Thursday, 17 December 2009

The Dismal State of our Media

The Dismal State of our Media

by Chinelo Onwualu

In the month and a half since my return to this country, I realize that many things have changed. In some ways they have changed for the better. One is no longer stopped by members of the police demanding bribes – at least not blatantly and women wearing jeans are not the show-stopping phenomenon it was even four years ago. But while watching evening news broadcasts, I have been struck by a curious difference. The leading stories are always event pieces.

Working for a newspaper in the US, we were always looking for ways to get the biggest news stories out to the public before our television counterparts. If there was a fire, or a shooting or an accident, we wanted to be the first ones there before the cameras showed up. Then at the end of the day would tune in to the evening broadcast, knowing that the first story the broadcaster mentioned would be what the station considered its most important news event. If they led with a story we didn’t have, we knew we had been scooped.

So when I tune into NTA and find that the leading story is a bland speech by a bland dignitary at an inconsequential convention, I have to wonder if this was the most important thing happening in the country at the time. And when I find that the whole broadcast is a series of bland speeches given by even blander men, I have to wonder about the state of the industry itself.

Nigerian journalism is in danger. In the United States newspapers and television stations are struggling with the fact that their audiences are moving to the internet, taking their advertising dollars with them. Here, I think the problem is more insidious. We live in a society where anything can be bought by the highest bidder – including airtime. When faced with the choice of covering a big man’s book launch or investigating a report of shoddy workmanship in a housing estate, I can only imagine what a television station starved of resources would do. Especially if offered enough “transport money.”

I don’t mean to single out one industry for criticism. When I read newspapers where there is little regard for punctuation, style or grammar, I know the problem is not limited to television. This is a symptom of a deeper problem in this country. Journalism is a poorly-paid, highly dangerous profession in many places in the world – even the United States. It requires brave and uncompromising people to do it, and not all of us are blessed with such hearts.

However we owe it to ourselves as a nation to raise our standards. There are news outlets producing quality work. Yet they are not enough and they are working against a very strong tide.

Chinelo Onwualu

Ms Onwualu lives in Abuja, Nigeria and is a member of Abuja Writers Forum

Friday, 11 December 2009

On Northern Nigerian Writing and Related Issues




Arewa: Northern Nigeria.

In Nigeria, when either of these words is mentioned, a flurry of images is created in the mind. Some of these can be stated without fear of a faux pas while other images, of social unrest, illiteracy and a billowing ultraorthodox Islam, are hinged upon very persuasive prejudices and are for this reason not openly expressed. This gulf between the object and its perception is of course in the context of northern and southern locales in all aspects of the Nigerian superstructure, most especially in the realm of literature and allied expressions; this gulf forms the basis of my article. Considering the comparatively recent development of literature written in English in Northern Nigeria and the still low formal education enrollment figures, it is possible to as a Northern Nigerian writer critique one’s own space.

Northern Nigeria is a vast tract of landlocked space in the Central Sudan bordered by the republics of Niger, Chad and Cameroun; its furthest southern border is marked by the territories of the Borgu, Yoruba, Nupe, Igala, Fulani and other Kwa-language speaking people. The admixture of an Islamic influence via the trans-Saharan trade route, and the very accommodating policies of the British colonial administration which favored a propping of the early 19th Century Islamic reformer Uthman dan Fodio’s system of Emirates, resulted in the peoples of the north not being exposed to Western education until about a century after the peoples in the southern parts of the country. While a rich history of Arabic-based literature existed, the extent of the known world of our fathers quadrupled in the decade starting from 1901. English, not Arabic, became the language of world expression. Consequently, while the people of the north have had their unique experiences, these experiences have hardly weighed in the national consciousness for they are only recently, in the last thirty years really, being expressed in the language that counts – in English.

Perhaps the most dominant mental image that is conjured by the phrase “Northern Nigeria” is that of the Durbar, that traditional panorama of homage to Emirs, a fleeting movie of men ceremonially robed on splendid horses charging down a field and drawing rein before their suzerain amidst the dust – with the exited ululation of crowds of talakawa {working class} as a necessary backdrop? The durbar IS a fitting metaphor for the North and the cusp of this essay is to break this movie-metaphor down to its rudiments, with the eyes of Rushdie’s involved criticism, to seek the points where the picture is less than it seems, the glint in the eye, the swing of a dagger, a whiff of perfume; the places where the perception is weak, threatening the fidelity of the entire picture.

