’

‘I’m not o. Just try to pick the letter up and read for yourself. On your way to Marina, you can buy the spiral bind copies of the letter or you can simply download it online.’

‘I get internet?’

‘I would get it for you then.’

‘But, why didn’t baba do it secretly?’

‘Do what secretly?’

‘Talk to the president secretly. Haba, can’t he respect the chief commander of federation of Nigeria? Can’t baba at least use his senses and respect that fact?’

‘You know baba has no time to hide things. Don’t forget that once a soldier always a soldier. And this is the proverbial wind blowing a fowl’s asshole.’

‘What has soldier life got to do with letter writing. I mean nobody is saying that he should not correct the president. No one is saying that he should not point out issues but there are ways of doing things.’

‘What ways? GEJ deserved that dressing down.’

‘Why?’

‘Why not? Are you blind to the things happening around you? Are you not the same person that is complaining about jobs?’

‘This my job thing has been on since Obasanjo’s tenure.’

‘Your situation is knock-kneed. Well, GEJ needs to sit up.’

‘Whatever. I don’t care. I know GEJ replied.’

‘Ha! If you see GEJ’s reply. The grammar in it, hmmm, nor be here. I didn’t know the man could write. The man finished baba and even addressed OBJ as baba in the letter probably as a sign of respect. GEJ behaved like a respectful school boy addressing teacher or telling teacher not to teach him nonsense.’

‘Is the letter out in the open too?’

‘If it is not in the open, how would I have read it?’

‘That’s true. So Nigeria’s problem has turned into a battle of grammar blowing between two adults.’

‘Yes, they have turned our case to that. The president’s letter was so long that I began to ask myself, if a president were so busy why or how would he have such a time to write so long a letter to OBJ. His response was faster than his response to the ASUU strike. Now, we can’t tell the difference between the two.’

‘They are expressing how they feel.’

‘This country doesn’t need the feelings of these individuals. This country needs the positive actions of these individuals. This country craves people who would act on meeting the crying needs of Nigerians. The grammar started since independence and that’s what they are still feeding us with. Nothing good ever comes out from the clash of an elephant, only the grass suffers. Nigerians equals to the grass.’

‘So you are telling me that it is wrong for them to come out and fight in public?’

‘What I’m saying is this: if the two of them know what’s wrong with the country then they should come up with practicable solutions. If they know the country is heading towards disaster they should work together to fix things. If they know Nigeria needs help, all hands should be on deck. All this APC, OPC, PDP, or PDD is not helping. Just another set of crooks looking for opportunity to purloin the nation’s wealth.’

‘What is purloin?’

‘Steal.’

‘I see.’

‘Didn’t they watch Mandela? Would any, I mean any Nigerian president be remembered like that? Can you mention anyone?’

‘Babangida.’

‘Babangida ko, Abacha ni. None of them would ever shake the world like that. Now that GEJ has replied, I’m sure OBJ is writing another reply. And when he finishes, he would send it to journalists then we the people would run to read and argue and argue until we forget about our reality. Nothing would move forward. Just our ranting that adds up to the circle of things.’

‘Leave them abeg. How are you celebrating Christmas?’

‘I’m going to church and then come back to cook for me and myself.’

‘Ehn, maybe I would come to your house for rice and chicken.’

‘You can come for rice but chicken, I cannot guarantee.’

‘I’d come for rice and letter.’

‘I have that. I’d be expecting you.’

Former Captain and The Sinking Ship

2013-12-13T07:33:00.002-08:00

A story was told about the former captain of a sinking ship. The tale started when this former captain, with baboonic handsomeness and protruding belly wrote long words on a scroll, which he sent to the present captain of the sinking ship. This former captain lambasted, abused and disgraced the present captain with his brilliance.

Many asked how this former captain left the ship’s steering wheel and started pointing moral fingers. Simple. His senses came back into his head when he left the helm. Former captain, while in control, killed passengers of the ship, stole gold and destroyed various parts of the ship so bad that when the new captain gained control of the ship he didn’t know what to do.

