Win a free Copy of the Naijastories Anthology on Royspace!

Hi People,

So the Naijastories Anthology is still on sale, have you got a copy? If you haven’t here’s your chance.

I will be giving out three free copies of the anthology here. All you have to do is answer any of the questions below:

         Name twenty-five of the thirty authors who make up the anthology J

                                                  OR

       State the title of my story and write a short love story of your own below 150 words. Be sure to use Tobi and Chibuzo as the main characters just like in my story. J

Send your answers to leroy7.18@gmail.com

This little contest closes on Saturday the 14^th of April.

I’m excited about the Anthology really and I’m particularly grateful to God for Myne Whitman, a true trailblazer and wonderful boss! Thanks Myne, I appreciate the leader in you!

Thanks for being a part of my space people and I hope you win a free copy!

Cheers!

Roy

Naijastories Anthology: A review 2

The First Volume of the Naijastories Anthology, of tears and kisses, heroes and villains, launches today March 27th, 2012.
Here's another review by Tolu Oloruntoba, Publisher of Klorofyl Magazine.
Enjoy!

The NS Anthology: Of tears, kisses, heroes and villains, and might I add, empathy.

Why do we love Nigerian stories? Those tales of the improbable, the fantastic, the quotidian? These fountains of dramatic justice bubbling with every emotion known to man? Nigerians are born raconteurs, you see? We'll dip you into it, willing or not.

What makes a good story? We forget ourselves in the instant. We abandon decorum. Clapping and cheering for the dramatis personae. Shrieks of horror, or delight may escape us. We laugh, cry and sniffle, sometimes in spite of ourselves. We're at the edge of our seat, at times. We let out the occasional involuntary chuckle.
A good story is like the unrehearsed banter of a mischievous friend, the earnest storyteller. And like most Nigerian stories, has a moral- an agenda, if you will. And surprises aplenty. Most Nigerian stories abandon the fluff and reach directly for the good stuff: our heart strings. I suspect, too, that this is why Nollywood is so loved, world over. It interacts with the basic motivations of us story-loving humans.

This is not to suggest that the offerings in the anthology are basic.Far from it. The first volume of  Naija Stories contains stories, as the rider goes, "of tears, kisses, heroes and villains", is nuanced with the contradictions, unseen difficulties, and surprising turns in the road that we have found life in Nigeria replete with. The anthology of 30 stories will be launched on the 27th of March, 2012, although digital copies can be procured already.

It is true to life, examining issues, horrors and concerns of the day, and our national lives: Militancy in the Niger Delta, murder and armed robbery, corruption, sexual abuse, cultism, child marriage, (unsafe) abortion, prostitution, mortalities from AIDS, and sectarian violence. It also, however, speaks of bereavement; love, lust and adultery; family; peer pressure and rivalry; long distance relationships; over-salted food, and the kindness of strangers. It's not all gore. We still recognise our country.

The authors live in Lagos, Abuja, Ilorin, Kaduna, Port Harcourt, and Niger State, but also Canada, London, The US and the Netherlands. Theirs are voices of the new, cosmopolitan Nigerian youth.
We recognise, too, the dialogue, and settings. Very congruent with our authentic, emotive patterns of speech, and which manage, in several instances, not to look contrived. We recognise these voices. We are the ones speaking.

The anthology is a snapshot of that most elemental of artistic forms: the Nigerian story. Rising above the fray, however, are several pieces I will highlight, which I found striking and unforgettable for several reasons.
The anthology begins with A Glimpse In The Mirror. Yejide Kilanko's touching tale of a young coffin-maker moistened my eyes at some point (I could be a softy, I know J). Other striking stories were, Mother Of Darkness, by Rayo Abe, a supernatural tale of teenage 'experimentation' with the occult; Blame It On A Yellow Dress, by Uche Okonkwo, which approximates the innocence and violation of a little girl at home, from the viewpoint of the child; and Damilola Ashaolu's poetic cadences of illicit love in Nothing Good, which are nothing, if not good (you'll excuse the pun).

Others include Adiba Obubo's Visiting Admiral John Bull, which explores the armed insurgency in the Niger Delta, a lawyer's disillusionment with peaceful dialogue, and the fallout from hideous acts of the 1999 Odi Massacre. What Theophilus Did, by Gboyega Otolorin is an immersive story, with particularly enjoyable dialogue. In Illusions Of Hope, Ola Awonubi reads, true, the pulse of a populace gripped by uncertainty and insecurity, and the editor of the volume, Myne Whitman, writes of an essential kind of courage, in A Kind Of Bravery.
Two Straws In A Bottle, Remi-Roy Oyeyemi's mellow romantic tale, ends with quite a flourish; Wiping Halima's Tears is simple, yet poignant; and in Meena Adekoya's story of a vengeful Abiku in Catalyst, you'll likely find an interesting read.

