ONLINE BOOK TOUR: BEYOND THE TRIAL BY Chigozie Anuli Mbadugha

 

Today, I bring you another book tour where you get the opportunity to read a brief synopsis and an excerpt from a collection of short stories. The author; Chigozie Anuli Mbadugha will be available to answer your general questions about writing and her works.  And wait for it, there’s a nice catch! There will  be a free book giveaway for one lucky participant! So, go ahead and share the link with friends and invite them to join the conversation.

 

BRIEF SYNOPSIS

Beyond the Trial is a collection of three short stories. The first story, ‘Erased Reproach’, is the story of young love and ruthless heartbreak. Funke, a teenager at the beginning of the story, gives in to peer pressure and ends up with an unwanted pregnancy which leads her into forced exile from her childhood home.  In ‘Rude Awakening’, Nkechi’s eutopic world is brought to a rude halt when her husband of eleven years dies suddenly in a car accident. She must face a chequered future alone with three sons. A family’s past is haunting its members in ‘Shadows from the Past’ and it is Ada’s responsibility, to lead her entire family out of darkness and into the light. A long-postponed visit home opens a can of worms about the past and provides the opportunity to deal with it and put it well behind them all. Beyond the Trial, is a collection of three short stories about three women who choose to see life beyond their trials and dare to reach for it.

 

AN EXCERPT FROM ‘RUDE AWAKENING’

Listen to the reading by the author here

The Emecheta family compound had been repainted in preparation for the funeral, but there were no new buildings or structures on it. It reminded Nkechi of the stagnancy of waters fed by streams of greed. Various canopies had been mounted in, and around, the compound. Most of them were labelled to identify the groups expected to occupy them. Some members of the groups were already sitting under the canopies in matching attires or headgears for the event. A traditional thatched hut (mkpukpu) had been erected close to the entrance of the compound. It was meant to be occupied by the male members of the Emecheta family after the corpse had been laid to rest. Mama’s golden brown casket occupied a small canopy in front of the main house.  A grave had been dug some distance away from it.

Seated in a bigger canopy adjacent to the casket were Mama’s immediate family members. Nkechi had no desire to sit with them. She identified a mango tree in a corner of the compound. She had enjoyed long conversations with Mama and Afam in the early years of her marriage under that tree. It held special memories for her. She dragged a white, plastic chair from underneath the nearest canopy, repositioned it under the mango tree, and sat on it. Uzoma did likewise.

From their position, they had a good view of the entire compound and the funeral proceedings. They ignored inquisitive glances from villagers who were wondering who the two fair-complexioned, bespectacled women were. When it came to the dust-to-dust rites, the officiating priest called for her with the public address system.

“Mrs Nkechi Emecheta, please come forward,” he announced.

Nkechi was speechless.  She looked over her shoulder as if expecting another person to come forward. She was aware the officiating priest was looking pointedly in her direction. So much for thinking nobody had recognized her! She could see Mama’s hand in this. She had assumed her quiet presence would be enough for Mama. She should have known her mentor better. One could have heard a pin drop in the deafening silence that engulfed the compound when she was called to step forward. As she stepped out, a murmur erupted as people whispered among themselves. Some people’s inquisitiveness had been assuaged.

She avoided looking at Papa, Chidi and Nwakaego and walked straight to the priest who handed her a spade with dust in it. Her dark glasses hid her eyes well. No one could decipher her feelings through her facial expressions. Today, she was a mysterious woman. The priest explained to her that Mama had requested that she take part in the dust to dust graveside rites. She did. She was taken aback when he told her Mama had also asked that she give the funeral oration. Nkechi was totally unprepared for this. Mama was favouring her above her own biological children. She dared not look at their faces even more now. The priest gave her the microphone and encouraged her to speak. These were Mama’s last wishes. It behoved them to honour her, the way she desired to be honoured, he explained.

Nkechi took a deep breath, pushed her sunglasses up onto her headgear, and in flawless Igbo language, she addressed the villagers. There was total silence.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Chigozie Anuli Mbadugha wrote her first unpublished novel at the age of six and has been writing poems, scripts, short stories, and songs since then, mainly for leisure. One of her poems, “The New Yam Festival,” won second prize in a nationwide poetry competition in 1983. She was the recipient of the silver prize at the Kanagawa World Biennial Children’s art competition in Japan in 1987. She was educated at two Federal Government Colleges (Enugu and Ijanikin, Lagos) and at the University of Benin Medical School. She holds a Masters degree with distinction from University College London.

