devilmaycry1:
oo oga sir season 2 never show

JamesKudooski:


Na so I see am oooooo, Skubido.

Thank you, baba.

skubido:



Nothing do you boss

frankiemorasky7:
please my admirable author on Jewel of in the ghetto, i want to be involved in the second part of it.
I welcome a signal from u!

zephaniah11:
Mr James all I can say is Thanks for this piece and God Bless your family ..

Otarkpa:
Super. I am glad I read all the episodes in one goal. The suspense would have killed me kudos

LightQueen:
Nice story...

Can't wait for season 2

Happy for Yemi and his jewel

Slimynonny:
Nice piece of romantic tale here.... Kudos..... Feed me more

skubido:
Boss hope u are Good

JamesKudooski:


Skubido, my person. I'm good baba. Just, I've off grid sha. So wapa?

Ann2012:
Boss Boss, still waiting for another hot story

Remain blessed Sir

JamesKudooski:


Hi Ann2012, dear.

New story is almost done. Just a little more patience.

Ann2012:


Well done Sir
I've pitched my tent there already

sustainability:
OP ..... I salute ur great writing skill, the suspense, settings ,character nd choice of words makes this piece of work stands out. not also forgetting the morals in it. And again, u honestly remain me of JOHN GRESHAM who write mostly on crimes. you have my respect bro. God bless ur brains.

JamesKudooski:
CHAPTER ONE
EPISODE 1

Somewhere in Agege, Pink Roses Beauty Shop, 9.15 a.m.

SHAKIRAH CAME INTO THE salon in tears. She had a black eye that could hardly open, a swollen cheek, and lips twice their size--no thanks to the beating she received from a vicious street thug on her way to work that morning. She looked pitiable and her over-bleached skin reeked of the smell of two or more cheap bleaching creams mixed together for optimal result. The moment the other twelve or so apprentices of Pink Roses caught sight of her, they were curious to know what happened. But when she opened her mouth to talk, she felt a lump in her throat and the words stuck. She swallowed hard, tried once more but a loud cry broke free instead. As she struggled to narrate her ordeal, Kasumu, The Scorpion, walked in.

Kasumu, popularly known as The Scorpion because of the big scorpion tattoo he had on one of his upper arms, was a hard and feared street boy who had a crush on Shakirah and was a friend of the house in Pink Roses Beauty Shop. He had a rough jaw and bloodshot eyes that were not wider than slits sitting beside each other and gave an impression of someone permanently high on a mixture of spirits and marijuana. A deep machete scar crested the left side of his face. His lips were as dark as hell. However, as tough and mean as he was, Kasumu had a weakness--Shakirah! And a soft spot that surprised those who got close enough to see this contradiction in his personality.

At seeing Shakirah, his eyes narrowed and his face hardened. A lone vein stood out on his forehead like a streak of lightning. He clenched his fists.

“Shakirah,” he snarled in his deep, husky voice, “who did this to you?”

Shakirah made an attempt to answer, “It ... was ...” She sniffed. “It ... was ...” But the sob choked the words in her throat.

Kasumu studied her and he could tell instantly that it was the work of a street thug. “Can you recognize him when you see him?” he probed. Shakirah nodded her head in response. He bit his lips slowly. “Good. Let’s go!” He grabbed her by the hand and lead her out of the salon. His strides were like those of a fierce combatant and Shakirah had to practically run along to keep up with him. Outside, he mounted Shakirah on his motorbike and the next second, they vanished into thin air!

Ten minutes later, they were at Orita Junction, a notorious spot where the deadliest street boys hung out. The culprit and two other boys were sitting on a bench with a heap of marijuana and bottles of Chelsea dry gin in front of them. Two of them were busy wrapping the marijuana into sticks while the third was already smoking his and oozing thick smoke into the air. He followed each puff with a sensational whistle that instantly drowned in the blaring noise from a music shop nearby. Thick haze of the hemp hovered momentarily in the air before disappearing into the atmosphere. But not before the breeze blew the choking smell across Shakirah’s and Scorpion’s noses. Shakirah quickly covered her nose while Scorpion sniffed in the smell with pleasure.

