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List Of All Local And International Literary Contests For 2017. / When The ‘other Woman’ Triumphs: A Literary Review Of Toke Makinwa’s On Becoming / 10 Greatest Literary Writers In Nigeria History (2) (3) (4)
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 1:11am On Aug 03, 2015|
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by llaykorn: 10:07am On Aug 29, 2015|
This poem here in free verse, will be loved by anyone who loved Eminem's Kim.
Your grammar is a hundred except for the word 'brung' you used somewhere in the poem. Is there a word like that? I think it should have been 'brought'. The plot is an intriguing one although I found it hard to decipher - until I read the poem over and over again - how the two last lines have to do with the story-line. The swift shift; the caprice, is very creative of you. This is a good one.
However, I believe you still need to put some effort into organization; you have to care how your poems look on the pages, too. Please remember to tag me in your subsequent poems. You've got a sharp pen, Nmeri17
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 10:51am On Aug 29, 2015|
llaykorn:looool I've heard those "brung" complaints from someone else; it's old Irish English sha but I won't use something like that in the future.
The plot is an intriguing one although I found it hard to decipher - until I read the poem over and over again - how the two last lines have to do with the story-line. The swift shift; the caprice, is very creative of you. This is a good one.
However, I believe you still need to put some effort into organization; you have to care how your poems look on the pages, too. Please remember to tag me in your subsequent poems. You've got a sharp pen, Nmeri17I will....I will! gracias!
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 5:29pm On Sep 10, 2015|
We are all being virtually barricaded by absolutes in this celestial sphere we co-inhabit. Sub-restrictive roadblocks halt a certain group from being a tad bit more financially buoyant; others from etching their deeds and identities in the sands of time; and yet another (recently growing) group, from being as fair to look upon as others hence not bringing any satisfaction to their beholder.
Among these barricade districts lie a lesser group that have impaled the barricade of clairvoyance – and Halima is quite assertive that she is a full blooded member of this virtual minority clan. With worry ridges pasted on her forehead, she has been perched like a gestating blue bottle fly on her flat’s veranda thoughtfully pondering over what nook, the ominous halo she sees is pointing towards. On this veranda has she stood for some time now and is bent on bringing the hidden thing to the fore. Agitated, a few times, she would walk to the other end of the veranda and tell the Creator how much she loves her life and her sisters’. Of course He knows that but He listens still.
In the room adjacent to the veranda lay her room-mate Amina although alongside the sun, she has since risen, with Halima adrift in her quest for discovery, totally oblivious of both.
“Halima? To seven dey knack and you never baff.” The voice from within asks nonchalantly – and yet this nonchalant voice jolts our clairvoyant kinswoman back to reality. She says nothing but walks into the room with her back turned against it. When fully enveloped in the walls of the room, she then faces her friend, squinting.
“Wetin? Why your face be like that? You don go shack shekpe this early mo-mo?” continues Amina. She is starting to feel concerned about her friend’s current disenchantment with preparing for work.
“I have a strong feeling something bad will happen to us today; I don’t know who or what exactly but...”
“Wait eo!” Amina interrupts.
“You see us two for dream?”
“You juss wake up one morning, tanda for front barconny come dey reason say we two fit kpeme today abi? Abeg o no be me and you e-hear?”
She makes to abscond from the doom-monger but feels a strong grip on her keeping her from doing so.
“Come let me show you something.” Halima says and tugs her friend by the arm towards the veranda.
In Amina’s mind, there is enthalpy on a full scale; a flurry of ideas darting around at a frenetic pace; attempting to apprehend what factors would cause her friend to draw up such conclusions.
By now, they have gotten to the veranda and she stares expectantly for an answer.
“In 1945” Halima begins,
“survivors of the Hiroshima nuclear blast noted that prior to the explosion, the birds of the air, generally perceived to have sharper senses than us, had the premonition that such evil was about to happen and they flew off to safety before it happened. Now look at the skies – do you see any birds?”
Amina just stared on blankly. Halima then goes on pointing out other factors that fan the flames of her inauspicious and quite convinced she has won her friend over, she confidently asks
“Shay you get?”
For a few seconds, Amina shuts her eyes and allows herself be enthralled by the level of inanity she has just witnessed. When she opens her eyes, she does not utter a word but walks back into the room, leaving her friend puzzled on the veranda. Just then, her phone lying on the bed rings and she goes over to pick it.
“I just told you grave things so we can prod the matter together and all you can do is to open and close your eye like a dying turkey?”
Amina has been listening to her caller and slowly, her face distorts into a howl. Then as if on cue in a choir ministration, she lets out a yelp.
“Jesus! No! It can’t be true!”
“OK...OK...I’m coming now.”
Her defiant chants of disagreement with the dawning reality had broken into blobs and she was sniffing whilst saying to herself
“The devil is a liar.” repeatedly.