To the surprise of the ship’s passengers, the scroll was later put up in a notice board for all to see. The people read the message and opened their mouths, noses and ears in shock. It suggested, among other things, how the new captain should save the ship from sinking. The people pulled their hairs off their heads and some tore their clothes because of what they’ve read. They asked many questions like: how can this criminal begin to call another man a criminal? Who is this former captain?

One of the occupants of the sea summarised the former king’s ranting with another story. Once upon a time, the occupant began, there was a ship and a captain. This captain was a notorious pirate in his hey days and when he changed his acts, he was given the steering of the ship to lead her to save lands. Everyone believed him. However, when he started his journey, it was said that poisonous sea breezes entered his nostrils and he lost his grip. The ship was sinking and to save it, he quickly started taking heavy gold bars, killing people and returned to his old piratic ways. He could not help it; that’s how the gods made him. The pirate-former-captain asked the people to allow him steer the ship for a third time and the people cried a big NO. He was dropped but still respected. That’s how the story ended.

The former captain chose another captain. The sea was too turbulent for this thin-new captain and he died immediately after he took control. Former captain, seeing that some other occupants might quickly steal the wheel decided to push a humble man, present in the ship, onto the helm. This new pushed captain did not have shoes, it was rumoured. Everyone pitied him. But when he started steering he decided to buy golden shoes and allowed his lovely damsel to turn the wheel sometimes.

The occupants wailed with joy. A new journey started. This new captain promised to take them to new lands. He promised the journey would be as smooth as a baby’s bum. The people thanked their gods for such an intervention. Days went on and the storms started again. Like the titanic, this ship hit her first ice and that’s when things began to fall apart. The people ran helter-skelter looking for shelter. Hiding and running away from what seemed like an impending doom, they swam to other shores. Brave people.

The new captain, clueless and ignorant, lied that nothing happened and claimed his enemies from past put stones to disturb his sail. Again, he promised to fix the issue. The people relaxed and everything went back to normal. Alas, another crash happened. This time, the captain, sent his dog to bark on the people. The dog barked and barked until the people kept quiet. This dog was said to have bitten the captain before some long time ago; he bit the captain until the captain enticed him with fried egufe. The dog ate the meat and forgot himself. He forgot people used to rub his head because, yes, he had the degenerate abilities of biting captains who deceived the people.

Another storm is dancing in the distance and this former captain has seen it and he’s angry. It was said that he had warned this new captain over and over again and that this new captain would not listen. The passengers asked why this new captain would not listen to the former captain? Perhaps, new captain is angry with the former captain, the passengers concluded. Maybe, just maybe, the new captain wants to ride the ship forever.

That’s how they are on that ship. Captains always love long rides. They enjoy sniffing in the air that comes with riding such a gigantic, beautiful ship. Regardless of what’s happening in the ship’s cabins. They forget that cabins are part of a ship’s make up.

It was said that when the new captain read the long scroll from former captain, he laughed and said to his damsel: “My prostitute wife, look at what we have here.” Damsel looked at the letter and shook her head before replying like this: “ Where that dog? Give dog, make he go do woo-woo-woo.” Dog perceived the matter before he was called. At the moment, dog is chasing former captain. Former captain is not running.

Other captains who know the secrets to saving the sinking ship guide this former captain, that’s how the story went. Former captain, the story also said, boasts that he fathers other sea lords.

This ship is sinking, yes. The passengers know but they would look on. They like turbulence of the sea. Next time the former captain and the new captain meet they would discuss over a bowl of meat. That’s the story of the ship. Nothing is new.

Excuse me! Let’s Drop Religion for a moment.

2013-12-11T02:19:00.002-08:00

Religion has caused more deaths than anything on earth. Religion has been used as a tool to separate earth’s citizens into differing groups. History shows us how it has been used as a means to fatten certain pockets and how it permanently places particular persons in perpetual poverty. The advent of religion weakened some individual’s ability to reason.

May I indulge the reader to, for some seconds, imagine a world without religion? Allow your mind to wander the world freely. How is that world?

A world without religion would be filled with individuals who employ their senses when handling daily challenges they might encounter. Experiences of daily existence would be enough to inject a collective common sense. History would serve, in this world, as books the next generation can study for future progress.

