Writer's Karma: Becoming One's Character

I once fell in love with a certain phrase which I assumed described rootless characters that floated on alien lands without shelter or any form of affiliation whatsoever in sight, what is often called the literature of the dispossessed.
And as a writer, I have found patterns like this in some of my writings, particularly a short story published in Sentinel’s first issue titled Pot of Gold.

Kabir, the protagonist, is a cynic after the order of Diogenes. An underachiever who disbelieved his certainty of good fortune, he fell in love with a beautiful prostitute to whom he tested his first stint with trust on. Obviously, this had disastrous implications and this was what I attempted to plough with my narrative. Sadly, one and half years or so after I wrote this story, I find myself in a precarious condition my character was in.

My story began almost routinely with a knock on my character’s door and ended almost on the same note but the second knock was imagined and expected. The first knock was assumed to be the knock of a Jehovah’s Witness. The last knock was expected to be his landlord’s demanding a rent which, for reasons to be found in the heart of the narrative, he wouldn’t have.

I have become Kabir in just a matter of years. My scenario is rather colourful as opposed to his, as I have the good, or is it bad fortune, of having my rent of three months advance refunded and told to get out of the small cubicle I am writing from in less than a month.

Like Kabir, I have become dispossessed. Like Kabir, I expected this event from when my Landlord sent a summoning text message. Like Kabir, I have no where to stay and I wear that plight on my face like makeup. Like Kabir, I didn’t sleep well last night as I felt

Perhaps now that I have experienced what it feels like, I can write the story of Kabir better. Perhaps I can safely say fiction is a fact teased from the loins of reality. Kabir is my imagination and as now become my plight.
But I pray I strike a pot of gold.

A Peer into Giovanni's New Room

Make no mistakes: I do not review Saraba’s fourth poetry chapbook as a contributor or its part-publisher; I review it as a literary consumer in awe of its relevance and finesse.
Its title, GNR alludes to the seminal work of one of Black’s greatest, James Baldwin. Although Baldwin’s book deals with a rather different and precarious kind of love, it retains an aptness only fit for this anthology of poems.
Love is an elusive concept. It supersedes definitions and keeps being reinvented; only the characters are different. Boy and girl, boy and boy, girl and girl. Love in its mutation has knocked out gender as a denominator, rather it dominates in every hearted emotion, be it incest or the conventional love shared between lovers.
Love in its elusiveness cannot be boxed into a suite of an emotional kind. It keeps unveiling and relieving itself in varying circumstances retaining a unique feature: animals. Humans as animals only enjoy a higher kind of love elevated well above the cusps of lust and this is what we find in GNR, a suite of expressions and impressions and expectations on the act of loving.
The motive of love in itself is questioned in the poetry of Zino Asalor where he affirms, “I love because I can/I love because I do”. This is a rhetoric answer, the panacea to all questions that question the need for love.
The poetry of Dadepo Aderemi is expressive in all filial intents, it surmises familial love into an entanglement that present itself with doubt, dowry and divinity.
Rayo Adebayo’s suicidal litany is suggestive of the fate of awry love, which is love nonetheless. It speaks into the highs and lows and the occasional overflow of passionate love and the result is poignant and satisfactory to all those who identify with it.
My poems and that of Emmanuel Iduma are an urban dialogue reminiscent of J.P Clark’s Streamside Exchange only that the characters are different, they are two heterosexual lovers trying to outwit their adulation with The Love Songs of Alfred J. Prudfrock in context.
Uche Peter Umez’s economy is the gift of words not said. Meaning is substantial and replete in his renderings that shapes earthly beauties as a woman’s anatomy.
Numero Unoma, the Queen of erotica, presents poems that thrive on word plays with such astonishing depth. Her sense of Imagery is almost clinical, scalpel-sharp and precise.
And Ajayi Kolade’s Odes to his Late Father is a fit conclusion to this intriguing spherical odyssey on the means and meaning of love. There is love in here, all of it!!!

Finally, Finally, Finally

At last. At long last.We are able to put issue six, long overdue, on the website.
Phew.

How I Write Poetry

Writing poetry for me is an organic process which is triggered by the act of living closely. By close living, I refer to the act of subjecting life’s detail to scrutiny, sifting through experiences and bookmarking what is deemed remarkable.
As an artist, I set to achieve this the similar manner a painter grabs his oil paint when the desire to create comes, only that my desire to create is triggered by reflex and to a large extent am only a medium through which the poem flows. And so it’s an out of body experience as well as internal combustion of energy that heralds what I write; am as much in my poems as am out of it. This allows for the spontaneity which I find to be chief in act of poetry.