She frantically starts putting on her clothes and picking and dropping things. A panicking Halima then asks what is going on.
“It’s Abu o! They say he just had an accident now and is unconscious....that he’s at Dan Suleiman Hospital and has lost so much blood.”
“Jesus! I said it.”
“You better get there immediately so I don’t delay you. I’ll just take my bath and come but start going first.”
Devoid of any other care in the world, Amina dashes toward the exit and turns the knob valiantly. She steps out of the room and there, crouched on one knee, clutching a small blue box is Abu – smiling at her in sheer mischief. Four words...
“Will you marry me?”
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|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 5:37pm On Sep 10, 2015|
llaykorn I wrote this one "caring how it would appear on print". how's it??
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by llaykorn: 5:39pm On Sep 10, 2015|
This one no be poetry na.
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 5:46pm On Sep 10, 2015|
llaykorn:do you know nothing about short stories
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by llaykorn: 5:50pm On Sep 10, 2015|
No, you don't understand that.
I told you you should care about how your poem looks on the page and not how your prose looks on the page.
Besides, this one doesn't look good enough on the page, na. When you're writing prose, you should space all your paragraphs. It looks better that way.
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 5:56pm On Sep 10, 2015|
llaykorn:idk why my posts are always clamped even after spacing them. I used dots to separate paragraphs but it doesn't work. how does it look now??
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by llaykorn: 6:00pm On Sep 10, 2015|
Cool, very cool! It looks so attractive this way.
Ehen, make I read am now.
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 6:40pm On Sep 22, 2015|
A dark place where loneliness smears with blemishes.
Lording over an artist autocratically.
Surrounded by empathetic walls
Deriving displeasure from witnessing his travails.
With rigid smiles even when all else fails.
They, in turn, spray him with infinite desolation.
The bow has been drawn;
Love ready to be shot.
Yet the absence of a willing victim seems imminent.
No one knows if no one knows
Or if no one wants to know
The eventual lot of our subject.
Only these walls have heard these unspoken words.
They alone have an inkling of how many wars,
Battles and brawls,
He has to overcome.
These unspoken words.
Of a reclusive bachelor
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 6:52pm On Sep 22, 2015|
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 7:39pm On Nov 28, 2015|
I cannot even keep a straight face when you're here.
You've got me up in all these queer moods.
Making weird faces and pulling my tongue out.
Listening to full lips say you don't feel the same
Then watch them eyes go right back and betray you for 30
You'd rather let me die,
Deaf to this most treasured assertion;
That in this universe and the next
And the next and the next,
Nothing else means as much to you, like I do.
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 11:57am On Jan 13, 2016|
Some time in August 2013, my older cousin was vacationing at ours. Her presence was not discomfiting; I just hated guests. I still do. I still remember how puerily carefree she was. I neither gave it much thought nor donated any resource to her excitement or entertainment. People only want to visit us because my dad is in the noble cause of sustaining the downtrodden.
Well, one of those afternoons when the weather has literally reached a feverish pitch, I went to take a few dips in the pool. It wasn't long before my cousin strutted along, beaming with her trademark disarming smile and asking if she could join me.
"Why? Yes!" I said-hoping she'd see the ball of sarcasm surrounding that affirmation and back off.
She giggled a bit and walked into the water. I just swam alone like a seal in a circus while she clung to the edge, studying me attentively. I hated the whole circus thing--what would she do next? Haul me a fish?
As I made to exit the pool, prematurely, I stole a glance at her and her smile was absent. In stead, she started asymmetrically in the water in an awkward manner.
I was sitting on the couch in the living room raptly watching Empire. It was dark now and the day had been far spent. My parents should be back in a few. Then I felt a light tap on behind me. It was as gentle as the touch of evening breeze. I felt it a second time and turned around to see my cousin--still in her swimsuit. Although I didn't know what, there was something eerie about her appearance. Then she said
"Kindly help bring my body in from the water. Thank you."
I involuntarily gasped and the hairs on my body stood on end. Before I could stand from my seat to get a better view of her, she'd vanished!
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 8:13pm On Jan 17, 2016|
I stood in the sun haplessly, while the man corporately foisted on me sat in his wagon, braying orders at me thoughtlessly. The most I could do was listen on; albeit with contempt. The sun behind me represented a powerful current propelling the billows of sweat that took their origins from the top of my head right into the lobes of my buttocks. But this man did not care.
So on that rainy evening, I was driving home—weary from the day’s exertions—soft-pedalling the accelerator. But that was till I beheld the utterly delightful sight of my boss, crotched beside his car, frantically trying to revive it. Somehow, I observed that he was positioned adjacent to a pothole filled with just enough water to bath a man his size. I knew there was no chance in seven hells of him recognizing my car—not that night. So as I forcefully drove in and out of that dent, I basked in the shrill cry I spontaneously heard from his direction.
