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.
By Adesiyan Oluwapelumi
In the synagogue of language,
wordsmiths congregate to
fellowship in the communion
of imagery-possessed souls,
their lips enunciating the semantics
of grammar & their tongues
babbling the glossolalia of consonance.
By Ilerioluwa Olatunde
As we dare to live, May we never lose our wonder!
Recently, I was conversing with a friend, and the individual asked what I look for in a book as a reader. I said thoughtfulness--how intentional the writer is to create a subtle experience for the reader. As readers, we understand the adage "Don't judge a book by its cover," yet we cannot deny the magnetic pull that an eye-catching design and a cleverly crafted title exert on our subconscious. The first thing you notice about Obiageli Iloakasia’s book, Kambili, is the evocative title and cover design, which can ignite curiosity and lure any reader into the pages within. This brings to mind a truth I have come to unveil: “A good cover design starts the introduction and summary of the book.”
By Taiwo Hassan
and the world unfreezes, the bird by my window suddenly reminds me of home, the blown-out bulb in the middle of my room becomes a home for the words screaming in my head, anxiety settles on my lips, my tongue asks if i will be scalded by chai or chamomile, i read my past like Braille, my mind, a canvas splattered with halves of yellow sins and untold truths and loud whistles and sprayed babies. i think about my mother's plastic kettle, her lush prayer rugs, and the countless paths they have paved for me. i pray the numbness in my fingers into strange mixes of blood and water, i draw the map of help on my wrists and
By Azeeza Adeowu
When Kokumo was born, her mother knew there was something inside her that was ready to battle the world, ready to make space for herself and burn down anyone who intruded.
Kokumo cried a lot when she was born. So much so that her mother was concerned her baby would get exhausted and leave her again. That was the 3rd time she was giving birth to her. Both times, she died a few minutes after visiting the world, after crying so much.
But Kokumo wasn’t leaving this time. The Yeye Osun she visited without her husband’s permission had assured her. After nine months of eating terribly smelly Aseje and Agbo and swimming naked in a cold lake during her last trimester while 20 women in whites chanted and sang and prayed, Kokumo was here, but what was that look on her face? Like she had the Aseje and Agbo her mom consumed stuck on her tongue? When she eventually stopped crying, Kokumo looked so displeased with the world.
She wore a disapproving look no one had seen on a baby before. Someone compared her look to that of a nosy grandmother. A granny who sits outside the veranda with her nose turned up, hissing and clapping her hands in disapproval as kids of the new generation go about their lives.
By Agnes Johnson
They said when we die,
We shall become angels.
So, we hurried and scurried,
Pleaded to be killed and buried
Threw out the day before dew,
Smashed our grandmother's earthen pot,
handed down to us by our mothers' mothers
Emptied the barn,
And blessed the travelers with its goods and food
Gave out our best wine to swine,
Sold the gourds to the village-crazed bard
By Chikanma Charity
They kept looking at her with disdain and irritation as they whispered to each other. Suddenly, one of them shouted and threw herself on the hard ground as though a venomous snake was biting her, ‘Ochayi o! Why did you die like a fowl? Why Ochayi? Why my brother? She wept bitterly and started rolling on the dirt ground. Some of her companions quickly ran to console her; they tried desperately to cover her body as her wrapper was loose from her waist. ‘Leave me! I want to die with my brother. Let me suffer the painful and humiliating death that happened to my brother so that this wicked woman can sit and watch it happen.’ At this, she pointed her finger at a dishevelled-looking woman sitting alone at the far corner of the hut. The other women turned their gaze to where the unkempt-looking woman was seated and gave her a piercing angry look as though wishing their eyes could actually kill her.
Onyema wished the earth would open and swallow her. Swallow her not to bury her alive or even kill her; she loves life too much to die at her age but to swallow and teleport her to her beautiful home in the city. Sitting on the cold, hard ground in the dirty old hurt reminded her of scenes she had watched in Nigerian horror movies, where such huts were found in the evil forest and occupied by witch doctors who killed humans for rituals. The thought of it sent a shiver down her spine, and she might have visibly reacted because the hut became quiet for a few seconds as all eyes turned on her again, waiting to manifest whatever nefarious thoughts they had in mind towards her.