₦airaland Forum

Writing Difficulty: Should we Forget about it?

By Maren John Mafuyai

If writing is easier, it is a mystery. Should we forget about it or continue to write something that doesn't pay?

I suggest we shamelessly go back to learn more about the art to be reminded that making a list shouldn't be a problem.

Making a list will improve our writing if we are faithful to it.

I improved one aspect of my writing skills through the following rule:

If you ask yourself, What do I want to buy in the market, your answer could be:

I want to buy biscuits, sugar, shoes and books.

The answer makes sense, doesn't it?

If a journalist asks you, How many times did you go to the market?

The answer could be: 'I went to the market 7 times last month.

It makes sense, doesn't it?

Here's what I bought last month:

I BOUGHT BISCUITS, SUGAR, SHOES AND BOOKS. I BOUGHT RICE, BEANS, PEPPER AND PALM OIL. I BOUGHT TELEVISION, FAN, CARPET AND CURTAIN.

Doesn't it make sense?

I can imagine how you feel about the above example. I want you to observe the example again. I varied the sentence beginning, didn't I. I didn't want a choppy-sounding paragraph, did I?

Stay back a little and think about it. Think of what you want to write to effectively serve your readers. Know what happened and let each paragraph answer it.

A question reveals every kind of logic used:

*.A prose in a past tense answers a question, What happened?
*.A prose in a present tense answers a question, What happens?
*.Any descriptive or expository essay answers a question, How?
*.Any argumentative essay answers a question, Why?

By Kudzai Pasirayi

I have always loved to write from an early age; it always been art. Some people become writers as a source of income. Some write to seek fame and fortune. While the rest focus on writing fiction books with great story characters. Anyone can agree with me that we live in a world filled up with places and stories that enrich life every single day. It is the main reason, I became so passionate about writing. My goal as I started to write was to inspire people who going through tough times in life.

From the age of 15, I learnt that an individual is the maker of his or her own destiny. You have to find the spark within you and choose to do something with your life.I believe, we will experience difficulties at a certain point in what we do. This will only strengthen you to do better as you further yourself in life.

My dream to write started to become real as I decided to share some of the life lessons that helped me to bounce back to being the great person I am today. I would share on my thoughts on certain social networking sites and read quotes from motivational speakers. It got me to create a blog that reflected the journey a person makes to become successful or happy. The feedback that I received got me to improve in my writing. Also, it has enabled me to see greater opportunities ahead of me..

Now, I realize that people do not just that read quotes from blogs or buy books to become professional. Actually, they read to become more effective in their personal lives. Whether that is being a better mother to a child or pursuing happiness in relationships. We all need inspiration at some point in life, which will help us to get right up when we have fallen.

Writing is a way of relieving my mind from worries about life. My greatest wish is to see more young people use their gifts to change the world. It is never to late to inspire someone to purse their goals. The more we share our passion and thoughts about life, the better the world is.

The gift to write is truly a blessing; it brings me to a place of peace and joy. I continue to write more articles in the hope of inspiring people. Motivation is surely a drug that we can`t resist to share. Resist the urge to procrastinate and follow your dreams.

http://ezinearticles.com/?Confessions-of-A-Young-Author&id=8752388

MABEL SEGUN reads from My Father's Daughter

A few months after I was eight, Father came back ill from attending the yearly Synod meeting in Lagos. Three days later he had to be taken to a hospital in Ibadan. When I saw my powerful Father being supported by two men, unable to walk by himself, I cried because I remembered how he used to put even the big Standard Six boys over his arm. He wore a thick dressing gown over his night-shirt and that was how he went to Ibadan. Mother and one of the servants accompanied him in the kitcar which had been hired for the purpose. They did not come back till the evening of the next day.

My first brother and I were in the nursery when Sam rushed in in great agitation and said, 'Papa is dead.' For one moment there was silence in the room, then Okhen gave a great shout and leapt out of the window. Sam rushed outside and I rushed after him. We found Okhen rolling on the ground and weeping as if her heart would burst. Sam tried to lift her up but she resisted him.

By this time a large crowd had gathered in front of our house and loud wailing was coming from the women. Ruth was leaning against a tree with her one year-old son in her arms and lamenting in her sing-song voice. 'My saviour is dead. My refuge is gone, gone, gone.'

MAREN JOHN reads from We Pretended We had Nothing to Do

I guessed all my pictures burned by now. My matric pictures glowed red, blue and white. All my school cert burned. All my manuscripts. My father's acquired land documents.

We finally reached the hospital. Policemen barricaded the door. We couldn't edge to see Felicia. Only the wounded were let in. We the rest walked on.

My bro touched his forhead. Fide jumped to see beyond the fence. He knew this is wrong. An ambigous motion but he was upset.

He wanted to know.

'Peeping up the fence draws security attention,' he said.

This wasn't the first time he was messing. He looked at the road ahead.

'Fide.'

'I'm listening. I want to see dad.'

I put my right hand on his right shoulder.

'I've to see they're alive first.'

The road rose and fell and rose and fell. Siren filled in the air. Security facility reach the scene.

KIMBERLY ANTON read from What Are You Afraid Of

I want to cry but unfortunately I am the grown up. That bitch. How could she have done this? Be angry at me for whatever reason, but really? The boys?

“Did his Mommy say not to play with you.”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Eli nods hard.

“Are you mad at him, honey?”

“No.”

“Is he mad at you?” I told myself I wouldn’t do this but I can’t seem to do anything else. I want him to release the pain, so I prod.

“Yes.”

“Do you know why he’s mad?”

“Yes.”

At least Eli knows why his best friend is gone. I stop and face my son. He looks at a snail on the sidewalk, without interest. Translucent brown eyes lift up to me. He pulls his hand from mine and presses a fist to his eye. His chest puffs and falls.