I asked myself if that did not sound better than the braying sound he made under fairer circumstances. As I sped off that merry night, I told myself I was going to celebrate this small victory on my arrival at home. But this was not to be.
After covering a few feet, my front tire flapped a number of times before grimly bringing the vehicle to a halt. Beads of sweat willed themselves unto my forehead instantly. I wished I could melt into the pouring rain outside. As I looked in the side mirror and beheld a drenched burly figure formidably approaching my car, I knew deep down in my heart of hearts, that I’d just plunged into the labour market—head first.
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 8:39pm On Jan 25, 2016|
This is the most thorough and comprehensive material I have ever come across on writing. I don't even remember which one of my Facebook friends shared it anymore but God bless him abundantly. I marvel at how much I could relate with this.
Strongly recommended for anyone who intends taking his/her writing seriously.
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 12:47pm On Feb 22, 2016|
It is a new day; for most, laden with the possibilities of success. Then there is my neighbour—a man in his 30’s—wizened and diminished by the dreadful rigours of marital life. Clad in creased clothes and lacklustre worn out shoes, he mutters a half-hearted reply to my cousin’s good morning greeting—obviously not sharing her enamour about the morning. You know this person already has a bad day before the day itself begins.
Being an insomniac offers me the implied permission of being present in the terribly effervescent monologues his wife has with him every night. She raises her voice in a warfare characteristic tone as she questions the potency and usefulness of his other member--calling him names and telling him he’s no better than a dead man--all done by avoidably impaling the deadpan silence of the night. By morning, we have a very worried man with an ego fatally punctured at multiple points.
The man in question has actually sired four children but is trapped by a curse that plagues a substantial percentage of the populace: unemployment. We are all members of a society where securing a job with a subsistence pay is akin to correctly guessing airtime digits (never mind this administration’s wanton affinity to displace the lucky few lodged somewhere).
My primary concern lies with the man though; if help does not come quickly, he will continue to diminish till nothing else is left to degenerate to. Then his children will momentarily become fatherless (best believe that woman would remarry and constantly remind the children of how redundant their late father was). May God save us from the things we bring into our homes. Amen.
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 11:16pm On Mar 02, 2016|
Asmara, 2nd April 2015
***A young Eritrean man in his early twenties has two nephews and one niece but is particularly fond of the niece; partly because they both share similar traits and temperaments. During each visit to her parents’ home, they spend the most time together, with her clinging unto him. Her pudgy arms raised in the air, beckoning to her uncle, she says
‘Carry me. Carry me.’
in a voice unusually deep for a three year old girl. And he obliges by lifting her aloft into what can be considered her nirvana. Back at his own home—while taking a dump—thoughts of her airborne pleas cross his mind, amusing him. He gets up from the toilet seat and raises his arms, jocularly motioning to be carried.
‘Carry me. Carry me’ he says, smiling to himself.
Just then, a pair of arms come through the ceiling and lifts him into where they came from. He is taken away with his pants still on the floor and the toilet unflushed.
The patient opened his eyes, and then squinted at its intruding brightness. He felt sedated but mildly alarmed at his new environment. He busied his mind with the unsuccessful task of attempting to recall what events preceded his current admission at the hospital. He was thoughtfully propped up when moments later, a very brief doctor walked into the room.
‘I see you’re awake, Mr. Razak...’ the doctor says glancing at his notepad.
‘...Sadiq. Mr. Raheem Sadiq, right?’
‘You were brought here last Tuesday by the people at your office. You were found unconsciously sprawled on the floor and they considered it wise to come dump you here. No one has visited you since then. Haven’t you got a wife or kids?’
The patient pauses for a few seconds.
‘Sorry; what day is it?’
‘Sunday. Today is Sunday 18th July 1976. I forgot to welcome you to our planet and give you a crash course cum orientation. Please where is your family? Who settles your bill?’
‘I will. Why did I collapse?’
‘Oh! You’ve got polyarthritis nodosa.’
‘I don’t understand. I mean, I’ve never heard of it before. How did I get it? What are the implications?’
‘It implies you do not have much time left to live. The nurse at the counter will give you its leaflet.’
The patient ruefully stares blankly at the bed railing, internally battling to contain the flurry of morbid emotions triggered by this new knowledge.
‘Sir? Your bill amounts to N28.13k.’
Jolted back to reality, he turns to face the doctor.
‘I’ll pay you once I can leave.’
‘You can, as soon as you think you’re strong enough.’ The doctor says with a sardonic smile and starts toward the door.
Just before he turns the knob, the patient asks
‘How much time have I got left? Two years? Three?’
He turns around swiftly and retorts
‘Much, much less!’
in a shrill almost metallic voice before exiting the room.