At the head of the charge of men from the north on the field of Nigerian literature is the figure of Abubakar Imam Kagara who is recognized as a paterfamilias. His works, primarily Ruwan Bagaja and Magana Jari Ce, published in 1934 and 1939 respectively, were a bridge between the old tradition of northern literature and the new Western ways. Seeing that his times were swiftly changing, he had the vision, quite radical, to write neither in Arabic nor in the popular ajami {Hausa language in Arabic script}. He chose Hausa written in the Roman script for he felt that the Hausa language, with its remarkable adaptability as a Sudanese pidgin, would be the lingua franca of Nigeria. This assumption was of course frustrated by the Western educated, ethnicist-leaning, positions of Chief Awolowo rooted in personal ambition and a political fear of the mega-sized Northern Region. Thus was Imam’s contribution overshadowed two decades later by Chinua Achebe in 1959, with his famous novel written with the same sense of cultural identity, but written in English. After Imam’s experimentation, a lull in Northern writing occurred until the late 60’s which saw the contributions of Labo Yari as well as those of Mohammed Sule whose “The Undesirable Element” remains one of the classics of African literature. Abubakar Gimba became the leading light of northern writing in English in the late ‘80’s and through the ‘90’s. Perhaps recovering from trauma, or simply in recognition of the importance of writing in English, the ‘90’s saw the emergence of many Northern writers ranging from Abubakar Othman, Ismail Bala and Ahmed Maiwada in poetry to Maria Ajima and Victor Dugga in drama. However, with the exception of Abubakar Gimba’s contributions in prose, which while noteworthy are hardly stratospheric, there have been no important novels in English from northern Nigeria since Yari and Sule’s contributions in the mid ‘70’s. Neither has the poetry or drama been exceptional. And the question is – why?

Contemporary northern writing is now centered on four towns {Minna, Jos, Kano and Kaduna} and this writer has been sufficiently exposed to all of them to afford a critical address. Among the older contemporary writers in the north are B. M. Dzukogi, Ismail Bala, Yusuf Adamu, Musa Okapnachi, Razinat Mohammed and E. E. Sule who has also been the preeminent literary critic. The younger contemporary writers include Gimba Kakanda, Abdulaziz Ahmad Abdulaziz, Abubakar Adam Ibrahim, Awaal Idris Evuti, Elnathan John, Binta Shuaibu Abdallah Abubakar Adam Ibrahim and Alkasim Abdulkadir.

The first doom of our northern horsemen of the Word is perhaps a shocking one, for it is not more or less than a sense of unjustifiable hubris. How writers with so little experience begin to see themselves as oracles is to say the least surprising. Indicative of this is my experience with writing from Kano generally, a locale which seems to have for the most part abandoned the rundimentaries of the English language – tense and syntax. On first noticing this anomaly, one is unsure whether this is done for some justifiable stylistic reason or the other but when this same error is found even in the work of older writers, one begins immediately to suspect a more sinister truth. The only exception to this seems to be the writings of the academics Yusuf Adamu and Ismail Bala. To the man, Kano writers have answered to the effect that they are contributing to the English language with this bad brew of sentences! And it begs the question, how the hell can you contribute to the building of the English language without knowing the way the weight is distributed at its foundations? How can you put something on nothing and expect it to stand? A desire to fly is a wonderful and poetic gift in the human imaginative spirit, but it must come further down a sequence that starts with walking, then perhaps running.