Her debut publication Beyond the Trial is an inspirational collection of short stories published in 2015. It was nominated for the 2015 Dan Poynter Global EBook Award. In 2015, Beyond the Trial was featured in the London Book Fair, Book Expo America, Beijing Book Fair, Frankfurt Book Fair and the Guadalajara Book Fair. It was also featured in the 2016 Nigeria International Book fair in Lagos.

Chigozie Anuli Mbadugha is constantly trying to maintain a balance between medical practice, family commitments and her passion for writing. She is grateful for the inspiration and support she gets from her husband, family and friends. She is undecided which gives her more pleasure – writing songs or words.

 

Beyond the Trial can be purchased from the following bookstores:

TerraKulture, Laterna Ventures, Patabah bookstore, Bible Wonderland, UNILAG bookshop, Vog & Wod Bookstore, The Hub Media Store, De Prince Supermarket, CLAM Bookshop, and other leading bookstores nationwide.

Beyond the Trial can also be purchased online in the Paperback format via: Konga and Amazon. The E-book is available at these online stores: Amazon and KOBO

 

Now you can leave your questions in the comments section below.

 

ONLINE BOOK TOUR: BURY ME COME SUNDAY AFTERNOON BY NIKE CAMPBELL-FATOKI

 

Hello everyone, today I bring you the book tour of Nike Campbell-Fatoki’s new short story collection. For those who have not read the book, there will be a short description and I have also included my commentary on one of the stories below. Join the discussion by commenting, sharing with friends and stand a chance of winning a free copy of the book. You can also ask questions as the author will be available to respond to them in the comments section.

I found the stories in Bury Me Come Sunday Afternoon, engaging in a refreshing manner. In “Apartment Twenty-Four”, Campbell-Fatoki writes the African immigrant’s story with a fresh perspective. The major character, Ade is an archetype Nigerian immigrant, however, without the cliche dodginess. Ade’s internal conflict with Tamuno’s covert work is couched in an artistic subtext that encourages an individual interpretation. The usage of imagery is masterful and engaging. The resolution, ‘a drop it like it’s hot’ that leaves the reader panting at the finish line with bated breath and longing for more action.

 

Book Description

In this short story collection, Nikẹ Campbell-Fatoki filters the lives of contemporary Nigerians through a colourful and vivid prism, where past sins come to upset settled lives, where lost lives fuel a campaign for a better future and nothing is as it seems.  She explores well-known themes but delves a little deeper, questioning our ideas about people, our impressions and prejudices.  Bury Me Come Sunday Afternoon depicts the struggles of a young ambitious and hardworking Nigerian abroad with the same insightful candour as it does the tale of a brilliant but broken woman struggling with mental illness.

 

Listen to Nike Campbell-Fatoki reading an excerpt from “Apartment Twenty-Four” here

Transcript of the excerpt:

I knocked on the door of apartment twenty-four for the third time. The smell of iru (locust beans) filled the hallway. If I do not get this food in soon, occupants of the second floor will call Mr Theodore, the building manager, about the odd smell in the building. I shook my head and knocked louder. Footsteps approached the door. Tamuno opened it, his towel wrapped around his waist; dark hair covered his broad chest. When he looked down at me, his shaved head glistened. He looked well-groomed with a goatee. 

        “Bros, good evening,” I said, handing him the plastic bag of food.

         “You try for me, Ade. I swear! Ever since you introduced me to this restaurant I’ve been hooked! They put something for the food?”  Tamuno joked.  I chuckled.   

He invited me into the living room. I walked in as he grabbed his wallet on the arm of the recliner. He pulled out a wad of dollar bills and began to count them. I looked away. The living room was furnished with expensive furniture – the dark brown recliner complemented the seven-seater leather sectional and ottoman. He pressed the dollar bills into my hand and walked me to the door.

        “That’s for your transportation and for tomorrow’s lunch. Please buy me the stew with cow feet and ponmo next time.”  I chuckled and teased him about the weight he would start gaining. When we got to the door, I reminded him of the IT position I applied for at his workplace. “Did you have a chance to talk to the HR. manager yet? You’re one of my references, bros.”

        “I haven’t had a chance. You know I just got back from this business trip, and I’m in the middle of bringing my wife over.”

        “Oh yes! Congrats! When does she arrive?”

He smiled.“She’ll be here in less than a month!” 

        “You said she’s a minister’s daughter, right?  Which one?” I asked.

        “Not that it matters, but she’s the daughter of the Minister of Works and Housing.”

His phone rang somewhere in the apartment. He said he had to go. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He closed the door in my face before I could answer. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Nike Campbell-Fatoki was born in Lvov, Ukraine. She is the second of four children born to Nigerian medical doctors in the old Soviet Union. A graduate of Economics with a minor in Political Science from Howard University. She also has a Master’s degree in International Development.

