A NEW JOB!!!

Yes… No… Yes… No…

But yes! I really do have a new job. Maybe not your conventional job, but it’s a job nonetheless.

Alright, this is it: I’m creating a new category in my blog- BOOK REVIEW. Boring, shey?

Now in this category, I’m simply going to be giving my opinion on books (of entirely any sort) I’ve read, not necessarily telling you what it is about, because I wouldn’t like for someone to tell me what a book was about before I read it. I like to feel my pulse race; I like to predict times without number what’s going to happen at an instance; I like to either applaud or rebuke the various characters (real or fictional) at the appropriate times.

I’ll start by reviewing three books I read at least two years ago, which I have scarcely opened since then, and are now safely tucked away in my library.

Soooooo, here goes:

1.      IN THE GRIP OF GRACE

This was the first ever Max Lucado book I read and owned. It was given to me as a birthday gift by a friend. She thought I had previously listed him as a favourite author. This book however catapulted me into Max Lucado’s world. I found his style of writing enthralling, his delivery fluid, and of course, the message pure for it is the word of God. The cover picture gives it a very nice packaging indeed. I very much like.

After reading this book, I was certain I would buy many more of his books in times to come. I have.

IN THE GRIP OF GRACE is about my best Max Lucado book yet. There’s a second one (which I would mention in a future review) that strongly contends with it.

Books number 2 and 3 would be coming up shortly.  I just changed my mind and would be posting them as independent updates instead.

I hope you’ll be back.

Chinazar Okoro©2012

 

Book Reading

I attended a book reading today. Yes, my first of many to come.

There were musical and poetry performances, and Okechukwu Ofili read from both his books, ‘How Stupidity Saved My Life’ and ‘How Laziness saved my life’. Another lady read an excerpt from her favorite book, one by Joy Isi Bewagi (can’t remember the title now).

The book reading organized by a book club, PULP FACTION, is known as BOOK N’ GAUGE. It holds on the last Saturday of every month at Debonair bookshop, 294, Herbert Macaulay Road, Yaba.

Here’s inviting you to the next. There’s a tag: Invite 5 people and win a book. So please attend and help me win a book.

To him who says that to hide a thing from a Nigerian is to put it in a book is quite ignorant. QUOTE ME.

Ofili reading from his book

Poetry recital

obstructed camera views

 

SLOW FADE

She leads him by his collar, and he has no time to make his decision.

Babatunde complained out loud as his phone rang for the fourth consecutive time. Everyone was driving him crazy. He hated government work! He hated female bosses!! And he hated incessant callers too!!!

“Guy, how far? … Sorry joor, I been dey busy… How your side nah?” he asked trying to sound upbeat. The voice on the other end rang with laughter, and soon Tunde’s face lightened up. “Omo, na to pop champagne be dat ooo. No dull boiz.”

Ikemefuna Nwoye ran his fingers across his embossed name on the promotion letter. “Manager (Projects),” it read; he was only 26 and in a multinational company. It fitted well there, he thought, it was where he belonged. “Meet me at the top,” he usually told those who cared to listen. He clenched his right fist, and grabbed it with his left. Picking up his car keys and quickly tidying his desk, he added a spring to his gait, and on his way out of the reception, generously tipped the security guard on duty who saluted him expectantly.

“I swear, that woman na winch. Just dey carry government work on top her head like say na her papa business. Make she no go marry,” Babatunde was complaining bitterly.

“Who wan marry devil put for house? I swear down, Babs, you needs comot for that unit. E be like say na prayer and fasting you go do on top her head,” Tiwi proffered in consolation.

Osas rubbed his forehead. “Should we exchange jobs then? Would you rather wash madam’s lab coat? Or her two-day-old flask of food? And then say gleefully, ‘you’re welcome, ma’ when she thanks you for paying some money into some account. Sometimes, I wonder if it is not Biochemistry I studied. I just dey waste for this country.”

They were seated in their corner at Mama Casa’s awaiting semo and pounded yam.

Festus was about narrating how he ‘treated one babe’s fuck-up’ when Ikem strolled in. “IK baba,” they hailed in unison, bobbing their fists in the air.