For the most part, these culpable writers cannot even be said to have made “mistakes” of grammar – this excuse being unsustainable; they simply do not know better. And this is what southern Nigeria and the rest of the world reads and are very justified in ascribing puerility to northern Nigerian writing! This is so bad that even the critic can no longer be heard, for whenever a critic disconnects himself from a sympathy to what the writer wants to say and points out that he has not indeed said this in the form required by correct language, he is buried immediately by howls from the friends of the writer in question who all have a shared ownership of the blocks of language, to use, misuse and abuse as they wish. In prose, in poetry, the story is the same. While I have taken Kano as the center of this unfortunate malaise, I will say it is not in that city’s exclusive domain. This sense of irresponsible hubris has been read all over northern Nigeria, from Sokoto to Maiduguri and while it seems more a serious problem in the north west, least so in the north Central, this flaw has been seen enough to stamp ALL writing from the north. There exists a very nimble intellectual and creative ability in northern Nigeria and this becomes evident when one takes the time to read between the lines. But the placement of the runes as well is fatally important. An apposite example suffices; if that fabulous diamond, the Koh I Noor, is left in a bucket of broken glass, its beauty would be no more noticed than that of the astoundingly perceptive creativity beneath our literal northern literary rags is now. If this flaw is to be fixed, assuming one can get past the billows of hot air surrounding our young writers especially, one would advocate a return to studying rudimentary language. Dubious thanks to the thriving book piracy business in the south, such gems as “Brighter Grammar” are cheaply available – that is, if young northern writers do not see it as beneath them to buy these primers.

Quite related to this is another issue – literary “ranka ya dade” {kowtowing}. We must imagine this as a fight for supremacy by all means as our fully clad writerly horsemen charge down the field of letters. It is chaos of horses, dust and death. Northern Nigeria is vast, and it is a still somewhat feudalist society based on assumed and assumable elitisms. It is demanded that the young show respect, often to the ridiculous point of choking themselves and their creativities, to their elders. And because northern Nigeria is large, we have had the state and the media more of less pushing certain writers to oracular status simply because they are the better of a regular pack without necessarily being close to distinctive in the scale to the best. For example, in Minna, where the oracle seems to be B. M. Dzukogi who has been hailed with every epithet from “ascetic” to “the philosopher” yet when we read his actual works we ask – Is this the Dzukogi fellow? This is the same scenario we see, and which is consequently read, from Gusau to Maiduguri to Makurdi.

What is the danger of this last to northern Nigerian writing? In one word; mediocrity. I have said earlier that the stuff of writing, a creative spirit and a perceptive eye, is very abundant in northern Nigeria. Yet if our writing is to compare favorably, and this favor is largely one precipiced on that masterful knowledge of the sentence that is called stylistics, then the use of the best role models available can lift a young northern writer’s craft from the commonplace to the exceptional. I have interacted with young writers from the south who tell me their literary mentors were say Wole Soyinka, or Garcia Marquez, or Osundare or Michael Ondaatje – and when you read their writings, this influence shows, not in the fraudulent manner of a copy but in that intellectually salutary manner of an improvement, of innovation. The geographical vastness of the north has made its younger writers gather in clusters around local champions who argue their championship to the most fantastic extents, yet ones who will not be seen to sit at a table of national, talk less of global, champions of literature. And this is the germ of the greatest harm to the future of northern Nigerian writing. The effect of this imposition of the second-rate {because perhaps the first-rate is unavailable?} is a fostering of mediocrity and the rise of sophistry to explain that. And sophistry is by nature a corrupting thing. To return to Minna, this writer has noticed the activities of some young writers, the most forward of whom is the poet Gimba Kakanda, who are trying to break through the mold of “ranka ya dade” stymied writing; to him and others like him across the towns of Kano, Jos and Kaduna, I can only say – “May your road be rough”.

To return from Minna back to our field of horses, I say if we must have horsemen indeed, who we shall be unafraid to send into the real battle of telling our northern stories well, then they must be trained by gods. The surrogate of a god is not a god, and this becomes clear when the Armageddon comes. The younger writers from the north must seek true gods as their mentors, or else they never would be able to stand on a level field with other writers writing in English from anywhere else. And to be able to do just that is to be possibly first-rate.