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 7:43pm On Apr 16, 2016|
Last night was intense. From experience, I knew spurt relationships like that don’t last but I still indulged. We’d both been texting for four long hours amidst real life guffaws not just fake “lmao”s. We talked about everything—she was practically rustling my brain cells. I was fascinated at how a female could make me feel warm without body contact. The rustle made me feel warm upstairs and that warmth spread to the rest of my body. New topics kept cropping up even when old hadn’t been exhausted so we stayed texting. The problem was, there was no light in my house and I’d begun to run out of juice. This new development did not deter me though as I valiantly continued to reply her texts as quickly as they came in, the euphoria fuelling us all the way.
The reality was dawning on me regardless of how distasteful I thought it was. By now, the time was 1:33am and I would have been fast asleep if it weren’t for my new pen pal.
Then, I saw light beam across the passage and excitedly leaped out of my bed to go plug my phone in the sitting room. A few steps in however, I stopped in my tracks, terrified as I watched my glowing grandmother tiptoeing into the room she used to sleep in. She perceived my presence and turned, smiling. She had heavy eye bags and her wrinkled flesh was barely hanging off her bones exposing her veins. She appetizingly licked some red liquid off her palm and belched as I looked on with bated breath.
“Aren’t you happy to see mama after such a long while?” She said and reclined on the wall, adoringly purring on the red liquid on her palm.
“But you’re dead.”
“Eziokwu?! Am I dead and we’re discussing? Nna m do dead people talk?”
She straightened up and asked with a frown
“Who and who have you been talking to? Who is turning you against mama? Mmm?”
“You should come with me. I will nurse you in my bosom the way I used to while you were a baby.”
She had begun to approach me and the sight was horrifying. I had frozen in shock while she spoke and when I realized she was coming towards me, I didn’t have much time left. Her bony frame wrapped around my torso while I frantically tried to extricate myself from its metallic grasp. It was not really a scuffle; I was subdued absolutely and whimpered under her clutch.
“Why are you complaining?”
“Don’t you want to follow me home again? You always cried...” *wring
“As if you didn’t always cry whenever your mother tried taking you away from me. You begged me to stay with you and now you’re complaining!”
Her free arm wildly wrung my neck with full force as she spoke. She bore her stubby canines into my now delicate neck and wrung again. Then I couldn’t struggle anymore. My eyes were still open but my vision was diminishing. A patriotic of flesh had refused to let go of my head so when she wrung one more time, I saw my decapitated body squirt blood across the wall like a fountain. Then my vision ceased and everything was truly calm and peaceful.
I jolted up, frightened by the terrifying nightmare I just had. My breathing was labored and the mattress was soaked in my sweat. My parched throat sourced for spittle to swallow so I could feel human again. As I groped in the dark for my phone I observed I’d almost run out of juice since the data connection was on when I fell asleep. I perched at a corner of my bed contemplating which of my family to text this dream to, the light in the passage flashed on. Or maybe it was not the passage light. Things I do not want to know.
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 10:03pm On May 12, 2016|
Hmmm....swiftly commissioning a thorough shaving exercise, has become a pressing need--seeing how my "situation" is now in critical straits, begging for such an intervention only executable by the acquaintance of hour old razor blades with the accused. In so doing, one would be wholly independent of the reproach that is this mammoth hirsute matter. In fact, this is the only permissible variant of deforestation; a variant that regardless of our radicalism in ridding these free growing natural resources, would still cause not just Mother Earth, but the society at large to be eternally indebted to us.
One can quickly recall that avoidable instance where, an adventurous strand of hair strays from the herd on its host, into a delicacy she was in the preparation of which should have served as a source of nourishment to a working class population, but instead causes their bellies despair and potentially drive her office to ruin resultantly.
Another scenario presents itself thus: a bus neighbor in the interminable habit of flaunting what his mama gave him; a patch of discolored sweat-extricating rank-emitting oasis located in choice estates of both armpits. With untold flamboyance does he spread both arms across the vehicle's seat like a cherub would hover with outstretched wings in the celestial assignment of spiritual protection while you--oh poor unfortunate you--silently bemoan your plight under the Protection.
Scenarios like these sadly abound and constitute one degree of displeasure or another to Mother earth which is why she encourages, as previously mentioned, this variant of deforestation. This is one inexhaustible topic but for the moment, I should stop here.
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 4:29am On May 16, 2016|
At first sight, the figure of a woman whose vagina has been eroded by one infant too many, offers a compendium of some sort--a series of stories; each engulfed in an unpleasant theme. 14 children. 18 children. She is hailed as an exemplary heroine and vintage embodiment of the love for motherhood.
