How to win?
Read the current publications on the SprinNG website for February 2021.
Write a comment on 2 or more of the publications posted on the website for February 2021.
Please add your name and email address when filling the comment box.
Note: Email address will not be made public.
See the guide to providing good feedback below
TIPS FOR WRITING GOOD FEEDBACK
The goal of providing feedback is:
1. to invite another reader into the world of beauty you have seen in a work
2. to provide a very brief summary of what you read
3. to give your interpretation/perspective of what has been written
4. to provide suggestions for improvement
We encourage that your comment meets at least 2 of these goals.
The SprinNG team will evaluate the comments and select the winner of the book at the end of the month.
Note: Comment on the poems, book reviews, articles, interviews and guest posts.
Application for the 2021 SprinNG Writing Fellowship has opened!
About the SprinNG Writing Fellowship
The SprinNG Writing Fellowship (SWF) is an intensive 6 weeks online mentorship programme for developing writers with great potential and willingness to learn.
This fellowship focuses on 6 genres of literature: Poetry, Fiction, Non-Fiction, Book Review, Play/Drama and Blogging. During the 5 weeks, mentees will be in contact with their mentors, sending them their works, getting reviews and commentaries. Mentors and mentees will aim to work on at least 1 piece of writing in their select genre per week. The SprinNG Writing Fellowship is only open to writers that have not published a book before (eBook/hardcopy).
- Applicant Must be a Nigerian or Ghanaian citizen, residing in Nigeria or Ghana
- Applicant Must be between the ages 18 to 25
- The SprinNG Writing Fellowship is only open to writers that have not published a book before (eBook/chapbook/hardcopy)
Author: Jerry Chiemeke
Year Published: 2020
Book Reviewer: Uduak-Estelle Akpan
Sometimes, there is a misplaced expectation about short story collections; that to make sense, the stories must maintain a recurring theme or some semblance of balance typical of a mosaic novel. This presumption holds for many a collection, but certainly not Jerry Chiemeke’s full-length work, Dreaming of Ways to Understand You. With a gimmicky title, the 187-page book is a delicate, character-driven collage of fifteen short stories, energized by an itinerant setting that sees its characters enduring the bustling city of Port Harcourt, chaotic outskirts of Warri, or the Piccadilly circus that is Lagos.
by Chisom C. Iboko
“Keep quiet child; this doesn’t concern you.”
I know a lot for a 5-year-old. I’m invisible. I see what others don’t see. I don’t know when it began. Was it when mother blamed Sarah for stealing the milk I saw Nwaka take? Or was it later when a stolen pencil found its way into my school bag? The teacher flogged me in front of the class while the pupils chanted ‘Thief! Thief!’ She never let me defend myself. And for the first time, as I walked back home from school, I waited for the big lorry that usually journeyed through the road that leads home. I remember the lorry once killed a woman, and the incident was on everyone’s lips for weeks. It shook everyone. That day, I was going to fling myself in front of that lorry so I would be crushed. I didn’t want to go back to school the next day and be called a thief. I wanted my death to be dramatic. I wanted the teacher to feel guilty for mistreating me. I wanted my classmates to miss me. Except for the lorry never showed up that day. It was either then or earlier that I found solace in writing.
‘Fire, Fire in My...’ By Onabade, Adedayo Adedoyin
‘Fire! Fire! Come down now!’ the voices sprang up to our second-floor apartment, alerting us of impending doom. At that moment, I knew what ‘in the twinkle of an eye’ meant.
Pandemonium struck. Neighbours scurried to and fro the compound, in a last-minute move to salvage whatever they could. The fifteen-flat building was aflame from the flat in the middle, right beside our apartment. Getting out alive was miracle enough – we were at the most vulnerable position in the building, and I had planned to retire to bed after my family set out on an inter-state trip that Sunday morning.
Days later, I walked into the ruins that remained, the still-searing heat - a testament of what had once been home. With the concerted rubble of wood, bricks, and soot inert beneath my feet, each step I took within those charred walls bore a query in my heart: Is that it? Is life so vain that what mattered at this moment could be gone the very next?
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