Tag Archives: America

I am giving up on writing.

Sometimes, you come across a story that makes you question everything you’re doing. Like, why are you alive? What are you doing wasting your life when you know you will never be as great? What is the point of toiling when all people want to read is ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’?

I have just come across one such story. I am in despair. This story wins all the awards ever invented and that will ever be invented in the future. I am going to hurl my laptop out of my third floor window after I put this post up because there is JUST NO POINT.

Here are eight reasons you should read this story:

1) It is a conservative Christian fanfic of Harry Potter: The author did not want her children to become witches so she decided to do her own. Hear her:  “Friends: this is exactly what I have been saying! Harry Potter has many good things about it; but it still has witchcraft; so my children cannot read it. BUT that is why I am writing this! So they can have all the adventure and good morals of the Harry Potter books without all that bad stuff that is bogging it down.”

2) Hagrid is a sexy, country evangelist .

3) For sentences such as this one: “Answer the door, Harry!” his Aunt Petunia, a career woman, barked from her armchair where she sat with her feet up.

4) For the words ‘Hogwarts School of Prayer and Miracles’.

5) Barack Obama is Voldemort.

6) No brooms or flying cars, just the awesomeness that is “Dear Lord, take us to Hogwarts!”

7) Her version of the Sorting Hat is P.R.I.C.E.L.E.S.S. You pesky Catholics and all your many sorting hats. Tsk, tsk!

8) Reverend Albus Dumbledore, his wife Minerva and Hermoine, his daughter.

9) The females, man: ‘Lovely, ladylike tears began to roll down her delicate, terrified face.’  ‘Hermione replied obediently with an innocent, girlish smile; and got to her feet; and smoothed out the skirt of her becoming, pink frock.’

10) The author randomly interjecting with her views: ‘It did not smell or taste like bacon. It missed that smokey, meaty taste that bacon is supposed to have. Instead, it tasted like vegetables blended together and died red. Yuck! Harry would take real bacon over that any day of the week.’ – And this when a character other than Harry is doing the eating. Harry has not even tasted the ‘bacon’.


11) This image:

Holy Harry

Click here to read the whole story!

Like I said, I give up on this writing lark. The author takes all the biscuits.

Blogger of the moment: Yagazie Emezi

Yagazie Emezi

Way back when I was still pregnant with Tot and determined to give him a strong Igbo name, I took to the internet to make sure that the name I thought I made up didn’t already exist.

It did.

And it belonged to just one person.

Her name is Yagazie Emezi and she is awesome. For some reason, I don’t visit her site very often – probably once in three or four months. I’ll just be doing something when ‘Bam!’, I just have to check out her site and see what she’s up to. Maybe that’s the reason I didn’t notice myself falling in love with her. She sneaks up on you. Eziokwu, I love her karia  Flavour N’abania right now and you guys know that it is not obere ihe I am talking about. I discovered her before I did Flavour anyway so everything is as it should be.

Another reason I love her? That accent. It is just a thick, Igbo, okro soup of an accent. She interjects with Igbo while she is speaking. (Her mum is Malay. I only mention this because a trip to Enugu state will give you twice as many American accents as you would find in the USA from people who haven’t even been across the borders of the state. If any of those fake-ass Enugu chicks had even a drop of blood from outside Nigeria…in fact Fulani blood sef, you could be sure that everyone would understand how they could not be expected to know any Igbo. And treat them with all adoration necessary.)

Needless to say, I did not name Tot ‘Yagazie’ in the end. Reading  just a few paragraphs of her blog with show you what I saw: She possesses the name completely. Everything else would be a counterfeit.

Check out her youtube vids too (and I added a link to her name for those that didn’t know you could click the photo to get to her blog):

I hate Chinenye

Dear Diary,

I know I usually do not write on Sunday because it is God’s day of siesta but I just had to write because I cannot talk to mummy because she will slap my face around until I can see my buttocks for even saying a boy’s name in the house. And then I will have to say ‘Hail Mary’ with the glowing chaplet she bought me even though daddy says we are not to do so because we are not Catholic people with her.

Chinenye came to school with a note from the eye doctor. They said she cannot see the board because she now has problems with her eyes, so Teacher made her sit in the back. WITH FRANK. She thinks she has sense but I have more sense than her. How come all this time I have known her she did not have any eye problem but now she had eye problem and not just that but eye problem that you can only read the board from the back of the class? Okay, I asked daddy and he said that it was called ‘Long sight’ and that I will learn about it in Integrated Science in secondary school so it is a real thing but this DOES NOT mean that Chinenye has it.

Okay, so then she came to school with the glasses and she does not even look like she has bottle eyes like I was wishing, like that boy in Primary 3C that has crutches and drools. Her glasses are shiny and and new so I know she must have gone to a real doctor and not aboki in Eke Awka. She keeps on curving her finger and pushing the glasses up by the side even though I can see that it is not falling off and I don’t know why she is doing that unless it is a sign between her and Frank because every time she does it he looks at her and smiles. He is not even hiding his face so I know he knows that I am looking at him but he doesn’t care and it is as if I have disappeared and he cannot see me. Is he not ashamed to be looking at a girl like that? Stupid boy.

I know that I am feeling jealousy and it is a sin but it is SO UNFAIR that Chinenye sat with Frank for a whole week before she brought her glasses. Now she is back on our seat but each time I try to talk to her about how stupid Frank is she starts talking about something else or reading if the teacher is not around. On Friday I even tore from my exercise book which I NEVER DO to draw her a picture of Frank with bees chasing him and he was running and he poo-pooed on himself. It was a funny cartoon as well (I know because it made me laugh) because as he was running he was shouting ‘Bees! I gonna wanna kill you! I ain’t want no stinging bees!’ but Chinenye didn’t even laugh. And then she dropped it on the floor and put her foot on top so I could not take it back. And now if mummy sees that I tore my book she will flog me and it will all be for nothing.