And pretty much the reflex comes at its own timing; I have no control over when the words fall upon me like a burden. For instance, I was in a lecture room when the first few lines of Clinical Blues V dropped into my mind. As it came, I knew that was yet another beginning of a poem.
Of course, after the draft comes out, I contribute editorial maneuvers which are largely removal of words, checking for consistency in ideas and rarely, addition of new words; alas, sometimes the process is just the act of taking out words and replacing back those same words. Nevertheless, what I seek to achieve is precise words that evoke distinct emotions while retaining their beauty. Poetry is that triad for me—precision, message and beauty.

And with Precision comes brevity, I think. The need to sift out words that attenuate the impact of the poet’s imagination is imperative and perhaps informs my editorial process. Each poem carries a message and the uniqueness or better yet, the ingenuity of a poem is the complexity of message. A poem must function from every bearing; there must also be intersections that allow for purposeful drifting, the intercourse between ideas. And lastly whatever is spewed on paper must be aesthetic, not necessarily musical, as I subscribe fully to Ezra Pound’s Logopoeic Vision—the dance of intellect among words and ideas vis-a-vis the emphasis on musicality and rhythm.

What I seek to achieve with my poetry is simple: I try to create the mundane with artistic flair, precision and fervor. I seek to beautify experiences. I seek to recreate reality, not in a singsong manner, but close enough to evoke poignant emotions.

And my influences are numerous. I sift my taste for poetry regularly and I search for poets who have honed their skill of arranging words which proffers different perspectives and ideas to different individuals and even the same individual at different times. Poets like Lenrie Peters affect me, perhaps because he is a surgeon and I can relate closely to the medical ambience his works exude. I admire the way his poems are not cluttered with needless words; what he achieves is neither mechanic nor sparse, he achieves wonderful poetry. Wole Soyinka, Kwesi Brew, David Diop, J.P Clark are amongst poets whose poetry I enjoy. And among western writers, I am fascinated by particular poems rather than authors. Ezra Pound, T.S Elliot, Langston Hughes, an endless list is in sight if I am obliged to continue.

This brings me to the point of literary devices and figurative expression. First and foremost I seek spontaneity in my poetry and whatever is outside that scope of thought I find to be contrived. The desire to force ideals and expression into a poem I find to be complicit and what is achieved is at best poor mimicry. Contemporary poetry in my opinion as not found sound literary analysis. A time will come when its figurative language would be decoded and documented, but not today. Namedropping however I find to be effective in the sense of precision and consequently brevity. The poet can’t afford to mince words and hence by dropping names he achieves what he would perhaps have to write a thesis over in a phrase or less. This, I find to be effective especially so when attention span is much reduced and everything is fast-paced like a box-office thriller.

My absence from my blog is partially justified as i have been sentenced, by medical curriculum, to seven weeks of hard clinical labour in Ilesha, which feels like it is lasting eternity.

if not for this 'unaugust' occurence, i had it in mind to put up a review of Jesse Jagz, a sensational musical act in Nigeria. i also wanted to write about the chaotic mumbo jumble of thoughts that have inhabited my mind this past few weeks, how i have not written more a thousand words of fiction in almost a year. Its just so crazy.

But what i have i will give to you, which is the latest issue of saraba, The God Issue.

Saraba is unarguably an international e-zine that retains a pan-african flavour. I am extremely proud of the latest effort which is a mix of what-people-say-and-think-when -they hear God. You owe it to yourself to enjoy it.

It is yet to be uploaded but Pls check, www.sarabamag.com

A Foreword to My Editorial

In Nigeria, Accidents have become ghastly daily incidents that culminate invariably in either threat to life or loss of life or both.

No one is spared in this epidemic span, not even the rich business executives: they also have plane crashes to contend with. No one is indeed exempted from the contagious grip of road mishaps and what is frustrating about them is that they can be averted.

These deaths are needless and if only Nigeria regarded data as a way of valid retrospective assessment, the statistics would not only be alarming enough to push government into action, it would also will even citizens into reaction.

