 This giveaway is courtesy of SprinNG and Roving Heights Bookstore.
How to win?
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 bookstore giftcard at the end of the month. Note: Comment on the poems, book reviews, articles, interviews, and guest posts.
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Application for the 2022 SprinNG Women Authors Prize is open and will close on 30th September!  The SprinNG Women Authors Prize (#SWAPng) will select two Female Nigerian Authors who have published full-length books in print and invest N300,000 each in purchasing, distributing, and marketing print copies of their books nationwide through our sister literary websites and events whom we collaborate with.
We are simply looking for female Nigerian authors who have published excellent books that deserve to be promoted and supported. Only two female Nigerian authors will be selected annually for this prize. However, we will use the opportunity to promote other select authors through interviews, book reviews, newsletter promotions, and collaborations to increase their visibility in the Nigerian literary sphere. By Omidire Joshua  make your way to
Lekki Tollgate. placards in hand, songs on tongue. when you see the hoodlums in uniform, don’t run. ask them questions about the demise of your father in the grave of poverty. better still, send a letter bomb to their lords ask them how you, a butcher’s son, feed on bones.  Some years ago, I fell in love with poetry. Not long after, I sadly realized many people do not share this love for poetry. It was even more startling, discovering that a lot of such people were already avid readers. Poetry to them is often like a restaurant menu item — the one you wrinkle your nose at and skip with your finger as you run it across the page. As a writer, it is essential to know why, how, and for who you write. I believe what has distinguished Tolu Akinyemi’s work can be summed up in his statement - “These people (who ‘hate’ poetry) desire to appreciate and enjoy poetry but on their terms. They want it to be readily relatable, to speak to them directly, simply, yet profoundly, not through an interpreter or critic, nor through navigating a tedious byzantine literary maze. These are the ones I write for.”
By Osho Olaìítan Jeremiah  (After Shitta Faruq)
i do not know why this grief glues to my country name/ its bond— a blood thick coffee in summer/ striking the face of a mother and her little son into a roaring folktale. since, i become the togetherness of bleak drops of melancholic crystal of liquid forming waves in the shores of my eyes. Author of Nearly All the Men in Lagos are Mad  ‘Nearly All the Men in Lagos are Mad’ is a collection of twelve short stories featuring characters with unique voices and stories that represent the diverse class, gender and ethnic melting pot that is Lagos.
There’s a story of a young lady who tries to find her oyibo soulmate on the streets of Lagos; another of a pastor’s wife who defends her husband from an allegation of adultery; a wife takes a knife to her husband’s penis; a night of lust between a rising musician and his Instagram baddie takes an unexpected turn. From Ikorodu to Yaba, Ilupeju to Victoria Island, the stories underscore with wit, humour, wisdom and sensitivity, the perils of trying to find lasting love and companionship in Africa’s most notorious city that will prove universal and illuminating. There’s a story behind every hustling, hopeful, striving Lagosian trying to make their way to a better life and Damilare Kuku’s characterisations are brilliant distillations of this recognisable mind-set. Every story is layered; these are people and choices you may recognise in yourself and people you know. Ultimately, these stories will make you laugh, think, feel and remind us all that we are not alone. By Akubudike Deborah  my bonsai skin is my art -
collected pieces of broken walls break my walls further to keep me from walking away a fragile miniature frame encloses this body; contains it well. my poetry suggests hypnotherapy my therapist tells me "your body is {too} two cracked walls. overweight. you must learn to {contain} control it." By Nwokocha Chijioke  Two days after Kene disappeared, his sister and his lover raced to the police station to file a missing person’s report, and even now, standing by the dusty station counter a few minutes later, Zinny’s chest is heaving, and her neckline is darkened with sweat.
“Ekene Njabulo, you say?” “Madam!” The huffy police officer, who introduced himself as Inspector Paul, yells impatiently. “Hmmm,” She replies, only now realizing how tight her sandals are. Her toes are starting to itch. Nwanneka, her assistant, is at the other end in a long purple gown that flatters her dark skin and clings to her thighs. Her once-fresh face is now languid from the day they had. This morning, she settled on a soft plaid shirt tucked into angry denim pants with thigh patches and rushed to her salon to attend to morning customers. She is sure none of her customers would recognize her now. “How old is your brother, and what does he do?” the police officer queries, eyes squinted at Nwanneka in unmasked sexual interest. “Twenty-three,” Zinny answers. “He works for a tech firm, and that is his wife,” she lies, hoping the man would become more subtle with his flirtation. It fails. “Tech.” he repeats much slowly, punctuating with an ‘umph!’ before jotting it down on a very thin paper that looks like it was yanked out of a book. There are four other people in the room, but her eyes rest on an elderly man cuffed to a younger version of himself. The younger man is in tears and is speaking simultaneously as the older man. The officer attending to them looks like she’d rather be anyplace else. A few minutes later, just before Inspector Paul requests that they follow him to his office, a middle-aged woman rushes into the slightly smoky room crying – her brown wrapper loosening. The woman fiercely wraps her arms around the chained boy, who breaks down as well. Zinny notices then that there is a burning in her chest. By Olachi Angel Iwehee  That morning, you were an unenthusiastic bystander,
watching little school children go by like early sand ants. With a plastery smile, you make a shallow attempt at hiding your anticipation. When the postman arrived, in his hand was the letter that would determine your fate. As you opened the flaps of the envelope, your heart was a jumpy thing doing uneasy dances. You had gotten rejected. Again. Your heart flattens into a beat. You cannot breathe. |