A man who does not read
Is not just an empty head
When he is called upon to lead
He is just as good as dead
A man who cannot read
Is just that car without wheels!
Hardly ever, will he succeed
Cos’ he can’t move an inch
To the mind, Reading is
What watering is to the plant…
If a man must grow to ‘bliss’
It is with what he has learnt
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Thursday, 9 August 2012
Wednesday, 8 August 2012
A Tang of Misfortune
Read an excerpt from my recently completed book: THE UNDERGRADUATE It's fiction. It's adventure. It's for you. Drop your comments and be honest please. I'd hope you enjoyed the story!
A Tang of Misfortune
QUARTER PAST FOUR in the evening and Mirabel Adams still waited, and waited in vain. Marvin Chuks, her boyfriend would not just appear. For weeks now, he didn’t call—and wasn’t bothered at all. He has become a lying mirror; he was hiding in the shadow of his excuses and would readily reject her calls, each time she dialed him. This overwhelmed the girl as she hovered in a downbeat feeling. Barely two days ago, Marvin had sent a message to her and it confirmed her suspicion:
Mimi, I’d understand if you stay on your own. Stop calling me. Stop seeing me. Please! I’d love to be alone.
At first she couldn’t accept those words, and the very notion behind the voice. It was a terrible, powerful twinge; one she felt like a deep knife thrust in her delicate skin. She rapidly started to have a misgiving that she had somehow, someway, wronged him. She, however, couldn’t trace any fossil connecting to his outlandishness.
Mirabel sat still, of course like a statue as an hour passed in the wheel of desperation before her keen eyes. There were no signs of Marvin’s footprints. She looked around her and saw other girls relishing with their guys. The smiles on their faces prickled her. So she lost composure but managed to keep tears from rolling after she remembered that she was in a place filled with prying eyes—they called it the ‘gossip centre’ or ‘love garden’. Many stories from here made headlines in the campus tabloid.
As she waited, her patience narrowed. Mirabel then realized it was hopeless to wait further. He will not come—she thoughtfully inferred and glanced at her wristwatch. It was getting late. She then picked her handbag and left the place with a touch of anguish. Her heart was wandering in sick thoughts. Her room now was the next place in her mind. She really needed rest.
On her way to her room, Mirabel suddenly stopped, poised and in outrage shock, as tons of adrenalin rushed through her spine. She sighted Marvin at a distance, flanked by two girls with his arms around them. They were staggering and rollicking in laughter. Quickly she averted her eyes and went in another direction. She could perceive the strong smell of bile discharge within her. Her eyes glinted in vicious demand for explanation as the feeling to meet and harass him lingered. “What!” She screamed to herself, perhaps as a wolf howling from the middle of a thick forest. The pills were so hard that with the bitterness in her heart, jealousy now crept. Marvin was daring her—she thought again.
No sooner did she arrive in the hostel room, than her phone began to ring. Mirabel’s heart fluttered. Reluctantly she dipped her hand into the bag she was carrying and shuffled. She produced her phone and touched the screen. In response, a message popped and displayed:
First semester results are out. Come to the faculty and check.
She read this with restiveness. Her course mates had been notified too. At once, she darted to her faculty to verify the information. When she got there, she found many students gathered in front of a wide notice board. There was a great noise and eager pushing. Not minding she waded in. She clutched tightly her bag against her side and snaked her way to the front. Her breath was heavy. Mirabel traced her registration number and memorized her grades. Thrusting back into the crowd, she came out sweating like a marathon runner. Just then she wiped her face with a white handkerchief and feigned a brief smile. Lowering her head in dismay, the girl quietly walked out of the scene.