“Why?” I ask.

“He’s mad that I won’t sleep in the tent,” he sighs.

“From camping? Still?”

“I don’t know, he’s just mad.” Eli grabs my hand again and stomps forward. I have to run a little to keep his pace. I squeeze his fingers so he doesn’t feel me shaking. My mouth waters as I recall Tanner throwing up in the car. I swallow the saliva, but the memory won’t go down.

Emeka imported 3000ml of drug and invited Mafai and I to celebrate his birthday in his new home at Apollo Crescent. He owned a beautiful woman named Saradina, who was a Ghanaian. She had prepared chicken and zobo drink and arranged three syringes, a bag of cotton and 100ml of methylated spirit on the centre table.

'Heroin must be better', Mafai said, looked at Saradina and nodded, his left leg upon the table.

'What will you say, then, about cocaine?' Emeka asked, smiled and lit fifteen red candles in an iron saucer to show we might be cultists.

'Cocaine?' I said to impress him. 'You want me to earn Oscar.'

Mafai stretched his right hand, carried a phial of methylated spirit and a morsel of cotton, the cross hanging upon his necklace swinging, and carried a cigarettes pack and a lighter. Without cigarettes, the drug is like a poison or useless.

Emeka staggered and almost crashed over the refrigerator. And Saradina, up to support him, said he had been taking whiskey since morning, now almost creeping 50cl, now in a dire state.

As Mafai smiled, the dark glasses shifted towards his nose point, his moustache wetted with Don Simon. Looking at Emeka, who would have sex with Saradina after a few minutes or hours from now, he knew Emeka had a lot of money from Libya since he wasn't there a slave.

'What's up guys, eat your power', Emeka's voice filled in the room, a lot of scar dots on his left arm.

Mafai knew Saradina wasn't happy with those scar dots he owned even though he had more than a million Libyan Dinar. But He too, Mafai, had scar dots in his left arm, one of them like a map of Australia.

Always the first, finally, Mafai washed a little part of his left arm with methylated spirit, pressed the needle into the phial, introduced a needed amount of drug substance in the syringe and neatly transfer it to his vein.

Emeka clapped hands for him, did as he did and looked at Saradina who made sure she watched me as I did with difficulty.

Mafai and I, feeling a slight pain in our left arms, shivered when Emeka, his right hand deep into Saradina's white miniskirt, dragged her pant down, blood dripping on a cushion from his arm.

Feeling ashamed, we walked out into the public parlor, ate fried chicken and heard the sound of Saradina's sexual pleasure.

'F*ck her. F*ck her. F*ck her down', Mafai said, pointing a finger at a door to where Emeka was f*cking.

Maren John Mafuyai @Write__Man https://mobile.twitter.com/account

Note: This fiction is still under an editor. If you are to paste it on your website, please retain the writer's name and twitter link. Thanks!

"Hold on!" another chief ordered. "Our people say any good parlance can be regarded as paroxysm. Another man's food is another man's poison. I mean what you've just said is good to us but it won't be good to Matawal or his family. You would have sounded cleverer if you avoid name-calling altogether."

"We have to be punctilious", another chief said. "We need red, blue and brown liquid or powder to make puce. Whether we like it or not, once we're talking of this subject this period, our fellow people will know the boy but let's avoid cross-purposes."

Some chiefs put down their faces. What he said could ignite a quarrel. Something similar ever stimulated a burst of confusion that bore whacks in the Traditional Council meeting. But the second to the last speaker handled the slapdash response with maturity by being silent.

When temporary, grave-yard quietness set in, the cemented walls of the mini town hall were still white like snow. The wooden windows were still too dried and too slender. The roof of the hall would barely escape two approaching raining seasons. There was a smell of stored maize and of burning cowdung. When silence diminished, the subject was not about Matawal's outrageous behaviour. It was about turpitude and twilight zone. The chiefs took to talking and laughing louder as if they were becoming drunk minute by minute to find trouble.

Time went by but Matawal didn't stop behaving like the whites. He had earned a sobriquet Duke of Sussex. More people praised him with enthusiasm in Jos. But here once or twice everyday, one or two of the chiefs would spit against him and someone would say:

"Look at how they are bawling in praise of the beast. Look at the kind of people that are hoisted in African society. It is all about hoodwinking, hoodwinking, hoodwinking wallabies."

Under the tree near the road that snaked up to Butura Company, card players would look at one another and shook their head surprised at how he was praised in the city despite his outrageous behavior. The issue seemed to cause argument when someone, after attending an urgent youth council meeting, concluded that whites are the inventors of the kind of a city found in Jos. The players returned to their game and guessed that Matawal chose arrogant behavior to become a city champion--only in the city were people like him praised.

The sun settled near the center of the sky like the wicked security lamp of the temporary military headquarters.


https://static.standard.co.uk/s3fs-public/thumbnails/image/2018/04/05/16/worlds-best-gardens-7.jpg?width=968
source: https://static.standard.co.uk/

https://generisonline.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/05/Finest-Botanical-Gardens-Around-the-World.jpg
source: https://generisonline.com/wp-content/

https://www.sciencenewsforstudents.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/1440_urban_gardens_pollinators_feat-1030x580.jpg
source: https://www.sciencenewsforstudents.org/wp-content

TESTING

My Cover Letter to Mosquitoes in My Nigerian Apartment

Hi dear!

I'm writing this from Kumasi while watching coconut trees through a scientific window. Though I'm still a shameless carrier of plasmodium parasites, I maintain a sitting position as King James under the influence of alco (if you say hol, na you sabi). Beside me is a mosquito-netted hospital bed of the 21st century.