The third and last danger to northern Nigerian writing I shall discuss is something that the fine critic E. E. Sule formulated memorably as a “chaos of perception”. It is a misperception of what writing really means. It is quite related to the philosophy of writing. I would say that this chaos of perception is not related to northern writing alone but southern Nigerian writing also, it has been noticed even in the writings of our Diaspora writers as well. There is one question that every writer must ask himself and answer silently –“Why do I write?” And this question must be asked in the cupboard, in meditation, in privacy, for when a writer does not have the answer to that question he cannot write a classic, try as and as talented as he may be. It has often been asked how is it that Nigerian writers {ever since the first classic, “Things Fall Apart”, then Ben Okri’s “The Famished Road” and perhaps Ken Saro Wiwa’s “Sozaboy”} have been unable to write truly great books? The answer is found first of all in a chaos of perception about themselves as writers and themselves as a position in History. I wager that Chinua Achebe knew why he was writing in ‘58’, but does Onyeka Nwelue know today? Wole Soyinka surely knew why he wrote but does say Ibukun Babarinde know as surely why he writes today? And this knowing is one that goes past the watery hash gotten secondhand from MFA programs in the west. It goes further than the homegrown pseudo Marxist hash as well.

A philosophy of writing must be rooted in a sense of self and it is the way one shares it that is the most poetic gift in ones craft, it is what makes the heart of the reader weave whether he is in Budapest reading a translation of “Okonkwo” or in Zakibiam reading a Tiv translation of Tolstoy’s “Voina I Mir”, it is what makes the words dance in the mind of posterity. Without it, a writer cannot communicate to the basic humanity of any reader, he just cannot do this without clarifying to himself what he MEANS to himself. Indicative of this dearth are the two answers writers give when asked why they write; either that they “write to express themselves”, or that they write for that vast amorphous abstraction – for the “people”. But the true writer can only answer that question by replying – “You’ll have to ask my readers.”

Writing goes beyond stringing words together, even if this is done skillfully; a sense of self in writing is the individual interpretation of a larger social experience untainted by the opinions of the experience of other individuals and of collectives of individuals especially. It is something you do not know how to but which you ARE putting into your words. This sense of self is absent in northern Nigerian writing almost as much as it is largely absent in southern Nigerian writing, only the absence is more felt here – for while the southern Nigerian writer can with moderate effort assimilate into his milieu of a pseudo-European “self”, the northerner is in this respect painfully odd. Yet this sense of self can be found in the examination of a dominant cultural legacy, and the dominant cultural legacies of northern Nigeria are Arabic influenced forms; social conservatism, the primacy of dignity, the demand for justice. We should not advocate the writing of pseudo-Arabic poetry and prose, for that would be the animation of a corpse, a waste of time that is ultimately of no intellectual or material value. But we could reinterpret, replacing the corpse with a new body given life by the breath of our individual {this is important} additions to a distinct corpus. The outdated old becomes the fertilizer of the distinctively new. The Kano soft literature written in everyday Hausa has shown that this is possible and a receptive audience does exist. Northern writers in English need to take this experiment to the next level.

The chaos of perception in which all Nigerian literature is mired also extends to how writers view their own vitality. Perhaps this even extends beyond Nigerian writing to African writing in general? The most recent debate kicked off by South African writer, Miss Petina Gappah’s comment to the effect that she did not see herself as an “African writer”, on the rather opposed grounds of that term being too vast and too restrictive at the same time, is a case to point. It indicates how Miss Gappah sees writing on the whole. But neither are her traducers any more correct. The opposite argument to Miss Gappah’s point of view argues that one is an African writer if one is seen {from the West?} as an African writer. While one understands Africanist ire at a seeming self-distancing from the continent by Diaspora-based writers, the opposite argument is equally of little intellectual merit.

Both positions are rooted in a chaos of perception of a sense of self.

Writing is a fully social action, but it is not a collective one. One can only write one’s perception of a story shared by all, yet a writer is a part of that larger experience. And that larger experience is a human one, true in Bombay as it is in Naivasha and as it is in Alagomeji. The attempt at being global writers breaks down for this reason, because a theory that is not true anywhere is incorrect everywhere. To return to the example given above, Shakespeare or Achebe or Tolstoy would be accessible even to the Inca is we could read it to them in their language, in their script, solely because it is Writing, not writing so called, and definitely not because it is British Writing. What is advocated is the creation of a philosophy of writing based on universal human experiences and values and themes.

