I'm an avid reader of Sci-Fi and Fantasy books since the first time I opened A Time for Adventure by L. Solaru and read The Lion The Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis.

These days, I tend to like meaty, intrigue-laced, developed and character driven stories and I am currently reading works by Michelle West, Jacqueline Carey, Steven Erikson and Robert Jordan.

Please name some of your favourite fantasy authors!

ravenzord:

I like this; first off I like how it starts,catching my attention with that first profound statement,secondly I lyk the fact that it's Sci-fi,a genre very unexplored by Nigerian authors,prolly cos it requires a very different-from-the-norm imagination,I also like the buildup and suspense,it's got me asking myself: 'What's gon' happen at the Bicentennial?' Is it a massive initiation rite or a big bad sexual sin assembly (iWish,LOL). . .don't keep me waiting for too long.

P.S: Try working on your tenses,in some parts U slip from Present Continuous to Past tense,it stilts your writing. Big ups

Thanks for the constructive criticism Ravenzord! I really appreciate it!!    Here's the second part.


[size=16pt]The Bicentennial (Contd.)[/size]


      I walk into the sanctum of the Bicentennial for the first and Creator-willing not the last time. Everywhere there are people gathered. Most of them seem to be my age, first timers just experiencing the Bicentennial for the first time. I take in the sanctum. It is a very big arena shaped like a full circle with 5 quadrants. In the center there is a giant moonstone - the only one in all of Erhi - with an elaborate silver and white footstool in front of it.


     The full circle dome of the sanctum glittered with pearls and silver ornaments reflecting the light of the 5 moons. It gives the roof an eerie, moving aspect and casts silver light all over the sanctum so you can clearly see everyone even those underneath the balconies. All the inner balconies are packed with Erhibanè of all shapes and sizes and stations. Some of the women are wearing Tche-tchi herbs woven into their hair. Others have moon-roses woven into intricate nets and draped across their shoulders. Some overzealous first-timers reeked of mmiri oil. It is not at all a bad smell. It is just overpowering. Both men and women wore flowing silver gowns slashed with swaths of white and night blue the colors of the moon. All the men and all the elders had their heads shaved. The young men – those who turned 50 within the past 5 years marked themselves with runes above their eyes.


       You could tell the young women because we were the vainest of all gathered in the sanctum rounding our teeth, removing all hair except for that on our heads and filing our nails with clever makeup around our eyes in white, night blue and silver. There was a peculiarly beautiful Erhibanè young woman that seemed like a heroine out of legend. She had rounded her teeth and dyed her long hair which cascaded down her back in a silver wave. She had large blue-black Nuya bird feathers protruding from both ears fanning both sides of her head. She had painstakingly done her forehead and eye makeup so it resembled the 5 quadrant moons surrounded by stars. She had carved her nails to resemble the quadrant moon with tiny eluii feathers dyed white on each finger nail. Every time she raised her hands to wave and welcome a friend – of which she had many – it looked like five miniature moons swaying from side to side.


The young women were also the most likely to have come with moon bracelets. Mine was made with circlets of silver, an heirloom I was most proud of and will never part with short of death. An elder smiles at me. Like most of our elders one cannot tell whether they are male or female until you hear them speak. She beckons me closer her eyes twinkling as she whispers,


“Are you Nnoeri’s daughter?”

“No.” I reply. She smells like mmiri oil and Tche-tchi herbs.

“I am Nnoeri’s niece. She died a twice-half moon ago.”

“Oh you look so like your aunt when we were younger.” She says.

“So tragically beautiful yet full of life.”

She sighs, “I miss that crazy woman! You must endeavor to see me after the Bicentennial. I have something for you from her.”

I smile wonderingly, thanking her as she wishes me a wonderful worship. I push and slip my way as close to the moon stone as possible. An acolyte in the balustrade strikes the giant gongs to signify the 4th hour. I reach the front just as a chief acolyte ascends the footstool.

“My sisters and brothers,” he says, “I welcome you to the celebration of the Bicentennial.”

There is intense cheering for a full 5 minutes before he finally quiets the crowd down. I can hardly contain my excitement and am aware that everyone around me is probably bearing the same huge smile as I.

“We come here once every 50th year when the 5 moon quadrants gather together without fail to give true worship to our Creator.”

Everyone erupts again with shouts of “Eyo-e”, a word of thanks for the Creator. He quiets us down again.

“I urge you now to take the hand of your brothers and sisters as we prepare for worship. You may kneel, stand or sit as is pleasing to you. We will begin the worship proper once it is the 5th hour.”


I am standing next to the shortest Ehribanè I have ever seen. She is a tiny, tiny person and I almost ask her if she is sure she is past her 20th year. I am tempted but know it would be incredibly rude. So I look once again around the temple then over to my right side. I see the rigid and sharp silhouette of the Ava telescope guard next to me. I quickly face the front again but can’t help sneaking another peek. At first glance and because of his height and rigid stature one would think he is a step away from being an elder but on closer inspection I see that he can be no greater than 56 years old. He is handsome too. He glances at me and his eyes smile. I suddenly feel very shy for some imbecilic reason. I turn back to the front again with a sigh.