Nike juggles writing with her day job in budget and finance management at Prince George’s County. Her first novel, A Thread of Gold Beads was published in 2012. Her latest work, Bury Me Come Sunday Afternoon, was released in July 2016.

Nike lives in the Washington DC area with her family, where she is writing her next historical fiction novel set to be published in 2017.

 

You can order a copy of the book online at Quramo Publishing Limited, click the order form here. Also available at Patabah bookstore, Quintessence bookstore, Unilag bookstore and Salamander (Abuja).

Now, leave your comments and questions below. You can also follow the tour tomorrow at afreada.com.

 

 

Ojuola (Finale)

She ran, her tongue flailing like a thirsty bingo in the jungle yearning for the cool water bowl in its master’s house. She did not know where she was going. Her feet just continued to pound the thorn-thistle path. Then, she heard it – sounds of big vehicles breezing past ahead. She fanned out her arms like an eagle hovering in the high clouds. In a burst of speed she came out, onto a tarred road.

***

The night was cold and scary. Baba Di after his night rituals which consisted mostly of groans and grunts and mutterings had poured a warm liquid over her head. When it streamed into her eyes she’d screamed until her voice broke and only whimpers escaped her trembling lips. After the pain came sweet emptiness. Ojuola fell into a deep slumber from which she was only awakened when the birds’ chirping heralded the rising dawn. She felt it in the first moment of wakefulness. It was very different. Her eyes fluttered open and the acacia trees waved its branches in a halo over her head. It took just a moment and it hit her.

“I can see! See!” she squealed. Her palm covered her quivering lips as she surveyed the alcove for the old man. She was alone. Adrenaline pumped in a surge through her veins. Her legs found motion.

Ojuola (8)

 

Read Part 7 here

 

She wakes in full flight panic. She struggles but realises she’s tightly bound. The air is hot and she can barely breathe within the space. Her heart hits her rib cage, so hard she can hear the vibrations. Her eyes feel numb as if there are ice cubes in them. The rolling movement stops. Ojuola knows she is in the boot of a car. She hears footsteps and the creaking sound of the boot popping open as a gush of air hits her face.

“Please…what did I do? Please, I’m sorry…” she begs in her confused state.

She can hear Nat’s cheeky laughter and Ireti whispering something inaudible to him.  They drag her along. She feels the sharp pricks from twigs and elephant grasses on her legs.

“They are taking me into a forest,” her sense of her surroundings kicks in. She stops struggling with them and follows them quietly like a sick cow to the slaughter slab.

“My son, you’re welcome,” a frail voice greets. It belongs to an old man hunched over some calabashes, his long dreadlocks almost obscuring his face.

“Here is your gift Baba Di,” Nat says, a hint of pleasure in his voice. Ireti does not make a sound.

Ojuola shivers as she feels the old man approach. He yanks off the blindfold on her eyes. He laughs a strange deep throated laughter that startles her. Nat coughs uncomfortably.

“What’s wrong Baba Di?”

Baba Di stops laughing and clears his throat. He spits sputum and grinds it under his bare foot.

“The girl is blind, yet you cover her eyes.”

Nat begins to laugh and nudges Ireti to join him. She lets out something more like a whimper. Ojuola feels his sinewy hand on her shoulder as she is pulled down into a sitting position.

“Can we go now?” Ireti asks, tense.

Baba Di stirs a calabash of concoction and shakes his head. He seems to have forgotten his guests as he adds gunpowder and other ingredients into another calabash by his side. Ireti freezes on the spot. Nat tries to look unfazed but his eyes give away his trepidation.

“Hiaa!” Baba Di shouts.

Ireti and Nat fall over each other in their bid to escape. Their legs entangle in the undergrowth around the alcove. Ojuola does not move. She just sits and listens and sniffs at the air. Baba Di ignores the terrified couple as he moves to stand in front of Ojuola.

“Baba Di gave you perfect protection. I accept no gifts with stain. Return and get me a perfect gift.”

Ireti reaches out to grab Ojuola’s hand but Baba Di stops her with his fixed red-rimmed eyes stayed on her. She steps backward into the wall of Nat’s body.

“Say something…”she whispers hotly to him.

Nat finds his voice and promises to return with the perfect gift. Baba Di is back at his calabashes and ignores them. Ireti looks at Ojuola, regret lingering in her eyes.

“Ojuola, we’ll come back for you…”

Ojuola disregards Ireti’s empty promise. She wraps her arms around herself and rocks to the gentle swirling breeze from the trees in the forest. She stops her motions in shock as a growing red patch appears in the midst of her darkness.