Regardless of perspective, no part of the story can be salvaged. The bad part could be that both man and wife neither found a more beneficial pastime nor could curtail a nagging quest for nymphomanic glory. The worse synopsis could unwind as a helpless, unlearned, naïve diminutive young lady watches as her life is being insidiously snuffed away at the hands of a merciless but loving husband. The love blinds him from observing that the fibres in the woman's body are begging for respite, so even in the face of her impoverished regime and dilapidated facilities, the man ploughs on, Aluta continua! Marital rape never comes in a worse form.
Just what level does a man sink to before his aspirations and motivations can be traced on a Kamasutra journal? How the urge to achieve eludes him every morning and leaves him prone to the level of success he can garner in the comfort of his wife's bosoms could be remotely bewildering. But whatever failures were accrued up till the point his life took these unfortunate twists are some of the worst things that could befall a man--or even a woman for that matter. At night, man or woman ideally should be exhausted from the days exertions. A woman that has undergone the throes of labour six times has dared the essence of pain. These are the norms. Whatever would drive a lady to damn the horrors of delivery and permit drilling and similar explorations at the hand of her husband should be feared greatly for it is capable of poking planks in the eyes of the grim reaper himself. These are the forces our daily pursuits should seek to repel--and pray that God crowns our exertions with success (puns and double entendres intended).
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 3:08am On May 18, 2016|
Nothing seems sinister about four young men idly chatting away outside Le Livre. They aren’t blocking the entrance. They’ve been there for nearly an hour and more and more cars are occupying the restaurant’s parking lot as it nears the hour when dates are most romantic. A middle aged security guard—rough at the edges with more bones that flesh—gingerly approaches the young men. From a distance, one can see the lone officer gesticulating and motioning away from the spot they have occupied. They jeer a bit and one fishes out some things from his purse and approaches the officer. Lobby. They claim they intend buying a little more time while waiting for their host. The officer can be seen disapproving vehemently by shaking his head and stepping backward, all the time motioning away from the door.
The approaching fellow shrugs and withdraws his arm, replacing the items gotten from his purse. He retreats to his friends and they announce to the man they’ll be leaving. They do eventually.
An ash colored Sedan tries driving into Le Livre but is told to park outside the compound since the parking lot is filled up. The driver smiles genially and reverses into the adjacent street. About five young men are seen shortly after, walking in, with no sense of urgency. They make their way into the eatery and the Sedan driver claps audibly to get the attention of the occupants.
‘Good evening ladies and gentlemen’ He says, smiling broadly. One of the men behind him pulls a gun from his waist.
‘I neither intend to waste your time nor to hurt anyone’
A sudden blast can be heard coming from a close range shot fired behind the head of the speaking man, mid-oration. He takes a heavy fall with his face to the ground and a short fellow steps forward. He clears his throat as a signal to quell the chaos that ensued following his provocative action. The deathly silence in the hall can be heard even by the now lifeless bodies of the security guards on duty by the forerunning four young men. The short fellow languidly walks over to a flamboyantly dressed man drenched in his own sweat, clutching the leg of a table like a toddler making its first steps. He stoops over him and whispers
‘My name is Abednego and I’m a highway robber. Nice to meet you.’
Then outstretches an arm in greeting.
The man says nothing but continues to tremble with both arms wrapped round the table leg. The other batch soon reunites with the crew inside the hall.
Abednego stands up and dejectedly retreats to where the other men have converged.
‘Please give me a stick of cigarette.’ He says to no one in particular.
‘I hear stick-ups are more convincing when you’re puffing smoke into somebody’s eyes.’
He turns round and makes a joke about how he should be a poet for playing on “stick-ups” and “sticks of cigarettes”.
‘You care for a drag?’
The flamboyant man nods, almost violently, turning down the gesture.
‘You won’t talk to me. But you’d let me smoke alone like a fool. You think I’m a fool?’
More nods like the former follow.
‘Ok!’ he bellows.
Abednego then retrieves his firearm from its pouch and for the first time, the man speaks. His heavy baritone can be heard reverberating off the walls of the hall. Although his words blur into a babble as it is seemingly impossible to sift off legibility from his desperate wail, the words “please” and ”in the name of God” can be heard.
Abednego then crouches on one knee and hugs the man condolingly as he wails louder. He shuts his eyes momentarily and hushes
‘sshhhhh.....it’s alright. I won’t hurt you.’
‘I just wanted to be sure you weren’t mute.’ He continues with a smirk.
They both rise from the floor together in each other’s arm much to the bewilderment of the other hostages. He holds the man’s face in his palms and as he wipes off the tears off his face, he tells him he was unable to understand his crying story and would love to have a recap. The man, relatively calmer, then narrates how he is seeing someone else and how his young wife and congregation would find him out were he killed in the heist. The whole time, Abednego is listening attentively and nodding deductively.
‘I understand—I understand—look at me—your wife won’t know a thing—listen, listen, I know—your church people won’t know. Yes! You have my word.’