“Guys, look, he’s got the swag to go with it now.”
“No dey whine me nao.”
“Abeg, chop knuckle.”
“Congrats, bruv.”
“Congratulobia, nna.”
“Thanks, mehn”

“So, how are we celebrating?” Festus threw Ikem a quizzical glance, and the others cast him their expectant glances as well.

Ikem paused, and with a brilliant smile announced, “All your orders are on me. Drinks and all. We can even have ice-cream afterwards.”

“Are you for real, mehn? See insult o. I think say e wan talk better thing sef.” Festus shook his head.
“Nna, you don’t mean it. Odikwa risky. No try that rough play again,” Tiwi said with a fake Igbo accent.
Babs looked truly incredulous, “Igbo man. Your money no dey drop. How much food I wan chop. Something wey no go pass N500. We dey primary school? Ice cream ke? Why you no talk cabin biscuit and caprisonne? Mscheeeeeeew.”

Ikem felt offended at first, and then embarrassed. He was smart, probably the smartest of them all. He could handle the situation. “Alright, alright, cool down. Una blood too dey hot. So what do you want?”

Osas cleared his throat as Babs announced, “Now you’re talking. Let’s hit the bar,” and the others lent their support. Ikem was silent.
“We can’t be drinking Tandy and zobo at this our old age. Abi your pastor will beat you ni?”
“Pastor dey house dey shack im own. We fit see am for bar sef. Abeg, make we go flex joor. Life is short. Bros no do us strong thing.”
“C’mon man, one or two bottles can’t kill you. No dey fall my hand. You are a man now ooo.”
“I don’t think I have enough money on me right now?”
“ATM no dey? Shuo? Besides, I can always lend you, you pay me back ASAP sha.”
Ikem smiled and threw Osas a playful punch on the shoulder. “So, where will it be?”
Babs led the way amidst cheer, “Follow me.”

As they pulled into the parking lot, Babs announced, “There’s an adjoining club, so we can just chill out there later.”
“Sure boy.”
“I hope we won’t be staying here till like forever?” Ikem protested after deliberation.
“Dude, relax. Relax, mehn. That’s why today’s a Friday. Your promotion get sense.”
They sat in the lounge sipping martini and requesting for more, whilst talking about girls and yabbing Ikemefuna.

They entered the club and were embraced by its warm ambience despite being fully air-conditioned. The neon lights and fast-paced music sent the fun-seekers gyrating in every direction. Abruptly, the music changed and there was a unanimous scream of delight from the dancers. A lanky girl clad in a sleeveless chiffon top that was same length as her bum-short screamed excitedly at Festus as she threw her arms around his neck; “Tina baybee,” he exclaimed, and they immediately danced away.

Soon, Babs and Ikem were left sipping from their glasses in one corner of the bar. Now and then, random people walked gaily up to Babs, the brazen girls pecked him on the cheek, and the guys either shook his hand or chopped his knuckle.

I am just an Oliver
Oliver Oliver Oliver Twist
Just an Oliver
Oliver Oliver Oliver Twist

The tempo changed again, loud screams rent the air, and she caught his interest. She danced without a care in the world, drowning her sorrow, forgetting her pain. She swayed her body in rhythm to the song, wriggling her hips seductively as her buttocks frolicked dangerously from side to side.

Ikem sat across the room, amused by her gymnastics, and all the while he sipped from his glass, his eyes never left her for a millisecond. The song changed again, and as she retired to her seat, a close-enough distance for Ikem to conveniently observe, she summoned the waiter for a drink.

With slender legs and feet that sat comfortably in purple stiletto heels, and fingers that gently rubbed the wine glass as though it were a man’s beard, Ikem noticed that her glistering neckpiece lay gingerly on her cleavage, as though it did not really mean to lie there at all. Then, he noticed how well-rounded they were, and imagined how supple they would feel to his hands. His hormones arose at the clarion call, and his blood became turbo-charged. With his eyes still fixed on her, she flipped her Peruvian hair and met his gaze briefly. Babs kindly refilled Ikem’s glass and he downed it in a gulp. Boldly, Ikem stood to his feet, but sat down again almost immediately.

Chisom. Why?