“That’s him.” Shakirah pointed to the dreadlock-haired assailant, still covering her nose with the other hand.

With the speed and force of a swift storm, Scorpion advanced, grabbed the bench and flung it and its occupants away. The unsuspecting boys rolled off in different directions. The marijuana heap scattered in the air and the bottles of hot drinks shattered on the ground.

Spark, the bellicose culprit, sprang to his feet. He spat out in disgust like a venomous viper. He vibrated in anger. His biceps rose and the veins of his head stood in aggression. He charged towards Scorpion and threw a swift left punch at him. Scorpion ducked. Immediately, he swung the right punch with added intensity but again Scorpion dodged. However, the move exposed him enough for Scorpion to bury a powerful punch into his side and followed it immediately with a deadly uppercut to his jaw. A mixture of spittle and blood flew out of his of his mouth and reeling off balance, he scrambled to the ground on all fours like a whipped dog.

He got up on his feet again. He wiped the blood tickling down a corner of his mouth with the back of his palm and gnashed his blood-soaked teeth in anger.

“Ah! Emi Spark! O wa jẹjú mi lábẹ́tẹ̀ mi,” he screamed in a mixture of Yoruba and street slangs, “ìyá ẹ́ máa kù leni” (Ah! I, Spark! You came to defile me in my hood! Your mother must die today.)

He picked up an empty beer bottle and smashed it on his own head. He shook the head viciously and beat his chest like an angry gorilla. “Awọ́n father ẹ́ ń duro de ẹ́ l’ọrún. Oya, dàgbéré!” (Your ancestors await you. Now say your goodbye!) He screamed as he charged with full force towards Scorpion with the jag-headed bottle remnant in his hand ready to stab Scorpion to death.

Scorpion stood still, unperturbed. Eyes intently fixed on the advancing opponent. He studied him carefully and calculated his next move. Spark headed for Scorpion’s heart but again Scorpion effortlessly ducked and quickly picking up a plank from the ground, he smashed the bottle off his hand. The hand dangled loosely back and forth from the wrist. Spark grimaced and recoiled in pain.

Instantly, Scorpion matched up to him and sent a punch to his left cheek. He staggered backwards and Scorpion followed it with another one to his right. He staggered further backwards. Scorpion followed through with another and another and yet another until the last one sent him reeling to the ground. Caught in a swirl of vertigo, he crawled on the ground aimlessly in no particular direction. All he could see were tiny specs of bluish-purple lights dancing in front of him. His lips were puffy and battered. Two of his teeth had flown out in the process of the beating. He groaned in agony.

Then, Scorpion removed his belt and whipped the hell out of him. Squirming in pains, he struggled to his feet and took to his heels staggeringly. Scorpion chased after him and sent down heavy lashes on his back each step of the way until he fell few inches away from Shakirah. He cried like a child begging Scorpion to spare him.

“Ahhh! Áláyé ... Máa ṣe bi o ṣe to. Máa jẹ́ ojú abùró ẹ́. Baba, jọ̀ wo ṣe fun abùró ẹ. Mi ó to yàjú si ẹ́.” (Ahhh! Lord ... Please don’t pour the full wrath of your might on me ... Don’t humiliate your younger one ... I didn’t mean to disrespect you.)

“Not me ... Her.” Scorpion replied pointing to Shakirah. His expression mean. His voice affirmative.

Spark immediately crawled to Shakirah and held her legs with both hands in submission. He begged for mercy, “màmà, ẹ jọ ọ́. Mi ò ni ṣe ìrú ẹ́ mọ.” (Mama, please I won’t ever do that again.)

Shakirah stood imposingly over him with arms akimbo, face thrown sideways, and leg placed on his head as if it were a foot stool. “Begin licking my feet now!” she commanded him with an air of authority. It was time to make him pay for what he did to her.

