Author - idolor

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G.L.i.B – bed: That’s Not English
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G.L.i.B-bed: Bingeing on Archer
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In 100 words or less…or more!
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In 100 words or less…or more!
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In 100 words or less…or more!
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In 100 words or less…or more!
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G.L.i.B – bed: The Clifton Chronicles
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G.L.i.B – bed: Crime and fiction
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G.L.i.B – bed: LGBTQ
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Like neighbourhood, like nation

G.L.i.B – bed: LGBTQ

Recommended or not, if a book fails to capture and keep my attention it will be discarded. I only saw Under the Udala Trees to its logical conclusion because I hoped to agree with the reason it had garnered some traction and won a couple of awards at the time of its publication. Alas, at the end of it, I didn’t. Or I must have missed it.  Besides some of its themes – same sex love and the Biafra war, it was pretty lacklustre for me. The writing style was not phenomenal, neither was it pedestrian. And the book took up time enough I would have spent on two such volumes. 

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Like neighbourhood, like nation

Between the two streets are six public secondary schools – two of which are for children on the disability spectrum. Tucked away in its own cul-de-sac, as though different (it is!), is a seventh. A private one. In the mornings, the exodus is tame. Pockets of students trudging leisurely to their various compounds of learning. In groups of fives, twos, threes. Making minimal noises, providing additional background for the dawn of another day. But they do take up a whole lane of the street, and navigating around them takes skill, patience and tact. Your horn might prove effective after its second blare. On the other hand, seeing any of the private institution’s students walking to or from school is like a luna eclipse – an almost once-in-a-lifetime event.They arrive in style, on wheels – mostly luxurious and the kind that purrs when in motion. If you happen to peer through the windows, they could be seen tapping away on cellphones, snoozing or staring right back at you. No morning strolls for these ones. In the afternoons, it is bedlam. The noise from the public schools erupts like an active volcano right from their gates – a signal that school hours were over for that day.Imagine six schools simultaneously spurting out their occupants onto the streets. Streets where vendors of baked, fried, roasted and packaged goods await them. The hawkers’ cacophony of calls mixed with the unrhythmic, loud chatter of the students transforms the neighbourhood into an instant street fete, replete with chaotic music from a nearby barber’s shop. This time, they fill up the entire street like it’s one big sidewalk, and walking is not all they do – playing football with stones, other unrecognized games, impromptu brawls/quarrels amongst themselves, unscheduled meetings at the median of the street are just some of the other activities they get up to. Your horn might have to work overtime during this period, and continuously too if you hope to increase the turtle-slow pace you’ve been compelled to drive at. It is also likely that the cars behind yours have private school students in”more

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