I'm a pathological liar if I say I don't know you're dying of hunger in my medieval apartment in Nigeria. Am I not educated enough to know you can't get nectar, plant sap, honeydew and blood in that sealed shelter?

I remember, passing a night you usually sucked my blood till morning once I focused on Netflix. I usually lost my proud self to The Game of Thrones till sleep did us part. I'm fully aware that your aha moment was while I was snoring.

Now you've dropped plasmodium parasites in the form of sporozoites into my blood stream. The sporozoites passed quickly like Boko Haram sect into my liver and asexually multiplied in my liver cells. To cut-short the story, the sporozoites became merozoites, journeyed through my heart to the lungs and settled in the lung capillaries before ending up in the blood phase of their development. They never give up since they have assurance if they die they'll go to Heaven.

You can't imagine how frustrating malaria is for me. Once I focused on Netflix, you counted it a privilege to perch on my unclad arm, quadriceps femoris, gastrocnemius or tibialis anterior. You're more selfish than an antiquated anti-hero of Star Trek, more dangerous than an instantaneous killer, motherf-ucker.

I can't help but leave the country for medical tourism.

Best regards,
Olododo

Matawal A. Maren returned home from UK wearing a wool overcoat, skinny jeans and a pair of cosy leather boots, bagpack hung upon his shoulder.

His walk that obviously stemmed from the colonial masters drew a reasonable attention today. Some neighbours looked delighted, some looked outraged and some glanced remarkably and greedily at his sparkling beautiful wrist-watch. They noticed huge changes in the way he pronounced English words. They said he spoke through the nose as if he was born in England. They said he didn't reply any greeting or question in Ron. That he said je ne sais quoi, c'est bon, raison d'etre and l'espirit bourgeois. Some people were heard talking about him:

"I swear by my ancestors UK pollutes Matawal's ability to speak his mother tongue."

"No", the eldest disagree, "UK has no power to do such thing. It is Matawal has gone off."

"Yes, Matawal has gone off. You're right. He has gone off off off."

"By virture of ever being to England, Matawal could go about doing his things unstoppably as long as he doesn't tamper with Nigerian constitution or military decree."

"But this is insanity."

"No. They say civilization."

"You're wrong."

"Can't you see some of us imitating Arabs even to the point of entirely becoming terrorists?"

While they were whispering, Matawal refused to speak his mother tongue even to the 100 years old, his grandma, who couldn't understand any English word.

The news of his arrival had reached everywhere including the ears of the gossips who were playing cards under the tree near the road that snaked up to Butura Company.

"They said Matawal couldn't speak our native language, his native language", they said.

"How many years did he spend in England?"

"Just 10 years he spent."

"Foolishness. This is ridiculous. Did he understand his native language?"

"He did since he replied in English."

"He has gone off indeed."

There was a pause.

Breeze blew through the leaves above. Three leaves zigzagly floated, swam and made a haste toward the road. One slightly thudded over someone's baldhead. Unhealthy sound of a car flickered and a sepulchral voice (of one of the sententious) was hazy. A carpenter said with reverence:

"I love being under this tree, a centre of truth where the knavish and the gullible and the guttersnipe and the horrible are being exposed on daily basis. I volunteer to buy a new set of cards."

A clap of appreciation followed.

Three days later in winter dress, Matawal sauntered on the busy street, clamoring for the same respect blacks accorded to whites. Some western culture lovers praised him while African culture lovers criticized him. But he didn't bother whether he was loved or loathed, criticized or praised. He sauntered close to Chief Mafai Matom and two other prominent Chiefs and said 'Helo' in English without bowing.

A custodian of Ron cultural values and a discipline master, Chief Mafai stared at him from head to toes. The other two prominent Chiefs spat.

"Is he not the second son of Chief Abraham Maren?"

"Is he not the one who just returned from London?"

"Is this how London people behave? Mr. Malo went to London and came back respectfully."

Eventhough they were all communicant members, they mourned as they walked. At one point, they separated and each walked to his residence.

"Mr. Matawal's behavior is outrageous even to the English themselves", another Chief whose left leg was amputated said.

Mr. Matawal had planned to live with aristocrats in a planned neighbourhood in Jos city where the colonial behavior practice was cherished.

Chief Mafai, addressing traditional council members in the palace of Saf Ron, said:

"I always have a new found appreciation for all those who speak Ron in Government offices, hospitals, churches and classrooms. Our motto is 'We are Africans.' Being Africans, we're perfect to some extent."

Everyone gave a nod and a thumb leading to more contributions. The first contributor was a chief whose left leg was amputated. He stood supported by crutches saying with cordiality:

"It's imbecility to say someone is highly intelligent just because he behaves like Europeans and utter illiterate just because he practises his African culture. Obviously this is what happens today in Africa. Matawal's outrageous behavior is highly recommended by aristocrats and academicians in this country...."

Prepare to accomplish 2 or 3 of these when you visit your former working place: 2 may shock you

After quitting a working place, some people find it difficult to return for a visit for one reason or another, but it pays to visit that place atleast once.

In 2016, I left my former working place to further my education and, ofcourse, it wasn't in a good term because I didn't write a resignation lettre ahead of the leave.

The following year, during my long vocation, I visited them and the boss offered me a vacation job by which I saved money for school use.

This piece helps you network better with topnotch people and, more than that, easily look for forgiveness.

Here's how to prepare:

1. Dress well.

Dressing badly or wearing unfitted garment is one of a thing that makes your former colleagues or your former boss looks at you somehow as though you're an intruder. You shouldn't ever ignore knowing the difference between party wears, night wears and corporate wears. As the name suggests (to cooperate with people), corporate wears are the ones to use to go to work.

2. Prepare a good joke to share with your working colleagues.

Without gossips and finger-pointings, sharing a joke with former colleagues pays as it projects many happy moments. Just avoid involving yourself in political talks that may lead to hatred and other mayhems.

