₦airaland Forum

@ biife
What does "Bobolaiyefa" mean?

@ delarontus
have u tried attaching the files to a yahoo mail, and then sending it? If it works, do send me some too (just choose randomly, i really don't know much about tintin) kc_infiniti@yahoo.com.

Hi all, this is the 2nd installment; enjoy!
,
CHAPTER 1

Obododike village.
Six seasons later.
Nma opened the door and walked out into the new day’s rising sun. The chickens were already clucking away, picking at anything that as much as caught their fancies. The goats, inside their pen, were bleating for food as loud as they could.
Nma yawned carelessly and stretched her body, causing the beautiful jigida beads strung around her small, shapely waist to rattle softy. The compound’s small bamboo gate – if at all it deserved that name – creaked as it was opened from outside and Ezemmuo walked in. His steps were slow and measured. He had the look of a mask and his nzu-marked body absurdly reminded people of an anunu-ebe tree. He was Nma’s father.
Nma’s face lighted with a warm smile as her hands spread out to welcome her father.
“Nna m, i lota!” she beamed.
Ezemmuo’s stony features couldn’t hold out long against his only daughter’s angelic smile; he suddenly grinned from ear to ear. That was exactly what Nma was aiming for, and on seeing her father grin, she broke into mild laughter.
“I knew you were trying to be stern on me, papa,” she said laughing, “ but it won’t work!”
Ezemmuo laughed again and looked at his daughter – so youthfully beautiful and full of life – he shook his head and let her carry his bag. They had gotten to the single mud hut in the compound and he ducked underneath to sit on a low stool while Nma went inside to bring him water.
Ezemmuo sighed and held his chin in his hands, his nzu-painted eyes looking far into the distance and his thoughts wandering off. If what the two messengers sent out two Eke market days ago had reported to the Ichie council was true, then Obododike village was doomed. If what they had reported…
Nma suddenly reappeared, talking at the top of her voice and interrupting his train of thoughts.
“…Eh papa, you haven’t slept in this compound for more than three times in the last ten days – in fact since the harmattan winds subsided.” She stopped momentarily and looked accusingly at her father.
Ezemmuo looked at his daughter with a sad smile; she was talking again but he wasn’t listening. He was looking at her innocence and beauty, barely twenty-one seasons. She’d been the only joy in his life since his wife, Akwaeze, died mysteriously more than fourteen seasons ago; the only thing worth living for since mmuo-ala chose him as its priest. Ezemmuo’s smile widened – Nma was babbling.
“…You’re seldom at home now. Though I’m a woman now and can take care of myself, but something could happen, you know.”
“Nothing can ever happen to you, Adanma!” Ezemmuo said so passionately, calling Nma by her full name that she was slightly startled.
“Yes papa,” she said slowly, turning away. “It’s just that I get lonely – sometimes.”
Ezemmuo’s eyes misted. He reached out and hugged his daughter, and she hugged him back.
“It’s alright. The gods will always be with you.”
But even as he said it, Ezemmuo knew that it wasn’t the gods that his daughter wanted; it was her father.


