FARAFINA TRUST CREATIVE WRITING WORKSHOP 2016

Farafina is here again!!

Farafina Trust will be holding a creative writing workshop in Lagos, organized by award-winning writer and creative director of Farafina Trust, Chimamanda Adichie, from June 21 to July 1, 2016. The workshop is sponsored by Nigerian Breweries Plc. The Caine Prize-winning Kenyan writer, Binyavanga Wainaina, Aslak Sira Myhre and others will co-teach the workshop alongside Adichie.

The workshop will take the form of a class. Participants will be assigned a wide range of reading exercises, as well as daily writing exercises. The aim of the workshop is to improve the craft of writers and to encourage published and unpublished writers by bringing different perspective to the art of storytelling.

Saturday Special: FUNNY, STRANGE & FACTUAL

Welcome to the maiden edition of FUNNY, STRANGE & FACTUAL

                                           

I couldn't beleive it either. lol

 

Awwwwnnnnnnnn

Essay Competition: SIGMA TERTIARY ESSAY COMPETITION

SIGMA CLUB UI Presents Sigma Tertiary Essay Competition

                                                     

                                                      

     Topic: ‘‘Education and the Nigerian Youths;Why is the street taking over?’’ 

PRIZES:

1^st Prize: N100,000

2^nd Prize: N50,000

3^rd Prize: N30,000

Guidelines:

• The essay must be original, practical and meet the standards for publication in local and international journals.

•  All entries should be typed in double line spacing and must not exceed 2,500 words.

•  Font type must be Times New Roman with 12 points font size.

•  Sources must be properly cited; footnotes should be used and a table of reference must appear at the end of the essay.

Poetry: The Dirt Road by Mustapha Modupe

You had this alluring carriage about you

that stopped me dead on my track,

the very day I set my eyes on you.

I believe I was blinded by some

superfluous emotions which your

ovally excited fangs lusciously fed on,

from my delectable jugular.

It's awfully easy to creep under my skin,

unapologetically rob me of every stowed

away supply that has been neatly contained.

UPDATE: NIGERIAN STUDENTS POETRY PRIZE 2016

Following a Call for Submission of poems/entries for the Nigerian Students Poetry Prize 2016, poems totaling 400 were received upon closure on 15th March, 2016. Find more details below:

• As a result of non-inclusion of bio-data by some entrants, a total of 320 valid entries were processed for assessment.

• Due to unforeseen delays experienced during the collation period, a long list will now be made available on 30th of May, 2016.

• Top 3 entrants who will also double as prize winners of (₦100,000, ₦50,000 and ₦30,000) respectively will be announced on 15th June, 2016.

• Details of an awards ceremony will be announced 30th June, 2016.

Short Story Series: Ofada Kitchen III by Oyelude Yetunde

''We will be examining a corpse tomorrow so you guys had better not be late. If not!.." Prof. Adeleye threatened the lecture room full of exhausted and famished medical students. They had been immersed in an ocean of lectures since the inception of classes in the morning, with an ephemeral break serving as the only breathing space. The sun was already weary after a long day of beaming its smile and was already slumbering into the west in recess for the day. While students heaved sighs of relief as they trotted out of class in retirement for the day.

    

 Demi was not really hungry but he was completely exhausted. What had kept him going was the undying yearn to see the girl who now apparently controlled his 'pons'. As everyone trotted out noisily, Demi hurriedly cleared his table of his books, with only Ofada kitchen topping his priority that moment. Even waiting to greet his friends seemed too much a delay. But just as he was about to step out of the lecture room, a swith sensual voice stopped him. He shut his eyes tight and sighed, muttering ‘’Annabel’’.           

     

    "Demilade!" Annabel called from behind as she hastily packed her materials from the table, clutching them all to her chest just to catch up with him. Demi hissed under his breath, turning to face her sassy smiling face which instantly got him disgusted.

         "What do you want?" Demi asked, coldly.

          "Take it easy, champ. Do you hate me that much?"

          "I do not have time to waste. Say whatever you want to say now. I'm in a hurry" Demi replied with a grim face.

          Annabel's smile turned sarcastic. "You must really be in a hurry, huh? Fine. When can we meet then?"

         

         "I have no reason to meet with you. So say whatever you want to say now."

            Annabel reached for his hands but before she could touch them, Demi jerked backwards saying "I can see you have nothing to say. Goodbye."

Demi turned to leave but was stopped by Annabel's heart felt utterance. "Can't you just look at me for once? Am I really that elusive to you?" Her smile had drowned in the sea of grief, mirroring her hurt emotions.

Poetry: Arewa by Kolade Olanrewaju Freedom

Photo Credit: Subomi Cole
Makeup: BeautySplashAfrica

Arewa,

your beauty is a blade cutting deep into

the fleshiness of my muse, to draw blood

plastering crispy papers with fine layers of

words refined in the industry of infatuation.

Photo Credit: Subomi Cole
Makeup: BeautySplashAfrica

Arewa,

your beauty is that of the departing sun

radiating its elegance through waters

basking in the calmness of the young night

unworried by alarming approach of darkness.

Photo Credit: S.Cole/Qudrah
Makeup: BeautySplashAfrica

Arewa,

your beauty is a poet versifying moments spent

under the shade of a tree, under endless canopies

of skies deserted by stars because you were

the star for the night – the supreme beauty.

Apata to Dugbe: Of Misfortune and Fortune by Bamidele Seth

I boarded a bus from Apata to Dugbe, dropping my box in its boot. While doing that, a similar box which insignificantly differed in size from mine caught my attention. I had premonitions, but I discarded them, taking the tattered seat in front like royalty.

