This "peom" was inspired by the fact that, most times when i write, and give the stuff to my friends to read.

       After they are done. the next look i see on their faces " oh God, how im i sure this did not really happen to her".

        Its not a poem anyway cuz im no poet, it didn't happen to me too. Its just stuff i think, i'm sorry it's so full of s*x



         I HATED SEX

         MY MENTOR WANTED TO WRITE A BOOK ON SEX

         HE TOLD ME TO WRITE A CHAPTER ON SEX

         I SAID "I DONT LIKE SEX"

         HE SAYS "YOU DON'T NEED TO LIkE SEX

         TO WRITE ON SEX

         I WENT WROTE ON SEX

         I BROUGHT MY MENTOR THE CHAPTER ON SEX

         HE READ THE SEX

         HE SAYS "NOW I BELIEVE YOU VE NEVER HAD SEX"

         GO EXPLORE, THEN WRITE ON SEX

         I WENT READ ON SEX

         I VIEWED ENJOYED SEX

         I READ ABUSED SEX

         EVEN SPIRITUAL SEX

         I READ SEX

         UNTIL I WANTED TO HAVE SEX

         THEN I WROTE SEX

          AND GAVE MY MENTOR, THE CHAPTER ON SEX

          HE READS MY SEX

          LOOKS AT ME DOUBTFULLY, AND SAYS "DID YOU SAY YOU'VE NEVER HAD SEX

@ Ojukwu

I like your writing anyway. when i read, i noticed the creativity which i think can always be developed. i ahve noticed that no one wants to imagine an slowpoke brother, everyone prefers troublesome. i still love that you can think of the laddle, and stuff. keep it up and thanks for the story.

@ Nikinash.
The story was good, it was really good. It's like many people in this section are waiting for the second coming of jesus christ, before they get published. thanks for the story.

Anne of course you could view my blog, and dont forget to leave your comment. i would check out your pal. thanks for the help

Sisikill, i think in stronger terms, i would say, you are trying to say that, like in the typical Nigerian novel, i am going into so many meaningless details, with boring narrative techniques. I wouldn't mind such terms too, and thanks for your tremendous help. i would take the story down, work and it and post it again, i would tell you when its done. beebye

Mogambe, that was quite flattering. please, how do i get to you, mail address, phone no,? Anything useful.

Sisikill, i left a comment in my blog for you, under the post "help, im an addict".im sorry im bothering you so much and thanks so much for your help. Hope you didn't mind my publishing your auto biography

sisikill, thaks for your help on my story. about what you said about remembering that others dont know my characters, i first of all bring in my characters, then later i introduce them, do you think that is bad? you ve gone closer to publishing than most of us here, the closest ive got to publishing, is my blog, LOL. seriously now, how about starting a blog, or do you blog?

Sisikill, I love it when smart people begin to like me.

wow! thank God i didn't live in the days of the bell, because those nights when i ate too much, and my phone couldn't wake me for midnight call, my friend would have called my family and told them to bury me.

All work and no play makes JACK a dull boy

, and that makes me wonder, why jack?,

why not TOM DICK OR HARRY,

but then when they say

"Every Tom, Dick, and Harry"

i wonder again, why them?

why not Every Jack, sombody, and somebody.

you see? who can please the world?

Wow! sisikill, this is wow!!!. have you published anything yet. please i want you to read the story in my blog www.wachuuk..com and tell me what you think is wrong with it. thanks

find out the answer in that question where i made that Bonjovi comment

About being an imposter, when i logged on to nairaland yesterday, i couldn't remember signing in, and when i posted the comment i saw Bonjovi as my name, i modified the comment and ended it with 'wildbubble' and then i signed in with my name and posted the comment again. I would say i'm sorry, to all those i made to suspect foul play, and a BIG thank you to True bit for defending me.

What do you guys feel about my Role model Charles Dickens and his book GREAT EXPECTATIONS

thanks that was a compliment i need someone to help me spice it up a bit, i find it very difficult finding the right words to describe a setting. e.g the house was bursting full of people that morning, the rain made things easier for all of us, e.t.c i find it very difficult to go on. can you help.

But faith is the substance of things not, seen, the evidence of things hope for. why did papa send you to school and mama keep the ring to give you when you were fifty. why do we talk about things in the future as if we had it now. why do we buy cloths for the baby in the womb :owhy do we know we are going to be great tomorrow.thier are two things. faith and [color=#990000][/color]

Imagine you were a six year old girl at home on a sunday morning when every one is preparing to go to church. you have an slowpoke brother and a maid, then your father(who has left for church) and mother. describe the home, the situation of things, the activities, the neighbours(very poor background)and anything else you can think of, except their conversations.