The man then takes a deep breath and smiles coyly. The smile is unrequited.
‘What is your name? What is it you do with your life besides fucking broad chested members of your church?’
The man straightens up.
‘I am pastor Andy Oyewande. I offer consultancy services at BrandPower Homes and I’m an industrial strategist.’
Abednego sighs, then shrugs, then sniffs.
‘I like your shirt.’ He says nonchalantly.
As if triggered by a spell, the pastor starts to UnCloth.
‘No..No...No...No..I don’t mean you should hand it over. I mean, like, you at least deserve to die looking good so leave it on. Or don’t you think so?’ He asks and cordially holds the pastors shoulder and relishes the horror that has once again enveloped the man.
As he turns around to deliberate on whether to taunt another hostage or commence the carnage, he thinks aloud
‘I have a feeling that tonight is gonna be a good-good night!’
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 10:13pm On May 24, 2016|
From the days of father Abraham, we have been unanimously accustomed to the indisputable supremacy and critical acclamation of the Jehovah Witnesses as regards to persuasion. On paying attention to an individual, detachment from their advances is a highly preposterous daydream at best. Such individual may be fortunate to wander in this reverie for a moment or two, just before being jolted back to harsh reality by light taps on his door from a corporately dressed peddler of JW tracts. In them can be found neither sensitivity to disinterest nor deterrence as communicated through body language.
Very recently however, it seems there is an uprising. A fresh cult poses a formidable threat to the invincible Jehovah's Witnesses: enter MLM agents. These minnows are indeed unrelenting in leaving every stone turned, and dusted even, in an attempt to topple JW's over. They approach you with a frothing reserve of gusto and aplomb, grinning from ear to ear--introductions and pleasantries. Quite often these "introductions" are quicksand if you're caught off guard. It is their golden format of determining how their scheme best fits into your agenda. When strangers start planning your agenda, it never ends well. Each agent brags with blinding glint in his eye that sometimes you wonder whether their brains had been granted emancipation from their skulls and the purveyed product lodged in its stead. They sneeze and in stead of mucous, the product smears your cloth. They swipe their face and the product comes off on the handkerchief. Such Multi Level Bondage is what is posited as not just the charming enviable existence but sole purpose of the human race; all wrapped up in a bumper package of riding dream cars, acquisition of unlimited baskets of tomatoes and other such naturally unattainable amenities.
I would love to witness a classic standoff between a Jehovah Witness and a Multi Level Scamming stooge. How it would play out promises some premium entertainment: The one in an internal battle to suppress the irrepressible urge to administer a deadly punch to quell the other's infidelity and sickening persistence while at the other end, the feeling is, understandably mutual. Oh my!
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 6:30pm On Jun 07, 2016|
Commemorating a close friend's birthday very late last month, I wrote her ode which I thought to share here. Ladies and gentlemen, Beautiful Shards:
Sometimes—most times—in moments of ample
quiet and crystal clear thoughts, when the mind
neither beguiles nor are there lies in what it tells
me, I ask myself what could be better than knowing
you; perhaps the gift of sight which in my case,
was being adorned on my face for the principal
purpose of admiring the length of your nose.
In the close to one year of meeting you, I have
attempted to use one literary material or the other
to indelibly entrench myself in a safe corner of your
being—not just the heart now. In the end, it seems
as though each stroke of my pen broadens my
vision to the flawless person that is you. No one
seems more compassionate. No one seems more
forgiving; of my flaw-ridden self that is. Everyone,
less vivacious. No one more adventurous. It all
feels like an illusion—the kind that is often waved
off as being the implausible creation of a fictious
artist. But no! In reality no one will attain that
unrealistic level of perfection. When you want to,
you can be cruel; other times, you unearth a bad
mouth that can shatter the soul. Beautiful shards. It
is these imperfections that blend with the favourite
traits and create the illusion that you were washed
ashore the fairest river on earth and not subjected
to manoeuvring through the appalling orifice that
ushered the rest of us into this world.
More than a few times I have written stuff, then sat
back and marvelled at its beauty. And who better a
recipient, than the subject of my affection? This
would probably not be the last; not really because
our relationship might strain further than it has
already, but because I never really run out of what
to say about you. It seems as though the stars
align whenever you stand at the center of this
universe. The stories I show you before uploading
usually turns out the ones people like the most.
Maybe it’s just God’s Own mysterious Way of
pointing out the obvious. For this particular episode,
I chose to stop here (remember I have other wives
and they’ll probably have exhausted all shades of
green in a bid to express smouldering envy).
Wait, I haven’t even wished you a happy birthday
yet. Oooooo smh. I feel like stunting on another
350+ word write-up for that. Abi I should just
deliver that one to your inbox while you sleep so
when you wake up and read it, you’ll be grinning
like one Cheshire cat and grandma won’t even
know why lol. But in the meantime: happy birthday
Adadioranma, Ugo di ya.