Meanwhile, the two other boys who were with Spark had fled the scene. One of them ran to Don Baba, the fierce leader of their gang, who immediately summoned the remaining members of the deadly gang to gear up for battle. He roused their spirit with a speech akin to the ones given by generals on ancient battlefields. They roared in a chorus with eyes glowing like a burning fire, brandishing all sorts of deadly weapons. They were ready to cause mayhem. No one dared crossed into their territory to desecrate their hood unless the person was prepared to die! They were now blood-thirty and ready to shed as much blood as necessary to reclaim their pride.
“That bastard’s days are numbered!” Don Baba said. His expression was stone-cold and the defiance in his voice was scary.

Back at the battle scene, the disfigured Spark licked Shakirah’s feet meticulously like nothing else in the world mattered. A crowd had formed a circle around them enjoying the ongoing drama.

Suddenly, heavy sounds of smashing bottles and screeching sound of machetes scratching against the ground rented the air. The cacophony was amplified by the chants of about fifty daredevils who were out for blood.

Immediately, everyone scampered off in different directions almost causing a stampede. Shop owners closed their shops in a jiffy and roadside merchants hurriedly packed their wares. People knew better than to linger around. They knew that another bloody street brawl was brewing and in less than five minutes, the streets became a ghost town. The stage was set for blood bath!

Scorpion and Shakirah turned around and saw the approaching armed gang. Shakirah ran behind Scorpion trembly...


To be continued ... Watch Out for Chapter One, Episode 2!

NB: The book will be up on online stores shortly for those who don't want to wait for each episode to be released.


Àdùkẹ́!
...My Story, My World.

JamesKudooski:
CHAPTER ONE
EPISODE 1

Somewhere in Agege, Pink Roses Beauty Shop, 9.15 a.m.

SHAKIRAH CAME INTO THE salon in tears. She had a black eye that could hardly open, a swollen cheek, and lips twice their size--no thanks to the beating she received from a vicious street thug on her way to work that morning. She looked pitiable and her over-bleached skin reeked of the smell of two or more cheap bleaching creams mixed together for optimal result. The moment the other twelve or so apprentices of Pink Roses caught sight of her, they were curious to know what happened. But when she opened her mouth to talk, she felt a lump in her throat and the words stuck. She swallowed hard, tried once more but a loud cry broke free instead. As she struggled to narrate her ordeal, Kasumu, The Scorpion, walked in.

Kasumu, popularly known as The Scorpion because of the big scorpion tattoo he had on one of his upper arms, was a hard and feared street boy who had a crush on Shakirah and was a friend of the house in Pink Roses Beauty Shop. He had a rough jaw and bloodshot eyes that were not wider than slits sitting beside each other and gave an impression of someone permanently high on a mixture of spirits and marijuana. A deep machete scar crested the left side of his face. His lips were as dark as hell. However, as tough and mean as he was, Kasumu had a weakness--Shakirah! And a soft spot that surprised those who got close enough to see this contradiction in his personality.

At seeing Shakirah, his eyes narrowed and his face hardened. A lone vein stood out on his forehead like a streak of lightning. He clenched his fists.

“Shakirah,” he snarled in his deep, husky voice, “who did this to you?”

Shakirah made an attempt to answer, “It ... was ...” She sniffed. “It ... was ...” But the sob choked the words in her throat.

Kasumu studied her and he could tell instantly that it was the work of a street thug. “Can you recognize him when you see him?” he probed. Shakirah nodded her head in response. He bit his lips slowly. “Good. Let’s go!” He grabbed her by the hand and lead her out of the salon. His strides were like those of a fierce combatant and Shakirah had to practically run along to keep up with him. Outside, he mounted Shakirah on his motorbike and the next second, they vanished into thin air!