3. Expect your working colleagues to say something like: 'You look good' or 'Where you work fits you."

Dress better to project the importance of having knowledge, discipline and a good character.

4. If you get good employment after leaving there, consider buying them refreshments.

5. Finally, leave as you used to when you were with them.

1. Know how to find your happy place. We teach our toddlers how to “self-soothe.” But doyouknow how to do it? You need to be able to calm yourself down, because even your most devoted family and friends will eventually get tired of your whining.

2. Take whatever wins you can get. Walked the complete hallway that morning? Ate your entire dinner? Finally peed? Yay you!

3. Ask for help. My roommate was an elderly woman who had several medical issues, but she “didn’t want to bother anybody.” So she’d lie in her bed, moaning, in pain. I kept telling her, “Push the white button. The call button.Push the damn button.” She got it. By day three, the staff wanted to have me shot.

4. If there are 200 people working at the facility, 198 of them will see your junk. And neither of you will care. (Hubs has never seen me pee. Not once in 18 years. Now he’s a black belt in pee pans, and can change out a bed pan in 10 seconds flat. Yet, the romance lives on.)

5. It’s okay to be scared. You’d be an idiot not to be. When docs start tossing around phrases like “You should have died,” and “You’re on our Miracle Wall where we show photos of patients who beat the odds,” it’s natural and normal to freak the hell out.

6. When the doc says “This might be a little uncomfortable,” ask for a shot of Patron and a piece of leather to bite down on, because it’s going to send you screaming for your mama.

7. There’s always somebody worse off than you. Go help them. Sometimes we forget that the world doesn’t revolve around us. (Bahahahaha.) Helping someone else is great for getting out of your own head and gaining some perspective.

8. Never,evergive up.

Hospital Odities
By Vicky Claflin

As many of you know, I’ve spent the last several weeks battling an exploded, nasty appendicitis attack. I came to a slew of emails and messages (for which I am grateful) asking, “What the hellhappened??” so I decided to write about it. (Ranking second only to “What I Did on My Summer Vacation” photos, but you asked.)

I’d been having stomach pains the week prior to the Big Event, but none of my self-diagnoses turned out to be the problem. (Never trust Wikipedia with your health care.) Hubs wanted me to go to the ER, but seriously? Who goes to the ER for stomach flu? So we waited for my internal storm to pass. It didn’t.

Four days later, I woke up doubled over, with intense, debilitating pain that had me on my knees. Hubs scooped me out of bed, stuffed me into the front seat of his truck, and tore down to the hospital ER. The doc determined quickly that it was probably appendicitis, and the next thing I knew, I was being wheeled down the hall for the first of four CT scans. Well, crap.

The doc told us that the scan revealed a severely burst and pissed off appendix, and because I delayed coming in, it had gotten septic and run rampant throughout my abdomen. They needed to go inright away, and they were going to “try” (try??) to get it out, but it was such a mess, they weren’t sure if that was possible. Yeah. because that’swhat you want to hear while the anesthesiologist is masking you up.

Five and a half hours later, I’m dopey-stupid and sleepy in Recovery, while Doc talked to Hubs. I heard snippets like “dangerous and difficult surgery,” “if you’d waited one more day day, she wouldn’t have made it,” and “not out of the woods yet.” I. Don’t. Think. So. I amwoman. I am strong. I am healthy. Stand back and see how its done. After a week, dazzled with my ability to bounce back so quickly, they said I could go home and finish recuperating. We packed up my jammies, my new purple walker, half a dozen prescriptions, a list of exercises, and left with high hopes.

Then things got real.

I was not getting better. I was getting worse. The pain and frustration of being bedridden had me in tears all day long. Hubs refused to leave my side, staying home to help me sit, stand, or put on a clean t-shirt. Nothing was working. He cooked all my favorite meals, but my appetite was nonexistent, and I was rapidly dropping weight, leaving me with zero energy to doanything.

After two weeks of trying everything he could think of, Hubs announced that we were going back to the ER, and it was not an option. An hour later, I was strapped to an ambulance gurney with two 22-year-old pups I’d never met, going to Portland for specialists who were trained to “perform surgery at this level. ” Okay, nowI was freaking.

At the ER at Portland, another CT scan showed a raging infection throughout my abdomen that was life-threatening. My weight had dropped from 120 to 99 pounds. (I looked disturbingly like a hairless cat.) Hubs was beside himself because they kept referring to him as my “next of kin.” I’ve never been so scared in my life.

This is the time you start sleeping with one eye open. I just knew that if I ever actually fell asleep, I’d never wake up.

Good news: Back upstairs to a second ER, the docs found what we all hope will be the magic bullet. Bad news: No going home to recuperate for you, Missy. They released me to an in-patient nursing care facility for the next two weeks. Fourteen long days of rest, interspersed with daily physical therapy, occupational therapy, speech therapy, and of course, the requisite horse-pill antibiotics that that would cure a bull moose of pneumonia. As for sleep? You’d sleep better on a cot in the middle of a Las Vegas casino. The constant carts, with their squeaky wheels, going back and forth down the halls, the chatty night aides standing outside your door arguing about their job descriptions and who has to clean up old lady Zelda’s unfortunate bout of gastrointestinal distress, and my personal favorite, the med aide who comes into your room at 3 a.m. with pills for everybody, andturns on the lights. But time went by and finally, I was cleared to leave.

Now I’m home, with another two weeks of therapies, drugs, and lots of sleep (I’m learning to love naps). I’m also on a once-in-a-lifetime weightgainprogram. I’m positively giddy about all those yummy, fattening things I didn’t eat before because they’re…well, too fattening. I told Hubs to go to the store, go up and down every aisle, and whenever he saw something he knows I like, but rarely eat due to the ridiculous calories, put that in the cart. It almost makes it all worthwhile. (Don’t judge…I’m shallow.)