I became obsessed with the idea of compiling an IFEMED edition on trauma before my first accident. And even after my second accident, I find the urge more irresistible especially as almost everyone has a sad story relating to road traffic accidents: from a co-passenger in an interstate vehicle who lost a younger cousin to a motor-bike mishap in Abuja to a respected obstetrician who remembered the many deaths that dotted his medical student days courtesy the old Ibadan-Ife road.

I am sure we are wont to say that there is a new Ibadan-Ife road but there are also new and perhaps more deaths consequently; every so often, a police area command Isuzu or more recently a F.R.S.C emergency van speeds into the O.A.U.T.H.C laden with casualties in its backseat. Nothing has changed.

Apart from the fact that it is mostly the active and independent part of the population that is affected, the funds, time and other resources (see orthopaedic wards as regards prolonged hospital stay) is in excess of the cost of prevention. Accidents have gradually progressed from infrequent life-altering encounters to daily collective suicides.(see F.R.S.C facebook group status update)

By compiling a multi-disciplinary approach on medical emergencies with an emphatic lilt on trauma, we have neither assessed nor changed the outcome of road traffic accidents, unarguably the most frequent cause of accident and emergency admission in our locality. We have only reiterated the principles of saving lives which every doctor or doctor-in-training must concern him/herself with.

And who says that we have done anything heroic? Or even relevant? As an aside, it is noteworthy that books are the most obvious hiding places for knowledge especially for Africa, how much more a specialised periodical? It is also noteworthy that there is no functional association that look into Medical emergencies in Nigeria be it a professional association, government parastatal or Non Governmental Organisation save the fatigued Red Cross Association of Nigeria.

Prevention is the most relevant trend which Nigeria as a nation and Africa as a gloomy continent are yet to adopt as their brain children. The import of good governance and consequent tremendous manifestations by way of good road and better transportation networks(see Ogere trailer park and other road-vehicular nuisances), foolproof legislations catering to the immediate and long term needs of transportation in Nigeria and CPR for previously vibrant organisations concerned with transportation and its intricacies cannot be over-emphasised. In my humble opinion, road traffic accidents should glean as much negative publicity as HIV/AIDS as in the last decade, perhaps then we would need to regard it with as much urgency and momentum, for indeed it kills faster than even the Hepatitis viral infection.

I have been a direct victim of road traffic accidents, I have been subdued under the influence of trauma and I have also found out that mistakes are just as inevitable as outcomes. Reckless driving and casual flouting of road signs and traffic laws are important causes of road traffic accident but they must not be marketed as though they are the chief reasons why road mishaps happen.

Portraying this rather myopic and insensate line of thought can be akin to treating symptoms instead of underlying causes, and this is nothing short of useless therapy, if that term is expressive of my ideals. The underlying problem with Nigeria is ignorance and its endless sequelae, malignant spread, which for the benefit of this essay, is not in tandem with my scope of discuss. (see Nigerian newspapers).

My objective is to right myself a motive behind channelling all the focus and funds at IFEMED’s disposal into the pursuance of what some have termed as an “echolalia” of better periodical contemporaries(see DOKITA, Ibadan). But to get a clear picture, a large canvass on which I can spot my thoughts is necessary, hence my endless purposeful digression on governance, transportation and all the major players involved.

The bottom-line assessment is that road traffic accidents have become a contagious disease been spread by a major vector in Nigeria, Ignorance and its octopodus manifestations, and if definitive plans of extinguishing this vector is not put in place, we shall be eternally busy as doctors treating symptoms and signs rather than diagnosis.

Lessons from the Brief Wondrous Life of Da Grin.

1. Chase Your Dream
Even a five year old knows what s/he wants from life, but it’s one thing to want something, it’s another thing to follow through. It is a popular misnomer that you must have all the ingredients and qualifications you need to get want you. Not necessary!

Da Grin is a quintessential. He did not attend any university to learn how to spit solid lyrics like he did in his lifetime.


2. Try Again
You might not get it right the first time and the sooner you get that caveat into your head, the sooner you understand the import of doing things again, be it the same way.

Still on the matter, Da Grin’s first effort could be discarded as ineffectual and if he had let it rest there, he probably would never have achieved the starling success of his second effort, the classic C.E.O album.

3. Stay on Point
And after you have done it right the first time. You must make a habitual repeat of success in every endeavour. This must be your rule of thumb.

C.E.O, hopefully, would not be the last we would hear from Da Grin, especially as his death occasioned the release of his “Before I die”. Easily he becomes the artist who foresaw his death and this is mastery, however you want to regard it.

