Thursday, July 29, 2010
What Men Want, Really! | Sugar! Weddings
Yup, yup. It's anoda one. What Men Want, Really! Sugar! Weddings
Article Published
My article Ace of Shades was published on Sugar! Weddings. Been a while but I read it with fresh enthusiasm. Guess I was just looking for some redemption from this writer's limbo.
Enjoy it. And of course, leave a comment.
XOXO...Gossip-what?!
Enjoy it. And of course, leave a comment.
XOXO...Gossip-what?!
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
2009 Nobel Prize for Literature: Herta Hears A Who
Someone, tell me to calm down – I am angry!!!
They’ve announced the Nobel Prize winner and, honestly, I missed it. If anyone cares to know, I try to follow writers’ writings and/or writings on same writers. I was chatting with a long time writer friend of mine when the topic came up: he asked who won this year’s prize and feigned amnesia. Of course, it’s Herta Mueller. Herta who?
Since then I have been curious to know why we on this x-marks-the-spot of the world map have heard little of this literary giant. Quickly, I visited the noble Nobel Prize official site to glean some information about our literati grand madame. Hmm, “[she] made her debut with the collection of short stories Niederungen (1982)...” Herta was born in 1953, by the way, meaning she was 29 by the time she lunged her first punch at a dictatorial government. A novel every other year, yeah, yeah, yeah until, one cold afternoon in October, her publisher rings her up to inform her that she’s been nominated for the Nobel Prize. For a while after the announcement I followed news and commentaries on the relevance of her writing and I’ve come to this point where I want to scream, Aaaaaaaaargh! I had never heard of her, yet she has won the Pulitzer – sorry, the Nobel Prize for Literature. I really shouldn’t be – no one should ‘cos there is this “gem” I picked up from the Site: “[the Nobel Prize for literature] has been awarded to unknown masters as well as authors acclaimed worldwide.” And it’s got me thinking – the Unknown Masters.
I see these Unknown Masters everyday. They share stories about a game of checkers in front of the barber shop, up my street. You walk past, thinking, “What loafers!” Their wandering eyes catch your gaze and they wonder what you’re thinking. How many of these stories have you heard? How many of them have you seen? Soon, the bald Barber will come out to join them. He owns the benches and the bucket (he uses to wash his brushes) now turned upside-down to make a seat for another spectator, he even owns the checkers and the board. He would hail the reigning champion for some strange reason they called “Jacobian.” The Power Company had been good to lend us light to see by tonight, he comments as he takes a seat with his ‘customers’. There is music blaring not too far, as if in celebration, our customers are mouthing the familiar lyrics. Jacobian is on the roll again, as everyone can see. His opponent has a look of consternation on his face. Cheered on by comments coming from every shadowy direction, “Play this one,” “No, don’t be a fool – play that one,” “Can’t you see,” he was pained by the shuffling sound of Jacobian’s checker moves on the board.
Across the road, a rickety yellow-and-black striped Danfo parks; plain-clothed passengers alight and are no sooner eaten up by the darkling night. A quick succession of smack, smack and triple smack draws a discordant wail of disappoint mixed with surprise – the game, back in front of the Barbar Shop, has taken an unprecedented twist. Jacobian’s opponent, Mr X, has him in a corner. Hereon, commentators predict, the game is any fool’s. The Barber summarises, “Something is waiting to happen.”
You had stopped by the Mallam’s kiosk to buy a stick of gum. To oil the engine of your jaws, you thought. You were walking away when the sibilant sound of psst, psst, psst blew over your ears. Suddenly two plain-clothed policemen jumped to your front from behind you. “Yes?” you ask? “Would you say you didn’t hear us?” “No, I didn’t” (frankly, the sound of smacking gum makes better music, you think to say but keep mum). They demand, “Can we see your ID,” and you say, you don’t have it on you. You left it at home (a picture of the plastic card lying on your dressing table flashes through your mind) – you can go and get it for them, if they want. They say OK, lead the way.
The air freezes. It is not the draught of evening breeze but the tension of a stalking draw game between Jacobian and Mr. X are at par. Six checkers to six checkers. “Something is waiting to happen,” Barber mumbles under his breath. Something is waiting to happen. “Na small thing remain make Jacobian win,” an anonymous babbles from the crowd. Jacobian’s eyes are red, or is it the light that deceives us. The Mr X's brows are knotted in deep concentration. We could almost hear their heart beats pounding - they could barely hear anything else. Nobody is mouthing any songs anymore.
“Oya, enter here,” they bawled. Puzzled that you’re not even home yet they want you to forcefully enter their van. You protest. A third and fourth police man jump out of the van, your heart flutters…like the lightening of Sango, a back-hand slap strikes your face…
Kpa! A wail of pain and defeat rises like a bomb from across the street. “Jacobian!” the game has been won and the master shakes his opponent’s hand. Mr X walks away and Night eats him too; Jacobian stands to stretch and relieve his aching back while a new opponent takes his seat opposite him. This one will not take long.