Ojuola (7)

Read Part 6 here

They have been partying hard from the evening into the night. Ireti had zoomed back into the compound just when the noises of little children and their parents returning from their daily routines cued Ojuola into the knowledge of dusk’s arrival. She heard Ireti’s ringing laughter before she heard the other voices. She’d been unsettled throughout the ride from the clinic. Ojuola had smelt the tension in the stiff silence that hovered in the car. She’d dropped her off at the door, leaving her to fumble with the unseen keyhole. The powdery dust raised in the wake of Ireti’s departure had settled on Ojuola’s trembling lips.

“You no see dat manager, e wan piss for bodi!” Ojuola listened to their gruff drunken laughter above the loud jarring music. They had been quiet in the first hour of their return as they shared the booty. The thump of something against the table signalled the counting of one share.

“Ireti sharp woman, you arrived just when I needed you,” Nat says and the others cheer as their favourite jagbajagba song starts on the stereo. Ojuola presses her thighs together. She closes her eyes tight and prays that famous childhood prayer for ‘number 1’ to come and ‘number 2’ to go. But her bowels do not heed her supplication.

Ojuola opens the door and holds her breath as the blare of music hits her harder. She manages to walk unnoticed to the toilet where she heaves down in super relief. Her hand is stayed on the flush. They would hear the sound and it will draw attention to her. So, she leaves the putrid odour hanging in the air and exits.

“We must not forget Baba’s meat o, that his protection work well well,” the now familiar gruff voice of one of the men bellows.

“The meat don ready since,” Nat replies with a dry laugh. Ojuola collides with something hard on her path. There’s sudden quiet in the room as the music skips and comes to a halt. She can feel their eyes on her. Her skin tingles.

Ojuola freezes on the spot. She wills her legs to move. She orders her vocal chords to scream. They fail to fall to command. Nat grabs her wrist and pulls her closer to his side. She smells the strong whiff of alcohol and cigarette smoke on his breath.

“Nat…” Ireti begins frailly.

“What!” he snaps back.

Ojuola can feel her hot garlic breath on her neck as she moves closer and whispers out of hearing of the others.

“Mary? What would we tell her when she returns?”

“Blind girls especially naughty ones get lost,” Nat says with a finality that melts Ojuola’s buttery heart into oil. Her voice returns. She lets out a piercing scream, loud enough to shame the bass echo of the stereo.

“Sharrap! Stupid girl!” familiar voice grunts.

Nat shoves his fist into Ojuola’s mouth. She chokes on her saliva.

“Bring it,” he speaks through his teeth.

The last thing Ojuola remembers is the flashing light in her head and the sharp stinging in her nostrils before it all turns black.

Feature Friday: Omoye Ogudo & Ellen Mar

Hello everyone, Feature Friday today on my BBM Channel (FICFAC – C0014488E) brings by a dint of coincidence, two religious-themed pieces to you. Read and comment below. Thanks.

The Master’s Table by Omoye Ogudo

At my master’s table, or so I thought. I watched as he fed on all my energy. Trusted into his desires and in return I craved for his deeds….or so I hoped. He kept making demands and I willing never hesitated, for once I felt resource full, I felt heard…or so I thought At his feet even my face could not stare, below I laid my head, never wanting to hurt my masters feelings…awaiting his blessings ….or so I thought I fed him full…but I never had anything to feed on without hurting my bowels, one meal, loads of hurt from within Yet I kept hoping and believing I needed to be full to be free of pain…this I so much thought about I worked so hard, I was a master of many during the day and friend of none at night when the master comes calling…my mind was his favourite meal!! Oh how he loved it so!!!!

Places me in odd places, the battle never ends….sadness in the midst of everything….i thought I have In the little time I make for myself..i pounder aloud, I wanted to have dominion! To be in control! But everyday I feel like a prey!!! Hidden in the closet of my plenty….how pathetic how ironic….yet so real I was lost even in my familiar places I was empty even in my plenty I was lonely even in the crowd I was a slave even with my crown I guess it was a crown of shame And not a crown of fame I knew I was in the gutter Despite having an alter All this my thoughts gave willingly While I question I knew I had to make a choice I see another side of me I never knew This was not time for to wallow But to say hello I see the chapter Ask it shall be given Seek and you shall find Knock and it shall be open I have come not for the righteous But for you…me!!! I read again….i saw enough Where was this book all this while? How did I get the flyer Oh I remember That little child in my hood Coming to me that faithful day Bless you sir!

Today is your day! I received the flyer, just a paper..or so I thought I must run to this master that wants to serve me I must go to that house that wants to accommodate me I must go to that land I must leave my Egypt I must run to cannaland Where I will no longer be a slave in my home Where I will be served fresh meal from the alter Where I have found peace Where my emptiness is gone And I am now a master indeed Feeding and giving freely In this land.. I have found my peace….this I know!!! Second quarter of the wonder double agenda has began. Come and let’s be blessed From glory to glory.

