Author - idolor

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G.L.i.B-bed: Everyman
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G.L.i.B -bed: Born a crime
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Creating one of our own
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95% Western, 5% Local
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G.L.i.B-bed: Persuasion
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November in review: The best laid plans
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Remembering Nkiru
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G.L.i.B-bed: Reading plan: More of Maya Angelou’s Autobiographies
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G.L.i.B-bed: Evil in the house
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I don’t get it but I’ve accepted it

G.L.i.B-bed: Everyman

Everyman ends his life the same way; it’s the details of how he lived it that makes the difference. Back in school, Everyman was a play listed amongst required reading for one of my English drama course. I remember most of its contents in sketches(plays didn’t pique my interest back then), save for something about everyman billed to die and give account of his life. I think. Everyman ‘s life ends the same way; it’s the details of how he lived that’s different. This faded memory propelled me to this little red volume of work which I devoured in less than two days. “Alive with literary brilliance” according to the Sunday Times, it truly was with Roth’s magnificent writing style, evoking a constellation of emotions – sometimes simultaneously, other times one after the other. Based on a particular man’s life and his relationships and subsequent actions with family, friends and colleagues, it deviates from the play which uses allegorical characters, each personifying an abstract idea. The time lapse between my reading of both genres of the title , as well as my preference for prose over plays  tilts this compact volume heavily in my favour. The bonus being its well-[…]

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G.L.i.B -bed: Born a crime

Hands down my favourite stand- up comedian of recent times. His performances are not just witty or laugh-out- loud funny but also intelligent and pass on messages that deal with different aspects of the society – political, social, religious, trending news , etc. He can stretch an idea for so long and his art of mimicry is award worthy. This book , an autobiography, was as though I was sitting in on one of his sets – laughing at his jokes about his upbringing, learning  of his life as a coloured person in South Africa, and the boundless love of his mother. Though only sobering thoughts prevailed in the sections where apartheid’s evil, divisive, destructive and inhumane characteristics took up considerable space. Trevor Noah may be coloured with a loving, free – spirited, rebel for a mother, but the effects of the system still shaped his childhood.

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Creating one of our own

Excuse Me! by Victor Ehikamenor is my current reading journey. I’ve been pretty patriotic, with selected Nigerian authors, this year. Eight pages ago, he experienced his first Christmas abroad. It was a lonely, frosty affair. No brightly clothed children roaming the streets like back in his village on Christmas day like he had expected. Or the aroma of celebration, tinged with the scent of onions & tomatoes & fried meat. The emptiness of London’s Christmas and the frozen snow were alien holiday traditions to him. Four days back, the children and I went to the cinema to see the movie, Coco. As we waited for the feature to begin, we endured 25 minutes of Olaf’s Frozen Christmas. Five minutes in, I marched up to the nearest staff to find out if we had wandered into the wrong hall. Amidst apologies, he explained the situation. Part of the production. Coco was next. Blah. Blah. Blah. What crap! And no one thought to inform us until I asked. Returning to my seat, only then could I make sense of Olaf’s roaming the earth, collecting different pieces of Christmas traditions for Anna and Elsa to fashion out theirs. For almost two decades, an[…]

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95% Western, 5% Local

Until the dance routine tapered towards its end, I struggled with the expression of that emoji in the animated movie of the same name – meh. Meanwhile, all around me, at untimely intervals, there were spontaneous eruptions of excited screams and woohoo that got me thinking: Were we all watching the same opening montage of the children’s Christmas Carol programme? Or was I the only inconsiderate parent amongst super – supportive ones? Forgive me but I refuse to act delighted by a pedestrian performance with less than mechanical accuracy and the corresponding enthusiasm. The vibe I received from the participating children was: Let’s do this and get it over with, and try not to miss too many of the choreography while at it. Their faces were wiped clean of the emotions you’d expect from people who were the cynosure of all eyes – happy, excited, smiling or laughing even. It was as though they were carrying out a chore. And very few people are happy while doing chores. These didn’t have the expression of intense concentration or focus on the task at hand (Some of them had their eyes trained on their fellow dancers to ensure that they were executing[…]