   

Along the way, a fellow passenger alerted the driver he would alight at the next bus stop, making it known he had luggage in the boot. On alighting, the bus conductor hastily opened the boot and ignorantly gave my box to the man who innocently took it. He immediately flagged down a taxi cruising towards Ojoo/UI.  My instincts drove cold through my spines propelling me to look back to confirm from the conductor if my box was still 'rightly safe' in the boot. He replied assertively in Yoruba. With the intonation of the Ibadan man which his long bold tribal marks also depicted him to be, he said, "Busi yin wa nbe, emi ni mo sa gbee be" meaning the box was safe. Unknown to him, he had made a costly mistake. I turned to sit well, trying to trust the credibility of the conductor while anxiety kept smiling at me mockingly. On getting to my destination, I hopped off the bus, took a stride towards the back of the bus to get my box which the bus conductor already offloaded before I could reach the rear. Dropping the hat, before I could grab it to ascertain its ownership, the bus had zoomed off.

Toluwalase by Olayinka Abimbola Egbokhare

Five out of nine months

You lived out your fear

A little prayer

A lot more worry

Then the first locking of our eyes...

You checked briskly

Ten fingers and toes, one nose...

Ahh, your loud muted sigh

Then you saw the funny shaped finger.

But you loved still

Loved till your heart almost burst

Loved, ignoring the reports of the sour faced clan in white coats

You shut off the tearlets

Then Baba came

Eyes bloodshot but not from wine

My Baba, the Baba of the other two musketeers who just found a new love

And he pronounced my name

No need to wait for eight days "Toluwalase",

Let God have the final say...

Special Feature: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson, Author of 'I SAID THESE WORDS' and Founder of WRR

SHE IS NOT PERFECT

She is not perfect
But her eyes stole the colours of rainbow
They light up my skies on happy days
Parabolic beauty beyond compare

She is not perfect
But the melody of her voice
Calms the taut nerves of my heart
And sings my soul to sleep 

She is not perfect
But her lips are softer than butter
And firm is the roundness
Of the swells on her chest 

She is not perfect
So when I frown my face
As she walks by, do not smile
She'll soon be in my arms 

She is not perfect
But our hearts are one
The osmosis of love
Made it so 

WORDS ARE LIKE CLAY by Professor Francis Egbokhare

If you are a linguist like I am, chances are that you have come to appreciate the value of words. Politicians with savvy know too well that politics is about weaving words like a spider and getting all others but oneself caught in the web. Words evoke emotions; they help us to think clearly. The power or words lie in the fact that they are the most potent instrument for control. Man has not been able to invent a better means. Words never fail, they cannot fail if we know how to string them together, if we apply them with the right dose of passion and if we learn how to pamper them and tease out the juice in them.

Words can also be terrible if we fail to understand them. For instance, it is a taboo to break words because they are like eggs, you cannot put them back together. You don’t also throw them at others because they can harden on contact with the hearts or men and become missiles thrown back at you. The greatest thing about words is that they are poor servants sometimes, they can tell stories which we do not intend. They reveal the secrets of our hearts in such remote and dark places which even God may not have been to. I am more fascinated at how words tell stories about our lives and our society. For instance, a poor man gets killed, a rich man or person of substance is murdered, a politician or ruler is assassinated. 

International Feature: FERN G. Z. CARR, Member of the League of Canadian Poets and Pushcart Prize Nominee

Art and a Winter Landscape

Shadows stretch their arms

and yawn

as they lie upon a bed rumpled

by trails of footprints

disappearing into the distance

like a perspective drawing

of converging railway tracks.

Blanketed with snow-laden pines,

mountains watch the shadows sleep

under a ceiling of cirrus cloud –

their contours sketched upon a vast canvas.

Blue – everything is swathed in shades of blue:

smoke curling up from chimneys,

sky, snow-capped mountains, ice on the lake –

reflections of Picasso’s Blue Period;

the light – crisp, sharp and focused –

a tribute to nature’s artistry

as she paints a winter landscape.

Special Feature: Eriata Oribhabor, Nigeria's Foremost Poet and Poetry Promoter

For YOU

Eriata Oribhabor in poetic motion...

That very place and time came

Without a click, rolling back the

Innocence of your sincerity

Enveloping me till date.

The gate opened you onto the road

For a meeting of two; a brother

And a sister...careless about

Colour, creed and more.

That day, that moment, that meet

That click of life's beauty

Beauty...from the inside

Never weather beaten.

Turn back the hand

Of your thoughts...tell me

Its clicking sounds...a deep breath

Tell me we are not brother and sister.

These lines are for you...yes...for you

Who read them long before written

In bold letters on that cake you baked me

When I hardly knew how cakes taste.

Rebirth of Hope by Prosperline Amadi

The sky, a sizeable womb, foggy

And deformed with pregnant clouds.

The grounds sun-baked, utterly dry

With vein-like cracks running through.

The plains grossly athirst.

No birds heard chirping, singing

The playground devoid of plays

All trees stood bare, abandoned

Exposed to the caress of the wind.

Beneath the land a seed lay...

Dormant, repellent but potent.

In its confines, rebirth echoed

For freedom to eavesdrop.

Casualties of Depravities by Professor Francis Egbokhare

We are the casualties

Prisoners in a fortress of falling walls

Grandmasters of the illusion of excellence

Masked men and women in ‘Grand Theft Identity’¹

Residents of a disappearing tower

Actors on a sinking sewer

Stars of a game of ruse

Yes!

We are the robed ones

Dressed up in scarlet regalia of monumental errors

Collocated in academic processions like humanized penguins

None breaking formation

All intuiting affirmation

Echoing the dol-drum

We are sycophants

Wallowing in error

In the name of hunger

We shall plunder²