“C’mon, Ikem, it’s not a big deal. You’ll be done in a jiffy,” he thought he heard Osas, who had returned with the others from the dancing floor speak, but when he looked sideways, a girl with a mix of blue and red weave-on had her gigantic lips all over him. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, and he rubbed his temple thoughtfully. When he looked back up, her eyes were fixed on him. They were intent. They dared him. “Chicken,” her eyes accused. He broke away from the interlock and gulped another shot.

He thought what to say to her when they met. Would he satisfy her? Maybe he should tell her, “please this is my first time.” Heck, no! What man does that? What girl wants to hear that? He nearly laughed out loud. And then the battle raged:

Do not conform to standard. He felt the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

For heaven’s sake, YOU ARE 26. It’s only as much a big deal as you make it.

You were bought with a price. You are not your own. I’m sorry.

God will not hold this one sin against your many good deeds.

Chisom? Chisom. You love her.

Yes! Chisom. You love her, and she loves you too, and love shall cover a multitude of sins.

You promised her. Ikem groaned out loud.

And she would forgive you. 70 x 70 times, no?

SILENCE

You are only human, with blood flowing through your veins.

SILENCE

Yes! You are like Jesus, but you are NOT Jesus.

SILENCE

Take charge, son. NOW! Ikem rose to his feet as Babs slipped a small pack into his back pocket, and he walked casually to his quarry armed with fresh worry:

Would she change her mind at the last minute and make a fool of him? Would she be disappointed by his stunts? Would she tease him unmercifully? Would he run into her sometime in the future? Would he suffer the guilt syndrome in the aftermath? Heck! Most probably not. That’s for women, he heard. His boxers- would she be put off? He hoped it wasn’t smelling. He could not remember now whether it was for three days or four that he had worn it at a stretch without washing.

Well, now it won’t matter anymore. She had him by the collar.

It’s a slow fade when you give yourself away
- Casting Crowns

Chinazar Okoro©2012

 

New additions to my library

Exceeding my budget, I got these books yesterday at the University of Lagos book fair.

 My colleagues at work have been asking me when I would finish them; my response, “as long as I live, I shall surely read them.” I’m really not in a hurry to devour them, as I’d rather savour my books. So yes yes yes, happy reading to me

The bookfair which began on Monday would be ending today, Saturday, May 12, 2012. You may want to pay a visit.

 P.S: Thanks to WordPress for Blackberry, this post is arriving two days late.

 

AS THEY SAY:

The first time I heard of Teju Cole, it was through reading his fait divers (or small fates as he also calls them), and I was captivated by his style of writing.

After reading a couple of his fait divers, I truly wanted to stop because he only reported strictly bad news, but a part of me wanted to read just one more, and so I clicked away onto the next and then the next… and of course the next. Even Teju Cole is aware of this effect on his readers, and in his words, “something of the dark humour catches them.”

So when I came across Every Day Is For The Thief at the The Hub media, my curiosity was aroused and I was expectant of a fabulous read.

Only a 128-page book, it took me forever to finish it… actually, just three weeks.

For starters, I cannot comprehend those ‘photocopied’ illustrations that ‘adorn’ some of the pages!

Then, there’s hardly a story line. The novella sorta felt like reading the bad news in a Nigerian tabloid. I should have known, right? But I find the title very catchy.

After reading Every Day is For The Thief, I didn’t look forward to purchasing his first novel Open City published in 2011, but we all know the hype surrounding it: nominated for The National Book Critics Circle for Best Fiction, and more importantly, winner of the 2012 Hemingway Foundation/PEN Award for a distinguished first book of fiction. Open City, therefore, is now also listed on my to-get book list.

Chinazar Okoro©2012

 

HAPPY MOTHERS’ DAY

Who sat and watched my infant head
When sleeping on my cradle bed
And tears of sweet affection shed
My Mother

In all my years on earth, my mother has given me the best of what she can offer. The sacrifices she has made for me seem to her as no sacrifice at all. My happiness is her happiness. She has taught me virtues that I would now pass on to the next generation. You see, my children are blessed already. God knows them by name even.

No measure of literary ingenuity can truly really summarize how grateful I am to God for my mother, so I won’t even try.

Only a mother knows the love she has for her child.