Comment

I love the free-flowing emotion gushing from your writing – it feels real and original. The twist from the personal troubled experience to the ray of hope in Canaanland is woven artfully. However, this was hard to read! It came without paragraphs and even as much as I wanted to leave it unedited, I had to delineate it to aid better reading. Punctuation – missing full stops, non-capitalisation of first words and the misuse of ellipsis. It’s all over your writing as if to signify something above its normal usage. Typos – watch out for them in your writing. You may not be able to edit perfectly but make an effort. Overall, it’s a nice attempt. 

 

The Mind by Ellen Mar

Listen attentively
You want Christ so dearly
But why isn’t He coming?

Listen attentively
Desire the spirit! Open your heart!
God!! They always say that
Still He isn’t coming

Listen attentively
Surrender your being to Him
You think I haven’t done that?
He is yet to come!

Listen attentively
Love Him with the perfect love
Meditate on His word
Flee from sin!
Oh! It just seems impossible for Him to come

Listen attentively
Your problem is not that He refuses to come
But the truth
You are scared to receive Him
So scared that you cast all the blame on Him.

Comment

This is a simple poem yet it comes with such an appealing directness. A good attempt.

FEATURE FRIDAY: POEMS BY ELLEN MAR & KATE OMONEDO

It’s Feature Friday on my BBM channel, FICFAC (C0014488E) and today, two subscribers have submitted their poetry. Please leave your reactions in the comments’ section below. Enjoy the reading. 

Home of Worries by ELLEN MAR

While I wander, I ponder
Why life is so full of sad wonders
Talents hidden
Skills shaken
Dreams forgotten

Wander I through the sphere
A great find I must confess
Failure is bound to air
When one is rooted in distress
Some were born to be ahead
Others wait to be approved

Never forget at some point
All eyes will seek proof of your worth
Would you be lost in naught?
Or soar on your stance?
Wait not for people to twist you round the world
And have you lost in their words

Great men of old in the Holy Book took this stage
And are remembered in this age
Greater words I have none
But the truth I must inform
You either surge and fly
Or be shut out of this place they call world
A place you call HOME.

COMMENTS

Poetry is one genre of literature that it’s hard to critique without sounding individualistic. You have written a nice poem here which artfully describes the toil faced by humans in the world. However, there seems to be a deliberate attempt to create end rhymes, though they do not follow a particular pattern in each stanza. There’s nothing wrong with this but for us on this side of the divide, we favour ‘life’ over ‘art’ – that is, “art for life’s sake and not art for art’s sake.” This is not to give you a prescriptive style for your writing but a consideration in focus when writing. You’ll also want to aim for originality because this echoes poetry by Eliot, Wordsworth, Shakespeare, etc.

Keep writing, it can only get better.  

*********

Our Rainbow is Near by KATE OMONEDO

Grey skies overhead,

Heavy clouds in distress gather.

Expectant eyes skyward gaze,

The long awaited cleansing  is here.

Finally…this is it,

Promises will be kept, prayers will be answered.

Surely, our rainbow must be near.

 On the podium they had stood, backs straight with

voices raised in righteous indignation.

Promises were made;

Left hand on chest,

Right index finger touched tongue and raised in the air.

Eyes so sincere, our hopes surged.

We failed to notice the agbada–donned elders standing behind,

Paid no heed to the Ghana-must-go bags greedy age-dotted hands held in readiness.

 Expelled from her womb,

My skin still moist from its comforting warmth.

She touched my chin,

I grasped her finger with both hands.

The contact lasted ten seconds…I believed the promise.

Mother laid me in the bushes, adjusting her dress as she walked away.

Darkness drew near, the ants came in search of dinner.

She will be back….she must come back.

A promise had been made.

 Grey skies overhead,

Heavy clouds will be freed.

We shall reap from this fertile ground,

Reap from our Motherland fruits sown in tears, blood and oil.

We hold hands and in unison skyward gaze.

Promises must be kept, prayers must be answered.

Lightening splits across the sky in sympathy of the burden it bears.

It cannot be long now…our rainbow  is near.

COMMENTS

I have a strong bias for free verse poetry, maybe because I actually wrote a lot of that as a fledgling teenager trying to be literary-minded (lol). That was before I finally decided prose was the medium for me. Your poem comes with intrigue and powerful imagery. The satire of politicians and their unfulfilled promises, the betraying elders and the masses who continue to hope is so jarring and real. The swift transition to another movement in the third stanza seems strange at first but in a good way. It takes the journey from a general to a personal experience. On a thematic level, this follows the path of hoping for divine intervention which has eaten deep into the consciousness of all or is there a hint of rebellion in the ‘hands held in unison’?

