This is a thread after my heart. Will respond in a jiffy.

Sad!! Had a wonderful romance with those books.

Leave the lady alone!
Damned good piece,Amaka.If you could produce this in a hurry then you have got skills, Dont mind these boys .

Still looking out for ur next post.Would u be attending the gardencity literary festival?[color=][/color][color=][/color]

Kaydkay bravo for the Dan Brown works,esp the lost symbol.I have a lot of work to do during this strike on works by african/nigerian authors.Not just novels but collection of poems,short stories,plays and classical pieces.hope Im not asking too much, THANKS

Kaydkay bravo for the Dan Brown works,esp the lost symbol.I have a lot of work to do during this strike on works by african/nigerian authors.Not just novels but collection of poems,short stories,plays and classical pieces.hope Im not asking too much, THANKS

Love your flow:makes one continue reading.What is QMC?

Hey ppl,the downloadlinks please.

U guys hv said it all.The problem is these books are xtremely difficult to get here in Nigeria.Ive practically spent a fortune on foreign authors n wont mind doubling it on the African books but I SIMPLY CANT FIND THEM ANYWHERE!!!!So my ppl make una helep me nah,abeg biko ejo please, Or where can I get them on the net(free oh!u know now, )

THE WORLD IN MY HEAD
The earliest memories I have are those of being on my own, of cherishing my own company and my quiet, carefully creating a perfect universe on the vast expanse of my head. I grew up in a house littered with books, lots and lots and lots of books, but the parents hid them before I could lay my unsteady hands on them. I learnt to steal the books from their hiding places, devour them rapidly and continue the creation of my world. Looking back, I realize now that those early books opened my mind to immense vista light years ahead of my fellows. Primary school was basically a walk over although I showed an intense dislike for the school environment: crying unnecessarily and even running away! Eventually, I grew to love school because it was a superficial revision of the world under construction in my head. I never had to read much, it just came.I remember being extremely quiet, (I'm still very quiet), withdrawn and shy. I intensely disliked anyone who intrud ed. I had gone through a good number of the classics by the time I was 12, consumed practically every work of detective and adventurous fiction halfway into my teens and was at the top of my class. I was also the weirdest kid for miles around. To be continued.

Good lyrical voodoo ladman.Pity it isnt a victory chant.

This is sweet,eloquent and uncomplicated.U sound like an xperienced fellow.Keep it coming.

ROTTEN TUBERS
The ringing in my head increased as blood rushed into my head. I was lying prone on the concrete wall looking down at the huge expanse of cultivated farmland. The wall rose several feet into the air and it took all I had to control the dizziness I felt; wave after wave of nausea threatening my delicate position. Using a torch light was not an option because a couple of guards patrolled lazily around the perimeter. Carefully, I flexed my cramped thigh muscles and silently prayed to the moonless night to see me through till dawn. The first guard passed underneath with a droopy swagger that spelt sleep and too much alcohol. It took the second guard five hundred slow heart beats to get to my position. My mission was simple and precise: the little ones must not die of hunger, not yet. The rest was easy; I jumped down into the soft earth landing on the balls of my feet, remembering to erase any signs of my entrance. I crawled further into the farm until the bamboo sticks told me I was in the old yam section. This was the difficult part. I waited until the crickets and frogs had accepted my intrusion into their territory. Thrusting my hands into the soft soil, I began the laborious work of a shovel; carrying handfuls of earth till the prize below was revealed. Like a patient artist I replaced the mound of earth and erased all signs of criminal activity. Gently, cradling the enormous tuber like a new born baby, I carried it to another section of the imposing concrete wall. I tossed the prize smartly over the wall and waited for the low whistle telling me that it had been caught midair by my partner in crime. I followed soon afterwards and together we sneaked home and delivered our prize catch to our mother who showered war praises on our excited heads. Oh! The shock that awaited me in the morning changed my life for life: the gigantic tuber of yam was rotten, unsalvageable and worthless. I learnt my very first lesson in life: make sure of your heist before leaving the playground. The children did not die of hunger. Not yet.

True women make better writers especially in the romantic arts.A lady has a clearer view of the whole scenery while men(majority) are not willingly to stop to take a closer look before concluding.I know what Im saying cos ladies are intricate masterpieces themselves so whatelse do u xpect from a great work of art if not an appreciative audience?

Splendid n simple.Evryone had beliefs similar to urs once upon a time.

Goodwork.Love the writeups on ur blog,why dont you post them here.

Why?!Mila18 blew my brain away!I read it when I was about 11 and it is still number one.

@Pinkstar, Splendid.Simply splendid!I love ur depiction of an empty heart.Did u design it urself?

Really really love this piece,esp about sinking deep into work to escape.I think it would flow beautifully if it rhymed.Bravo.

a brilliant rendition.The overall theme is a hopeless black hole that finally engulfs the narrator.

How can you be so calm,
while beads of sweat pop from my palm?
How can you dismiss my presence,
when you are my lifes essence?
Calming my palpitating nerves,
like restraining an elephant in heat serves.
A smile from you to a lowly peasant,
scorpion sting become as kisses pleasant.
Woe is me,for I beg for the scraps off your table,
Queen of the swollen head,beauty of a fairy fable.

Please send in suggestions for a title for this poem.