So, not just to my mum, but to every woman who is, and has taken upon herself the role of a mother, I say sincerely: HAPPY MOTHERS’ DAY. God bless you.

Chinazar Okoro©2012

 

One Day Like That

I was returning from Idi-Araba that day, and was trying to beat the traffic that was certain to gather on the Lekki-Epe expressway. I glanced at my wristwatch, and let out a sigh- I was running late for my afternoon shift job.

I got to Obalende, and peered into a nearly full green and white bus. The only seats left were the ones without back-rests. I let out another deep sigh. Even though I was nearly out of time, I didn’t want to spend that long journey without resting my back, and you see, I was so tired I also planned to doze. So, I turned away and boarded the next bus in a bid to find a good seat. There were only a man and a woman with excessive load in it.

After a split-second analysis of all the seats in the bus, sitting next to the man was the best option. By this time, my head was banging from the fatigue of jumping buses under the scorching sun coupled with the fact that I had not had anything to eat.

The bus filled up and was soon making its way out of the park. Lo and behold, the man beside me opened his mouth and began to speak in a very loud voice.

Now, I don’t enjoy it when someone makes noise in the bus- whether you are receiving a phone call and talking about the N2.5 million that is yet to be transferred to your account, or you are giving your house girl instructions… or errrm, your boyfriend is asking you what you had for lunch. I mean, no law says you can’t talk, but making sure the entire bus listens to your conversation is really annoying. I also hate it when mountebanks begin their gimmicks- their inspiring talk about mustard seed and its divine nature- how that it cures Staphylococcus, Streptococcus and gonorrhoea; Jerusalem stone and how it cures not only HIV/ AIDS, but also witchcraft; or some other branded or generic products and their gbo gbo nise properties.

So Bro Akpan (let’s assume his name is Akpan) began to say unto us, what he termed “The gospel”. But first, he started off with a prayer. During the prayer only a few people responded with an Amen, obviously as a call-and-response obligation, or just to fulfill all righteousness, or probably just to encourage poor bro Akpan who was bringing the message to them.

Remember I was hungry and tired, and planned to doze. Now bro Akpan looked like he was going to disrupt my plans. I decided not to partake in his ministration even though I felt a little prodding: Isn’t it the word of God?

After the prayer, he encouraged us to respond. He began to prophesy that we would not have accident; that we would not die. The Amens began to proliferate. Nobodi wan die. But a number of us were still mute. As though he became angry, he threatened, “Anybody that don’t say Amen is a witch! Angel of devil!! That is the person that is pursue all him relatives.” There was an outburst of laughter as all heads turned to behold this radical preacher. Of course, he accused the people who didn’t respond of more atrocious deeds, and when he resumed his prayer, I was the only one who remained mute.

I hoped not for a confrontation with bro Akpan, for I was certain he was aware of my silence. He sat facing me, his right leg causing me to move my left farther away. I could not bear to exchange words with him to the full glare of others. He seemed deranged enough to take on me. Thankfully, I guess he was satisfied with his congregation. 90% is such a remarkable passmark afterall. And even Jesus had Judas.

After the prophesy session, he beseeched upon a spirit-led sister to take up praise and worship. No sister took up the challenge. He then threw his options open- brother or sister, the Lord would bless. None of his recently-acquired faithfuls considered themselves worthy of such an honour, for he then began to lead his praise and worship, and they sang along, after which he began his message. He urged all to listen attentively. All the while, I hoped he was about to conclude his sermon, and who knows, I might still catch forty winks. I hoped on…

We were now at Jakande, and the traffic was light, but his message had not downed in tempo. He talked about women who put on men’s clothing. Suddenly, he decreed, “Women wearing trousers is sin. You are going to hell-fire.” He proceeded to explain how unimaginably hot hell fire is. I was wearing my grey-coloured pants. On and on and on he spoke, shouting into my ears. His service was nearing two hours. “Would this not end?” I thought silently.

And then two minutes before I alighted from the bus, his service ended. I just wished he would continue.

Chinazar Okoro©2012

 

ODINAKACHI

I settled into the sofa to read his message for the sixth time that day, a blush firmly registered on my face. How was Nnamdi so able to succinctly say the exact words that vigorously excited the waters of my heart, I pondered warmly.