When we see ourselves as African writers we miss the entire picture as fatally as those who deny the locality of a culture rooted here in their writing. These are the twin chaos of perception. It is as untenable as being between the pinchers of a scorpion or a crab. The safest place in that situation is to seek the body where the pinchers protrude from – in this case to locate oneself within the universal themes of humanity. The moment this is done, the present “scholarly debate” on all issues related to a writer’s identity would become superfluous.

Following this general excursus on above-the-air theories, I must return to my beloved northern Nigeria and its metaphor of a field of horsemen. The challenge for the younger writers from the north is an exhilarating one for it is still early enough for something distinctive and radical to be done across the genres of English. By this I mean something not less paradigmatic than what the Latin Americans, led by Garcia Marquez, Jorge Amado and Vargas llosa, did to “world Literature” in the 70’s. But we must first sit on our mats, holding our beads in our hands and mentally reach a place where we can banish the cloys of personal hubris, and the pressure to kowtow, from our psyches. And at this same place we must ask and answer personally the question of why we write and settle privately and conclusively the issues relating to our sense of our selves, triumphing over Siamese evil twins of a fostered chaos of perception.

And when this is done we shall be able to stand up from the floor and mount our horses. And when we thunder down the fields of Literature, we shall do so in the aura of a global applause deafening far beyond the stampeding hooves of our own vitality.

Richard Ugbede Ali, writer of poetry and prose, is the Editor-in-Chief of the new Sentinel Nigeria Magazine.

Wednesday, 2 December 2009

Reviewing Elnathan John: The Etcetera of Dreams

Book: Daydreams Etcetera
Published: November 2008
Genre: Prose
Author: Elnathan John
Number of Pages: 76
Reviewer: Richard Ugbede Ali

"I promised, my dear, to write you a story. A story of things I do not
well know. Presumptuous. A story of the numbness of my heart; of
things I built and which I destroyed, of the union of light and
darkness, of the seeing and the blind, of dolphins and piranhas . . .
I lack, I think, the imaginative force, the creative strength or even
the will to write. However, I will keep my promise. It may be
annoyingly short, a pain to the ear, but I will tell my story."

This first paragraph, excerpted from Elnathan John's2008 short
stories, "Daydreams Etcetera" is a good enough proem to the entire
collection. And Mr. John, for the most part in this collection has
succeeded in his purpose of telling his stories and telling his
dreams. The qualities, and the shortcomings of this qualified success,
form the interest of this critical reader.

"Daydreams Etcetera", privately published November 2008 in seventy six
pages, contains eleven short stories of varying lengths and the
diversity of its themes are equally matched by the perceptiveness of
nuance and diction used to probe the nature of the two sorts of dreams
to which we are beholden – the ones we dream at night and those acted
out with causal eyes open. In all these dreams, there is an underlying
tension, a felt unreality cluing the presence of forces indifferent to
the lives and stories of dreamers with whom yet, fatally and fatedly,
they interact in shared moments.

"Mazes", which starts the collection, takes on the theme of the
psychological incidence of inter-religious relationships, x-raying the
stalemated love between Akala and Yesmin. Perhaps the most effective
device used is the repetition of the two religions formulae "Allahu
Akbar" and "Hallelujah" – creating very effectively the pulse of
something being pounded into. It is as effective as the Lorcan
refrain. It is the natural story told by a man from the North Central
where all the cultures and religions of Nigeria mix with sometimes
tragic, sometimes beautiful, consequences. Two senses of unreality are
drawn skilfully in the stories "God's Eyes" and "Visions" – in the
first story, there is the unlikely cast of a policeman who can't wait
to finish his postgraduate degree, a bored blueblood who acquires a
social conscience and an anti-Semitic Maltan-Nigerian drug dealer with
a killed Lebanese girlfriend. These contrary lives intersect in a drug
bust where the policeman dies, the blueblood dies and the drug dealer
lives. A skilful handling of plot, reminiscent of the movies "Crash"
and "Slow Burn", distincts Elnathan John's prose. "Visions" is a
haunting story of an obviously schizoid mind drowning within the mire
of Nigerian society and culture.