Ten minutes later, they were at Orita Junction, a notorious spot where the deadliest street boys hung out. The culprit and two other boys were sitting on a bench with a heap of marijuana and bottles of Chelsea dry gin in front of them. Two of them were busy wrapping the marijuana into sticks while the third was already smoking his and oozing thick smoke into the air. He followed each puff with a sensational whistle that instantly drowned in the blaring noise from a music shop nearby. Thick haze of the hemp hovered momentarily in the air before disappearing into the atmosphere. But not before the breeze blew the choking smell across Shakirah’s and Scorpion’s noses. Shakirah quickly covered her nose while Scorpion sniffed in the smell with pleasure.

“That’s him.” Shakirah pointed to the dreadlock-haired assailant, still covering her nose with the other hand.

With the speed and force of a swift storm, Scorpion advanced, grabbed the bench and flung it and its occupants away. The unsuspecting boys rolled off in different directions. The marijuana heap scattered in the air and the bottles of hot drinks shattered on the ground.

Spark, the bellicose culprit, sprang to his feet. He spat out in disgust like a venomous viper. He vibrated in anger. His biceps rose and the veins of his head stood in aggression. He charged towards Scorpion and threw a swift left punch at him. Scorpion ducked. Immediately, he swung the right punch with added intensity but again Scorpion dodged. However, the move exposed him enough for Scorpion to bury a powerful punch into his side and followed it immediately with a deadly uppercut to his jaw. A mixture of spittle and blood flew out of his of his mouth and reeling off balance, he scrambled to the ground on all fours like a whipped dog.

He got up on his feet again. He wiped the blood tickling down a corner of his mouth with the back of his palm and gnashed his blood-soaked teeth in anger.

“Ah! Emi Spark! O wa jẹjú mi lábẹ́tẹ̀ mi,” he screamed in a mixture of Yoruba and street slangs, “ìyá ẹ́ máa kù leni” (Ah! I, Spark! You came to defile me in my hood! Your mother must die today.)

He picked up an empty beer bottle and smashed it on his own head. He shook the head viciously and beat his chest like an angry gorilla. “Awọ́n father ẹ́ ń duro de ẹ́ l’ọrún. Oya, dàgbéré!” (Your ancestors await you. Now say your goodbye!) He screamed as he charged with full force towards Scorpion with the jag-headed bottle remnant in his hand ready to stab Scorpion to death.

Scorpion stood still, unperturbed. Eyes intently fixed on the advancing opponent. He studied him carefully and calculated his next move. Spark headed for Scorpion’s heart but again Scorpion effortlessly ducked and quickly picking up a plank from the ground, he smashed the bottle off his hand. The hand dangled loosely back and forth from the wrist. Spark grimaced and recoiled in pain.

Instantly, Scorpion matched up to him and sent a punch to his left cheek. He staggered backwards and Scorpion followed it with another one to his right. He staggered further backwards. Scorpion followed through with another and another and yet another until the last one sent him reeling to the ground. Caught in a swirl of vertigo, he crawled on the ground aimlessly in no particular direction. All he could see were tiny specs of bluish-purple lights dancing in front of him. His lips were puffy and battered. Two of his teeth had flown out in the process of the beating. He groaned in agony.

Then, Scorpion removed his belt and whipped the hell out of him. Squirming in pains, he struggled to his feet and took to his heels staggeringly. Scorpion chased after him and sent down heavy lashes on his back each step of the way until he fell few inches away from Shakirah. He cried like a child begging Scorpion to spare him.

“Ahhh! Áláyé ... Máa ṣe bi o ṣe to. Máa jẹ́ ojú abùró ẹ́. Baba, jọ̀ wo ṣe fun abùró ẹ. Mi ó to yàjú si ẹ́.” (Ahhh! Lord ... Please don’t pour the full wrath of your might on me ... Don’t humiliate your younger one ... I didn’t mean to disrespect you.)

“Not me ... Her.” Scorpion replied pointing to Shakirah. His expression mean. His voice affirmative.