Excuse me, let’s put Immanuel Kant’s proposition of enlightenment with microscopic eyes. He argues, “Immaturity is the inability to use one's own understanding without the guidance of another. This immaturity is self-incurred if its cause is not lack of understanding, but lack of resolution and courage to use it without the guidance of another.”

“Without the guidance of another” comes to the forefront here. How would humans behave if they did not cling onto the thinking of another man to define their own existence? The man would, obviously, be very logical. He would have, by intuition, found the difference “wrongness” and “rightness”. Dogmas and formulas; maxims and laws would be garnered from everyday living. Maturity and hard working spirit would be formed as a result of man trying to reason for himself.

Inner spirituality would be enflamed if the world were not plagued by institutionalised religion. Spirituality is what gives meaning to everything else in one’s life. It is concerned with form or concerned with the intellect and deals with that aspect of life that gives purpose, meaning and direction. People confuse spirituality with religion, but spirituality is more than a religious belief. Spirituality is a larger concept that deals with meaning, purpose and direction in life. Religion is an offshoot of spirituality.

Without institutionalised religion, peace would have meaning. There would be apparently no need to entice a group of persons with that useless carrot—seven virgins waiting in heaven; therefore, no bombings, maiming, lynching and other avalanches of degrading acts. In addition, there would absolutely be no need for certain individuals to throw their hard earned money on individuals who claim they have the power to give internal and eternal peace.

Religion: don’t argue. Believe! This restricts freedom, which creates a systematic capturing of the mind, and promotes fear to express inner thoughts. Blindly and majestically, followers swim in religious ignorance. Drowning. The public use of man’s reason must always be free, Kant argues. How free can one allow his mind to wander?

Back to our world without religion; let’s reimagine what would happen to the lives of individuals when they don’t have to connect to God in “holy” edifices. Spaces to build more schools, hospitals and industries would become available.

Freedom exists in this kind of world and ideas are abound which allows individuals work on dreams without the fear of being judged. From birth, these individuals would have been filled with freedom and the ability to reason accurately. The air, the birds, the flowers add to the colours of their mind. There is no bad or good. Smiling, loving, and bold people dot this existence.

There is a God. God gave us the right type of faculties to figure him out. Every human has the same capability to reason out his own higher being. Religion thwarted that.

Excuse me, lets drop religion just for a moment and use the brain. If religion was so great, why has it created so many wars? Religion is a man-made poison that only appreciates the external. The man who dresses well is blessed while the man who wears rags is cursed. There is a certain inequality promoted here. The woman who sells her body for sex is evil but the man who sleeps with girls secretly and preaches the “holy” word is respected.

It is lazy, faithless, inconstant, self-seeking followers who are in regular need of prophets to keep them on the straight and narrow road, to remind them of their role on earth and to recall them to the call they no longer heed. That “constant reminder” is what makes humans cling unto individuals, hold them as gods and forget the real God. Another enlightenment is needed.

Just for a moment, drop that shield of man-made constructs and reason things out for yourself.

All religious leaders fall under this summary: “They pile heavy burdens on people’s shoulders and won’t lift a finger to help. Everything they do is just to show off in front of others. They even make a big show of wearing scripture verses on their foreheads and arms, and they wear big tassels for everyone to see. They love the best seats at banquets and the front seats in the meeting places. And when they are in the market, they like to have people greet them as their teachers.” Woe to you who restrain your brain from thinking, you who allow humans to tell you how to think; for this man or woman might lead you to hell.

AN OPEN LETTER TO NELSON MANDELA

2013-12-08T08:32:00.000-08:00

Dear Madiba,

I hope all is well with you and that this letter reaches you in good health and good company. I am writing this letter to inform you about what happened after you left.

Since you embarked on your journey, the people have divided themselves into two groups: those who say you were bad and those who call you hero.

Tata, those who said you were a liar and a pathetic father are scattered around the internet like bad viruses. From Facebook to Twitter they have called you many names. Some say you will go to hell and some say that after you left, South Africa will not know peace. They analyse your life’s actions.

Others who think you were a hero have taken to the streets and to the corridors of internet, screaming with tall voices about how well you lived your life. They are joyful! They are happy because you reconstructed the meaning of reconciliation, and most importantly, happy because you fought for the freedom of blacks in South Africa. These people have compared you to greats like Martin Luther King Jr., Malcom X and yes, some have compared you to that rapper Tupac Amaru Shakur who sang “Only God Can Judge Me.”

