 The winner of April Giveaway is Udo Chinecherem This giveaway is courtesy of SprinNG and Roving Heights Bookstore.
Instruction: Read the publications on the SprinNG website for the month and write a comment on 2 or more of the publications. Add your name and email address when filling in the comment box (email addresses will not be made public). We encourage that your comment meets at least 2 of these goals: 1. Invite another reader into the world of beauty you have seen in a work 2. Provide a very brief summary of what you read 3. Give your interpretation/perspective of what has been written 4. Provide suggestions for improvement The SprinNG team will evaluate the comments and select the winner of the bookstore gift card at the end of the month. Comment on the poems, book reviews, articles, interviews, and guest posts.
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By Emmanuel Onwe  The university campus is unusually quiet, even for a Sunday afternoon. Save for the random caws of crows that perched on the several trees that lined the streets and the shrill sound of a child's cry that came from one of the newly renovated bungalows at Margaret Cartwright Avenue--mostly reserved for Senior staff of the university, separated by neatly trimmed Ixora flowers, and the occasional hunks of passing cars, it was largely rid of sound. Nnamdi had never been in school this long after semester exams. At first, he'd found it a little strange; how this campus which usually thrummed with life and various activities, had suddenly transformed into this almost deserted place. Most students had gone home for the holidays. Even Pharmacy, renowned for always being the last faculty to round off their exams, had finished some weeks back.
The INTERVIEW BY ADEDAYO ONABADEQ: Congratulations on co-winning the SprinNG Women Authors Prize. With three previous books under your belt, how would you describe the writing journey that has led you to this point?
A: Thank you so much. My heartfelt appreciation goes to SprinNG and the 2022 SWAP judges for finding Rekiya & Z worthy of the honour. In truth, my writing journey so far has been a rather meandering road. For a long time, I wasn’t even aware I was on this journey, never thought of myself as a writer. But everything that has happened was leading me here--from the teenage years of writing for my school press club, national and state essay-writing competitions, and in lined notebooks, writing novella-length stories modeled embarrassingly on the Sweet Valley High series. (And no, I do not have any of those anymore, thank God!). . . To the two books I published in my “I am not a writer; I just saw a need” phase. And those Lost Years when I held on to my sanity only by scribbling profusely in my journals. The many online writing classes I somehow kept signing up for. Medicine. Motherhood. Then there was the birth of Rekiya & Z… Those five years were the turning point. Now that I'm self-aware enough to appreciate being on this journey, I’m excited for what’s to come and trying to enjoy each moment without obsessing over what’s waiting at the next winding turn. By Anikpe Chidera Solomon  I watch him recognize me, see as knowingness flares in his eyes, his shoulders tense, his eyes darting, his mouth almost agape. I watch as his face morphs into shock, small pixels gathering and gathering until his features are smothered in panicked surprise.
His reaction is what I would ordinarily call 'dramatic shock,' but now, with his eyes on me, I find that he is lacking theatre, of melodrama. The corset around my waist seems to heave with a startling force, tightening and tightening until I am sure that all the air will suddenly be squeezed out of my lungs, that I will spontaneously drop to the floor and die. The wig on my head settles with a new heaviness, causing my neck to ache and my back to sting. The flamboyantly extravagant gown on my body seems to lull me against my will, pushing, pulling, and twirling me as it sees fit, a master puppeteer and its senseless puppet. By Babatimehin Asiwaju  what kind of poet am I
if I cannot write a poem about the first time my lips collided with a beautiful damsel's? if I cannot write without entombing dead things inside my mouth. By Maryam Shuaib  Why can't I run from you and escape this four-walled cage of torture?
You keep me locked up, caught in this twisted, demented version of your love. You've taken my body as a palette to paint, taint and mask with bruises and scars. Sometimes I wish it wouldn't be beyond that; still, You've managed to drag my heart & soul into it so they reflect whatever scars I carry, Yet every time, you say you love me. By Moshkur Ajikobi after Timi Sanni  Days were shifting for the nights.
I was there on the phone, puffing promises to her ears-- the same broken promises of together-forever she filled the hollow of my ears with. We built a family of five—three children plus us—on the phone, in truth-alike imagination. |
