₦airaland Forum

tsharp:
Dear Moderators Divepen1 who are these funny accounts spamming aall threads like this. Pls do something as they are distracting.

You might need to point me towards one or two....

thesolutions:
If you had written the piece and it ends with such happy ending, it is understandable because you thought it out. But an AI that made use of an African Names in a foreign story will always have my bias opinion because happy endings are for African warriors if you put sentiments aside.

I did a second version that ended not to happily.

The prompts for that one was slightly different. I just became angry because I just finished arguing with someone outside Nairaland about how we always want sad endings in anything Nigerian literature. Only to come here to meet another statement in that line.

thesolutions:
Oh If I am to re-create my own story, it will end with great horror.

This one you are attacking me, should I have kept my opinion with me?

For every action, there would be a corresponding reaction and countereaction. In essence, I don't like the idea that "feel good" stories be limited to foreign novels alone.

This "feel good" is why romance and fantasy novels sell better. Having a sad ending used to be a norm in our classic novels and I feel that's we see it as the Africanness in our stories. I don't feel it should be.

leroi01:
Chat GPTcan only do so much but i t cannot add nuances, plot twists, soliloquoy, neither can it be subtle. So... it's good...but human minds are still way up there. ( especially as regards creative writing.)

I believe if you decided to include all those in your prompt, it will do that. Nonetheless, we just have to write with the intention of being creative

thesolutions:
This is hollywood and not african. must there always be a good/happy endings.

You can create your own ending.

Must Africans always look for horrific endings before their lives have a meaning

Prompt 2

Add dialogue to the prompt above


Story
Idowu Timeyin stood at the entrance of his father's house, his heart pounding in his chest as he watched Senator Oluwole and his men approach.

"You have no right to be here, Senator," he shouted, his voice laced with anger.

"I have every right, Idowu," Oluwole said, a smug grin spreading across his face. "This land belongs to the government now."

Idowu's hands clenched into fists. He knew what this was really about - the senator wanted his land. His father had refused to sell it to him, and now that he was gone, the senator saw an opportunity to take it for himself.

"My child is sick," Idowu said, desperation creeping into his voice. "My mother had an accident. We have nowhere else to go."

"I'm sorry, Idowu," the senator said, his tone mockingly sympathetic. "But this land belongs to the government. You need to leave."

Idowu knew he had to leave, but he refused to do so quietly. He turned and sprinted for the back door of the house, hoping to grab a weapon to defend himself.

"Get him!" the senator shouted, and his men took off after Idowu.

Idowu burst through the back door and ran to his father's room. He grabbed the first thing he saw - an old wooden cane - and turned to face the men who were now pouring into the room.

"You should have sold the land, Idowu," the senator said, a sneer on his face. "Now you'll pay the price."

Idowu swung the cane wildly, hitting two of the men in quick succession. He felt a momentary sense of triumph, but it was short-lived. The remaining men tackled him to the ground and held him there, crushing the breath out of him.

As he lay there, gasping for air, the senator loomed over him.

"You lose, Idowu," he said, his voice low and menacing. "Don't try to fight the system. You'll always lose."

Idowu knew the senator was right. He should have gone through the proper channels, should have fought this in court. But it was too late now.

He lay there, defeated, as the senator and his men walked out of the room. The metaphorical significance of it all was not lost on him. He had been uprooted from his land, just like so many others before him. He wondered if there was any hope for him and his family as darkness enveloped his vision.

The End.

Prompt 1:
Write a thriller of Nigerian man that is being chased out of his house by a senator and wants to kill the senator. Let it be metaphorical for people being sent away from their lands. Characters names: Idowu Timeyin. The land belongs to his father. His child is currently sick and his mother had an accident. His wife had died some years back. Eventually, he loses because he didn't use the right channel.





Story
Idowu Timeyin’s heart was pounding in his chest as he ran through the darkened streets, his breath coming in short, laboured gasps. Behind him, the sound of pursuing footsteps echoed off the walls of the surrounding buildings, the sound getting closer and closer by the second.

He knew who was chasing him. He knew the man who wanted him dead. His name was Senator Olu, a crooked politician with a vast network of corrupt connections. And he was after Idowu for one reason only - to take his land.

The land had been in Idowu’s family for generations. It had been passed down from his father, who had tended it with love and care. It was more than just a plot of earth to Idowu. It was a legacy, a connection to his roots. And he had fought tooth and nail to keep it from the politicians who wanted to take it for their own gain.

But now, in the dead of night, as he was running for his life, he knew he was going to lose the battle. He had lost everything else. His child was sick, his mother had had an accident, and his wife had died years ago. The land was all he had left, and he was about to lose that too.

With a last burst of energy, he rounded a corner, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He stumbled and fell, his knee hitting the hard pavement with a sickening thud. He gritted his teeth, his eyes locked on the figure of Senator Olu, who was advancing on him, a glint in his eye.