Late that evening, I felt the blood flush my face again as Nnamdi gently caressed my hair. The feeling was better than when he stroked my chin. That only made goose bumps rise. But on this night, we were standing face-to-face at the Lagoon front, our faces only inches apart, and I could tell exactly what scent he was wearing.
This was the man I fell in love with, the man I married. He knew God, he had potentials… but all this magic was six years ago.

Nnamdi has changed more than I could ever imagine. He is such a fearful uncertain soul, except when he is dealing with me. He can’t summon the slightest courage to resign from his job and start the business we spent countless nights talking about during courtship, but he comes home to me a poignant being, after reprimand from his female boss at work, and endlessly drives home the point that he is the MAN of the house.

“Then act like one,” I thundered one day during a quarrel, and I immediately saw bright stars. The impact from the slap took a while to register. I cried for hours- the slap was only an excuse to unleash years of hurt.

Every passing day, I hate Nnamdi more. We never agree on an issue. He totally stopped attending morning mass. He asked me to choose between our marriage and a job that offered to pay me a salary more than six times his own. He greets Laide, our neighbour who is a single mother, with extra fondness. I’ve tried to convince myself severally that Nnamdi is not deliberately trying to frustrate me.

But why does he irritate me so? The way he sleeps and snores like a dying animal, sometimes awaking me at 2a.m. as though I am nothing but a child-breeding female; demolishing the mound of pounded yam and onugbu soup I serve him without as much as a compliment; wearing over-sized shirts; and not giving me enough money to cater for our children. You should hear him analyse Jonathan’s government, and you’d think someone should at least be kind enough to drop a kobo for all his knowledge, for all the effort. The sound of his voice appeases his soul, and Laide’s frequent exclamations, Lobatan! e gba mi!! kpekele kpekele!!!, fuel his desire. He is a man, afterall, he must think gleefully. Hadn’t he told me severally?

Daily, I cringe at not providing a good enough life for my children. I hate that they run around in those over-worn over-washed Mickey Mouse polo tops, that they attend a state public school, that they are denied opportunities I planned way before their conception. I am in my late twenties and this is too much for me to bear.

I have harboured thoughts of divorce, or at least, the less-dramatic one- separation. But I think of my elderly mother in the village, how distraught she would be. She would become the talk of the village, trend in their discussions when they gathered for town’s meeting at the ilo. They would cast sympathetic glances at her, and she would be an example of those who thought they had everything going for them, an example mothers would cite to warn their daughters from marrying wrong, or perhaps be submissive to their husbands and not behave like those overly-educated girls who thought the world revolved around them.

Things would not have been this bad if I had not been brought up in a very religious home. My father made me and my siblings belong to at least two organizations in church. We were never found wanting in activities. The priests knew us. We had dedicated our time to service at the local parish. Now he was gone, he died six months before my marriage to Nnamdi, and nne was alone to face all the impending shame I would cause.
I shake my head vigorously. Nne will not… cannot understand. How can she understand that I need a life? How can she understand a desire as simple as that? Is it too much to ask that I want some of my childhood dreams to come to pass? How can I explain to nne that Nnamdi is now not the only problem, but that I also find Chief Olaitan’s offer to give me and my three children a fresh start in the UK very tempting indeed, and imagine, in exchange for only a few nights?

My sad smile evolves to hoarse laughter as I play out nne’s response. “Odinakachi,” she would call out in full, “you may so do only after you have killed me.” This she would say going on her knees, and simultaneously picking her falling wrapper. Her eyes would be armed with tears flooding their banks, and generously pouring unto my best ankara. When I visit the village, I have to endorse myself with my best clothing, to differentiate from the villagers, for I have come from Lagos, and am more educated, a class apart, and so they would know I am not suffering, and so my mother would be proud of the daughter she begot.

I have cried many tears no one sees… no one knows. Thoughts of Chief Olaitan have lingered on my mind. I have replayed countless times how he let me sit on his laps in his luxurious office, and how tightly he held me close, how he even wiped a tear ever so gently from my cheek.

