Book Title: How Intelligence Kills
Genre: Non-Fiction
Author: Okechukwu Ofili
Date of Publication: 2013
Number of Pages: 273
Reviewer: Uduak-Estelle Akpan      
ISBN: 9780984572540

An Ibibio adage says, “When you pluck a flea from a dog’s back, be sure to show it to the dog.” How Intelligence Kills is Ofili’s witty way of following through with this rite of flea plucking; of pointing out shortcomings and calling Nigerians out of passivity.
 
In a collection of essays with uneven word count, Okechukwu Ofili lays bare, loopholes in the system and the bottlenecks of navigating life as a Nigerian living in Nigeria. With a take-no-prisoner’s approach, he unabashedly talks about the inadequacies with the Nigerian expression of human rights, equity, responsibility, western influence, education, religion, culture and technology - problems that Nigerians are only just beginning to acknowledge.

Truly, yet defiantly the theme
Of your nest was soaked in lettered
mystery and changing tunes.
This is the tale of the broken bird:
Taken, measured, crested with
fetters that left marked closets.
But, I imagine the clustered
Feathers where everything marked
simulating similitude.
What if we didn’t make wings
On the floored petals?
What if we didn’t make home
On the flawed petals?
What if I rather call the way,
Will you unbreak our elevations?
Will they hold your mistaken flights?
Replace it with wild touches,
greasy pecks, tumultuous chirps
Which finally ushers (one, if not all) of us in(to) brokenness.
If your lip falls, pick your eyes,

1. My head is not an antenna you hit thrice before it picks up a frequency, 
So stop hitting me,
I don't like it. I never have. 
 
2. I imagine if I touched your lap
and let my fingerprints sink into your thighs, 
Twenty-one pilots cannot save my life
from crashing into a police cell. 
 
3. If I poke your back 
and your bra accidentally slips off, 
I imagine you would slap me, yell at me
and call me a rapist. 
 
4. If I tell my friends, a girl slapped me, 
they would laugh at me and call me stupid.
If you tell your friends, a guy touched your shoulders,
they would mourn with you and call for my funeral.
 
5. My head is also a part of my body
and I don't consent to such advances.
So please, stop hitting me.
Stop (sexually) harassing me. 

Praise Uyioghosa Osawaru, also known as Wordsmithpraise, is a poet and writer of Young Adult fiction and creative non-fiction. His short story - CHOP CHOP was featured in Writers Space Africa (WSA) April 2019 Edition.
He is an undergraduate at the University of Benin. 
He believes we're all writers of our lives story and encourages everyone to make their lives a best-seller. Praise also blogs about art & literature. His blog - www.wordsmithpraise.com features reviews, stories and poems.
Connect with him on social media, Instagram and twitter @wordsmithpraise.

they say I fantasize about death
 
why won't I?
.
when the only thing death knows
is to mingle and cling unto
our fragile fracas; only to yank
and drip it off and turning the dwelling
it once lived nimble?
 
why won't I laugh?
.
my chatter is laced in words and letters
which death can catch to snap off whenever
it has gotten the opportunity; which only
comes once
 
why won't I sigh?
.
the heaves in throats minces to the
waves which death molds it into;
which it controls when it leap to
heights which it only conquers once
 
why won't I be amused?
.
when death creases into forms to delve
into forests where my soul lies;
treading saliently on slippery paths
to steal the prized possession which
belongs to it?