In other good news, my seemingly endless hours in the hospital and nursing facility (docs call it “Extreme Boredom Therapy”) weren’t wasted. The writer in me looked at everything going on with “I’ve got to write about that.” A few truisms about hospital stays:

“Will you see if they have these jeans in an 8?” I asked, tossing a pair over the dressing room door. “Who am I supposed to ask?” “Anybody that works here.” “How will I know?” “She won’t be carrying a purse.” Ten minutes later, he returned with my size 8 jeans. He was also carrying three midriff-baring cropped tops that I’m quite sure I’d seen Miley Cyrus twerking in on national television. I’m flattered that in his imaginary world, I’d be smokin’ in teenage tube tops, but reality insisted I stuff them at the bottom of the “That ship has sailed” pile and slip on the jeans instead.

Hubs poked his head in the dressing room, “Those make your butt look great. Get those.” “But they give muffin top,” I said. “What the hell is ‘muffin top’??” “It’s when your belly fat rolls up and over the waistband of your jeans, making you look like a banana muffin at Starbucks.” I pulled my shirt up for an up-close-and-personal visual, sending Hubs into a fit of snort-laughing, choking out, “I got it. Wow. Nope, those jeans are definitely not for you.” And that’s the last time you’ll seethatfrom me, buddy.

As we walked around the store, me in front and him stalking me from behind, he entertained himself by looking for women whose jeans were too tight or too low-riding. He spotted a large women with a Harley vest on over her tank top and seriously tight jeans. He leaned over and whispered loudly enough for me (and anyone within 15 feet) to hear, “I’ll bet she’s got one of those muffin tops.” Yes, I think she probably does. She’s also got a “Screw with me and I’ll hurt you” tattoo going up her arm. I think if she heard that, she’s going to kick your ass all the way to your car.

The rest of the afternoon was spent explaining (“IknowI already have a red sweater, but that one is ablue-red, and I need acherry-red), justifying (“Yes, this denim jacket is $150, but I’ll wear it witheverything), or flat-out denying (“Iknowthe tag says $80, but that’s before the discount, which they’ll take off at the sales counter”).

An hour or so later, I was assuring him that we were really, truly almost done. I just needed to do a quick run through the fragrance department for anything new and delicious. That was before I knew we’d have to pass by the shoe department to get to the fragrances. I immediately got waylaid by an uber fabulous pair of leopard-print boots.

“Shoes??” he wailed. “You didn’t say anything aboutshoes.” “Well, how could I?” I asked, “I didn’t know about them this morning. And if I don’t get the jeans, I can buy the boots.” “You mean, not buy the jeans we spent two hourstrying to find? The ones that gave you a great butt, with no muffin top?Those jeans?” “You know what?” I said, “Let’s go back and try the jeans on one more time, to see if they’re cooler than the boots.” “I know I’m being set up,” he replied, “But not a chance. Just get whatever you want and let’s get the hell out of here. There’s a sports bar across the street and I need a beer.”

Some things are just too easy.

http://laugh-lines.net/couples-who-shop

Laugh Lines

Hubs hates clothes shopping. Hates. It. His entire closet is full of “gently worn” t-shirts he buys in bulk 3-4 times a year on eBay, preferably with college team logos emblazoned across the front and free shipping. Jeans are purchased during random trips to the local Wal-Mart simply by checking out the size tag (34 x 34? Yeah, they fit) and casually tossing three pair into the cart with the milk, Comet Cleaning Powder, and a container of shampoo/body wash that would last the average family three years.

Some days, I’m a little bit jealous.

So when I told him I was headed to the city to buy some new clothes, and he replied, “I’ll go with you,” I swear the earth stopped turning on its axis for the brief moment as it registered this aberration in the natural order of things.

“This isshopping,” I said, speaking slowly. “You did get that, right? And it’sgirlshopping. You know, where we take several items in various sizes into a dressing room to try them each on, sometimes more than once for comparison’s sake, then repeat the process as necessary over the next several hours. Seriously?? You want to go with me?” He grinned, “Sure. How bad can it be?” Let me count the ways.

An hour’s drive later, we pulled into the mall parking lot and headed inside, as I pulled out my list. “You have alist?” Hubs looked surprised and a little dismayed. “How many things are you buying??” “We’re not even inside the first store,” I sighed. “And yes, I have a list. Youwantedto come, remember?”

For the next 45 minutes, I shopped while he followed six inches behind me the entire time (qualifying as stalking in 39 states). He was picking up anything and everything he thought looked cute or sexy, regardless of the discrepancy between said item and my body. Repeated reminders to put back any item in a size zero and that I wasn’t shopping for date clothes didn’t seem to diminish his enthusiasm for my new Indecency wardrobe.

At one point, I actually considered trying on the wispy, size 2 pantie-bra set that he was clinging to with a hopeful look on his face. I figured one quick peek would put an end to that particular fantasy once and for all. I knew Odds were that I’d look more like a overstuffed wienie wrap than a hot pole dancer, instantly destroying his mental delusions, and ultimately requiring couples’ therapy because some things can’t be unseen.

The next hour was spent explaining why it was necessary to take three different sizes of the same jeans into the dressing room. “You’re 60. How can you not know what size you wear?” he grumbled. “Every brand is cut differently,” I said, trying hard to be patient. “Well, that’s just stupid,” he replied. I decided it was time to solicit his help, if for no other reason than to keep him busy.

http://laugh-lines.net/couples-who-shop

He was 24. A gentle man. Feeling sick on duty, he took a permision and went home for a treatment.

When his mum asked him why did he come home early today, his face moody, he said he was sick.