But then, something in Idowu’s mind clicked. He remembered all the advice he had been given, all the people who had told him to fight the right way, to use the proper channels. And he had ignored them all. He had let his anger and frustration cloud his judgement, and now he was paying the price.

With a deep sense of regret, Idowu Timeyin raised his hands in surrender. Senator Olu’s minions closed in, their grinning faces leering down at him. And then, without a word, they dragged him away, tossing him into the back of a waiting van.

There was no more running now. No more fighting. Only a deep sense of loss and regret. As the van drove away, Idowu knew that he had lost everything. He had lost his land, his freedom, and the chance to be with his sick child, who needed him now more than ever.

The lesson had been learned too late. The price had been too high. And as Idowu’s world shrank down to the small, confined space of the van, he knew that his fate was sealed. He would never see his home again, never breathe the fresh air of his land, never know the love and warmth of his family.

In the end, Idowu Timeyin lost his battle. But as the van drove away into the dark, foreboding night, his spirit remained unbroken. For he knew that there were others like him, others who had lost everything, others who were fighting the same battle. And he vowed that he would never stop fighting for what was right, for what was just, for what was theirs by birthright.

My Prompt:

Write a story about a deaf peaceful woman that killed her husband. Add dialogues. Make it african


Story

In a small village in Africa, there lived a deaf woman named Nana. She was known for her peaceful nature and gentle attitude towards others. Nana lived with her husband, Kwesi, and was known to be a devoted wife.

One day, the village woke up to the news of Kwesi's death. Everyone was shocked and saddened by the news. People gathered around Nana's house, wondering what could have happened. The news spread like wildfire, and soon, it reached the ears of the village chief. The chief decided to investigate the matter.

As the chief entered Nana's house, he found her sitting on the floor, with her head bowed low. She couldn't hear him entering as her back was turned toward the door.

"Hello, Nana," the chief said, trying to get her attention. "I am sorry for your loss."

Nana turned to the chief and nodded in acknowledgement, with tears in her eyes.

"Can you tell me what happened?" asked the chief.

Nana shrugged her shoulders and gestured that she didn't know what happened.

The chief looked around the house and saw bloodstains on the floor. "What happened here?" he asked.

Nana shook her head indicating that she didn't know what had happened.

The chief looked at Nana carefully and saw that she was scared and confused. He decided to talk to her in a language she could understand.

"Madam, I know you can't hear me, but I believe you are innocent. We will find out what happened to your husband," the chief said, gently.

Nana looked up, her eyes wide with surprise. She gestured as if to ask him why someone would kill her husband.

But within hours, the real investigation started, and it confirmed the villagers' worst fear. Nana had killed her husband after an argument that turned physical.

The villagers were in shock, and they started to wonder how someone so peaceful and mild could do something so violent.

When the chief returned to inform Nana about what happened, she was distraught. "I didn't mean to," she signed furiously. "It just happened."

The chief took her hands and made her sit down. "Nana, you have to tell me what happened," he said.

Nana gestured that her husband was always a harsh man, and how he had started to turn on her physical over the years. She couldn't take it anymore, and she lashed out in self-defense. She didn't know how else to protect herself.

"I understand," the chief said, earnestly. "But there are ways to protect yourself without resorting to violence. We will teach you those ways."

And so, Nana went through rehabilitation, and she learned how to defend herself without using force. Years passed, and Nana became a respected member of the community. Her nature toward others never changed, and she remained the loving and gentle woman who had mistakenly acted out in self-defense years before.