Keep writing, it can only get better. 

Ojuola (6)

(Read Part 5 here)

She can hear it. The footfalls by her window. The first time she’d heard it, she’d broken into a cold sweat. She transited to Adatan and the nightmare-filled nights. She could hear the thump-thump of her heart in her ears, so she knew she was awake. Since that day, when she’d heard them through the door, sleep had with light cockroach-legs wandered away from her. She wanted to tell Mary but she could not. Not without proof. This was her mother and even if she did not have any love for her stepdad, they were her family, before she was brought in. She had to be sure. Very sure.

IfeyWrites.com Hosts The Online Book Tour of Ifesinachi Okoli-Okpagu’s The Domestication of Munachi

Today, I bring you something fresh and unique on the wings of the World Wide Web. A virtual Book Tour by a Nigerian writer, Ifesinachi Okoli-Okpagu on her debut novel, The Domestication of Munachi. This is a great way to stay abreast of emerging Nigerian literature without the limitation of physical space. You will listen to some readings from her contemporary literary novel and she will be available to answer your questions. Are you a budding writer or a literary enthusiast who has some questions on composition, character development and feeding the creative muse? Ifesinachi Okoli-Okapagu will be available to interact with you on such matters.

In a society, where females are on a tight leash to marry ‘by force and by fire’, Ifesinachi’s The Domestication of Munachi captures the pressures on the girl-child with great mastery. For those, who haven’t read the book, a summary is provided below.

Here we go:

Synopsis

On a hot Sunday afternoon years ago…

…Two sisters walk in on their father’s sexual liaison with the family’s hired help which leaves them both scarred in different ways.

Years later…

Unable to bear the thought of marriage to a man she barely knows, the younger and more adventurous one, Munachi, runs away from home on the eve of her traditional marriage, unwittingly resurrecting a long buried feud between her religious mother and eccentric aunty. This conflict leaves a door open for the family’s destruction.

The Domestication of Munachi (DOM) is a novel about the unnecessary pressure on women to take on life partners, regardless of who these partners are and the psychological impacts seen through the stories of two sets of sisters—Munachi and Nkechi versus Chimuanya and Elizabeth.

Ifesinachi talks about her novel:

What Themes are Most Explored in DOM?

Author’s Response:

The three main themes that stand out are- One, the untoward pressure on young women to marry young regardless of their physical and psychological readiness. Two, physical abuse of women, especially married women and the society’s penchant to suddenly become blind to this until an irreversible damage is caused. Three, the deception of religion in our society today.

There are, of course, other sub themes such as family, the relationship between mother and child, adultery, long distance marriage, and so on.

Who is your Favourite Character?

Author’s Response: Hmm… Despite Munachi’s eccentricities, I do love her. She could easily be my younger sister; the kind that can be so annoying. I think she would be my favourite.

For some reason I also like Aunty Ngo. She featured on few occasions, but every appearance came with drama and a reveal of a slice of the life she is struggling so hard to manage. Then again I chuckled throughout writing her bits.

 

Listen to Ifesinachi reading from Page 87 of her novel: 

Read the text here

Listen to Ifesinachi reading from Page 125 of her novel:

Read the text here

 

About Ifesinachi

Aside wishing she could travel more often and she could stop answering questions nobody ever asks, Ifesinachi is a creative mom with the superhuman abilities to get bored when she’s working on a single project at a time. The Domestication of Munachi is her first novel.

In her regular life, Ifesinachi .O. Okpagu is a Lagos based marketing communications executive with over seven years’ experience, including being an Associate Producer of a pan-African TV show and heading the marketing communications team of an insurance company. She also serves as the chief custodian of the Lexiton brand with intellectual property in the media and entertainment industry. Her first book, a novella, was published when she was fourteen and was adopted as a secondary school recommended text in Delta and Ebonyi states.

She was educated at Queens College, Lagos, and at the University of Benin where she obtained a B.A in Fine and Applied Arts. Ifesinachi also holds a Masters degree from the Pan-African University where she graduated top of her class. She has written several stories, some of which have been published in Sentinel Nigeria, the African Roar Anthology and Saraba Magazine.

She has written/produced several screenplays for the big screen and for television.

You can’t wait to read the novel?

Click HERE, to buy if you’re in West Africa or HERE, if you’re in East Africa

Leave your questions in the comments’ section below and she will answer them. The Book Tour continues tomorrow at Bookshy and AFREADA.

 

Feature Friday: Independence Day by Ololade Anthonio

It’s Feature Friday on my BBM channel (FICFAC C0014488E) when I post stories written by subscribers and offer a critique. 