Madiba, did you see the flowers brought to your house to add colour to the celebration of your life? Did you see how people gathered all over the world to sing your praise? Did you see how every newspaper headline is filled with your pictures? Did you notice that every president on earth is talking about you? Did you also notice that the world stopped when you decided to embark on that journey?

Those who have chosen to throw stones at you do this out of ignorance. Madiba, they say that during your twenty-seven years in imprisonment you sold out to the white man and, that you left Winnie when you came out. Some say you did not deserve the Nobel Peace prize. Arguments spring up at the mention of your name. Is that what happens to heroes? People blessed with half brains making nonsensical statements and unpicking the hairs of your rest. Is that what happens?

How can they understand you when they have never spent that amount of time in jail? They have not asked themselves what they would do if they were in your shoes. Instead, they go around with long mouths spitting on your soul.

There is a place where heroes stay after they leave earth. It is neither heaven nor hell. It is just an unknown place. So, Madiba, I don’t really know why some religious nonentities would start asking whether you gave your life to Christ before you died. Seriously, I don’t know. You have paid your dues on earth and would be greatly remembered. How many of these senseless critics can forgive another human the way you have done? How many of these self-serving individuals, seeking cheap attention, know the meaning of living like a human being?

Ah, tata, you will not believe when I tell you some people have started making money off your name. They have printed shirts and made pictures of you and started selling. Your name is big business. Some people have made pens, key rings and other things in your name. And they say, hypocritically, that you should rest in peace.

Who are you there with? Have you seen Magaret Thatcher? Is she even there? Is Martin Luther king Jr with you? Did you see Malcom X? Tell me, how is the place? Peaceful? Is Obafemi Awolowo there? How do you guys live there? Please, say hello to Fela Anikulapokuti. Tell Baba Seventy that some people have taken his Afro-beat and turned it to useless ranting.

Yes, I know you’ve taught us how to forgive. Yes, I know you have taught us how to live. Yes, I know you have taught us the meaning of smiling in adversity. Yes, I know you have opened our eyes to see the true meaning of love. Yes, I know that there will never be another man like you. Definitely, there would never be another human who can lay his life down for the good of others.

Thank you for taking time out to read this letter. In that life you have chosen to enter try to rest.

Before I forget, what do you want me to tell those who only see your negative sides? What should I say to those who say you were a womaniser and a bad president? What do I say to those African leaders who hold onto power like they would never die? What do I say to all those writers, critics and mad persons pricking you while you sleep? Tata, teach me what to say.

People like you who changed the cause of earth’s journey have personal flaws like every human. Dwelling on the flaws is not how I choose to remember you. I would remember you as the freedom fighter who took a long walk to freedom. Stay blessed and enjoy the peace that earth does not give to humans.

Yours truly,

Michael Irene

In memory of Festus Iyayi (1947-2013)

2013-12-04T01:37:00.000-08:00

It was a cloudy day in August 2004, seated in a bus at Ojuelegba, Lagos when my eyes caught the title of a second-hand book titled Violence. The author’s name was unclear due to its faded cover. “Iyana Ipaja! Iyana Ipaja!” The bus’ conductor screamed. His voice rose to meet other monstrous noises that clouded the atmosphere. The cacophony presented one with varying colours of daily existence in Nigeria. Everyone was in a hurry: in a hurry, perhaps, to erase that violence gifted to the populace by a senseless societal construct.

The book stared at me while I swam in my thoughts. Suddenly, I jumped out of the bus, walked down to the shed and the named announced itself with silent voices: Festus Iyayi. The name beckoned on me and fearlessly urged me to make the purchase. I did.

I returned to the bus and sat down to read the book. I finished it that day. Iyayi’s photographic exposition of the horrors of deprivation through Idemudia, the main character, other indigent characters and the apathy shown by the very rich few who thrive on the deprivation makes the book addictive.

He holds the view that the Nigerian society is wrong at the root. And that root is inflicted with the moral disease of the selfish pursuit of wealth, which creates class barriers among men, and of course, undermines the security and development of the nation since the deprived class is bound to react with violence.