My absolute best of these stories, however were Tola Odejayi's Co-operate!, of a midnight encounter with armed robbers that unfolds, and ends in unexpected fashion, for everyone; Lulufa Vongtau's short, pithy and cheeky Jesus Of Sports Hall, an adolescent story that still ends up being a grave indictment of our society at large; and Rachel's Hero by Henry Onyema, an action story complete with grenades, Uzis, masked men, and one desperado Bruce Willis type, is a hackle-raising tale of heroism, and maniacal terrorists besieging a school.

The volume ends with a heart-pounding thriller/horror story– by Raymond Elenwoke- The Devil's Barter, which leaves us like we were at the end of tales by moonlight, the Nigerian Stories we grew up on- excited, and wondering, probably, when the next will come.

The longest of these stories come in at about 13 pages, while the shortest average about 2 to 3. The disparity is somewhat worrying, though. There doesn't seem to be a followed convention on length, and there are several pieces that could work just as well, or better, at a third of their current length. Segmentation across themes, or better navigation across stories, particularly with a more coherent contents page, or perhaps numbering the stories or introducing them with a synopsis in the contents, would also have served the layout of the book better. One may not be interested in reading back to back, but maybe I'm just speaking for myself.

I may not have been crazy about the cover design and was irked by the odd typo, several instances of worn expressions, and the occasional dead-end story, but I found gems, and pleasant surprises, as you will, too. Very often, the stream of the narrative rises to very admirable heights, and the one thing you cannot say, is that these stories were told without heart. It's a fairly accurate portraiture of the lives of Nigerians, as they are currently lived, and a reasonably enjoyable aggregation of our stories. And, find it palatable, agreeable, or not, you cannot deny that it speaks truth. Could a greater compliment be paid?

Tolu Oloruntoba is a physician, prosist and the publisher of Klorofyl Magazine.

Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device from MTN

Naijastories Anthology: A review 1

The First Volume of the Naijastories Anthology, Of Tears and Kisses, Heroes and Villains, launches today March 27th, 2012.

Below is a review by Abayomi Ogunwale.
Enjoy!

THE NS ANTHOLOGY: A SHORT REVIEW

Short stories are truly one of life’s understated gifts; and a well spun tale in the hand of a skilled writer has within it enough power to amaze and transfom us. But stories -good stories- are also like desperate suitors; they turn you in, out, and around with their advances. Compiling a perfect anthology is therefore a difficult undertaking, akin to the task of designing a hostel where all a woman’s suitors can comfortably co-habit, and allow her to transit, unhurt. It is difficult, the task. In two hundred and forty-eight pages, the NS Anthology made it look all so easy.

From the moment I stepped into Durosinmi’s coffin- making workshop in Yejide Kilanko’s ‘‘a glimpse in the mirror’’, I knew I was in for a delightful journey. And even though you feel a little offended and betrayed by Kilanko’s skillful arrangement of Durosinmi’s final plunge, you feel the need to forgive her only because her voice leads you into the arms of another guide: Salatu Sule. ‘‘If tears could speak’’, they would surely fail to match Sule’s eloquently executed coup de grâce. He delivered a sad story in a language that makes you happy. That must be illegal, the execution maybe.

The socially instructive message in Seun Odukoya’s ‘‘Can I please Kill you’’ was well balanced out by the equally well delivered, though lighter prose of Uko Bendi Uko in ‘‘One Sunday morning in Atlanta’’. Such is the authority of the writing that, you feel a certain kinship with Okon; and his words seem to proceed from a part of you.

Rayo Abe Delivered. Her story ‘‘the mother of darkness’’ takes you right back to secondary school. There is something beautiful and even enviable in that ability to capture and sequester all the emotions of a life-phase into one story. The mother of darkness will scare you a bit. But not when you are reading it. The fear comes after you leave the story.

Babatunde Olaifa’s ‘‘Showdown at Rowe Park ’’ is a short read. What it lacks in lenght is adequately compensated for in the vivid and hilarious language of its delivery.

‘‘Blame it on a yellow dress’’ is a story of loss; the loss of innocence. The frail looking Uche Okonkwo writes in a language that belies her phizog. She indicts too; she calls us to more vigilance.