* * * *


“For Amadi’s sake, that’s enough!” Igwe Obi Ihegbu thundered. He had reflexively jumped to his feet and his whole body was shaking with barely controlled rage and frustration. His eyes, which he had involuntarily shut, suddenly snapped open and he surveyed his court with eagle-like scrutiny. Presently, his gaze settled on Ichie Munonyeyi, his latest source of annoyance. “This situation looks grim enough to me, Ichie Munonyeyi,” he said levelly. “ Don’t make it look any grimmer.”
“Igwe, what he is saying is the truth; it is no good running away from it.” This was Ichie Nnabuenyi, the oldest man in Obododike and head of the Ichie and Ozor council. “A man doesn’t run away from his problems, he faces them squarely. Or else, they deal with him flat.”
Nnabuenyi was already stooped with age, entirely hairless, and had only five teeth left in his mouth. This had the effect of making his speech come out gurgled like that of one with water in his mouth.
Obi Ihegbu sat down, breathed deeply and sighed. By comparable standards, he was quite young to be Igwe – just about forty-two, whereas the accepted age was fifty – but his father had passed on early. Being the only son, he had taken control in a way that amazed even the elders and earned him a reputation of being aggressive. It also served to quell any signs of disloyalty. The elders say that when a child washes his hands properly, he gets to dine with kings, and so Igwe Obi Ihegbu’s cabinet of twenty was entirely of very old and respected ozor-titled men, well versed in the affairs of men.
But at the moment, none of them – not even Ichie Udor and Nze Egbeonu, the two wise toads that had cheated death twice – none of them could solve the terrible puzzle of death looming over umu-Obododike. But what is a man supposed to do when the gods decide to take sides against him? What were the chances of winning a wrestling contest against Ikorommuo, the masked spirit of the dead?
Obi Ihegbu sighed again.
“Ezemmuo has not shown up yet?”
Nze Egbeonu docked under the shade of the Igwe’s obi and looked into the sky, noting the sun’s position. “He should be here soon,” he said.
At that moment, the courtyard gates were pushed open from outside and Ezemmuo walked in, his stout walking stick striking the ground at regular intervals.
Obi Ihegbu sat back and tried to relax.
Ezemmuo walked into the obi and immediately went straight to his reserved seat at the extreme left of the Igwe. But just as he was about to open his mouth, the Igwe spoke:
“An elder is supposed to set good examples to the younger ones. I have never identified you with lateness, Ezemmuo.” Some of the Ichie nodded.
Ezemmuo coughed perfunctorily. “The frog never runs in the daylight for nothing, Igwe. Something must happened have to the cocoyam that made it cry out beneath the soil. However, a man who refuses to admit his mistakes must not have children to inherit his name. Ndi Ichie, Igwe, please accept my apology, I was held up.”
“It’s alright, Ezemmuo,” said Obi Ihegbu with a half smile. “Even the gods sometimes make mistakes. Besides, we have a more pressing matter before us; it certainly won’t be in our interests to chase rats while our houses are on fire.” A momentary silence, then he continued. “You all were here yesterday night when our messengers came back and reported their findings.” He pointed at two tired-looking young men in a corner, eating boiled corncobs. “You all heard what they said. A terrible calamity has befallen the land; Umuogba has been wiped out, its remaining people have fled their homes for very far distant lands. Alaokwara is now a desert town and Umuokwa has long been exterminated – actually six seasons ago. Obododike is next.
“The gods are angry; Ikorommuo is blood-thirsty. If the countless goats and rams of Alaokwara, and the innumerable cows of Umuogba didn’t satisfy him, I don’t think that the bony chickens of Obododike will. Ndi Ichie, something must be done. We must find a way to protect our wives and children, our loved ones, our homes, our village. We must unite and find a way to prevent Ikorommuo’s deadly cane from descending on our village, or else Obododike will soon be extinct, "

@ Consultant
Thanks, friend.

hi orinkila, good work! literature made in Nigera has really comt to stay. i'm still @ the bottom of the ladder, though (just published my first book), but i hope to get there too.

merry xmas, every one!

Hi all, i decided to start the OBODODIKE series thread today. Here's the first installment; hope u'all like it.