Mirabel took very quick steps along a long corridor that linked offices; she avoided colliding with the people she passed and brushed aside their greetings. She was panting seriously. Down a spiral staircase, she found the exit of the faculty building and continued in haste. A few distance away from the building someone called her name. It was from behind her. The voice was subtle though compelling. She almost turned but increased her steps and marched on straight like a robot. She was not in the mood to speak to anyone. She paced and paced faster. The footsteps behind her persisted and trailed her by inches. She could now sense a shadow from the corner of her eyes. Just then a warm pat fell on her right shoulder.
“Hello”, a handsome guy warmly greeted in Kiswahili, the main language in Kenya. Jambo was the word he uttered. He stretched out his hand for a handshake.
Mirabel abruptly turned around. She looked startled. She saw the dark smiling guy and his well-aligned large sparkling teeth. Then she smiled back, because she knew him. He had proposed to her some days ago and told her his name is Nicholas; Nick for short.
“Hi”, she responded, quite disturbed by the towering height of the slim guy. They shook hands and Nick tried to broach as he rubbed his palms together, “I have come to—”
“I know”, Mirabel interjected. “I haven’t made up my mind. We shall talk later—”
“But…wait…but”, he stammered, an inclination she had noticed before whilst he was expressing his affection for her. She wondered if he had any impediment in speech.
“We can meet some other time”, Mirabel impatiently ended and walked on. The guy followed her pleading, “Mimi, please fulfill my desires. Show me the colour of your heart. Reassure me. My feelings are decent. Nakupenda sana!” He raised his eyebrows.
She turned and crossly faced him. She didn’t like it that Nick chipped in words she didn’t understand to express himself. But Nakupenda Sana equaled I love you so much. He was Kenyan and the ilk that barely spoke English without adding a smattering of Swahili or the local ‘sheng’. The girl could not understand as it irked her.
“Let me be!” She shouted on him. “You can’t have me. Don’t you understand?”
Nick recoiled noticing the flash of anger and frustration in her eyes. Something must be wrong—he thought. The first time he met her, she was the cheering, sweet girl he has ever experienced. It shocked him more when Mirabel narrowed her eyes and glared, “Don’t you ever, ever, and ever—”, she stressed, pointing a warning finger at him, “accost me like that again.” An obnoxious hiss and she walked out on him.
The guy refrained and whiffed out a helpless sigh. He then shrugged and muttered to himself: “It takes a brave heart to save a weak one. I shall not love in vain.”
This is just a small part of the novel...Just say something. Thanks for reading! God bless you
A Tang of Misfortune
QUARTER PAST FOUR in the evening and Mirabel Adams still waited, and waited in vain. Marvin Chuks, her boyfriend would not just appear. For weeks now, he didn’t call—and wasn’t bothered at all. He has become a lying mirror; he was hiding in the shadow of his excuses and would readily reject her calls, each time she dialed him. This overwhelmed the girl as she hovered in a downbeat feeling. Barely two days ago, Marvin had sent a message to her and it confirmed her suspicion:
Mimi, I’d understand if you stay on your own. Stop calling me. Stop seeing me. Please! I’d love to be alone.
At first she couldn’t accept those words, and the very notion behind the voice. It was a terrible, powerful twinge; one she felt like a deep knife thrust in her delicate skin. She rapidly started to have a misgiving that she had somehow, someway, wronged him. She, however, couldn’t trace any fossil connecting to his outlandishness.
Mirabel sat still, of course like a statue as an hour passed in the wheel of desperation before her keen eyes. There were no signs of Marvin’s footprints. She looked around her and saw other girls relishing with their guys. The smiles on their faces prickled her. So she lost composure but managed to keep tears from rolling after she remembered that she was in a place filled with prying eyes—they called it the ‘gossip centre’ or ‘love garden’. Many stories from here made headlines in the campus tabloid.
As she waited, her patience narrowed. Mirabel then realized it was hopeless to wait further. He will not come—she thoughtfully inferred and glanced at her wristwatch. It was getting late. She then picked her handbag and left the place with a touch of anguish. Her heart was wandering in sick thoughts. Her room now was the next place in her mind. She really needed rest.