 

My beauty sleep comes to an abrupt end when the noise from the radio bursts into my ear. “Happy Independence Day Nigeria.” Rubbing my face I smile and hug myself. Reluctantly, I get out of bed and head to the bathroom, looking at my now aging face in the mirror I remember five years ago how young and vibrant I was, apple of the eyes of a thousand, slim and fair, face beautiful as ever with firm round breasts complimenting my features, which is now the opposite of what it was. I feel betrayed by my eyes and grudgingly take my eyes off the mirror.
“I don’t think I’m ready for this mama,” I had said four years ago.
“It is too sudden and I have not even met him more than once”
“It is not Onye, this is your third marriage you are not getting younger.”
“The same mistake you do every time, I have been submissive enough all these years, let me choose whomever I want, I’m sure this time it will not end in a disaster like the others,” I said stomping out in anger.

Almost immediately, I leave the bathroom, dump a bag on the floor and I start to rummage for the clothes that will not remind me of Uti. After searching for some minutes, I’m only able to see a few traditional attire, three jean trousers, few blouses and a gown. I spread one of the trousers and a blouse on the bed. “I’ll wear this,” I mutter, smiling as I start packing the remaining neatly into the bag.

Few months later I was dancing to a song with a cup of palmwine in my hand looking disdainfully at my new smiling husband. I had been adorned in beautiful red waist beads and red wrist beads, with a flowing black gown which I had intentionally chosen to speak out the anger, sadness and bane I felt inside of me. I looked around as I danced round the stage with my husband, my parents smiling, everyone talking excitedly. Nice. Everyone was happy except me. That same afternoon I had gone to my parent’s room to bid them farewell, the anger in me climaxed when I glanced at the baskets of goodies my husband’s family had brought, I promised myself to return every dime that was brought because of me. I went out in anger to meet my husband. “It is time,” I said, we left my parents place and we never went back.

I go into the bathroom again, avoiding the mirror this time. I take my bath. A very short bath. I will not like it if too much time is wasted and Uti finds me home. In haste, I comb my hair, wear the clothes I had kept on the bed, the trousers already tight, I struggle and wiggle in it, before I can finally pull it past each thigh. Fully dressed, my lips broaden into a big smile. “The time has finally come,” I say.

We had gotten home in silence that day. I was in between taking off my gown, when he suddenly grabbed me and started tearing all the clothes I had on. “Please, I don’t think I’m ready for this” I cried. Like a lion he devoured me, under his whole strength I laid crying helplessly as he helped himself. I was raped on my wedding night and every night I spent in his house.

In about six months, the marriage already bore me, we never communicated. The companionship between man and wife was completely lost in our marriage. Like a dutiful wife, I cooked, washed, swept, cleaned and satisfied him without any complain. I could only endure for two years. I decided to seek refuge from my mother. I explained everything going on in my marriage to her and we decided that she spoke with him. Uti flared up when he got home, he was really angry, throwing anything within his reach at me. He was shouting repeatedly “I married you, you give me whatever I want, and I can do whatever I want with you.” I sat at the corner of the room nursing my wound, drowned in my own tears.

After the last ordeal between us, Uti stopped coming home. He came home once in a blue moon. And anytime he comes, he closes the door, push me to the bed and rape me. Afterwards, he would drop some money on the bed beside me and then went back to wherever he came from. Months went by, I continued to endure, until the day a neighbour visited me.

“Do you know that your husband has another family in this vicinity, his other wife gave birth to his 3rd son today?” I couldn’t believe my ears. My eyes swollen with tears, I stuttered.
“Eer…are you sure of what you are saying?”
“I’ve never been more sure of something in my life, I went to see my mother in the hospital yesterday. I was waiting for the doctor when I heard the doctor say “congratulations it’s another boy” to someone, when I looked towards the person I saw that it was your husband, then I decided to see for myself. I sneaked behind him and saw him go into the ward to see the woman. She was carrying her baby, I also saw two other young boys standing next to her bed. They both looked exactly like Uti.”

I followed my friend to see for myself. I met them exactly the way she had said it, the two boys looked like Uti. The mother was sleeping gently on the bed with the baby cradled in her arms. I cried helplessly, river of tears flowed from my eyes, I had been used in yet my third marriage. I had been married legitimately, my own husband turned me into a whore. I went into the room, staring at the boys. They really look like Uti, they have the same miniature nose and wide mouth like Uti.