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 2:01pm On Jun 30, 2016|
I'd love to see a vampire movie set in the time of
Jesus Christ. The protagonist would be a
halfhearted vampire with a good heart but unable to
approach The Rabbi for salvation because he might
lose self control once in the company of the
thousands following the Rabbi. He then struggles for
half the movie, trying to abstain from violence and
bloodsucking for about 13 months and finally
decides to meet Jesus at the garden of
Gethsemane. He actually makes it to the garden
and is a few minutes away from his healing but
unfortunately cannot hold back his urge. He
becomes aggressive and bores into the neck of a homeless teenage girl and is afterward overcome by guilt and shame; then tearfully runs away, contrite. He cries all through the night and the following day and puts on sackcloth while severely loathing himself. He
finally resolves to meet Jesus come what may but
as he traces his Messiah with the crowd, he
discovers he is actually taken to be killed and is
torn between exposing himself to the sunlight trying
to fight for his saviour and burning in the process or
if He is truly the Messiah if with his overwhelming
powers He is being subjected to such shameful
treatment. Then the movie prolly ends with him in
2016, still alive, narrating the story himself and going on to tell the interviewer that he recognizes him to be a well known eunuch during the Ottoman empire. He goes on to explain that every one alive today lived during the time of Jesus and even Abraham but after reincarnation, the memories of their past life gets wiped away.
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 4:29pm On Jul 01, 2016|
Haven't you noticed,
That every time you come closer, my world
The glisten of your teeth when you smile,
for the one you truly love,
replaces the bands on my sores with Arabian salt.
And causes warts to flourish in my eye.
I want you to touch me and soothe my scars.
But your palms prick my skin till the last drop of
blood drips from these pores.
So don't even call me, I'm shipping you for
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 1:20pm On Jul 03, 2016|
Joyless nights in the company of less nostalgic
Serenades of the rains walking on rooftops outside
walk in, murmuring.
Seeing me defenceless, they gained confidence and
"You love nobody, you're just lonely".
They didn't let me concede before berating further:
"You're going to wallow in penury".
"Your happiness is inconsequential to nobody".
"A dumb one way introvert is what you are" Their
words clinched the core of my soul and clobbered it.
Thankfully, the nights do not last forever.
The serenade will momentarily drown in the bustle
of tomorrow's vagaries.
But the night will inevitably give it life.
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 8:31pm On Jul 11, 2016|
I have always thought of what my wife would feel if she caught me masturbating. Hurt? Betrayal? Inadequacy? I wouldn’t feel anby better myself but after too many failed attempts at curtailing my urges, i have eventually given up. Yesterday evening after sufficiently gratifying my sexual needs with my crush’s WhatsApp photos, I was too limp to perform with Dora; the woman I married. She has given me a horrible imitation of a striptease on my arrival from the office but after I had rubbed my eyes and wearily asked for my dinner, she flared up about me not paying her anymore attention. I argued work today was very hectic and that I would see what I could do for her tomorrow. I was taken aback when she wildly made for my trousers, unzipped it with the belt still tied to my waist and began stroking my penis vehemently. Of course, it remained flaccid while I stare on, perplexed—sort of. We both went to bed without dinner and the next morning being today, we both dressed in matching native outfits. Still, she looked different. She was draped in a long frown and was visibly distraught. It is sad I cannot do much to help her cause. So in solidarity, I too wore a small frown hoping the outfit matching aim won’t be defeated.
As we approached the church gate, my face lit up and I couldn’t contain my excitement at the sight of my crush. I uncontrollably let out a joyous yelp as all my cares dissipated. I heavily stomped the accelerator in a frenetic bid to close the distance between us two. I think I heard Dora say
But nothing she said mattered now. Nothing anybody said now mattered. I alighted from the vehicle before the engine stopped and glanced at her briefly:
“Come let’s go say ‘Hi’ to Pastor Desmond.” I said and flung the door shut!
I walked towards him, beaming with smiles and wishing my feet could propel me quicker into his arms.
I hugged him longingly in a queer way but did not even mind what anyone might think. He tried freeing himself from my clutches but I wasn’t just done with inhaling the aroma of his masculine body spray.
“I’m so happy to see you Pastor Desmond!”
I said, grinning from ear to ear. He nodded thoughtfully and I contemplated giving into the burning lust to share another warm embrace with him.
“...heem?!.... Brother Raheem?! Brother Raheem??!”
Jolted back to reality by his adorably baritone voice, I answered, trying to sound as pleasant as I could.
“Where is your wife?” He asked.
Only then did I turn around to notice my wife was not with me.
“Oh! She must be in the car. I’ll go get her for you.”