On her way to her room, Mirabel suddenly stopped, poised and in outrage shock, as tons of adrenalin rushed through her spine. She sighted Marvin at a distance, flanked by two girls with his arms around them. They were staggering and rollicking in laughter. Quickly she averted her eyes and went in another direction. She could perceive the strong smell of bile discharge within her. Her eyes glinted in vicious demand for explanation as the feeling to meet and harass him lingered. “What!” She screamed to herself, perhaps as a wolf howling from the middle of a thick forest. The pills were so hard that with the bitterness in her heart, jealousy now crept. Marvin was daring her—she thought again.
No sooner did she arrive in the hostel room, than her phone began to ring. Mirabel’s heart fluttered. Reluctantly she dipped her hand into the bag she was carrying and shuffled. She produced her phone and touched the screen. In response, a message popped and displayed:
First semester results are out. Come to the faculty and check.
She read this with restiveness. Her course mates had been notified too. At once, she darted to her faculty to verify the information. When she got there, she found many students gathered in front of a wide notice board. There was a great noise and eager pushing. Not minding she waded in. She clutched tightly her bag against her side and snaked her way to the front. Her breath was heavy. Mirabel traced her registration number and memorized her grades. Thrusting back into the crowd, she came out sweating like a marathon runner. Just then she wiped her face with a white handkerchief and feigned a brief smile. Lowering her head in dismay, the girl quietly walked out of the scene.
Mirabel took very quick steps along a long corridor that linked offices; she avoided colliding with the people she passed and brushed aside their greetings. She was panting seriously. Down a spiral staircase, she found the exit of the faculty building and continued in haste. A few distance away from the building someone called her name. It was from behind her. The voice was subtle though compelling. She almost turned but increased her steps and marched on straight like a robot. She was not in the mood to speak to anyone. She paced and paced faster. The footsteps behind her persisted and trailed her by inches. She could now sense a shadow from the corner of her eyes. Just then a warm pat fell on her right shoulder.
“Hello”, a handsome guy warmly greeted in Kiswahili, the main language in Kenya. Jambo was the word he uttered. He stretched out his hand for a handshake.
Mirabel abruptly turned around. She looked startled. She saw the dark smiling guy and his well-aligned large sparkling teeth. Then she smiled back, because she knew him. He had proposed to her some days ago and told her his name is Nicholas; Nick for short.
“Hi”, she responded, quite disturbed by the towering height of the slim guy. They shook hands and Nick tried to broach as he rubbed his palms together, “I have come to—”
“I know”, Mirabel interjected. “I haven’t made up my mind. We shall talk later—”
“But…wait…but”, he stammered, an inclination she had noticed before whilst he was expressing his affection for her. She wondered if he had any impediment in speech.
“We can meet some other time”, Mirabel impatiently ended and walked on. The guy followed her pleading, “Mimi, please fulfill my desires. Show me the colour of your heart. Reassure me. My feelings are decent. Nakupenda sana!” He raised his eyebrows.
She turned and crossly faced him. She didn’t like it that Nick chipped in words she didn’t understand to express himself. But Nakupenda Sana equaled I love you so much. He was Kenyan and the ilk that barely spoke English without adding a smattering of Swahili or the local ‘sheng’. The girl could not understand as it irked her.
“Let me be!” She shouted on him. “You can’t have me. Don’t you understand?”
Nick recoiled noticing the flash of anger and frustration in her eyes. Something must be wrong—he thought. The first time he met her, she was the cheering, sweet girl he has ever experienced. It shocked him more when Mirabel narrowed her eyes and glared, “Don’t you ever, ever, and ever—”, she stressed, pointing a warning finger at him, “accost me like that again.” An obnoxious hiss and she walked out on him.
The guy refrained and whiffed out a helpless sigh. He then shrugged and muttered to himself: “It takes a brave heart to save a weak one. I shall not love in vain.”