“Dad can’t allow me rest", he added. 'Everyday saying why can’t I go to Europe like other men of my age? Why am I still living in his house after all?”

“He just want to know how far you’re trying to help your younger ones: he is afraid he would die soon.”

“So he always says. I always tell him I am looking for a good employment here because going to Europe should be for another reason rather than looking for a job.”

“Just take it easy.”

“Not this time. I won’t take it easy this time. If he tells me again, I will tell him to stay away from me. I’ve good plans.”

Meanwhile, his father returned home to carry a file he forgot on top of a box TV looking hurried and worried. Hearing him telling his mother what they discussed, he waited in the kitchen until he eavedropped everything.

“I've heard all that you told your mum', he said in a low tone in the parlor after a few minutes. 'You're not a man because you can’t control yourself.”

Mafai finished swallowing his pills when his mum called him to the palor so his dad, sitting in his cushion, his feet in his old bathroom slippers on a tile floor, spoke to him.

"You see, you think I'm disturbing. You think I was against your plan, don't you? But let me tell you today: I'm not against your plan but only suggesting."

His mum nodded looking at the wall curtain.

"I don't want you to suffer brokeness that's why I was giving such suggestion. To say it as though to be clear and concise, I want you to make a lot of money like most of your mates who travelled abroad. But since you found my suggestion not worthy, I called you to say do whatever pleases you so I won't be the cause of your misfortune."

He counted all the tiles he could see and think about his girl friend so to be less ashamed. But he wasn't.

(c)2018

Divepen1:
Thanks. I think having a knowledge of the use of symbols can really deepen your story any day any time.

But like many people have advised, using the sun to open a novel is not always ideal except it is really needful. Only a veteran can use it without causing a dull reading of his or her books.

To some people, mere things like a chewed pen can deepen their story.

Chewed pen could work very well. Every where your readers see it they will remember the setting of your story and celebrate you. Using these and many other common words is a key to huge success in writing. No wonder scientists say a common thing is never common.

Example: In 2006, my husband's girl friend gave my husband a fountain pen as a birthday gift and he stored it in memory of her. Now my daughter chewed its bottom and threw it in the lavatory. I was afraid, she must explain why she did so.

Through reading great works, I learned some words create memorable images than others. And, fortunately, these words are too common than you imagine.

Socks are too common, corporate and non-corporate men often wear them and we see them everyday, but this word can make great novelists like Chinua Achebe, Mark Twain, George Orwel, Stephen King, etc.

What are we saying here? Mark Twain and I can be talking about the same thing but people may pay attention to Mark Twain because they love how he is saying it.

These 7 powerful words could make huge magic you never expected in your story and, through them, you can find others—perhaps even in your bed room—that will make your readers celebrate you.

1. Window

I found out, like camera, window makes one focus and it is the best tool to use in your story. Supposing your character is in her room, there are million things to see through the window.

Example: As she looked through the window, it wasn't the outside she expected to see: it was hell fire. Latter, she thought her head wasn't correct.

2. Edge

To get desired effect, edge could only be used either as the outside limit of an object or area or the sharpened side of a blade. This will draw the attention of your readers towards your style.

Example: My uncle watched the bed bug as it ran over the edge of our glass table.

3. Rooftop

What I sharply remembered in 'Harry Potter' are the rooftops of the estate where Harry Potter lives with his uncle Vernon Dursley. You can see how this common word improves the setting of the story.

Example: From the 3rd floor, I could see the rooftop of St. Augustine.

4. Rotten food

Human memory can retain negative experience easier than the positive one. I must confess any rotten food can remind me of this feature.

Example: I watched my husband as he threw the rotten food through the window. By then the world was silent so the thud sounded terribly like thunder.

5. Sun

Apart from merciless sun we often read in classic novels, sun is mostly used to open the new chapter of a story to show morning, midday or evening time, but you can be more creative. This word is very important.

Example: Mashat looked up to heaven and saw there was no sun, so there was no shadow. This was the time he could steal an apple from Shade's headtop as she could neither see his shadow, nor hear his footsteps.

6. Old books

Writing this feature, I scarcely remembered the title of the short story I read where the hero, describing a room, said, "The room smells like old books." Although I found it difficult to remember the title of the story, I remembered the story because of the phrase 'old books.'

Example: "My uncle sells old books to earn a living," my sister told her guests and then looked at her old chemistry books in the shelf.

(Note: Old books could mean books that last long and books that are recently published but look dirty. Old books could also mean used or second-hand books).

7. Socks

I didn't think about socks because I had socks in my feet while writing this feature but because I was and am a reading enthusiast who read many contemporary American short stories where socks make memorable images. Unfortunately, I often scarcely recollect titles.

Example: My husband and I perceive bad smell and couldn't tell the source until I remembered Sam, whose Tim Boot was over the doormat, entered in socks. Was it a rotten food? No, who brought it? Was it a dead rat? No, we didn't have rats. Was it farting? Not me, neither my husband. My husband would have admitted it.
"Sam, I'm sorry", I said, "see if your socks stink."
Sam touched one, sniffed his hand and said, "They stink."

Final Tip

After the first draft, you can find ways to develop your story during structural editing, adding these powerful words or others you find yourself.

Asked yourself to know the setting of your story (it could be in your home town or any place), go there either physically or imaginatively and look for what to create memorable image.

Doing this may be hard so reading novels and short stories will help you know what works and what doesn't work in stories.

Fortunately, the major difficulty you may encounter in your 2nd or even 3rd draft is incoherence. To get rid of such constraint, it is better you learn how to unite sentences and paragraphs either by using conjunctions or not.

Do you have any other memorable word to suggest?