Time would not allow me to tell of the healing humor of Bankole Banjo’s ‘‘the writer’s cinema’’, or of the amorous leanings of Ugoji’s ‘‘seeing off kisses’’, or even of the sobering message in Odeshilo’s ‘‘too late’’. Obudo will compel you along in ‘‘visiting Admiral John Bull’’, and the dark politics of the Niger-Delta Oil Struggle. Otolorin and Vongtau both command admiration, but in different ways: one, in a short Hilarious story, and the other in a more serious but tight prose. Iruene and Lawal will also make you laugh, while Ezenwaka and Awonubi explored more challenging genres with amazing craftiness.

Whitman and Oyeyemi remind you of their quality, with two mature deliveries: ‘‘a kind of Bravery, and ‘‘Two straws in a bottle’’. I stand, hands facing one another; I applaud.

Unfortunately, I do not have the required space and words to comment sufficiently on Ashaolu’s, Osinowo’s, Adekoya’s,Onyema’s, Ilevbare’s, Chukwubuike’s, Turtoe’s, Osi’s, and Elenwoke’s deliveries; a honor that their talent undoubtedly deserve, and which the reader of the NS Anthology will realize at first glance.

The NS Anthology is not perfect; there is no perfect anthology anywhere, no perfect collage in the world. But it is good. Sitting here and typing this review, I know how it feels to read through and summarize a very good book: content, excited and honored. That summarizes the emotions I wish to convey to the fortunate reader who will get a copy of the book. I wish I could, in Oyeyemi’s words ‘‘now to find the words to seal the deal!’’

***

Abayomi Ogunwale is a writer, medical doctor, poet and social commentator. His articles have appeared in the Sentinel Literary quarterly, Subjective Substance, Firsteditions and the Sun Newspaper amongst others. He is currently studying in Texas, USA and working on his anthology of short stories.

Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device from MTN

Naijastories Anthology and My Favourite Things To Watch!

Hi People!

How you doing out there? I have good news. The Naijastories Anthology has been released! Click on the NS ebook on the right to read more. Will post more reviews and stuff before MARCH 27th the official launch date.

For now though, just wanted to share some of my favourite things to watch with you.
Enjoy!

Jamie Grace, she's really young  and I like her voice.

I originally wanted to post Francesca Batistelli's Beautiful, Beautiful Video, but I found it hard, so this is Free to be me; just as great as this young woman after God's heart.

Courageous!! Please watch this movie. Thanks to my boss I didn't watch a pirated copy *tongue out*

But seriously, everyone should watch it. It's great, inspiring and totally awesome!

Okay! I have watched this movie gazillion times already and it never fails to make me laugh and cry and laugh some more. I totally love it. It's not new though, but please see it if you haven't.

That's all folks.

Enjoy!

Roy.

Unreserved, Unconditional, Unqualified ....

I cannot get over the many times that He overlooks my faults when I come to Him. The seventy-times-seven times that He forgives and washes and cleanses and hugs and holds and assures and blesses and forgives again, washing and cleansing and hugging and holding and....  Thank you Jesus...

♥♥♥♥♥

Kolade, the whole gang and I had been caught. And I hated that it was Mrs. Orosi, the long necked mathematics teacher cum house mistress, who crept up on us. How had she known? She probably heard the dorm door open. The thing always squeaked no matter how gentle you were.

We knelt in the staff room the next day, our hands stretched up to the sky. What I hated most about the punishment was the way my armpits were exposed when I raised my arms. Those annoying male teachers will ogle me like I am some slab of meat at Balogun market.

Their punishment meant nothing to me. They could say whatever they wanted. Last night had been fun. It was my third time of going out of the school compound with the gang and I felt so proud to have had a partner this time. It was like being married, but not entirely. Kolade acted like a gentleman. I wonder who taught him to be so suave; his older brothers probably. He told me he had three of them! Shade and Kenneth were the star couple, but I didn’t envy them.

My mouth curved in a smile as I thought of the events of the night before, oblivious to the teachers’ remarks about silly children who were too eager to eat the forbidden fruit. One said ‘Their parents are to blame!’ Another said, ‘Ha! It is peer pressure o!’ I chuckled at their confusion. Whatever.

Then I heard that familiar sound of a shoe sole scraping the floor and I looked toward the door. My eyes widened when I saw her. My heart did a triple jump and slammed against my ribcage. Who had called her? How had she come so soon, all the way from Badagry? I looked away hurriedly and buried my face in my chest, willing her to disappear. I didn’t want to see the look on her face. The one that said she was disappointed in me. The one that accused me, yet pleaded with me at the same time. I hated to hurt her. And when she spoke I knew I couldn't wish her away. She was really here.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Akpan,” she greeted the head teacher.