When I was in my third year, our best quote was followed your dreams and success will chase you. It was adapted from the Three Idiots movie. Just like Rancho, I was a menace to my lecturer. Today, I’m a celebrity, but the pain of those years are the scars that many called beautiful today.
Snatched away by the troubles of failure of early admission into the University, I couldn’t take another failure as a prospective student of the prestigious Fortune City University that blessed 2010. So, when I couldn’t meet the cutoff mark for Law, I opted for Linguistics. Yes, everyone wanted to be a lawyer. Do you think I lie? Ask anyone studying Arts, they either want to be an actor or a lawyer.
So, when I couldn’t make it into my preferred department, I chose Linguistics. But not what I was thinking. It was hell on both ends.
I was admitted to study language and its intricacies. I chose Yoruba because my uncle, Sola, had a friend of the Oyo royal family had that connection. Ever heard of the phrase never trusts men, but God? Well, that was my case.
I agreed with my uncle and chose Yoruba. In my first year, I discovered that Linguistics wasn’t about learning how to speak languages. What a pain! My life was thrown into turmoil.
“I should have waited to be a lawyer”, I lamented to my uncle.
He insisted that I kept up with my Yoruba study and include Theatre arts.
“What?” I yelled.
I could feel my already big eyeballs popping out of my head. I could have sworn that I saw my jaws.
Linguistics was like studying Maths because of the evil useless trees we have to learn for grammar- both English and Yoruba.
So, imagine my pain when I had to add theatre arts to an already creatively exhausting Yoruba language, with Mrs Ronke Ige as the course advisor. She fought against my intentions. I think that gave me the ginger I needed to do better and come out on top. She faulted everything I did. My cloth was too tight. My creativity wasn’t creative enough. My songs were too pitched. My proverbs were not as deep. I couldn’t pass a simple test she set.
“Did you make a move at her husband?” My school daughter asked after experiencing the same evil for being associated with me.
Her classes and training were tough and demanding in all wise. At one point, my uncle assumed I was ripping him off funds because my demands were too much. My father couldn’t help much.
Everyone suggested that I was too beautiful and that it was the same with my school daughter. Truly, Mrs Ige called both of us whores. She reported us to the Dean, who studied Yoruba too. So, she took my course advisor as her left hand in the Yoruba sub-department.
It was hellish for us. I went to my rehearsals for both theatre and Yoruba, plagued by her words. Busty, I couldn’t do much in covering my huge body and what attracted men to me. Even in flowing gowns, I still felt like reason men run into walls, missed steps, chew on their biro, gasped, slurred, or even shared their surprise with their girlfriends.
At the theatre, it was rigorous work. Morning, we were singing. Night, practising dance. For me, afternoon, I’m practising oriki and odu ifa. I’m studying the pain that led to Oranmiyan’s replication of a far world. I was buried in the books of what is called Linguistics and had to deal with the trouble of pleasing Mrs Ige.
So, on my graduation day, when my uncle died in an accident while coming to FCU, I couldn’t say much again. I slumped and was bedridden for two weeks. My dad and my uncle’s wife were by my side.
However, things changed. Yoruba said the calabash placed in God’s hands cannot be broken. Well, luckily for me I’ve prayed about my uncle’s promise. So, it was no wonder when I was suddenly called to come to a big Yoruba program on cable because my uncle had made all the plans for years.
A few months later, I began to act in TV series and have transitioned to movies. My name is out there. Only a few knows it and half of them are dead. The remaining half are either struggling with their lives or the fact that they know a celebrity and can point to me on the TV.
I’m happy I forged on. Now, all I can think is “What’s Law?”

EvaJael:
This is so sad yet so beautiful. I like how I am able to feel the sadness, see the beauty and understand the resigned tone of the character all at once.
Well done @ Divepen1

Thank you oo. A boss and more

germaphobe:
sadly as this story might be, someone out there have a story of this nature to tell.

our fiction is sometimes someone else reality. GOOD MORNING

You're right. I know about five people with nearly same story.