First published on Nairaland.com Forum as written by Maren John Mafuyai (marenx)

There are big secrets to writing a great story. In this post I revealed the one which gave birth to great writers: that's using words that create memorable images.

After reading these words, go and make your story better.

Here are they:

Note: The examples given here are not quotes. I form them myself. Please, don't skip the final tip as it is very important.

1. Window

Like camera, window brings focus and it is the best tool to use in your story. Supposing your character is in her room, million things are out to see through the window.

Example: As she looked through the window, it wasn't the outside she expected to see: it was hell fire. Latter, she thought her head wasn't correct.

2. Edge

To get the desired effect, edge could only be used either as the outside limit of an object or area or the sharpened side of a blade. This will draw the attention of your readers towards your style.

Example: My uncle watched the bed bug as it ran over the edge of our glass table.

3. Rooftop

What I sharply remembered in 'Harry Potter' are the rooftops of the estate where Harry Potter lives with his uncle Vernon Dursley. You can see how this common word improves the setting of the story.

Example: From the 3rd floor, I could see the rooftop of St. Augustine.

4. Rotten food

Human memory can retain negative experience easier than the positive one. Any rotten food can remind me of this feature.

Example: I watched my husband as he threw the rotten food through the window. The world was silent so the thud sounded terribly like thunder.

5. Sun

Apart from merciless sun we often read in classic novels, sun is mostly used to open the new chapter of a story to show morning, midday or evening time, but you can be more creative. This word is very important.

Example: Mashat looked up to heaven and saw there was no sun, so there was no shadow. This was the time he could steal an apple from Shade's headtop as she could neither see his shadow nor hear his footsteps.

6. Old books

Writing this feature, I scarcely remembered the title of the short story I read where the hero, describing a room, said, "The room smells like old books." Although I found it difficult to remember the title of the story, I remembered the story because of the phrase 'old books.'

Example: "My uncle sells old books to earn a living," my sister told her guests and then looked at her old chemistry books in the shelf.

(Note: Old books could mean books that last long and books that are recently published but look dirty. Old books could also mean used or second-hand books).

7. Socks

I didn't think about socks because I wore socks while writing this feature. Rather, I thought about it because I was and am a reading enthusiast who read many contemporary American short stories where socks make memorable images.

Example: My husband and I perceive bad smell and couldn't tell the source. Was it a rotten food? No, who brought it? Was it a dead rat? No, we didn't have rats. Was it farting? Not me, neither my husband. My husband would have admitted it. until I remembered Sam whose Tim Boot was over the doormat.
"Sam", I said, "I'm sorry. see if your socks stink."
Sam touched one, sniffed his hand and said, "They stink."

Final Tip

After the first draft, you can find ways to develop your story during structural editing, adding these powerful words or others you find yourself.

Asked yourself to know the setting of your story (it could be in your home town or any place), go there either physically or imaginatively and look for what to create memorable image.

Doing this may be hard so reading novels and short stories helps you know what works and what doesn't in stories.

The major difficulty you may encounter in your 2nd or even 3rd draft is incoherence. It is better to learn how to unite sentences and paragraphs either by using conjunctions or not.

By Maren John Mafuyai

The following are 14 quotes from Chinua Achebe's 'Things Fall Apart'.

1. He saw himself and his fathers crowding round their ancestral shrine waiting in vain for worship and sacrifice and finding nothing but ashes of bygone days.

2. "Thank you. He who brings kola brings life. But I think you ought to break it," replied Okoye passing back the disc.
"No, it is for you, I think," and they argued like this for a few moments before Unoka accepted the honor of breaking the kola. Okoye, meanwhile, took the lump of chalk, drew some lines on the floor, and then painted his big toe.

3. Unoka went into an inner room and soon returned with a small wooden disc containing a kola nut, some alligator pepper and a lump of white chalk.

4. Ogbuef Ezedudu, who was the oldest man in the village, was telling two other men when they came to visit him that the punishment for breaking the Peace of Ani had become very mild in their clan.

5. You think you are the greatest sufferer in the world? Do you know that men are sometimes banished for life? Do you know that men sometimes lose all their yams and even their children? I had six wives once. I have none now except that young girl who knows not her right from her left. Do you know how many children I have buried—children I begot in my youth and strength? Twenty-two. I did not hang myself, and I am still alive.

6. Eneke the bird says that since men have learned to shoot without missing, he has learned to fly without perching.

7. If you had been poor in your last life I would have asked you to be rich when you come again. But you were rich. If you had been a coward, I would have asked you to bring courage. But you were a fearless warrior. If you had died young, I would have asked you to get life. But you lived long. So I shall ask you to come again the way you came before.

8. There was a saying in Umuofia that as a man danced so the drums were beaten for him.

9. “That cannot be,” said Machi. “You might as well say that the woman lies on top of the man when they are making the babies.

10. The world is large,” said Okonkwo. “I have even heard that in some tribes a man’s children belong to his wife and her family.”

11. At the most one could say that his chi or ... personal god was good. But the Ibo people have a proverb that when a man says yes his chi says yes also. Okonkwo said yes very strongly; so his chi agreed.

12. [...] had asked Ear to marry him, whereupon Ear fell on the floor in uncontrollable laughter. "How much longer do you think you will live?" she asked. "You are already a skeleton." Mosquito went away humiliated, and any time he passed her way he told Ear that he was still alive.

13. You do not know me,’ said Tortoise. ‘I am a changed man. I have learned that a man who makes trouble for others makes trouble for himself.

14. It always surprised him when he thought of it later that he did not sink under the load of despair.

Dad’s driver brought us from school to dad’s office. There we played jigsaw while dad signed and stamped papers. If we played roughly, he would say, “Stop playing. This is not your house.” Or, “Stop spoiling government property. It’s for your own future.” We ate fruits and drank mineral water from the refrigerator. This is not the old refrigerator, dad said. This one was brought from England as soon as he resumed work as a boss. The old one was auctioned.