Her voice had that slight tremor in it. The one that turned to a full blown quiver anytime she was sad or upset. The same one that sent daggers tearing through my adolescent heart. Oh, God I hated to hurt her.

She stood in front of me and bent down to peer into my face. My lips quivered at the look in her eyes.

“Queen, Ki lo tun se?” she asked in halting Yoruba. I lowered my arms, clutched the cape of my uniform to my chest and sighed deeply, my face contorting in what was a prelude to tears. Her voice rang loud and clear in my head, like the ominous school bell announcing the beginning of Maths class. It sent dread into my soul.

“Why do you keep doing this kind of thing? After all I told you last time?” She bent closer to me and I could feel her breath on my face; her warm breath that both comforted and frightened me. I covered my face with both hands and wept, the tears flowed fast and free, running down my arms. 

After what seemed like hours I heard the sound of her feet walking away as she said, “Mr. Akpan, if I beat her now, she will probably faint.” She knew the power she wielded over me. Yet I knew she loved me. I looked up at her just as she turned back at the door. “Please handle that for me, just be gentle,” she shook her head at me as if wondering how she came to be burdened with a daughter like me, “she’s all I've got.” She scraped the soles of her shoes on the floor again as she made her way out, probably to the car where Sule, the very docile driver would be waiting.

Two days later, on the first day of our mid-term break, I stepped into the house, unsure. I had agonized about seeing her again. I wondered what she would do. Would she punish me again? Would she beat me herself now? She would most certainly not have remembered my birthday the day before. She didn’t call the house mistress to ask to speak to me as usual. I had waited all day. Would she talk to me now? Ignore me? The questions chased themselves around in my mind till I was weary with the anxiety.

Naturally, I expected everything but the table set with delicacies and drinks and a huge birthday cake. Anything but the colourful card with my name emblazoned on it; everything but her wide smile as she gathered me into her arms, tenderly, like I was the best thing in the world. Tears pooled at the corner of my eyes and I didn’t even fight to keep them back from rolling down my cheeks and to my lips. I tasted the harsh saltiness of my misdeeds in those tears.

Later that night I turned to her as we sat watching TV, and asked the question that had been burning in my heart since she came to the school.

“You’re not sending me back?” I waited. She smiled; a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. I lowered my head and fiddled with the hem of my skirt. I wouldn’t blame her if she did. Maybe I was way past redemption now. I half expected her to say, ‘after your birthday.’

But she only shook her head and said, “No dear, you belong with me now. Surely you know that.”

A feeling of warmth flooded my heart. And I couldn’t help myself as my shoulders shook mildly, tears threatening to flow unbidden. Her words comforted me, frightened me, assured me and exposed my foolishness. The warmth in her voice reached beyond my mind, way past my soul. It touched the very core of my being. And I couldn’t help but remember what I had felt on that Sunday evening a few years ago when she stood at the orphanage smiling at me. 

She had looked at me, a scrawny eighteen year old, left to scavenge her way through life; condemned to have no education or loving guidance because I was already set in my ways. I had felt her warmth reach out across the room, wrapping me in such love ad protection as I have never known. Her next words had sealed the deal and I was ready to follow her to the ends of the earth.

 “Yes, she is the one. I will adopt her.”

Still I kept on fiddling with the hem of my skirt, vowing in my heart never to hurt her again. But even as I mulled the words over in my mind, I knew I needed more than my own will to follow through. I leaned into her and sighed, drinking in the freshness of her presence; the assurance of her thoughtfulness. I would keep her aura with me, I would think about her every time and hopefully, when my demons rise, I will fight them, and I will win.

♥♥♥♥♥

flickr.com

..but you received the Spirit of Adoption (sonship) and by him we cry “Abba, Father!”  Romans 8:15

Roy.

Something To Smile About + FemmeLounge

Hello People!

I stumbled on this, it made me laugh! and I decided to share it here. 

Just smile  :)

Top 10 Sayings of Moms in the Bible 

10. Samson! Get your hand out of that lion. You don't know where it's been! 

9. David! I told you not to play in the house with that sling! Go practice your harp. We pay good money for those lessons!

8. Abraham! Stop wandering around the countryside and get home for supper!

7. Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego! I told you never to play with fire!