4. Dont Drink and Drive
Life is short; it has no duplicate. This, perhaps, is the most important lesson from Da Grin’s life. No one is totally sure if it is his inebriation that led to the fatal car crash.
But there is something about fate catching up with you especially if you make a habit of drinking and driving,
most especially on Nigerian roads which, of course, have not earned the asphaltic right to be reffered to as such.Blame it on the politicians.
It is instructional that if you must drink you should have a spare teetotaller driver, so you can spare your life from death’s bludgeon.

5. Always wear a Grin.
Da Grin would be remembered for a whole lot. For his attitude to life, for his attitude to his craft, for his humor which, i think, is important to any artist.

The joy and fondness that comes from the way he portrayed himself in pictures would endear him to many, and many more.

Beyond Labor Pains

In the gathering of accomplished R&B musicians, Syleena Johnson is worthy of mention. Not just because she is has a heritage rich in music (as her father was Syl Johnson), but that she has carved for herself a niche in the genre in which she practises.

Her albums, for one, have been a musical documentation of experiences that draw deeply from love, relationships and other emotional details. And from the names she gives each effort, it seems she is penning the draft of a book and releasing them in instalments/chapters. To her credits are four chapters that plumb the recesses and permutations of emotional scenarios, and for the benefit of this review, I will write about the fourth chapter.

Chapter four is subtitled Labor Pains, and we have an opening interlude which is a rather unnecessary parody of Syleena’s acoustic plight as it negotiates its way through her birth canal. And there is another interlude worthy of mention, Redstorm Domestic Lesson, a spoken word session, which reprimands men who make women subservient to them. Very sympathetic to the female cause and 21st century-ish.

What I find remarkable about Syleena’s music is her depth. R&B is generally regarded as the genre that takes into account every gritty detail of emotion but Syleena liberates her brand and plunges it beyond the coffers of soft sentimental droll.

After listening to Labor Pains severally, I could marry the title, which I initially found rather unapt, into the core message and the looming theme that string most, if not every, song on this album together. Her Labor Pains extends beyond the gamut of a parturient; it morphs into a collective noun that capsulate the history and the reality of being black. The album confronts what it entails to be female, black and human respectively. Without being overly didactic, this album explores previous black experiences with much newer accounts and marries them together on the altar of Soul.

Easily, Syleena becomes the officiating chorister who sings into the depth of being black and her arsenal is not only her distinct voice, she also draws from the culture of Chicago blues. This album is tainted with the unmistakable quaint feel of the blues of yesteryears and this is perhaps why its reach would not extend beyond the hearts of true music lovers. It reaffirms that this album would not spill into pop charts or become an essential radio song.

Although there is the issue of unevenness of quality of the featured songs, this helps to jar at the hearts of Syleena lovers who would forgive rather dismissively. And one last thing, this album would be fondly remembered.

Saraba's latest effort: The Niger Delta Issue.

A man's thoughts and Mine.

A sixth studio album is no lean feat; it proves that whoever is on the other side of the speaker has consistency and substantial following as propellers. Well, Ginny as a lot more than that. He is a married father, “small town” dancing crooner with a lot of regard for his fans, hence each effort follows the slant of his musical career—not careening, just a slow lilt—and a rather remarkable thing about the guy is that he doesn’t have the delusion of the great R & B album being in his rather under-utilised vocal cords.
A Man’s Thoughts, no doubt, draws from previous efforts: upbeat tracks that necessitate slow movement, great love songs with a tinge of erotica and bland interludes. Personally, I think, Ginuwine should learn a lot from Carl Thomas whose interludes are short songs that sometimes outwit full-length songs in his album. It is worthy of note that these interludes are no audio movies, unlike The Senior.
I am biased to Ginuwine. I think his song writing is crappy, very below par in terms of intellectual engagement, but music is not “writing”, what makes a song or an album is appeal. A good album must appeal to several human conditions. I have found out that we humans attach songs as memory aids often.
So what do we have in this album other than good love songs that you can croon on the bed or in the car: nothing. But that should suffice, after all the album holds a shelf slot in the R & B department, the most mawkish of all contemporary music genres, and the direct consequence is that it must appeal to the lover, the loved and the bed.
Trouble is a great track, upbeat and all, but Orchestra is a personal fav(actually reminds me of someone). The song blows me away every time, the lyrics holds water. Show me the way has some recurring cords that surface in the most bizarre places e.g toilet. This album can best be described as a long playing continuum with several spots of brilliance and the rest is at best accounted for by mediocrity.
Anyway, I like it.