Suddenly, I feel the air change and deepen. The acolyte on the balustrade strikes the 5th hour as the chief acolyte walks to the front of the crowd and joins hands with an elder. There is an “it” in the air and I don’t know what “it” is but it seems at once infinite and close. I can feel it now as it echoes from the walls. I feel the cores of my sisters, my brothers, my children, my family, and my friends like a missing spring snapping into place. In this communion we are one. Together, we are the most beautiful, most perfectly imperfect being in the entire universe. Every insult is forgotten, every missing bit of courage is rebuilt, every secret revealed and accepted, every sin forgiven, every love lost, found. It is aching, pure, unfettered ecstasy. Afterwards we will bask in the silver glow our eyes turned towards our quadrant moons our bodies baking away like lizards beneath the sun. Everything and everyone is covered in liquid silver moonslight and I want to stay like this for all time. Just – like this; holding hands as brothers and sisters, breathing in and out, sharing, experiencing something bigger than all of us put together.


This, this is life.

((End of Pt. 2))

Note, this was originally intended to be a short story that ended here. It has since spawned a full novella that I am currently writing when I am not slaving away at work/school

Ifez:

Break the story into more paragraphs to make it easier to read. As you've written it, my eyes and head hurt just by looking at it. 

dominique:

you sadi all ifez. . . its whole article lookes so clustered, its soo hard to comprehend

Done, Now read it and let me hear you thoughts, k?

she realized that her period

Hey all,

Here's a little something I wrote a while back, tell me what you think (No thief abeg, I dey wound persin):

THE BICENTENNIAL (PT 1)

There is no integrity or dignity in being poor. Poverty robs you of everything normal. You can read all you want, sleep all you want, cultivate as many manners as possible, be the most beautiful Erhibanè you want it will not distinguish you. I wake up with this thought in my head every morning; this feeling that I cannot escape what is to come the eventual surrender to guilt, disappointment, anger, desperation and caustic cynicism that comes with too long a life of poverty.


I already see its taint creeping into my younger brother’s eyes. It’s in the way he no longer holds my hands when we cross the streets of Erhi-yun. It’s in the way he now walks with his eyes carefully and casually hooded like a miniature predator waiting for whoever will cross him so he can unleash his poison and claim he was provoked. It’s in the way his smiles are now infrequent. It’s in the way he is beginning to look at me like a liability he will one day have to get rid of. I refuse to surrender to the sadness. I feel I have failed him. I couldn’t keep that flame, that joy he used to have alive and in this, I have also failed my creator. I could not protect his truest gift – hope.


I have been saving as much earnings as I can. Between the job at Indime factory and my other life as a night harlot I have condensed enough to allow us paid entry into the upcoming Bicentennial Worship. It happens every 50th year and anyone who attends has to be past their 50th year and their 2nd moult as it is a worship reserved only for adults. It happens in Erhi-yun, Erhi’s capital city. They say it is something you just have to experience. It is something you cannot describe. You just have to be there and feel it to understand. I remember my parents telling me about it during my second moult. As I shivered from the cold my eyes closed beneath the green aureoles of my cocoon I heard them whispering their words of love to me filling my ears with the feelings they could express in words of their time at the Bicentennial. I couldn’t make sense of half of what they said but I dreamed and dreamed of how I would one day partake in that experience.


We Erhibanè grow up being proud of our worship. It’s the one time when everyone regardless of social status, looks or sex can congregate and commune as one with our Creator. This worship is inculcated in you from the first 20 years of your youth and the first moult to the end of your 5th and final moult. I have experienced my 2nd moult and am close to my 55th year so I am considered an adult now and I can partake in this ultimate worship. I will take my brother Jiya with me but he will have to wait in the outer temple till I return with the other adults the next day. He is only 43 and doesn’t experience his 2nd moult for another 7 years so he can’t commune with the rest of us. I think that just adds to his anger.


I have been fretting over my looks of late. I know looks do not matter in the Bicentennial because our Creator loves us as we are regardless of how we look, what we do, and where we are from in Erhi but I can’t help myself. I want to be beautiful for my Creator. I have filed my teeth that were beginning to form blocks so their edges are now perfectly rounded. I have removed all my hairs. I have made my fingernails bleed from constantly filing the edges so they look like perfect upside down quadrants, the shape of our 5 moons. When I go to the Bicentennial, I am determined to be the most beautiful I can be.

“All this incessant fussing,” Jiya says, “and you are not even going for your wedding. What will you do then?” he asked. I laughed. It’s the only time I have seen Jiya crack a smile this entire month. It made my heart happy to see his elusive smile again.

Today is the 5th day of the 5th month of the 50th year. I set out at the deep night hour with Jiya. My feet fell clumsily as we went over each hilly road towards the center of Erhi-yun, up down, up down towards the temple of the Bicentennial. Rogue beggars littered the streets waxing poetic at the sight of the five quadrant moons their feet planted in buckets of mmiri oil sprinkled with calming herbs. Already I feel there is something much changed in the very air we breathe. I look over at Jiya to see if he senses it too. His face is a mask of concentration his eyes looking deep within. We plod on to the temple arriving just as the gates open. There is a mass of humanity there that I did not think this city could possibly contain. I give the acolyte priest my token. I feel a pang of intense loss as I part ways with 8 months of hard won wages in one single motion. Jiya twitches too. We both smile at each other sheepishly and the priest acolyte smiles at us two. Another battle won. He smiled again for me.
“For whoever gives the Creator repays. This will return to you tenfold”, he says. I utter a fevered prayer that it is so. We walk up to the temple doors our slippered feet quiet against the pristine marble floors till we reach the sanctum proper. I take off my slippers and join them to the immense pile outside the sanctum doors.

“Pray for me too,” Jiya says.
“I always do.” I reply.

((End of part 1))

Bah