Showing posts from November, 2015

NIGERIAN WRITING – the ghost that thinks he is alive

At the rate we are going in this ‘gi-ANT of Africa’ country, we will soon be left with nothing but the ghost of our once flourishing and glorious publishing industry. It is terrible. As a matter of fact, if we try to make a list of successful Nigerian writers, in all three genres, we find mainly two types of names – those in the days long gone like Soyinka, Clark and Achebe or those ‘adopted’ by the West like Chimamanda and co. The local ones like Abubakar Adam and Tade Ipadeola got there on ‘Famished roads’ and have not made fortunes from their success as have the Achebes and Chimamandas. The rest of us are hopefuls, struggling with money for publishing and market for selling. So what we have now is a situation of ‘take the bull by the horns’ of face the consequential music. What is the way out? As a writer, poetry promoter and publisher rolled into one, I think I may have a little knowledge about the problem, maybe enough knowledge to say that: Saving Nigerian lit


God does not live in Bible pages And the Koran cannot be His house He counts not rosaries, nor habits images Clanging bells and murdered cocks only arouse The owner of the shrine Who is the owner of the shrine If not the pastor, imam and prophet Who sell ‘god’ for the coin in your pocket Blinding you to the God in you? That voice, whispering deep inside Quietly, when you do and refuse to do… He is God, the true God you already denied


Light came on and Maxwell opened his eyes immediately. “NEPA! The idiots have woken up,” he thought. He was lying on his side, near the edge of his unusually large bed. It colonized more than a third of his organized bedroom. Except for two condom wraps, a pair of Nike shoes near his crowded shoe rack and the jean discarded at the foot of the bed, everything in the room was neatly arranged. His wardrobe was locked and not a single cloth hung from its doors. Between the bed and the wardrobe was his reading table and a chair. On the table were two neat stacks of books, arranged according to size, on the left and right. In between them was a closed Macbook. The Mac's neighbors included a pen, a jotter, a flexible lamp and a small metallic flask. On the other side of the bed was a small cabinet with a few toiletries and beside that was his shoe rack. At the foot of the bed was a rug on which sat his slipper. A TV hung on the wall, above a small LG sound system. Near the door