Don’t worry, Diary. Chinenye’s birthday is coming up and I was going to beg mummy to let me go this year when Chinenye invites me as usual then I will beg daddy for money when mummy is not around so that I can buy cake from Den’s Cook for her birthday. I will buy the biggest cake that Chinenye has ever seen and Frank will know that I am the kindest friend Chinenye has ever had and he will like me. And I will wear that yellow and white dress that my godmother in Auckland bought me because nobody else will have anything like it and Frank will see that I am civilized and not like all of them (I hope Ebere Nnemurumkuja will not be there. He looks like the kind of person that will pour Fanta on my dress because he is wicked and then mummy will flog me for not behaving like a lady and getting stains on my dress. Anyway, why would Chinenye invite him? They are not friends and Ebere smells like a goat. The whole place will be smelling goaty-goaty when he leaves).

I feel better now. Writing things always makes me feel better but I mustn’t be too long or mummy will ask me to show her what I have written so she can edit me. She says the Volume One of my short story collection must be published next year. I like this. But sometimes when I am writing for mummy it is not always nice like now. It makes me tired but I know that when my book is published with my picture and everything, I will be happy again and Frank will see that I am intelligent…

No, I don’t care about Frank. He pretends not to see me. He is a scallywag. And why does Chinenye never want to talk about him now? She is a nincompoop. Do you think they are doing boyfriend and girlfriend? If so I MUST CATCH THEM.

But let the Chinenye’s birthday be coming first. I will have to start reminding mummy from now to please bring out the dress from her trunk. She said I could have it when I have been a good girl and can reach the mark she made on the wall of the library. I measured myself against it yesterday. I am there now.

And of course, I am always a good girl.

Two legs good, three legs evil: Part 1

His name was Frank and he was fine.

Sometime in my primary four his family returned from America and Frank enrolled in my school. He had a chipped front tooth and a paw-paw head and the teachers let him wear trainers to school rather then the usual brown, cortina shoes buffed to a shine with Kiwi polish. They also let him show off his white, short-sleeved vest by leaving his school shirt unbuttoned.

I’d heard about him the previous day from Chinenye. The headmistress made her his guide since Frank was in our year. He wore a denim shirt and jeans, and said ‘Wassup’ as they were introduced. Chinenye said she felt as if ants were crawling all over her face.

I think everyone was aware the minute Frank walked into the T-shaped hall which housed all the primary fives and some of the fours and sixes. The usual hum died like something had flicked a switch. “Mmuo nso agafee,” someone whispered.

Chinenye rounded the corner with her charge.

A million bubbles formed and popped inside my tummy. I couldn’t take my eyes off the whiteness of his trainers and the way his shirt flapped in the breeze coming from windows-spaces that never held glass. Something about him reminded me of The Karate Kid.

“Class, this is Frank. Greet him.”

“Good day Frank, you are welcome to our class. How do you do?” We chorused.

“Hi,” he drawled. Some girls tittered.The teacher eyed them.

“He will need your help meeting up so at the end of the day I will select the notes that he will take home to copy.” She paused. “Now where will I put you to sit?”

My heart beat madly in my ears. I hoped he would be seated on the first bench but we were already four. It was full. I dreaded him sitting with us. I wanted to throw up. The teacher put him at back with the rest of the tall people. I was relieved and saddened.

I avoided him. During break when it seemed the whole school had Frank fever, I kept away. My usual crowd hung about, as near as the boys would allow. When they got too close to the boys’ shiny new toy, one of them darted forward and pushed whatever girl dared breach the invisible wall.

“Hey.” My heart contracted in my chest even before I turned. My tongue rattled about in my mouth, my saliva solidified. It was the end of school. My water bottle was empty.


“So, you’re in my class right? How come you haven’t said hello?”

“I have said hello. We all did, this morning.”

“No,” he laughed. “I mean like everyone else has?”

“I think you’re letting all the attention get to your head.” My voice came out thick and I was shamed by how effortless his accent sounded compared to mine. His words were bees swarming in my head. I was dizzy from the pleasure of it but kept my face straight, peeking out of the corner of my eyes at him. He slouched on the wall, hands in pockets, the very picture of nonchalance.

I checked my watch. Just in time, I saw my mother’s figure shimmering across the sand of the assembly ground. I left my shade by the wall and walked towards her. Frank followed, his voice dripping in my ear like honey. “Hey,” he pulled me by the elbow. Maybe tomorrow I can hold your bag while we walk to the gate, how ’bout that?” The heat travelled up my arm and lodged itself in my throat. My mother was watching me.

I drew my arm back and smacked him across the face. “Don’t ever touch me, you…you…SCALLYWAG,” I said in my most adult voice.

My mother patted me on the back all the way to the car. “Good girl. That’s how it’s done. If you don’t show them now they’ll think they can take what they should buy.” I didn’t understand what she meant. I didn’t care about anything. I replayed the slap over and over; the impact of skin on skin, Frank’s jaw hanging open in shock. My heart was breaking.

In school the next day Frank avoided me. I siddled close to his friends and tried to talk to him. He didn’t look my way. I eventually caught up with him in the sun outside, when we both got permission to use the toilets. He flinched as I apporached.

“Oh no, not you again. Dunno what I did to you but whatever it is, I’m sorry. I don’t want none of your crazy.” He walked behind the building to do his business in the bushes.