It was my gateman that told me this story. An Unknown Master story teller, you might say. I guess he is like some of us, blogger or not. Waiting for something to happen. Some flash of lightening or a phone call from your publisher to say you’ve won some award for telling some Barbar-shop story. Don’t make me laugh, Sochi, do I hear you say? It doesn’t matter, friend. I’m too angry to bother.
They’ve announced the Nobel Prize winner and, honestly, I missed it. If anyone cares to know, I try to follow writers’ writings and/or writings on same writers. I was chatting with a long time writer friend of mine when the topic came up: he asked who won this year’s prize and feigned amnesia. Of course, it’s Herta Mueller. Herta who?
Since then I have been curious to know why we on this x-marks-the-spot of the world map have heard little of this literary giant. Quickly, I visited the noble Nobel Prize official site to glean some information about our literati grand madame. Hmm, “[she] made her debut with the collection of short stories Niederungen (1982)...” Herta was born in 1953, by the way, meaning she was 29 by the time she lunged her first punch at a dictatorial government. A novel every other year, yeah, yeah, yeah until, one cold afternoon in October, her publisher rings her up to inform her that she’s been nominated for the Nobel Prize. For a while after the announcement I followed news and commentaries on the relevance of her writing and I’ve come to this point where I want to scream, Aaaaaaaaargh! I had never heard of her, yet she has won the Pulitzer – sorry, the Nobel Prize for Literature. I really shouldn’t be – no one should ‘cos there is this “gem” I picked up from the Site: “[the Nobel Prize for literature] has been awarded to unknown masters as well as authors acclaimed worldwide.” And it’s got me thinking – the Unknown Masters.
I see these Unknown Masters everyday. They share stories about a game of checkers in front of the barber shop, up my street. You walk past, thinking, “What loafers!” Their wandering eyes catch your gaze and they wonder what you’re thinking. How many of these stories have you heard? How many of them have you seen? Soon, the bald Barber will come out to join them. He owns the benches and the bucket (he uses to wash his brushes) now turned upside-down to make a seat for another spectator, he even owns the checkers and the board. He would hail the reigning champion for some strange reason they called “Jacobian.” The Power Company had been good to lend us light to see by tonight, he comments as he takes a seat with his ‘customers’. There is music blaring not too far, as if in celebration, our customers are mouthing the familiar lyrics. Jacobian is on the roll again, as everyone can see. His opponent has a look of consternation on his face. Cheered on by comments coming from every shadowy direction, “Play this one,” “No, don’t be a fool – play that one,” “Can’t you see,” he was pained by the shuffling sound of Jacobian’s checker moves on the board.
Across the road, a rickety yellow-and-black striped Danfo parks; plain-clothed passengers alight and are no sooner eaten up by the darkling night. A quick succession of smack, smack and triple smack draws a discordant wail of disappoint mixed with surprise – the game, back in front of the Barbar Shop, has taken an unprecedented twist. Jacobian’s opponent, Mr X, has him in a corner. Hereon, commentators predict, the game is any fool’s. The Barber summarises, “Something is waiting to happen.”
You had stopped by the Mallam’s kiosk to buy a stick of gum. To oil the engine of your jaws, you thought. You were walking away when the sibilant sound of psst, psst, psst blew over your ears. Suddenly two plain-clothed policemen jumped to your front from behind you. “Yes?” you ask? “Would you say you didn’t hear us?” “No, I didn’t” (frankly, the sound of smacking gum makes better music, you think to say but keep mum). They demand, “Can we see your ID,” and you say, you don’t have it on you. You left it at home (a picture of the plastic card lying on your dressing table flashes through your mind) – you can go and get it for them, if they want. They say OK, lead the way.
The air freezes. It is not the draught of evening breeze but the tension of a stalking draw game between Jacobian and Mr. X are at par. Six checkers to six checkers. “Something is waiting to happen,” Barber mumbles under his breath. Something is waiting to happen. “Na small thing remain make Jacobian win,” an anonymous babbles from the crowd. Jacobian’s eyes are red, or is it the light that deceives us. The Mr X's brows are knotted in deep concentration. We could almost hear their heart beats pounding - they could barely hear anything else. Nobody is mouthing any songs anymore.
“Oya, enter here,” they bawled. Puzzled that you’re not even home yet they want you to forcefully enter their van. You protest. A third and fourth police man jump out of the van, your heart flutters…like the lightening of Sango, a back-hand slap strikes your face…
Kpa! A wail of pain and defeat rises like a bomb from across the street. “Jacobian!” the game has been won and the master shakes his opponent’s hand. Mr X walks away and Night eats him too; Jacobian stands to stretch and relieve his aching back while a new opponent takes his seat opposite him. This one will not take long.
It was my gateman that told me this story. An Unknown Master story teller, you might say. I guess he is like some of us, blogger or not. Waiting for something to happen. Some flash of lightening or a phone call from your publisher to say you’ve won some award for telling some Barbar-shop story. Don’t make me laugh, Sochi, do I hear you say? It doesn’t matter, friend. I’m too angry to bother.
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