"The Immaculate" takes a cursory look at religious corruption and how
its underlying hypocrisies corrupt love and ideals; the words "Lagos
is not for me", spoken by Brother Jo have a chilling effect. The most
powerful stories in this slim collection are however "Kaduna", "Keeper
of the Peace" and the earlier excerpted "I Promised to Write You a
Story" – all of which probe the nature of remorseless grief; a poet
who gives his finest performance as his heart breaks in the first, a
boy who kills his friend in a religious riot in the second and in the
third, a writer writing to the now mentally unstable lover who has
killed her sister whom he had loved equally and at the same time. In
all these themes, Mr Elnathan John is able to explore to sometimes
astounding effect his obvious skill for diction and plot manipulation.
The collection is however burdened by a minor, though revealing, flaw
– Mr John's penchant for adjectives where the use of none would do
nicely and his partiality for elliptical repetition, sometimes to such
a point as to lose the underlying aesthetic of phrases, obscuring
sense. Examples of the first – "guttural sound of blood in the throat"
{God's Eyes} and - "it was to him like the familiar hands of a
sensuous lover delicately probing the curves of an exquisite body"
{Kaduna}; in the opinion of this critic, the last example copied would
have been better without at least the describers "sensuous" and
"exquisite". A sampler of unnecessary elliptic is the entire second
paragraph of "Daydreams Etcetera" – sentence-short clones of this have
also been noted.

Discounting these flaws, however, must be mentioned delightful turns
of phrase which are interspersed throughout "Daydreams Etcetera". In
the very first story, "Mazes", this one stands out – "Finally, a
partial heavenly arbiter dropped, suppressing the dust and chasing
everyone away except the wind, which it allowed to revel in victory
with the haughtiness of a successful rebel" and "At last, they will
live their lives without crouching under the shadow of his heavy hand.
I will watch it all, feeling vicariously, the new lightness in their
crushed hearts and numbness in the cicatrized souls. Gracious death.
Bad ending. Good start." {Mother's Daddy.}

In the opinion of this reader-critic, Elnathan John's 2008 "Daydreams
Etcetera" is a well written and well put together first prose offering
by a perceptive and potentially important new writer from Central
Nigeria. As opposed to mere storytelling, something salutary must be
said for the dreamer who yet tells his stories well. The existent
flaws are there merely for the purpose of finessing his craft. We
would do well to seek out whatever new offerings Elnathan John will
next bring to the temple of Nigerian letters.

Richard Ali is Editor-in-Chief, Sentinel Nigeria Magazine.

Saturday, 28 November 2009

Sentinel Literature Festival 2009


As part of the celebration of its 7th year in service to world literature from its base in Britain, Sentinel Poetry Movement is set to run a three-day Festival of Poetry, Fiction, Music and Fun. The time for the performances is 7pm to 10pm on the 1st, 2nd and 3rd of December 2009.

The festival will open with a short report on 7 years of Sentinel Poetry Movement by founder Nnorom Azuonye who also doubles as the Festival Director. This report will then be followed by poetry and fiction readings and performances, and live music by, among others, the headline acts: Harry Zevenbergen poet, performer and citypoet of Den Haag, author of “Punk in Rhenen”, Tony Fernandez - author of “The Sound of Running Water” and Editor of Africa Awakening magazine, Lookman Sanusi - a theatre practitioner, fiction writer and author of “Skeleton”, Nnorom Azuonye - editor of Sentinel Literary Quarterly and author of “The Bridge Selection: Poems for the Road”, Clare Saponia – a young voice with publications in The Recusant, Platform, Red Poets, Inclement and Pennine Ink. There is also Afam Akeh – founding editor of African Writing and author of “Stolen Moments” and “Letter Home and Other Poems”, Chika Unigwe - author of the bestselling novel “On Black Sisters’ Street”, and Malgorzata Kitowski – one of the foremost Poetry Film-makers in London and author of “Doppelgangers”. The three-day play will be concluded on the 3rd of December by the performance of “Sampo: Heading Further North” by the Middlesbrough duo Andy Willoughby and Bob Beagrie. SAMPO: HEADING FURTHER NORTH is a spoken word and music extravaganza of story telling, lyric poetry, beat sensibilities and postmodern experimentation by poets Bob Beagrie and Andy Willoughby with musical collaboration by world music duo Gobbleracket based on the Finnish myth cycle Kalevela connecting to their north eastern identity, it has toured the north to critical acclaim and is now heading further south! With its South London Premiere. Live music on the first two evenings of the Festival will be provided by South Africa-born Italian Folk Jazz singer songwriter Aletia Upstairs. The line-up includes new songs and others from her debut album, “Possibility”