Spark immediately crawled to Shakirah and held her legs with both hands in submission. He begged for mercy, “màmà, ẹ jọ ọ́. Mi ò ni ṣe ìrú ẹ́ mọ.” (Mama, please I won’t ever do that again.)

Shakirah stood imposingly over him with arms akimbo, face thrown sideways, and leg placed on his head as if it were a foot stool. “Begin licking my feet now!” she commanded him with an air of authority. It was time to make him pay for what he did to her.

Meanwhile, the two other boys who were with Spark had fled the scene. One of them ran to Don Baba, the fierce leader of their gang, who immediately summoned the remaining members of the deadly gang to gear up for battle. He roused their spirit with a speech akin to the ones given by generals on ancient battlefields. They roared in a chorus with eyes glowing like a burning fire, brandishing all sorts of deadly weapons. They were ready to cause mayhem. No one dared crossed into their territory to desecrate their hood unless the person was prepared to die! They were now blood-thirty and ready to shed as much blood as necessary to reclaim their pride.
“That bastard’s days are numbered!” Don Baba said. His expression was stone-cold and the defiance in his voice was scary.

Back at the battle scene, the disfigured Spark licked Shakirah’s feet meticulously like nothing else in the world mattered. A crowd had formed a circle around them enjoying the ongoing drama.

Suddenly, heavy sounds of smashing bottles and screeching sound of machetes scratching against the ground rented the air. The cacophony was amplified by the chants of about fifty daredevils who were out for blood.

Immediately, everyone scampered off in different directions almost causing a stampede. Shop owners closed their shops in a jiffy and roadside merchants hurriedly packed their wares. People knew better than to linger around. They knew that another bloody street brawl was brewing and in less than five minutes, the streets became a ghost town. The stage was set for blood bath!

Scorpion and Shakirah turned around and saw the approaching armed gang. Shakirah ran behind Scorpion trembly...


To be continued ... Watch Out for Chapter One, Episode 2!

NB: The book will be up on online stores shortly for those who don't want to wait for each episode to be released.


Àdùkẹ́!
...My Story, My World.

JamesKudooski:
CHAPTER ONE
EPISODE 1

Somewhere in Agege, Pink Roses Beauty Shop, 9.15 a.m.

SHAKIRAH CAME INTO THE salon in tears. She had a black eye that could hardly open, a swollen cheek, and lips twice their size--no thanks to the beating she received from a vicious street thug on her way to work that morning. She looked pitiable and her over-bleached skin reeked of the smell of two or more cheap bleaching creams mixed together for optimal result. The moment the other twelve or so apprentices of Pink Roses caught sight of her, they were curious to know what happened. But when she opened her mouth to talk, she felt a lump in her throat and the words stuck. She swallowed hard, tried once more but a loud cry broke free instead. As she struggled to narrate her ordeal, Kasumu, The Scorpion, walked in.

Kasumu, popularly known as The Scorpion because of the big scorpion tattoo he had on one of his upper arms, was a hard and feared street boy who had a crush on Shakirah and was a friend of the house in Pink Roses Beauty Shop. He had a rough jaw and bloodshot eyes that were not wider than slits sitting beside each other and gave an impression of someone permanently high on a mixture of spirits and marijuana. A deep machete scar crested the left side of his face. His lips were as dark as hell. However, as tough and mean as he was, Kasumu had a weakness--Shakirah! And a soft spot that surprised those who got close enough to see this contradiction in his personality.

At seeing Shakirah, his eyes narrowed and his face hardened. A lone vein stood out on his forehead like a streak of lightning. He clenched his fists.

“Shakirah,” he snarled in his deep, husky voice, “who did this to you?”

Shakirah made an attempt to answer, “It ... was ...” She sniffed. “It ... was ...” But the sob choked the words in her throat.

Kasumu studied her and he could tell instantly that it was the work of a street thug. “Can you recognize him when you see him?” he probed. Shakirah nodded her head in response. He bit his lips slowly. “Good. Let’s go!” He grabbed her by the hand and lead her out of the salon. His strides were like those of a fierce combatant and Shakirah had to practically run along to keep up with him. Outside, he mounted Shakirah on his motorbike and the next second, they vanished into thin air!