Iyaya opines thus: “ . . . acts of violence are committed when a man is denied the opportunity of being educated, or getting a job, of feeding himself and his family properly, of getting medical attention cheaply, quickly and promptly.” It was in his pursuit of creating an egalitarian society that violence picked him up and sent him on a journey beyond. On the twelfth day of November, 2013 Professor Iyayi met death somewhere in Kogi state where a police escort of the governor of the state hit his car.

Iyayi was a radical, a Marxist and an advocate for the oppressed. Niyi Osundare, his colleague, described him as “fearless but fair, courageous but compassionate, demanding but decent, Iyayi was a great leader and an even greater follower, the kind who pressed on when others were seized by trepidation and despair.” The tirelessness with which he fought for the good of general humanity is heroic indeed. Osundare in describing his death states, “We lost a gallant fighter and great patriot. Terrible. Unspeakably terrible. Behold the terrifying irony: the patriot who laboured so tirelessly to rid his country of violence has become a victim of her egregious violence. Yet another chapter in our running saga of waste.”

His literary oeuvre: Violence (1979) The Contract (1982) Heroes (1986) and

Awaiting Court Martial (1996) exposes the status quo, calls for a change, and charges the oppressed sections of our community is to take up “arms” to overthrow the present oppressive and corrupt system.

Iyayi’s voice has been carved into Nigerian history. It is a colossal loss and another vacuum dug into our collective intelligence. The proud son of the soil, the tireless griot who sang tall tunes that shook leaders and the defender of the weak has now been swallowed by human darkness.

Who are we not to sing his praise?

For no matter how the wind howled you never bowed to it. You stood like a mountain and still stand like a mountain. You changed position for fresh air.

The ones who orchestrated your early movement know not what they have done. Your voice would continue to play in their dreams making them dance to the choruses of change. They too, before their very own eyes, would leave earth only to be forgotten.

You, who was born in Ugbegun, Esan, Edo State in 1947, who he left Nigeria in 1968 to pursue higher education, and obtained a Master’s degree in Industrial Economics in the cold land of Kiev, in the former USSR, and then journeyed to University of Bradford, England for your PhD, it is you I greet. Your voice lives in the clouds and it showers us daily with wisdom, knowledge and understanding. You have made the ancestors proud and they have called on you to come and rest. Rest well, Iyayi. I break kolanut into four places and three are for you. Rest well, Iyayi.

Keshi and the Nigerian scheme of things

2013-11-29T02:45:00.000-08:00

Stephen Keshi, ex-Nigerian Super Eagles’ captain and currently, her coach, is no novice to the Nigerian scheme of things. In 2002, he was sacked as an assistant coach along with his head coach, Shuaibu Ahmodu and replaced by Adegboye Onigbinde before the awful showdown in South Korea and Japan. Again, after winning the 2013 African Cups of Nations early this year and securing Nigeria’s place in the 2014 World Cup, the Nigerian Football Association threatens to sack him.

It is no news that certain Nigerians don’t appreciate their heroes. Early this year, sad tunes rocked the air as the football ministry failed to pay Keshi and his technical team! After long lamentations from Keshi, the Nigerian Football Federation decided to pay part of his stipends.

News that the coach might be sacked again is worrisome. In response to this, Keshi told BBC sports that “We are talking about Nigeria here, so you never know what may happen.” His opinion defines the ugly features of a nation’s mien.

What kind of country sacks her heroes? What kind of country would not pay staffs for carrying out their duty?

The issue on ground requires some form of protestations by concerned citizens. For, how long would Nigerians keep swallowing heavy pills thrown down their throats by some immoral leaders? Musa Adamu, the Nigeria Football Federation’s secretary, opened all four compass points of his mouth to vomit this statement: “Obligations to the coaching crew are always settled, and we have the understanding of the coaching crew in this regard.”

Well, if the coaching crew were always settled why would Keshi and his crew beg for pay? The Nigerian aphorism, monkey dey work baboon dey chop, rings true about the Nigerian scheme of things. An individual works but never receives pay.