“No! No!” he said, almost wincing.
“I’ll go see her myself—since Adamu has refused to go to the mountain.”
I laughed hysterically as I couldn’t contain my amusement—such sense of humour. He tapped me lightly on the shoulder as he walked past, toward our car and I sustained a stable erection instantly. It was like magic!! I couldn’t stop thinking of his dazzling set of teeth and the way his chest heaved when he talked.
Just watching them both discuss made me tremble. I’ve been unable to fathom how Desmond can stand my husband after the damage he does to his home almost every week. He is approaching me in the car but I’m not tensed up since my husband is not coming along. He gets to my side of the car and mouths a “wind up the glass” while motioning up and down. I comply.
“Madam. You cannot come down and greet me abi?”
I say nothing.
“Aaargh! Egba mi o! Aburo mi?! Kilode? You were not at my place yesterday and now you won’t talk to me too?”
Staring into the side mirror I see his face contort in mock distress. I exhale, causing the mounds on my chest to rise and he admires them, licking his lips and smiling lasciviously.
“Baby I missed the warmth of your inner thighs and the taste of the wet nectar at its zenith. Yesterday I lay alone, clenching the bed spread and imagining they were the tips of your breasts. In fact I couldn’t even sleep with the voice of you crying as I hit it from behind filled my head. So I just dey hope say today, my blessing go be double portion.”
“Desmond how do you even have the heart to do this? Eh?! To someone...someone...someone holding you in such high esteem?” I stammered amidst bitterness.
“See the way he raced just to greet you and hugged you in admiration.”
“Hehehe...that reminded me of the way I hug your ass and never want to let go!”
Incensed, I tried to smack him in the face but hit my elbow on the half wound door glass and groaned. As he laughed softly and made his way into the packed church auditorium, my husband was still rooted at the same spot, smiling sheepishly at my lover pastor.
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 11:17pm On Jul 14, 2016|
It goes without saying that the vital condiment in subduing and apprehending the substantial element of a woman's body and soul into the confines of one's whims, is tethered to cognitive competence--at a doctorate level--of when to lie, what facial expression to masquerade and in what proportion so as to neither get caught, nor provoke a minutest molecule of skepticism.
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by Nmeri17: 7:47pm On Jul 18, 2016|
Sunday 17th July
Hey baby? I can’t ask how you’re doing since you’ve stopped bothering to tell me; but the weather here reminds me a lot about you—how it makes you Hot. Lol. Those times the air in our house is steely cold and the dim light in the living room causes the chairs to have long shadows. You just walk in quietly and use your long palms to crawl into my briefs. Then you draw in the cold air and tell me how sweet I smell. Oh, the days. The sky outside is bleak and the chairs have got long shadows but you aren’t here nor will you reply me even though I know you reading this. You swore my writings were the best you had ever read and nothing would keep you from reading them. Whatever tho.
Friday 29th July
Last Tuesday, the head of our department picked my poem amongst eight others as the best he’d seen in the entire department!!! But I didn’t tell you cuz I’m still mad at you; five weeks and three days since you left for Marseille and not a word. Gilbert showed up with swollen eyes in those his skinny pants and waited for me in the rain till I came back before telling me you drove them to Nice but fell asleep along the way and would be asleep for some time. He wasn’t smiling like an idiot so I kind of think he hadn’t been drinking but I still drove him away all the same. Going to Marseille to give engineering your best shot is this? Falling asleep for weeks? Wake up Dave, I miss you. It’s about time you texted me back. Come crawl below my underpants and whisper in my ears.
Tuesday 9th August
Yo Dave! This my last text to you. I’ve had it! Why don’t you ever text me back or tell me to leave you alone? You mad at me for something for six fucking weeks?! You’re an absurd pussy Dave. Bleep you! Don’t even bother replying anymore!!
Hey baby? It’s me again. You know I didn’t mean none of those. Your girl gets naughty at times. Things starting to get weird these days. Took a train all the way to aunt laner’s and she looking at me like I’m sniffing coke. She start whimpering and telling me everything’s gonn be alright the moment I done ask her why you aren’t returning my calls, not my texts nor do you even wanno see me. Idk what you told her Dave but you didn’t raise no quitter so I’m getting to the bottom of this.
Wednesday 10th August
Quit playing Dave!!!!!!!
Return my calls bitch!!! I fucking hate you for leaving me like this
I love you baby. You’re all I’ve got Dave.
1 Like 1 Share
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by llaykorn: 8:09pm On Jul 18, 2016|
You heightened my hope so much that the poor man was gonna be released. SMH.
|Re: Nmeri's literary junkyard by llaykorn: 8:32pm On Jul 18, 2016|
The originality in this is just wonderful. It had a tear in my eye. Thanks for sharing, Nmeri.
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