The Festival will take place at two venues. On Tuesday the 1st and Wednesday the 2nd of December, the events will take place at Waterloo Gallery, Waterloo Action Centre, 14 Baylis Road, London SE1 7AA. Then on Thursday the 3rd of December the festival moves to Play Space, 1 Coral Street, London SE1 1BE. Both venues located across the road from the Old Vic are literally 2 minutes’ walk from Waterloo Station (Northern Line and British Rail), and about 4 minutes from Southwark Station (Jubilee Line).

For convenience, the £6.00 per day tickets can be purchased in advance from the Festival website, or at the door.

More information available at


Tel: 0870 127 1967 or 07812 755751

Nnorom Azuonye

Festival Director

Friday, 27 November 2009

Sallah Greetings from Sentinel Nigeria

Hello everyone!

Sallah greetings to you all,

The last week has been full of activity at sentinelnigeria and we are putting final touches to the website. The blog is up and running and our call for submissions has been enthusiastically received by writers within Nigeria. We have received a lot of interest from countries as far afield as Ghana and Ethiopia. Submissions are already coming in and the numbers are encouraging.

If one can tell beads by seeing the now, then I am sure that the future of your magazine is going to be a glorious one.

I would like to thank our media friends, Chude Jideonwo, Temitayo Olofinlua and all the rest for keeping us in the news. Not forgetting all you sentinelnigeria group members who have kept the buzz going online and offline.

I pray the blessings of the Eid last you through the year ahead. Ameen.

Richard Ugbede Ali


Sentinel Nigeria Magazine

08062392145, 07092077711

Friday, 20 November 2009

Champion Poems

#1 2009/11
ISSN 2042-5228
Edited by Andy Willoughy and Bob Beagrie
£3.95 (UK), £4.95 (Overseas)

Champion Poems is a new magazine published by SPM Publications - a division of Sentinel Poetry Movement in the United Kingdom. As the title suggests, Champion Poems are selected poems from the on-going Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition Series.

At the end of every competition, there are three poems that win cash prizes. In addition to these, the judge looks for 32 poems in total from the entries that are strong enough to be published in the magazine.

The maiden issue of Champion Poems is edited by Andy Willoughby and Bob Beagrie. The design, typography and print-production is handled for SPM Publications by Last Chance Before Bathtime (LCCB), Kidderminster, UK. LCCB has set the publication date at 27 November, 2009.

This magazine will be available for one-off purchases or subscription after the release date.

To keep up with information about Champion Poems go to


Life Before Death by Sylva Nze Ifedigbo


Sylva Nze Ifedigbo

I have heard enough of that crap. And no, I am not an atheist. I just think that logically as it is in the English alphabet, there should be an “A” before a “B”. If that sequence is generally accepted, I therefore refuse to be continually harangued by the talks of life after death. No, enough of that crap.

Logically, there could only be a life after death when there is a life at the present. Does it make sense to worry about tomorrow when it is still dawn today? Why worry ourselves sick about a life after death when we are not living at the moment? If you ask me, we have proceeded just too fast for our senses. Far away from reality. Guess it’s time we do a little reverse and begin to ponder a little more about life before death.

What is this guy talking about I can almost hear you asking aloud. It’s so simple. I am speaking on behalf of the little boy in rags who approaches your car window in the traffic, with a dirty old rubber bowl in hand. You see him approach, and quickly wind up your window, your face either bearing pity or disgust.

I am speaking on behalf of the six year old girl hawking pure water under the scorching sun at an hour children her age should be in school. She has not even slippers under her feet. Her hair is dirty and unkempt and strings of catarrh hang down her nose. Her eye pleads with you as she announces the sale of her ware. Does she remind you of your daughter of the same age?