Ten minutes later, they were at Orita Junction, a notorious spot where the deadliest street boys hung out. The culprit and two other boys were sitting on a bench with a heap of marijuana and bottles of Chelsea dry gin in front of them. Two of them were busy wrapping the marijuana into sticks while the third was already smoking his and oozing thick smoke into the air. He followed each puff with a sensational whistle that instantly drowned in the blaring noise from a music shop nearby. Thick haze of the hemp hovered momentarily in the air before disappearing into the atmosphere. But not before the breeze blew the choking smell across Shakirah’s and Scorpion’s noses. Shakirah quickly covered her nose while Scorpion sniffed in the smell with pleasure.

“That’s him.” Shakirah pointed to the dreadlock-haired assailant, still covering her nose with the other hand.

With the speed and force of a swift storm, Scorpion advanced, grabbed the bench and flung it and its occupants away. The unsuspecting boys rolled off in different directions. The marijuana heap scattered in the air and the bottles of hot drinks shattered on the ground.

Spark, the bellicose culprit, sprang to his feet. He spat out in disgust like a venomous viper. He vibrated in anger. His biceps rose and the veins of his head stood in aggression. He charged towards Scorpion and threw a swift left punch at him. Scorpion ducked. Immediately, he swung the right punch with added intensity but again Scorpion dodged. However, the move exposed him enough for Scorpion to bury a powerful punch into his side and followed it immediately with a deadly uppercut to his jaw. A mixture of spittle and blood flew out of his of his mouth and reeling off balance, he scrambled to the ground on all fours like a whipped dog.

He got up on his feet again. He wiped the blood tickling down a corner of his mouth with the back of his palm and gnashed his blood-soaked teeth in anger.

“Ah! Emi Spark! O wa jẹjú mi lábẹ́tẹ̀ mi,” he screamed in a mixture of Yoruba and street slangs, “ìyá ẹ́ máa kù leni” (Ah! I, Spark! You came to defile me in my hood! Your mother must die today.)

He picked up an empty beer bottle and smashed it on his own head. He shook the head viciously and beat his chest like an angry gorilla. “Awọ́n father ẹ́ ń duro de ẹ́ l’ọrún. Oya, dàgbéré!” (Your ancestors await you. Now say your goodbye!) He screamed as he charged with full force towards Scorpion with the jag-headed bottle remnant in his hand ready to stab Scorpion to death.

Scorpion stood still, unperturbed. Eyes intently fixed on the advancing opponent. He studied him carefully and calculated his next move. Spark headed for Scorpion’s heart but again Scorpion effortlessly ducked and quickly picking up a plank from the ground, he smashed the bottle off his hand. The hand dangled loosely back and forth from the wrist. Spark grimaced and recoiled in pain.

Instantly, Scorpion matched up to him and sent a punch to his left cheek. He staggered backwards and Scorpion followed it with another one to his right. He staggered further backwards. Scorpion followed through with another and another and yet another until the last one sent him reeling to the ground. Caught in a swirl of vertigo, he crawled on the ground aimlessly in no particular direction. All he could see were tiny specs of bluish-purple lights dancing in front of him. His lips were puffy and battered. Two of his teeth had flown out in the process of the beating. He groaned in agony.

Then, Scorpion removed his belt and whipped the hell out of him. Squirming in pains, he struggled to his feet and took to his heels staggeringly. Scorpion chased after him and sent down heavy lashes on his back each step of the way until he fell few inches away from Shakirah. He cried like a child begging Scorpion to spare him.

“Ahhh! Áláyé ... Máa ṣe bi o ṣe to. Máa jẹ́ ojú abùró ẹ́. Baba, jọ̀ wo ṣe fun abùró ẹ. Mi ó to yàjú si ẹ́.” (Ahhh! Lord ... Please don’t pour the full wrath of your might on me ... Don’t humiliate your younger one ... I didn’t mean to disrespect you.)