Like several girls, the dream of how my wedding day would look rocked my imagination. I could see a trail of petals from the door. The sweet orderliness that invades the mind. The unquenchable thirst for girls to thrust their hips as they hurry through the crowd of Yoruba men, all adorned with white and a touch of red. The wedding would not be the talk of the town. No. Its level would surpass that. It would be the talk of the year. I could imagine girls whispering about how handsome my husband was.
I didn’t only imagine the beautiful scenes of neatly dressed ushers directing servers to the hall filled with flowers set with all the details. I just discovered I have minor OCD, but when I started imagining my wedding, my life just loved to be impeccable. I have a long list of people I would want as my bridal train. Everything was to the details, but life said no.
I would be fifty years today and I’m yet to marry. My life had trailed through mischievous issues that I sometimes wonder if I did wrong by taking life head-on instead of simply dying or turning over to some of the things girls my age did.
I grew up in a polygamous home or did I?
My father was the perfect example of men that doted on their beauty. Young and wise in the ways of the water. By the time my mom would meet him, she had three children from her deceased husband. Way younger than she, he couldn’t bare to not love her dark tone. They enjoyed each other’s company until he had to travel for a long time and came back with another woman. If I was telling a longer story, I would have told you how they fought every day, but it’s not my place to tell.
School life became easier and I fell for every whim and desire from pleasure to joy. Of course, I made mistake and by the time I was 16, I had ruined my perfect wedding image.
I was with a child.
I couldn’t take the fact that I was pregnant at that point. My world shattered. The only thing holding me together was my daughter. She was beautiful and her eyes stared back at me each time my eyes welled with tears of joy at the sight of her. I called her Queen.
Like became harder for me, especially in the community where everyone felt I was proud because I was elegant, fair, and beautiful. Maybe if I played with more people, I wouldn’t have been regarded so, but they still felt the same about me.
Then, when I felt I had met the man of my dream, I became pregnant with him again. We had dreams. Everything was going as planned even with the baby. I could find happiness holding my cheek in sweet blushes every few hours because he made me happy.
Who wouldn’t be happy when you have a man that was ready to hold your hand despite the pain? “I’ll be with you always”, he would say.
Our life was mapped out. Even with my first child. It was so happy. Then, death came. Not for me. I’m still here today. But he was gone. I just didn’t know how to handle life anymore.
In tears, I struggled to keep on. My children remained my happiness. Cupid kept stealing my dream, but it couldn’t hold me back. I gave birth to my second child, Joy. Truly, I should have felt so. With Queen with my mother, my pregnant aunt came for me. I was at my paternal aunt’s church since she was a prophetess at a Celestial Church of Christ.
Everyone was happy that someone with such a happy home would take me under her wings. Even I was happy to have her place as home. But it wasn’t so. My miserable life soon started competing with homeless animals. She would leave home and lock me outside. Some other times, I would be left to myself. She didn’t even try to care for me or the baby. No hot bath.
Despite my body frame, I still withstood the pain.
On one such occasion, when I came late from a church program, she locked me out. By late, we were looking at 9 am. That night, rain fell with its army of cold. I sat outside with the baby in my arms, trying everything to shield her from the cold.
I will avoid dwelling on that. It happened that I carried them until I met Winny. A happy guy on all indications. My world revolved around him. I took food from my house to his place. While with him, I had others trying to win my heart or be my friend. I didn’t push them off. After all, I barely had female friends.
I let them know I had someone. But men will keep pushing. I allowed the push but didn’t budge. Great cook, I had sent Joy to her grandma’s house. Queen was with me and my nephew, one lanky dark troublesome boy. But since Joy wasn’t there, I had to take of them.
The only time I wasn’t watching them was either Thursday when I had to help my mom at a family-owned restaurant for their Thursday special foods which ran into Friday night or when I was with Winny.
Queen hated all the men with passion. Sometimes, it looked like she wanted me for herself. I sometimes catch myself acting rashly against her, making her feel like it was my fault. It took me years to get through to her, but I knew she loved me and that was enough for me to keep holding dear to me.
Later, Winny left me. Rumour had it that he was snatched by the wife of his boss or something of that nature. But I just couldn’t imagine why I put my kid and nephew above him. I didn’t know why I had to agree to his coercion that we do a blood-binding promise to be together. With my nephew asleep on the bed and Queen by his side, we made the promise. Well, he left.
And not dead. Waste of blood covenant.
It took several trials, but eventually, I met Mr Rich. Coincidentally, his mom owned the house we got. By now, my niece that lived with my granny came to live with me, Queen, my nephew, and my mom that had stopped working in that restaurant. Her uncle wasn’t meeting her financial needs. She had to come home to start her mini grocery store in front of our house. We sold bread, egg, and other foodstuffs that we’ve tried selling individually at one time or the other.
Mr Rich had three daughters. One was with his estranged wife. When my mom saw how happy I was with him, she left the house for me. Oh! He met me when I was learning fashion design. I didn’t finish schooling past SSCE, which I aced, but then I read a lot- novels were my favourite. And I watched foreign movies than I can count the hair on my head. The only time I watched Nigerian movies was when I need to connect to my culture or recommendation from my sister.

Mr Rich felt like the love of my life until his ex-wife couldn’t stay happy without seeing him. His focus began to change. Life became harder for us. I knew I lost him the first time he saw her. We couldn’t see eye to eye on things we didn’t take as seriously. I was the traditional type of woman. Make my own money but still take my chores important. Sometimes, it boils from the fact that I believe no one can do it as I wished.
When I couldn’t take it any longer, I left him for my mom’s house, who had moved to my newly wedded sister’s house after she gave birth.
My relationship with men began to swing on a pendulum until I met Kingsley. A man filled with white hair that could compete with Wole Soyinka’s. I saw myself in him. Like all others, my daughters didn’t like him. He was a man suffering from a failing marriage. We became friends and it grew into something.
After six years, he suddenly came to my home, drunk and frustrated that I couldn’t marry him since he had a wife. He began screaming all sorts of things at me. My nephew and Queen were so stunned that my nephew, who had always encouraged me with him, told him to never come to our house again.
Eventually, I met Akinbowale. One that came back from the UK to meet his wife was being shagged by his pastor. After working towards divorce, he chose me. At first, I thought his presence in my life made me happy.
However, I remembered that I was happy when I had only my nephew. I was happy when I was with Queen. I was excited when I was with Joy. All I needed was a companion I chose myself. And that did it for me.
I had to choose myself first. Then, others.
That I’ve done. Akinbowale looked like the man with whom I would eventually get a wedding because we’d been planning for days. But I don’t want to go back to my imagination of the grand wedding because it’s looking like a dream I might never get to live again.
But I’m not sad. I’ve accepted my fate.
Who knows? Life can happen again and my story will change.