While working for Togo and Mali as the head coach, Keshi never complained about unpaid salaries. In Nigeria, his home, an embarrassing dish was served to him and his crew. Adamu has another defense for the federation’s incompetency, he says “We've been working together with Stephen Keshi since November 2011 and he knows the peculiar situation [financial problems] of how things are with the federation.” That is not the issue. The issue is that certain elements within the football federation love this stratagem; they love using “financial problems” as a ruse because they can proceed to loot and fill their pockets with other people’s money.

Christian Chukwu, Shaibu Amodu, Samson Siasia, Austin Eguavoen, John Obuh and Eucharia Uche have all previously complained about outstanding salaries in the recent past. Can one conclude that this is a Nigerian thing?

Teachers, cleaners, doctors and the list goes on, experience the same ugliness. There is an utter disregard for individuals who spend most of their life working for a better Nigeria. Examples are everywhere and there is absolutely no need to state them here.

However, members of the Nigerian House of Representatives, commissioners and ministers always get paid duly. If/when they are not, they skillfully cut it out from the national cake. They own political knives and have close connection to those at the elm of affairs.

All kind of lies, manipulation and tricks are employed when hardworking individuals seek their pay. Unfortunately, the Nigerian scheme of thing shows no sign of improvement. The hole is getting deeper and darker.

As we prepare for 2014 FIFA World Cup, the Nigerian football federation urged Keshi to get a foreign technical assistant. He rejected the proposal. There is no logical reason behind the offer. A man who broke the record of being the first black African coach in twenty-one years to have won the African nation’s cup, obviously, needs no foreign assistance.

These antics must stop. This lack of appreciation could drain the positive energy Nigerians like Stephen Keshi possess. Every Nigerian deserves to be treated with a modicum of respect. Can Nigerians be accountable and render our leaders accountable in the name of integrity, decency and honesty?

God bless Nigeria.

The Untold Marriage II

2012-07-24T00:52:00.003-07:00

“Patience,” my grandmother’s voice admonished, “is the secret to understanding stories.”

The red cleared. The girl’s belly was big like she swallowed a big stone. She looked older than her age. The girl was sweating. An old woman cleaned her face. A leg popped out in her vagina. It was red again.

The now happy-man-formerly-sad-man ran around naked. He cried. He pulled out his hair with his hands. He tore his shirt. Some women walked out. They held their hands as they walked out of the house. This house.

The cornrow-girl-like-me was travelling. And something came out of the calabash and entered me. A new story entered me. It scared me. I began to see the past. I cried.

I was born in a place where I was not wanted. You see, it is hard to have two breasts and not have the perfect skill of peeing into a bottle without spilling some liquid on the bottle. The air was quiet. It was said that I was supposed not to be. Someone broke the law. Someone allowed me live.

‘Who allowed me live?’

` From the still air, my grandmother’s voice came out: “find the answers yourself. Travel. Free your thoughts and allow the air fill you in.”

“Travel?”

“Seek and ye shall find. However, when ye find, don’t ask the whys, take it as it cometh to thee.”

I folded my arms and thought about this new revelation from my grandmother.

“Where shall I travel to?”

I could see her floating away. Her features shook like the unsettled nature of a stream. She began to dance and loud drums rose to fill the space.

When the spider says he is wiser

The lion roars in anger

the lion sends his wife the serpent

to spit her viper on the spider

Their efforts lead to new anger

Turmoil rings in the land

Only the spider knows why

Because, his is a circular journey

A web.

“What is this?”

There was no response from the voice. The song sung was beautiful and bitter in my ears. I stood still. I wanted to drink more of the song. The voice continued:

See her here, see her here

Let her come and aid our conversation

“Who?”

“Ina mama ka.”

“What language have you used to communicate with me? I don’t understand what you are saying.”

The forgotten language of our fathers is what I use. I meant: “Your mother.”

“Where?”

“Travel.” At the mention of this single word, there was a strange silence. Everything was numb for a while. I found myself swimming in the words hanging in the air. Then later, in the white calabash. I swam till I didn’t know where I was. But i saw a woman, beautiful and sad. She sat in the city where the formerly happy man and the formerly sad man were. It seems she could not see me. I touched her. She turned and didn’t notice anything.

“Mother?”