I turn at the noise of what brings me back to life, and Nnamdi shuffles across the sitting room without throwing me a glance. We are fresh from a quarrel from the previous night.
I look at my husband and I fight the despise that wells up in my heart. Why is he not even the tiniest bit attractive?- His beards overgrown, his stomach round, his gait clumsy. Why has he failed so woefully? I recall the words of Reverend Father Iheanacho – I must be the Proverbs 31 woman. I think about nne – I must not shame her. I take a glance at my children – they must not be the product of a broken home. Another crushing look at Nnamdi, and I resolve to endure my marriage.

Chinazar Okoro©2012

 

… Until Four Years Have Rolled By

Today marks the end of a dramatic month for me, and at this rate, December is not so far away.

I stopped my locum job at the end of January, and have been awaiting internship ever since. It seems like forever especially as I had allowed bouts of anxiety lace it. Well, it’s true – worry never made one’s hair longer or day brighter (not like I didn’t know before that the bible says not to worry, but sometimes bla bla bla). And miracles still happen whether or not we believe them to be the reason for those sudden uphill moments.

Whilst trusting God may be hard, it’s much harder not to trust Him. I wonder how atheists and agnostics get along with life. I don’t really care to know, anyways.

And what’s uber-special about February 29th except it won’t be until four years have rolled by. (Abeg leave that woman toasting man, aside).

The year can only get better, right?

 

AND NOW THE THIRD:

(continued from my last post)

If you happen to have read any of the books that feature, do let me know what you think.

3. HE LOVES ME!

It’s absolutely coincidental that the first three books I decided to feature are the first of the authors that I read. However, HE LOVES ME! unlike the previous two books is the ONLY book of Wayne Jacobsen I have ever come across despite searching renowned bookstores.

Now, I had never even heard of Wayne, but then I go to Edysyl bookshop and there his book lays solo amidst Max Lucados, Myles Munroes, Kenneth Copelands, Joyce Meyers… and his title isn’t even catchy either!

I mean ‘everyone’ knows what love is, and since he is obviously a Christian writer, we don’t need an interpreter as to what the book is about: JESUS CHRIST LOVES US! Kpom kwem.

As I flip through this book, I love the lines I see. They are well-crafted. Even though I’ve long known Jesus loves me, I wanted to read how Wayne would tell it to me. And then the cover-back of the book is not usual, it’s slightly velvety and sweet to hold.

Truth is many people don’t know how Jesus loves them. They just know He loves them because aunty Bisi, their Sunday school teacher made them recite John 3:16 every week, so they just know.

When I became the Bible Study Secretary of a student fellowship in my university days, I made sure to share with my unit members what I had learned from this book. In fact, it was our very first study for the year.

Wayne taught that you don’t have to mention ‘satan’ and ‘hell fire’ in the message of Salvation.

What better way to end this post than with the message?

JESUS LOVES YOU

Chinazar Okoro©2012

 

LET’S ROLL ON

(continued from my last post)

This new job had better be interesting, or else…

Ehen! Let’s continue from where we stopped:

2. MASTER OF THE GAME

As I type this, it just struck me how this was also the first of Sidney Sheldon’s books I had read. It was in my SS 1 or 2 class, that boredom drove me to borrowing the book from a class mate who had been reading it for about three weeks. It was so voluminous that I only intended to glance through it. So, I began to read, but not from the beginning. Do I need to tell you that I ran back to the beginning to read afresh?

And so, one day while I was savouring every line in the book with my head bent over on my desk, the principal walked unannounced into my classroom, and before saying anything else, asked to see what book I was reading (I was seated in the most conspicuous seat in class- middle column, first row). My heart nearly jumped out, for you see, I innocently happened to be on a page where Sidney was describing a sizzling-hot romance scene. I handed the book over to him. He turned a few pages and smiled smugly, causing my heart to race even faster, before lifting it up to let the whole class see:

“This is the kind of book you should read. Books that would develop your vocabulary,” he advised the class, “not Mills and Boon. I read books like this as a student. Sidney Sheldon, John Grisham…”

This is the best Sidney Sheldon book I have read, and I am almost sure it trumps all the others I haven’t read.

Not many authors can keep you hooked for the number of pages this book is worth.

Chinazar Okoro©2012