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G.L.i.B-bed: Persuasion

This would be the first of James Borg’s works to feature in my reading list. And I had no expectations about it. Just a blank expression on my mind as I began to leaf through the red – covered volume. Time and again, British authors reiterate my conviction of my preference for their writing technique (and choice of words) over any of their other counterparts. Reading content created by a Briton elevates and educates me. I’m also left with a feeling of my time well – spent, my mind more exposed, my diction improved and increased, and my writing duly challenged. Strange though. Like most people around the world, I grew up under the weighted influence of American entertainment – cartoons, books, films, speech. And after almost four decades of conscious (and sometimes, unconscious) orientation, the British writers still hold taut my heartstrings to their style of penmanship. James Borg’s Persuasion is, like its title signals, all about the art of influencing people over to your point of view. Divided into 10 chapters, it delves into such topics geared towards making an influence of the reader – being a good listener, keeping attention, body language, good recall, telephone telepathy, negotiating[…]

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November in review: The best laid plans

If October didn’t do justice to all the plans I had mapped out for it, November fared even more dismally. It was the month of NaNoWriMo, the highlight of my writing all year long. All those posts, the practice runs of everyday scribbling was leading to 30 days of excited, enthralling, frenzied writing. In anticipation, my adrenaline levels rose; I even jotted out various plots and storylines for each scene I intended to expound on, with the intention of adding onto them as I completed each one. But alas, it was not to be. Most of the month was spent fending off the onslaught of nausea, fever and weakness in my body. Harbingers of an ailment I couldn’t afford to entertain at the time ( or any other time!) My gallant efforts were unsuccessful. Malaria hit me, like a hurricane with ample warning, from all sides, and rippled into other areas of my life as expected – my workout routine, my writing and, to an extent, my reading.  

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Remembering Nkiru

I’ve heard it said that ‘we do not remember days, we remember moments.’ I remember so many moments now that Nkiru is no longer with us on this side of eternity. I remember the seemingly little things and the big things and hold them close like the priceless treasures they now are. … I remember, not to mourn as before but to celebrate the life of an amazing woman who gave us so much to remember…and emulate. I remember the wise, the wonderful, the wacky and the witty. I remember her loud peal of laughter. It would break out without warning and ring clear across the room and if it was based on something I’d said, I remember the way she would manage to say while still laughing – “Chineze you’re very silly”. I remember her way of shrugging and saying ‘Ama m’, the Igbo equivalent of ‘I dunno’ if you asked her something she hadn’t figured out. I remember the painstaking way she painted her nails in the morning to match each day’s particular outfit, when we shared a workstation in our Tequila days. I remember the impossibly high heels in someone already so tall and statuesque. I remember[…]

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G.L.i.B-bed: Reading plan: More of Maya Angelou’s Autobiographies

There was a pervading feeling of déjà vu as I thumbed my way through I know Why the Caged Bird sings. It all became clear at the end; this was one of seven autobiographies, and I had just finished the third in the series. Interestingly, I wasn’t aware of this and Maya Angelou’s writing occupies a top spot in my ranking of phenomenal writing. How odd. No need extoling one of America’s (and indeed the world’s) greatest writers. More than enough has been said (and written) about her extraordinary penmanship that inspires, elevates, informs and celebrates. Instead of adding my ink and voice , I’d rather embark on a collection of her works to heartily digest (and constantly use them as terms of reference) and, hopefully, reflect such skill in my style and learning path.

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G.L.i.B-bed: Evil in the house

They say it’s when you become a parent, you realize your parents were right all along. As a mum, I’d rather be tagged paranoid than sorry when it concerns my children. Paranoia can be tamed; regret live with you for all time, and, sometimes, has unseen, far-reaching consequences. Now, I understand my mum’s obviously worried expressions, her statements about some male relatives and her caution when dealing with them. Family is not off limits when it comes to abuse of any kind – domestic, sexual or otherwise. After all, na who know man na im dey kill am. Yeside Kilanko’s novel reminds the reader how much closer to home evil can be lurking, and how, sometimes, unwittingly, unintentionally, we aid it ourselves through the entrance of extended family members into our lives. And it is one of the parents’ essential duty to shield their offspring from such familial devils. Without giving away necessary spoilers of the plot of this book which elicited contrasting emotions as I flipped over the pages, it would be difficult and constricting to write effectively about it. But I’d say this; the recent trend of women speaking up and out about all forms of abuse must[…]

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