This is just a small part of the novel...Just say something. Thanks for reading! God bless you
Monday, 6 August 2012
Who will marry my mother? part 1
Hello, it's been a long time...i was...um...recuperating.
I have a tonic for you today--an excerpt from my 'diary of words'...
short-story @Naijamatta
“How can I not take?” I murmur to my friend, my brother who cannot stop gawking at me. There is a great disbelief in his eyes. I just reveal to him that I have bargained with Chief Ogobe, the reigning politician of our miserable little village. Twenty kegs of palm wine plus a farmland is hard to refuse. I cannot stop reveling. I shall become rich after the elections. Chief Ogobe will become a senator.
We are poor in my village; we have only one school. Our chiefs are rich; their children school in big cities. The prayer of every ‘pikin’ in my miserable village is to stop chewing palm kernel. But everyone has a dream—to become a ‘politician’, someday. Mine is about to manifest. I trust Chief Ogobe!
“How can you take?” my friend challenges me in a rather fierce disposition. “If you take, who will marry my mother, our mother?”
His words push me. Often we refer to our village as our mother and a politician as her lover. There’s nothing sweet on earth they have not promised her. One certain time, a young lover pledged to give her a new life and sadly, as expected almost choked her to death while she was asleep. But our mother, like the human soul never dies!
Among my brothers in the village, I am the most learned. I have a class six certificate that looks authentic. I hid it in a cave so the rebels will not find it. They will wipe their bowels should they set eyes. But it is because of my certificate that Chief Ogobe has approached me. He wants me to convince my brothers to support him in the forthcoming elections. This is a lethal supplication. It can ignite the salvo of the rebels. Do I need worry? For the rebels are also my brothers, just that they now live at the back of our house. They will not vote even if I tell them. It is the maltreating of our mother that disgruntles them. They want her to stop dallying. They want her to marry.
What Chief Ogobe promises me will be my most valued possessions and I will not reject it. “Go and invite the others. Tell them there’s a party in my mansion and I shall reward you.” Isn’t that cool?
“It is not!” My friend retorts to my chagrin. He stammers heavily: “You are taking ‘beeyaib’ from chief”. He means ‘bribe’, a word in English that rhymes with ‘corruption’ in politics. In my village parlance, ‘soured breast milk’ is the name. It is the same carrot that enriched Chief Ogobe who was once an anointed rebel.
*some more*...soon
Follow me on twitter @naijamatta
I have a tonic for you today--an excerpt from my 'diary of words'...
short-story @Naijamatta
“How can I not take?” I murmur to my friend, my brother who cannot stop gawking at me. There is a great disbelief in his eyes. I just reveal to him that I have bargained with Chief Ogobe, the reigning politician of our miserable little village. Twenty kegs of palm wine plus a farmland is hard to refuse. I cannot stop reveling. I shall become rich after the elections. Chief Ogobe will become a senator.
We are poor in my village; we have only one school. Our chiefs are rich; their children school in big cities. The prayer of every ‘pikin’ in my miserable village is to stop chewing palm kernel. But everyone has a dream—to become a ‘politician’, someday. Mine is about to manifest. I trust Chief Ogobe!
“How can you take?” my friend challenges me in a rather fierce disposition. “If you take, who will marry my mother, our mother?”
His words push me. Often we refer to our village as our mother and a politician as her lover. There’s nothing sweet on earth they have not promised her. One certain time, a young lover pledged to give her a new life and sadly, as expected almost choked her to death while she was asleep. But our mother, like the human soul never dies!
Among my brothers in the village, I am the most learned. I have a class six certificate that looks authentic. I hid it in a cave so the rebels will not find it. They will wipe their bowels should they set eyes. But it is because of my certificate that Chief Ogobe has approached me. He wants me to convince my brothers to support him in the forthcoming elections. This is a lethal supplication. It can ignite the salvo of the rebels. Do I need worry? For the rebels are also my brothers, just that they now live at the back of our house. They will not vote even if I tell them. It is the maltreating of our mother that disgruntles them. They want her to stop dallying. They want her to marry.