Saraba Issue 4b

Immigrant blues

A review of Segun Afolabi’s A Life Elsewhere
I find the title of this debut story collection A Life Elsewhere apt, for indeed what the author seeks to achieve with these seventeen stories or so is a literary embellishment of an anthropological concept. It is notable that there is no eponymous story which lends it title to the collection as trends demand. The title seems to be grafted from the motive behind each story: an exposition into the Immigrant Experience, a thematic concern most Nigerian writers residing abroad often flirt with.
Perhaps the sudden removal from their culture and their erstwhile homeland often metes upon them the desire to pose their experience as narratives. The bulk of Adichie’s short stories in The Thing around Your Neck dwell on this theme; Habila’s The Immigrant (check African-writing.com) also grazes this topic, although with less authorial imperialism; Chika Unigwe’s Phoenix about a Nigeria woman’s international marriage and consequences thereof…the list continues. In essence, one can make an educated guess that their accounts are autobiographic in its trappings (his short biography offers a glimpse at his itinerant childhood); but more than this, they are graphic in expression and intention to attest that it is indeed not a bed of roses as we are often misled by the gallant display of Diaspora returnees. Hence the stories are suffused with a strong sense of setting and estrangement.
Monday Morning, the Caine-Prize winning story, chronicles the tale of a refugee family particularly of a young son; their efforts to fit into the community that their homeland wars had put them. As you grope deeper into the narrative, Mr Afolabi recruits all sort of characters. This arrangement gathers little boys, overweight adolescents, religious fanatics and delusional pensioners—the characters own interesting profiles and engaging stories to dispense. They tell their tales with varying voices and point of view(s), assuming voices that would best suit their predicament and temperament. So what we have is an assorted delivery of similar vignettes.
Their narratives share a lethargy and vagueness, a sort of listlessness that is either an ingenious effort of the author or his signature style that would probably balk the aesthetics of his subsequent offerings. Be that as it may, this style suits the stories and if the readers allows themselves to be absorbed, they would come away with the contagious grief that is rooted shallow in the lives of the characters. So here is a sound off warning: detach yourself from these stories else you catch on the Immigrant blues.
However there are some stories that leave one wondering if the manuscript ever encountered a competent editor. Some hackneyed phrases and clichés, and even warped imaginations could have been cured with the slightest editorial pruning. Unimaginative descriptions like in The Husband of My wife’s Best Friend, a character’s face was described as an “uncooked doughnut “not only appalls and undermines the author’s creativity, it is a matchless evidence of the gaping hole existing in the chain of Book Publishing. But one cannot put this book down on this premise. Most, if not all, the stories of this collection have appeared in several international literary journals.
The book is indeed a panoramic survey of the Diaspora experience that leaves one with a lasting impression: that fiction is at its best when close to reality.

Not Water Closet Material

Wande Coal
Mushin to Mo-Hits (M2M)
Contrary to popular expectation once again, Wande Coal has “wowed” his fervent critics. He has produced a long playing record which is not W.C (water closet) material. Rather this album is going to stay where it deserves—in our hearts and on our CD trays.
Perhaps he might have disappointed his earlier fans who expected his chosen genre of music to be the sparse and unrewarding segment of R and B crooners, but all the same he has produced an album worthy of his record label, the indomitable Mo Hits.
Wande’s watchword for this album must have been PARTY. Hence club-bangers abound and even when the songs are not particularly up-beat to initiate or sustain body-wiggling, bumping of heads would suffice. This attribute is courtesy Don Jazzy, an acoustic maven who deserves to be called the High Chief of Nigeria Contemporary Production. His ingenious and Wande’s lofty croonings are the pieces that make the master-piece in this album.
The Mo hit cohorts also got their field day out on several tracks. More than not however, their efforts were below par and their contributions strike more often than not as fillers, of course except for D’Banj’s, a stud who has consistently justified his claim to being an entertainer.
I, for one, would have preferred if Wande collaborated with more homegrown, non-Mo hits affiliates. But this is something not obtainable from his record label; they rarely obliterate the confines of their Koko mansion, and even when they do, they limit interactions with the Storm record’s Ikechukwu and Nateo-C.
The album is an effort that can be repeatedly relished in one-sitting. With various high and lows that can cater to the listener’s needs, from love songs to party tracks to serious songs replete with real talk, every song hits its target and every target is accounted for in terms of record sales.