N/B;EVERYTHING APART FROM THEIR CONVERSATIONS

i'm looking for an editor for my story, here is a chapter of it


I REMEMBER GETTING HOME THAT DAY AND SEEING MAMA HANNAH OUTSIDE, INSTRUCTING A YOUNG MAN TO DIG 'DID YOU GET THE MONEY FROM YOUR CHURCH'? SHE ASKED, SOMEHOW I KNEW SHE KNEW I DIDN'T.

'I GOT TEN THOUSAND, WHERE IS THE CHILD'

'TEN THOUSAND, JUST TEN THOUSAND THAT IS WHY YOU HAVE BEEN IN CHURCH SINCE MORNING, WHAT COULD TEN THOSAND NAIRA DO TO US, WHERE WOULD TEN THOUSAND NAIRA TAKE US YOU WICKED WOMAN! I TOLD YOU YOUR CHURCH WOULD NOT HELP US!' SHE SCREAMED, UNTYING HER SCARF TO EXPOSE HER WHITE HAIR, AS SHE DID WHENEVER SHE WAS UPSET. HER WORKMAN STOPPED TO WATCH HER, IT WAS AMUSING, WATCHING MAMA UPSET, SHE THREW HER FAT OLD HANDS UP AND DOWN, AND PACED ABOUT,OCCASIONALLY STOPPING TO SPIT ON THE OBJECT OF HER ANNOYANCE, WHICH WAS USUALLY ME. TODAY, I DIDN'T BOTHER TO DOGDE HER SALIVA.

'keep digging' she barked at her workman, we need that pit more than you need my money.

a new thought came to me then, maybe she wanted to bury my child, maybe he was dead.

'where is the child' i asked apprehensively.

'in there with your man' she replied. once in a while it felt good to see someone who did not look at me with pity, but mama looked at me with mockery in her eyes, and sincerely, i didn't know, pity or mockery, which i preffered, i hurried into our house, in our room i saw my husband with the child.

'how is he'? i asked, with that characteristic tear that had become a permanent part of my face.

' a miracle, he is still alive'. my husband didn't look up, i think he'd grown tired of seeing the tear on my face

'what does mama need the pit for' i asked

'did you get the money from your church"

'what does mama need the pit for'

'the child needs to stay there, he is cold here''

'no, God forbid' i screamed, morbid with fear and apprehension

'if only God could hear'

My God can hear, he would see us through' i said, the lack of assurance in my voice annoyed me' you people would not put my son inside that pit'.

'he has to stay there, if he has to live' my husband said with finality. i stopped sobbing, i started to wail. mama hannah began screaming from outside ' the witch, she has figured another way to kill him is with her noise' the baby bagan to wail too. i was forced to keep quite. my husband said nothing, mama hannah stopped screaming, so did the baby. i preffered him screaming, whenever he was quite, i imagined he was dead. mama shouted

Eni, the pit is ready

my husband stood with the child

'Nne bring the lamp' i carried the giant lantern and followed him outside. the pit had been lain with grass, the workman stretched his hand for my child, i thought of people that were buried alive. i started screaming again

' you are burying him, you people are burying my son.

'witch' mama sighed. they dropped the big lamp, then the workman came out. they covered the pit with sticks, then grass. i had seen people jump into the grave of a dead person, asking to be buried with him, why didn't i do that now for my living son, i refused to think about if secretely i wanted him to die, the baby started to wail again, and so did i. i got a chair and sat beside the pit. mama hannah got hers and sat next to me

'witch, you would not eat him' she kept muttering,' i wont let you'.
i wonderd if witces ate their children, i tried to decide, if i was a witch, if i would have eaten the child rather than live the pain. my husband came by and whispered

'Nne, no matter what happens, know that that boy was better off in the pit than out in the cold'

my mother bought the first novel i ever read.that was CHIKE AND THE RIVER, she read the whole of Eze goes to school out loud to my hearing when i refused reading it saying it was not interesting. i can remember she was the one who thought me that i should not read books just because it had pictures or it was interesting, i started writing in primary six when i was taken away from my grand mum and missed all the stories she used to tell us, i decided to write those stories down , those stories were my first novels. In my journey to reading and writing, the road is over crowded with women

I can remember just one of his novels, 'if tomorrow comes' it was terrific. i loved it, i loooooooooooooooooved it

I can remember just one of his novels, 'if tomorrow comes' it was terrific. i loved it, i loooooooooooooooooved it