She heard the voice. I think she heard it because she looked around. I wanted her to see me, touch me and rub my hair and to pamper me and tell me why she couldn’t see me. I wanted hear what happened. I needed to hear her untold story.

“Mother?”

She stood up and walked away while I followed her. Cars wheezed by and a man was riding on a donkey. The man on the donkey said: “Ina ini”. No response. My mother or the woman walked on with her head counting the sands on the earth. I followed.

The Untold marriage(Zainab)

2012-07-02T02:34:00.003-07:00

Marriage killed me.

The tale was told to me by grandmother who I met on the other side. Listen, as I narrate what she told me.

She started like this: “Your father married you and you died.”

The invincible birds gulped the introduction, the floating trees moved back and forth, and the air’s music metamorphosed to eerie whispers.

My ears were opened to drink the remaining stories. Instead, my grandmother put her hands in the air and produced a white calabash filled with water.

“Seeing is better than listening.”

She dropped the calabash gently and it floated. I looked inside.

“Remember,” my grandmother said, “you can never change the past.”

“Is this the past?”

“The past is what you make it. Define your past.”

“How can I achieve that?”

“Watch the story with three eyes.”

I looked inside. I saw a young girl with cornrows. She was hawking oranges around town.

“Is this the beginning?” I asked.

“There is no beginning and an end. There are only stories. How it is told doesn’t matter. Follow the journey.”

“I am confused.”

My grandmother was gone. She floated in the air. I peered into the calabash. The girl who was hawking oranges was in an office. Time shifted. Then I began to realize the similarities between me and the girl. She wore the same cornrows. I stirred the water in attempt to take the event to the past but it only moved forward.

Two men talked under an almond tree. The tree shed tears of yellow leaves. They spoke in a voice that sounded like the buzzing of moths. One of the men looked healthy and the other looked poverty stricken. I was studying their faces curiously. My studies produced no result.

From the air, a strange voice emanated: “Stories are journeys. Concentrate less and get results.”

One of the men brought items from a brown moving iron. The other smiled and carried what the other man brought. Later, one of the men cried like a woman and another barked like a dog. One walked away looking sad and the other looked happy. The formerly happy one was sad and the formerly sad one was happy. One of the men brought the girl with the cornrow to the now happy-man-formerly-sad-man.

Now, I saw the girl. She was in a new house. She cried. Everything went red. The water turned to red.

“I can’t see anything.” I cried.

“Patience,” my grandmother’s voice admonished, “is the secret to understanding stories.”

The cornrow-girl-like-me was travelling. And something came out of the calabash and entered me. A new story entered me. It scared me. I began to see the past. I cried.

The Icarus Girl by Helen Oyeyemi

2012-04-06T03:15:00.000-07:00

“Sometimes it can be hard to really love someone or something when you can’t see anything of yourself in them.”

I never knew about the mythical story behind the birth of twins in Nigeria until I read Oyeyemi’s The Icarus Girl. Jess, the heroine, lost her twin sister some years ago. The dead twin, however, struggles for re-existence in Harrison’s house.

The myth is used as a metaphorical representation of culture clash. In the west, Jess is described as mad while in Africa, the belief is that the spirit of her dead twin must be appeased before she lives freely.

The Famished Road by Ben Okri

2012-04-06T02:27:00.000-07:00

”A man can wander round the planet and still not move an inch. A man can have so much light in his mind and still not see what’s right in front of him.”

Yes, it is true: “Okri is incapable of writing a boring sentence.” He paints (not write) each situation.

The Famished Road narrates the politics, history and future of a nation using the Nigerian Abiku myth. What /who is an Abiku? Simply put, a child born to die.

The Abiku myth also has a universal feature.

Exercises in Style by Raymond Queneau

2012-03-28T15:50:00.000-07:00

Imagine yourself riding in a torrid bus filled with passengers; the day’s heat is also dancing in the bus. In a corner of the bus, you hear someone snivelling and changing seats. Why? He was consistently brushed by another passenger (maybe an old man). Now, how would you narrate the story?

Exercises in Style tells the above story in ninety-nine amazing ways. The author experiments with voice, point-of-view, symbols, and metaphor, just to mention a few.

Every writer or aspiring author, in my opinion, needs this kind of writing exercises. It encourages one to experiment with various forms of narrating a story.