PROLOGUE

Umuokwa village.
It was well past twilight; supper dishes had already been cleared and the elders were enjoying snuff – the “omere-nwanyi-Asaba” variety – and small talk in the Igwe’s obi. The moon was shinning in all its beauty; all was at peace.
Three compounds away from the obi, towards the groove of Ikorommuo’s shrine in a cluster of shrubs, two chubby-faced rascals scuttled out. The first nodded at the second who grinned back, showing an irregular set of teeth in the moonlight; their young faces glowed with excitement and their chests heaved – mischief was in their eyes.
Hardly able to keep the tension down, the two set off towards the shrine. On both sides of the groove were unusually tall and awe-instilling ogbu trees that blocked the moonlight and virtually threw thick darkness all over the shrine.
One of them suddenly stopped; the other looked back at him.
“Come on Kalu, don’t be a baby.”
Kalu certainly didn’t like being referred to as a baby; he quickly overtook his companion, turned a bend and stood face to face with the ancestral mask of Ojukwu. The other boy stopped beside him, his eyes shinning – even in the darkness.
“Alright Kalu, let’s go in.”
Kalu hesitated; he felt his stomach tightening. He didn’t like this anymore. Blame it on Okechi and his jokes; he was now torn between his pride and common sense. He looked at his friend who was already negotiating his way through the thick undergrowth towards the inner chambers of Ikorommuo’s shrine, where the sacred, treated “mmuo-ikoro” canes were kept.
“Nduoma, I don’t like this.”
The other boy turned and looked at him like he had said the most incredulous thing on earth.
“Nduoma, let’s leave this place. If we are caught…”
“Kalu! Will you stop acting like a child for Amadi’s sake? You didn’t think of this yesterday when you where boasting to Okechi, did you? You know I’m only helping out in this because you’re my friend, so don’t stand there being a wet blanket – unless you want to feel the edge of Okechi’s tongue tomorrow morning!”
Kalu took a deep breath and waded into the bush. After a few paces, he could see the long slender canes neatly arranged on the side of an Iroko tree. Kalu vaguely remembered his father once telling him in a mock-conspiratorial tone that the spirit of Ikorommuo lived at the foot of that Iroko tree. Child-stuff, he thought and smiled. Suddenly, there was a sharp, cracking sound and he started. Nduoma turned and smiled – he was standing at the foot of the Iroko tree. “Its okay, just a calabash. There’re hundreds of them littered all over this place.”
But Kalu was no longer looking at Nduoma; he was staring at something behind Nduoma – something grey and smoky, and steadily getting bigger and bigger. Terror gripped Kalu and his mouth hung open, but he couldn’t utter a sound.
“Besides,” continued Nduoma, not seeing Kalu’s horror-stricken face in the darkness, and entirely oblivious to whatever it was behind him. “Who is going to catch us – the gods?”
Kalu nodded feebly.
Nduoma chuckled to himself and turned around. A streak of moonlight streamed in and he froze. The phantom seemed to move and something flashed soundlessly through the moonlight – and simultaneously, Nduoma’s sharp scream broke through the stillness of the night.
Kalu screamed too, turned around and ran smack into the specter again. He saw the flaming cane raised high in the air and he screamed again.
The cane descended with a sizzling sound,

Next posting in 4 days! U check and rate the book @ www.lulu.com/content/1073134. cheers!

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hi newera, i'll recomend "Obododike: Land of the Brave" under the Nigerian themes section. You can check it out at www.lulu.com/content/1073134 or just go to Google, type "Obododike" and follow the link. I'm not sure if the book is available in Lagos, but i can supply if you want. My contact: 08067844201.

When last did you read a truly moving Nigerian novel? A fantasy that haunted you days after you've dropped the book? Enter the world of "Obododike: Land of the Brave" < www.lulu.com/content/1073134 >

Think "Lords of the Ring"-mixed-with-"Things fall Apart". Written by a Nigerian (me!) and set in prehistoric times, "Obododike: Land of the Brave" blends African story-telling with Western narrative. Download at www.lulu.com/content/1073134 .

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Ok, i don't know how good this is; you folks just tell me

PAINTERS
The hues of the painter
Tell the colors of his mind;
Red, red, black and blue
– The tales of a painter
– The lines of his heart,
To those with insight, whispering
The secret of the fire behind his eyes.

We’re painters – one and all
Leaving our lines a ways
’Cross the world.
You needn’t have a brush,
Own a palette, or wield a marker;
Just move on – your wake
Will tell it all.

  So, whaddya think?

Umm, no. Don't think i read it. But i read 'Mine Boy' and umm, what's that one that has Kumalo and his son and these other white people? I read it too. Oh, and Jinx, i read Kidnapped way back in the 90's . Stevenson, right?. Anyway, anyone read Greg Rucka's novels?

Aww, shucks, i'm sorry man!

I'll give to u Orinkola

,
Don't worry, i got it right now, "Orikinla".

I'll give to u Orinkola, u really get around. But what about folks (like me! ) who can't even to manage to get their books published? Any thing for us?,