I am speaking on behalf of the pre-pubescent girl who is married off to a man three times her age by parents who need the money to keep them selves alive. You read such things in the paper and it sounds so distant. No, you really do not read it, you simply flip past it to more interesting stories about celebrities and beauty pageants.

I write on behalf of the many children who are destined to live but a few days on earth because of the accident of their birth. Children that suckle hungrily at dry flabby breasts. Children that are at the mercy of the elements both hot and cold. Children who can not access common chloroquin to fight malaria. Children who were better of not born.

I speak for the farmer who has watched his produce dwindle every passing year. He doesn’t read in the papers of his Local Government Chairman’s boasts of spending millions on fertilizer every year. I speak for the Cocoa farmer who has lost his sons and helpers to the scramble for the city. I speak for the palm oil farmer who is losing his trees and house to erosion.

I speak for those women who will die and are dying for trying to bring forth others to this life. Those who have never heard of ante-natal. Those who must continue to satisfy their husbands crave for more children. Those women who are raped and are too scared to say they were. Those who sign up for shipments to Italy not because they find it pleasurable. Those who are forced to give or throw away their nine months pain.

I speak for that child who is condemned by HIV. And the mother who bore him/her. And the father who has lost his job because his bosses heard he is positive. I speak for those who queue for days to get a dose of the antiretroviral. Those people who we establish NGO’s for. NGO’s that make us rich. NGO’s we administer from the comfort of our air-conditioned four –wheel drives. NGO’s that don’t exist.

I speak for the child who learns from under a tree. The child who has an AK47 hanging dangerously from his neck. The Child who pushes that barrow around behind us in the Market. That child that has never seen a television. That child who forms the character of our more touching stories. Those stories that win international literary awards.

I am shouting aloud for that graduate who has lost every faith in himself and his country. The one whose shoe tell a million tales. Tales that make the wonderful degree certificate he carries about in that worn out brown envelope seen like a huge joke. He has lost his voice and can’t speak anymore. He is close to losing his spirit too. He has no money to take the next bus.

I am weeping along with that man who just lost his job. The man who has to layoff his workers ‘cos the books are not balancing anymore. The barber who can’t work ‘cos his tiny generator has broken down. The okada rider who can’t buy the spare part to fix his bike. That man who has been paying his tithe and waiting for a miracle. A miracle that only his pastor experiences. The pastor who keeps talking about a life after Death.

No, enough of that crap. I really would wish to know some life now not after. So stop threatening me about what would happen after I die which is very soon given my current state. Stop asking me to wait. I am tired of your deception and sweet talk. Stop postponing my joy. Give me something to hold unto today. Tomorrow will sure worry about it self. I need a life before death.

Sylva Nze Ifedigbo

Sylva is the Features Editor of

Wednesday, 18 November 2009

Sarah Ladipo Manyika’s love story to Nigeria

Sarah Ladipo Manyika’s love story to Nigeria

By Ireyimika Oyegbami

Sarah Ladipo Manyika’s love for her fatherland goes deep. “It is not only Tayo and Vanessa’s love story, it is also a love story to Nigeria,” the writer said of her debut novel, ‘In Dependence’, at the Lagos leg of her reading tour of Nigeria on November 7 at Quintessence, Falomo, Ikoyi.

Tunji Lardner anchored the event where Manyika calmly took questions, ahead of her later reading at Pen & Pages, Wuse, Abuja, on Tuesday, November 10.

Though not born in the Nigeria of the 60s which she uses as a setting for the novel, the writer - born of a British mother and a Nigerian father - had an idea of what the period was from her parents. And though her grandparents opposed her mother’s marriage to a Nigerian—not unlike Tayo and Vanessa in the novel – Manyika insists ‘In Dependence’ is not her parents’ story. “Tayo is a dashing young man, my father is quite handsome so maybe that informed the way I portrayed Tayo. But save for the landscape descriptions which I’m quite familiar with, the story is a work of fiction,” she said.

See full article at Sarah Ladipo Manyika’s love story to Nigeria

Tuesday, 17 November 2009

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