“Good affun ma.”
“How are you?” my voice croaky as I replied.
Immediately, the woman aroused from her sleep and gently put the baby in the cot beside her.
“A cute little baby, looks exactly like his father,” I said smiling at the woman.
“Do I know you?” asked the woman.
“No,” I said smiling.
“I’m…never mind, it doesn’t matter. Where is Uti?”
“He’s not here, I’m his wife, what do u want to tell him?”
“Just tell him Onye, his legitimate wife came to see his children.”

I left her dumbfounded, I smiled at her before I left the room. My smile turned into tears as I left the hospital. I went home angrily and cried my eyes out. I cried not out of jealousy or Uti. I cried because that was the third time the same thing would happen to me. Every man I marry take advantage of me and leave me with nothing but regrets. “No man will ever treat me this way again,” I said with tears of determination trickling down my face.

Uti came home with anger the same day. I have never been beaten that severely in my life. I almost died. He never uttered any word while he was bumping his fist on me, after he was through with me, he left without glancing at me for once. Friends and family could not keep Uti from changing his mind about me, he totally hated me. He stopped coming home. I wondered what he felt about me when he asked my hand in marriage. Every night I hated my parents and cursed myself for accepting to marry such beast.

I pick up my phone and send a short text to Uti. “When you are ready, come and get your bride-price in the house. I will never be anyone’s whore,” my fingers shaking while I type. I pick up the baskets and arrange the same things I saw in the baskets in my parents’ house in them.

Yesterday evening, I had just finished preparing dinner for myself when I heard the doorbell. I checked the peephole and saw Uti standing at the door. Surprised, I opened the door for him. “Perhaps he’s realized his mistakes,” I thought. Like he always do he pushed me down to the floor and started pulling my skirt, with all the strength I had in me I kicked him away from me and started to run towards the kitchen. He yanked my hair and pulled me to him, his eyes red with rage. I struggled hard and tried to move away from him, but his strength was beginning to overpower mine. I bit his arm so hard that he freed me immediately. He winced holding his bruised arm while I had the chance to run to the kitchen and lock the door. In haste I picked a knife, breathing hard I waited for him while he was working on the locks, within minutes the door was open. He was coming towards me in anger when I brought out the knife and pointed it in his direction. “If you come near me, I swear I will kill you,” I shouted. He was still moving towards me, I did not move an inch away from him. When he saw I was serious about me killing him he moved away saying; “Nice try, today is your day, enjoy it.” Then he left. I heaved a sigh of relief. “Good riddance,” I said smiling.

I carry the baskets and put them on the bed. Looking at the bed I reminisce about how Uti used to sexually assault me. I shake my head vigorously to take the thought away from my head. I carry my bag ready to leave. I’m about to open the door when I see my wedding ring still in my finger, I remove it with anger and throw it on the bed next to the baskets. I close the door and let the cool breeze take over my body. I feel liberated. Happy Independence Day to me.

 

Comments
• Legibility: Try and make your story graphically easy on the eye. If it’s cluttered with typos, lack of punctuation and the dialogues garbled, no one will want to read. As much as I wanted to leave this unedited, I had to fix some of the punctuation errors to enable easier reading. Learn the proper use of the full stop and comma. Also, to avoid confusion, you should demarcate dialogue from the rest of the story as much as possible.
• The story’s use of  the Independence Day as a motif, has a great appeal but in the handling it lost some of what could have been achieved. It’s actually forgotten until the end of the story. It becomes something peeking out of the story instead of being the strand that unites the story into a whole.

 

• The handling of flashback or digressions – because this is something that happened in the past it should not make the bulk of your story and should be well woven into your story. For a short story as this one, you need to handle digressions well because you don’t have so much space to tell a very long story. At the start, up to the middle of the story, it wasn’t clear if Uti was still part of Onye’s life. It’s at the end that the reader gets the idea that the beginning was actually a day after her independence from Uti. As much as there’s no one formula to writing a story, imagine how strong the story could be if it actually tells the “independence” day itself and we get to know about the past through the digressions?

 

• Use of ‘longish’ dialogue – The part where the neighbour related what she saw went on too long. It tilts the narrative pattern and pulls the reader out of the story, which is Onye’s story to tell. So, one wants to know what the neighbour saw but mostly through the eyes of Onye – It’s a 1st person narrative.

 

• Show don’t tell – An example: “I cried helplessly, river of tears flowed from my eyes…” The first half is telling the emotion while the second half shows it. Showing strengthens your narrative. The first half can be done away with and nothing will be lost in the story.

 

• Use of Language – try to use realistic language especially in your dialogues. Ask yourself questions like: how does Uti speak? What mannerism from her socio-cultural background will reflect in her language? Try to avoid stiffness.

 

• Overall, I think the story has a good framework and just needs more work.

 

What are your thoughts on Ololade’s story, please share in the comments below.