Dad’s driver took dad and us home after work. Nany bathed us, cooked for us, monitored us, told us c o c k and bull stories and reminded us of last summer. He was very hardworking, dad said. But he was not our first nany. The first nany was a female and hardworking too but mum told dad to bring a male. Mum worked in the FCT but came home on weekends.

After bath and an hour rest dad took us to the near-by restaurant for dinner. His favorite was pounded yam while ours was rice with fried plantain. Other times we ate semo. After dinner dad would call a taxi to take us home while he would remain there with the woman, the owner of the restaurant. We were never happy to leave like that.

We would do school assignments before going to sleep.

Our life was in school, home and dad’s office, except on weekends and holidays. At all seasons we went no where alone. Even in school we were under parents. I was in basic four, my sister was in basic three. We loved walking about while eating cheese and chocolate, disliked any bitter thing, talked about movies and played football during break. All children hate bitter things, our dad said because we hated medicines. In our school when our maths teacher said children who avoid excessive sweet things were her friends, I said I could avoid them, my friend Danny too said he could avoid them, then all the class said they could avoid them. Our maths teacher replied: “It’s easier said than done.”

Since before imitation was a hobby to almost all my classmates. I couldn't do something to end up being the only one who did it in the history of our class--3 or 4 others must do it sooner or later. One day I said I would keep my eyebrows raised. Throughout the day I did. After the long break, all my mates kept their eyebrows raised and we looked like other human species. The next day I kept my tongue out and they all did same like fools. Later I almost believed I was a model although I was not a first-class pupil. In second term first class pupils of our class hated me because they were not loved more than I was, most especially when most pupils showered me with gifts that I was their favorite in our class. One day one of them slapped me just like that and my nose bleed began. Suddenly, our teacher beat the hell of him blue and black.

Maren John Mafuyai

Cry ptocurrencynews.com is looking for experienced writers to write content relating to cryptocurrency, blockchain, altcoins, exchanges, wallets and anything related to crypto.

You must have a Skype account and you should be easily contactable. During the beginning of your tenure, article ideas and briefs will be provided to get you started. Once we are comfortable with the quality of the work, you may start writing independently.

We are looking for journalistic news writing where research is involved by reviewing websites such as bitcointalk.org, quora, coindesk, cointelegraph and other high authority cryptocurrency websites. We are also looking for SEO keyword writing. Understanding of the cryptocurrency markets is essential.

Working with our team based in Vancouver, Canada, you will be writing, editing and posting your work in our wordpress database.

News articles should be between 350 to 1500 words in length and SEO articles should be 1000 words in length. The articles should be checked for grammar and spelling errors and should be posted the same day the article was started.

This position will start on a per word basis of 3 cents USD per word. We expect the articles to make sense and do not want “filler” words just to bump up the word count.

If you would like to write for one of the world’s leading crypto news websites, please send a couple sample articles to.

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Wole Soyinka's generation stamps intellectual footprints. Writers of this generation too will come with their legends.

why Aspiring Writers should Go for Quality not Quantity

If you know you’re still an amateur in writing, go for quality not quantity until you become expert.

Because, while expert writer can turn dirt to mushroom delicacy, an amateur writer can not.

It simply works like this:

You can’t buy bad writing to represent your business or yourself, can you? The same goes everywhere, no company can accept writing from amateur writer.

*

Freelance writers emphasise on quantity not quality because they assumed you know how to work on quality since you’re professional.

No wonder, they center only on how to make money through writing, telling you how they got their first client, from $5 to 6 figures. But they won’t tell you how they write better, because their sole purpose is to sale you their book or make you register their online courses—not all of them but the majority I visited.

To cross the ocean of amateurs to the world of expert writers, ignore quantity for quality and consider advice from people who want you to discover yourself—because no amount of writing advice can work for you than the one you discover by yourself.

And to discover yourself, write for yourself so as to strive for quality not quantity.

Nobody will tell you your words count doesn’t meet his requirement; some of your sentences are not complete; you’re too informal; blah blah blah.

And you can spend more than a year correcting yourself because there’s no deadline.

From“You can read to change the World. You can as well teach your Little Friends to read.” by Maren John Mafuyai

On whether to Go for Quality or Quantity—Aspiring Writers

If you know you’re still an amateur in writing, go for quality not quantity until you become expert.

While expert writer can turn dirt to mushroom delicacy, an amateur writer can not.

It simply works like this:

You can’t buy bad writing to represent your business or yourself, can you? The same goes everywhere, no company can accept writing from amateur writer.

*

Freelance writers emphasise on quantity not quality because they assumed you know how to work on quality since you’re professional.

So they center only on how to make money through writing, telling you how they got their first client, from $5 to 6 figures. But they won’t tell you how they write better, because their sole purpose is to sale you their book or make you register their online courses—not all of them but the majority I visited.

To cross the ocean of amateurs to the world of expert writers, ignore quantity for quality and consider advice from people who want you to discover yourself—since no amount of writing advice work than self-discovery.

If you strive for quality not quantity nobody will tell you your words count doesn’t meet his requirement; some of your sentences are not complete; you’re too informal; blah blah blah.

Spend more than a year correcting yourself because there’s no deadline.

From“You can read to change the World. You can as well teach your Little Friends to read.” by Maren John Mafuyai

“When editing, remove all buts and ands from the beginnings of the sentence. After it rests, you’ll know whether you need them or not.” Maren John Mafuyai

“Write and keep away—write and keep away. Then read. Editing process comes last. Then throw away. Let it rest.” Maren John Mafuyai

Follow me on Twitter to get more writing advice: https://mobile.twitter.com/account