6. Cain! Get off your brother! You're going to kill him some day! (like duh!!)

5. Noah! No, you can't keep them! I told you, don't bring home any more strays!

4. Gideon! Have you been hiding in that wine press again? Look at your clothes! (Judges 6:11)

3. James and John! No more burping contests at the dinner table, please. People are going to call you the sons of thunder! (Mark 3:17)

2. Judas! Have you been in my purse again?! (He can't help it mum!  heehaw!)

michz83.multiply.com

And the number one is:

1. Jesus! Stop working on that old wood and come in and eat! You'd spend your life on that wood, if your father asked ya to!*  (And He did, Halleluyah!)

Serious one here ------  * Please note that the word "spend" isn't used in the sense of time, but in the sense of "giving his all" "being poured out."

Kinda reminds me of Sunday school days. :)

P.S. Last week I posted a flash piece on www.femmelounge.com ( a great online magazine for young women!) titled On The Brink: When Nothing Makes Sense. 


If you haven't already, you can read it here  http://www.femmelounge.org/?p=5091  
I'm grateful to everyone who shared and left a comment. Thanks for the love!




Cheers!

Roy.

Happy New Year + A testimony!

Happy New Year!

Phew! I'm very late, I know, but my wishes are sincere, believe me.
I'm praying you'll have a great year ahead. Much more fulfilling than any other before now.

I want to share a testimony with you. A real testimony if there ever was one.

One day, a group of people were having a meeting in an office complex. They were seated in one of the many conference rooms in the building. All of a sudden there was a loud, ominous bang and the walls of the complex came tumbling down. There was confusion everywhere, people running pell-mell trying to run for cover.

One of the men who had been in the conference room, was thrown in the air at the explosion. he landed with a heavy thud of the floor, a slab of concrete quickly landing on his belly, a dislodged table after it. In short he was buried under a pile of rubble. He was able to look beside him. and what did he see, his colleague who had been sitting beside him, dead. He looked to the right, same thing. Several of the people he had joked and laughed and talked with were lying around the room in different states on consciousness or lack of it. All he could mutter was 'Jesus, Jesus.'

He struggled to get to his feet and found his way outside where he gathered that a crazy fellow had rammed into the building and detonated a bomb, killing himself and several other occupants of the complex in the process.

He couldn't believe it. Some people were dead, their heads blown off. He was checked by paramedics and taken to the hospital. He wasn't bleeding and he only felt a slight pain in his belly. At the hospital he saw several injured people. Some with their arms and legs severed. He was in shock but he just wanted to get out.

The doctors checked him and didn't find any bruises or injuries but they knew he wasn't totally out of danger. After a while he started having serious pains in his belly. It got worse and I think he passed out.

Anyway, I can't remember the details clearly now but he got real bad and had to be taken to the general hospital. They were to perform a minor operation. After a while he got infected, his lungs, his kidney, his liver, the infection kept spreading.

He had to be flown to South Africa for further treatment. At some point he fell into a coma and was unresponsive for a whole month. He was hooked to several life support machines at the time.

While at the hospital, his wife kept praying and speaking the word over his life. She got a cup of water and prayed then anointed him with it. She couldn't get any oil. She rejected all the doctor's reports and kept speaking life over her husband.

A month later he suddenly opened his eyes and spoke. It was a miracle and the doctors called him the man with the nine lives. His wife was overjoyed, glad that she had not given up on the word that could save and deliver.

The man got better and then told the story of where he'd been (you know we're much more than our bodies right?) and what he'd seen during that one month.

He had been taken up by an angel. They ascended until he could see the earth. He also saw hell, and people suffering and in agony.  He was then taken to heaven. and Jesus came and spoke to him.

I can't remember the details of their conversation now but it was something about Jesus asking him, "Will you come with me and be my friend?" Our friend said "Yes lord I will."

 And angels sang in the background. He remembered the song clearly even when he woke up.

Our friend was discharged a month after this. He spent only two months in the hospital after the doctors predicted that he had only a slim chance of survival.

What an awesome testimony!

No. It isn't fiction. It happened. Like seriously. The man's name is Mr. Olukoga. He was one of the 'victims' (now Victor!) of the UN Abuja bomb blast last year.

He gave the testimony live at my church on 31st night, complete with pictures of him in the hospital, connected to several machines, tubes running everywhere.

I was stunned.

I do not doubt the power of my God to save and deliver. I'm just amazed at the ways He chooses to show His power.

The fool says in his heart that there is no God.

Na bible talk am!



Roy.