What Chief Ogobe promises me will be my most valued possessions and I will not reject it. “Go and invite the others. Tell them there’s a party in my mansion and I shall reward you.” Isn’t that cool?
“It is not!” My friend retorts to my chagrin. He stammers heavily: “You are taking ‘beeyaib’ from chief”. He means ‘bribe’, a word in English that rhymes with ‘corruption’ in politics. In my village parlance, ‘soured breast milk’ is the name. It is the same carrot that enriched Chief Ogobe who was once an anointed rebel.
*some more*...soon
Follow me on twitter @naijamatta
Saturday, 16 June 2012
We have a voice—enough is enough!
I write you this homily…
Just yesterday, I flipped through my diary and it struck my memory. I still remember—a group of primary six pupils who decided their fate with a conscious stab and uncommon resolution.
It all started with the courage of a nine years old boy. They had a teacher who was unserious, lazy and dismissive. She was dicing with their future and they knew it. This boy was the class monitor. He was not as brilliant but he wanted to learn. But then because their teacher wasn’t ready to teach them, he had to complain. First, he mentioned the problem to a few pupils in his class and they opposed him. The issue was then reported to the teacher who took immediate action. It was a day never to forget. The teacher caned the boy until he bled and sadly, the class captaincy was stripped off him.
Even so the teacher continued unabashedly in her indolence and insensitivity. She hardly explained a topic well. Infact, she concentrated more on beating than teaching. Class exercises and register were rarely marked. She didn’t supervise their notes. Corrections were not effected. And she (the teacher) received her wages.
The common entrance examination was a few months away. The little boy single-handedly decided to dare again. He was really sad and worried. Other pupils didn’t show concern. Some were afraid while the others were too playful to notice the insidious danger lurking in the path of their future. One day however, the boy bravely wrote a heartfelt letter to the headmaster of his school. When his classmates realized what he had done, they feared him and pledged solidarity. Then the headmaster confirmed that the boy had told the truth. A change was imperative!
That boy was my friend. That boy is a man now. That boy perhaps was me.
Many Nigerians are low and depressed today; alas! Only a few can raise a hand and say, “I have a voice. Enough is enough!” The preponderance of this statistics is damning. I do not see the possibility of a greater tomorrow without a quasi-mindset from the majority, who are indeed suffering because of the greed, egoism and exploits of the clueless minority. It is pre-prandial to take action, like the primary six pupil whose determination brought about change in his class. Had he folded his arms?
In the wake of Farouk-Otedola bribery scandal, I begin to imagine if these politicians think of us as animals. They had tried to forestall the truth behind subsidy rigmarole and its shocking report. We squeezed that out. Now they have averted the prosecution of the cabal who are mercilessly impoverishing the nation.
However, I refuse to chide them further. Remember this is just a homily. It is me who is to be blamed. It is you who have sealed your loudmouth for fear that General Abacha is still alive. It is us—who have let another man call our wives prostitutes to our face. I pity us. Things are happening—strange things. This is more serious than a Jet Li’s movie. The ungodly and their power struggle?—they will ruin us more. Their infatuation with corruption and wanton gluttony are well targeted and defined in depleting our hopes of a better future…so that their children can ‘chop’ without ‘work’ and then ours will ‘work’ and not ‘chop’. #GodForbid! Our family shall not depend on palm kernel.
We have a voice—enough is enough! This is the only power we can generate from our minds. It would be a masterstroke if we go for their jugulars and set our minds against these so called ‘Political juggernauts’ that have infested on our economy. We could achieved what @ekekee.com has termed ‘Intellectual Revolution…A Synergy of great Minds!” or recite some pro-change verses from ‘the Book of Revolution’ @ Omojuwa.com.
Follow me @ Naijamatta
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