Finding the star in Ben Okri's STARBOOK

2012-03-18T03:36:00.000-07:00

STARBOOK is not an ordinary book. It is eerie and enigmatic. The story was passed onto the author by his mother.

There are different books in this book. Each book is weaved around a single theme. It talks about the quest of artists and art; the struggles of an artist in the contemporary world and importance of history in art.

The strength of the book, to me, lies on the excellent use of African oral tradition. The author uses riddles, parables, paradoxes, songs and aphorisms to drive home his points. Simply put, this is a re-awakening of African narration.

The sentences are simple but complex.

Related losses in Ben Okri’s Dangerous Love

2012-03-11T13:56:00.000-07:00

The novel captures the different faces of love an individual can encounter in a life time. First, love between man and wife (characterised by extra-marital affairs); second, love for a chosen career and third, the love that exists between citizens and country.

Through out the novel, there is a constant revelation of the various kinds of love. Omovo, the main protagonists knows love but later realises his definition of love metamorphoses as events unfold.

With an excellent eye and ear for detail, Okri tells a tale that is characterised by the African folkloric tradition.

News of a Kidnapping by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

2012-02-17T00:58:00.000-08:00

You are welcome to Colombia: a home of green land, bright sun and blue seas. The creatures of the environment enjoy the cool air and tales told by the whispering trees. Things changed as time progressed. The birth of one man changed the beautiful face that was once Colombia. The man's name is Pablo Emilio Escobar Gaviria. He changed the scheme of things and introduced a monstrous existence with his mixed acts--drug sales, murder, kidnapping and internecine wars.

Give it to Gabriel Marquez narrating the ordeal faced by some citizens during these ugly times with an angry-beautiful pen. He was vested with the job of narrating things as they were in those bloody years in Medellin, Colombia. As usual, he didn't fail the reader. Every page flourishes like a flower with a thorny stem.

The kidnapped characters in the book begin to lose their mental stability as they were isolated and put away from the outside world's reality. After they were release, one could still feel their suffering as they struggled with memory and fitting into normal live. Columbia, one may conclude, will never forget those years with a book like this.

It is a story worth reading!

China Men by Maxine Hong Kingston

2012-02-05T14:44:00.000-08:00

You don’t need to be a sinophile to enjoy this book. It is a tale that uncovers the remarkable experiences faced by a particular generation of a Chinese family; their journey to the Golden Mountain (the US) and the incidents they witness on the so-called Golden Mountain.

The author narrates, beautifully, the ‘good, bad and ugly’ nature of living as an immigrant. It is a beautiful-cocktail-story. However, one must sip it gradually to avoid an intoxication caused by the unapologetic movement between times.

‘All that you’ll and feel will be illusion’

Through the eyes of the young narrator, the reader is forced to either sympathise or empathise with the families in the book.

Memories of My Melancholic Whores by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

2012-01-27T06:06:00.000-08:00

On the eve of his ninetieth birthday, the protagonist (Mr. Unknown), made a call to Rosa Carbacas, to request for a strange birthday gift. The request...

Fortunately or unfortunately, the gift changes his perspective about life and love. It is a tale about the meaning of age(ing), love, sadness and happiness. A tale that covers the importance of memories and most importantly,society's definition of old age.

“What happens is that you don’t feel it on the inside, but from the outside everybody can see it.”

Every sentence in this book is pregnant with numerous meanings. Read it.

No One Writes to the Colonel

2012-01-22T02:19:00.000-08:00

I just finished reading Marquez's novella bearing the above title. It is a story about a retired colonel. The colonel, as we are made to know, fought relentlessly in Macondo ( the fictional setting of Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude ). Unfortunately, the colonel has not received his pension for over fifteen years. He continues to wait for the mail or pension cheque but it never arrives.

Many things add up to his sad life: his extreme state of squalor, his wife's bad health, the death of his son and the gory pictures he sees in his dreams.

The colonel's son, Agustan, left a rooster which becomes a treasure in the colonel's house. Accurate attention is given to the rooster. A symbol of hanging onto the son's memory can be seen from the way the colonel treats the rooster.

However, the end is rather shocking.

It is a good read!