“Not me ... Her.” Scorpion replied pointing to Shakirah. His expression mean. His voice affirmative.

Spark immediately crawled to Shakirah and held her legs with both hands in submission. He begged for mercy, “màmà, ẹ jọ ọ́. Mi ò ni ṣe ìrú ẹ́ mọ.” (Mama, please I won’t ever do that again.)

Shakirah stood imposingly over him with arms akimbo, face thrown sideways, and leg placed on his head as if it were a foot stool. “Begin licking my feet now!” she commanded him with an air of authority. It was time to make him pay for what he did to her.

Meanwhile, the two other boys who were with Spark had fled the scene. One of them ran to Don Baba, the fierce leader of their gang, who immediately summoned the remaining members of the deadly gang to gear up for battle. He roused their spirit with a speech akin to the ones given by generals on ancient battlefields. They roared in a chorus with eyes glowing like a burning fire, brandishing all sorts of deadly weapons. They were ready to cause mayhem. No one dared crossed into their territory to desecrate their hood unless the person was prepared to die! They were now blood-thirty and ready to shed as much blood as necessary to reclaim their pride.
“That bastard’s days are numbered!” Don Baba said. His expression was stone-cold and the defiance in his voice was scary.

Back at the battle scene, the disfigured Spark licked Shakirah’s feet meticulously like nothing else in the world mattered. A crowd had formed a circle around them enjoying the ongoing drama.

Suddenly, heavy sounds of smashing bottles and screeching sound of machetes scratching against the ground rented the air. The cacophony was amplified by the chants of about fifty daredevils who were out for blood.

Immediately, everyone scampered off in different directions almost causing a stampede. Shop owners closed their shops in a jiffy and roadside merchants hurriedly packed their wares. People knew better than to linger around. They knew that another bloody street brawl was brewing and in less than five minutes, the streets became a ghost town. The stage was set for blood bath!

Scorpion and Shakirah turned around and saw the approaching armed gang. Shakirah ran behind Scorpion trembly...


To be continued ... Watch Out for Chapter One, Episode 2!

NB: The book will be up on online stores shortly for those who don't want to wait for each episode to be released.


Àdùkẹ́!
...My Story, My World.

LisaAnne:

JamesKudooski:
Hello Fam,

I'm back again. It's been a while talking to you guys. Trust you guys are doing quite well.

Well, for me, I've been doing fine except that I was down a few weeks ago and I have to manage the stress of living in Nigeria at this time. So, what have I been up to? Really, nothing much! I have caught up between writing Jewel from the Ghetto 3 and two other novels I have in mind. It's been difficult deciding which one to write first.

Anyway, that's not why I'm here today. So, why am I here?

Well, simple. Just to ask you for a favour.

But before I ask, let me give you a brief background ...

I recently decided to get an honest opinion of Jewel from the Ghetto from 'literary experts', so I sent a copy of the book to a literary blog for a review.

To cut the long story short, Nna mehnnnnn, dem finish me for the review! They shredded the book into bits so much so that I became ashamed of myself. To be honest, I picked a few things from their review that I believe I should work on.

However, the point that really got at me was their comment about my writing style. And that where I need your help.

They complained about my writing style and said that the book was difficult to read.

So, the favour?

As people who have read Jewel from the Ghetto and my other stories, please I need your HONEST feedback on my writing style.

Please, what do you think?

1. What's your opinion about my writing style? At least, if I have to make a major decision such as changing my writing style then I should know how bad it is.

2. Do you think Jewel from the Ghetto and maybe my other stories are DIFFICULT to read?

Guys, I will really appreciate your HONEST opinion. Don't sugar coat anything, please. Tell me the truth. That way you will be helping me in ways you cannot imagine.

While counting you, do have a great day.

Thank you for being there always.

Your budding writer,

Qudus.