Expediting Life Itself

I recently stumbled—o.k., not stumbled—read might be more appropriate as the New Yorker Fiction has become a weekly addiction of mine. So in very few words, I wish, I read Egan’s explosive short story Safari. And am still wowed by the effects.

Essentially, it’s a story of a family—a father and his latest girlfriend, with her PH.D in view, his two children—among a group of tourists in Kenya on an expedition of wildlife. It seemed to be an out of life experience for them; Of course because they were whites, and Africa was just vacation and sun enough to tan their skins.

For the father, perhaps it was more than that. Owing to the fact that he is notorious with ladies, he enjoys the ambience and pleasure of a warm flesh next to him, which he could reach out to at any odd hour when sexual intuition gets the better of him. But alarmingly, his latest girlfriend, as subtly as a crush could be written into a story without heralding character bias, is sexually attracted to another.

This story, in the most subtle form, comments on the complexity of the relations and relationship. And surprisingly, gives a tidy ending—something not readily obtainable in the short story form. The unhindered plunge into the future gives the story its denouement, and makes it function as a short story. I enjoyed this story and would recommend it to any reader.

There is no mincing of words, an album like Gongo Aso is difficult to surmount either in artistry, social acceptance or record sales. It is with this caveat that Tradition, the L.P closely following Gongo Aso should be acknowledged.

Kudos must be given to 9ice who worked fervently to make something similar in delivery, as he recruited similar ingredients; but hits are not made, they make themselves. Perhaps this is why Gbamu-Gbamu cannot be another Gongo Aso, although it would pay its dues as a club banger like every upbeat song.

Also 9ice’s attempt to stretch his craft with every album is noteworthy. Certificate is a far cry from Gongo Aso, and only in terms of diversity can Tradition be rated above Gongo Aso. For one, more versatile producers are recruited, the mastering and mixing is top-notch, even featured artists like Germany-based Nneka in Show some love goes a long way to prove that 9ice made a more matured album with a wider catchment at Fanbase.

And if street appeal is being put to question, there is no doubt that 9ice had street in mind as this effort is targeted at all age groups in the street. 9ice’s ambassadorship as a proponent of the Yoruba language is laudable and it has become a style he can be identified with. And he must also be appreciated for the amount of research that would go into sounding African, different.

9ice is perhaps the only Nigeria hip pop artist who puts a flavor of local musical genres like Fuji into his music. But there are some songs that leave more to be desired on this L.P. But all misgivings can be forgiven, as 9ice’s loyalty to his craft is not in doubt.

Plumptre's Livelihood Methods

No Bullshit is an apt title. For sincerely there are no mincing of words or sugar-coating of the truth in this volume to be followed by subsequent issues. It’s the world as it is. Natural and Stark. Indeed it is fluid prose that tackles living in itself with admixtures of commentaries and exposition that still gives room to the place for rhetorics.

Although the view is invariably tilted to a feminine perspective, this book boycotts clichés and the author constantly seeks new ways of re-presenting the mundane. It is fresh both in handling and outlook as what the author seeks to do is carry readers along whilst expressing her opinionated ideas as succinctly as permissible.

And the book is pretty much about anything. Everything. Nothing, even. As it seeks to touch all the details of life. In this, it cuts some bias and some views are slack, vague and even ambiguous but the author is quick to write in a caveat, that the words are essentially hers and the world, which she illustrates, is the one in which she functions.

The book is divided into several monologues tagged “Disclosures”. And each monologues, although uneven in text content, often disclose the author‘s views especially on marriage, relationships, family, sex, friendship, etc. These are often interspersed with poems, titled “freestyles” and some thematic photographic images which depict moods and often hint content at a glance.

No Bullshit is personal as well as artistic, as various art forms are dabbled into to achieve a collagist impression, a beautification of the mundane. It can easily be termed the sophistication of the simple. And Plumptre’s style of prose is exceptionally conversational; the language is accessible, not quite far-fetched, as she picked everyday diction and painstakingly composed them into several personal essays that could have been excerpts of an impersonal diary.

And this book is timely, necessary and should be accepted, even though it enunciates just a single female’s view. Plumptre, although does not cut across as a stereotype female, is an interesting voice that should be heard, as her yearnings, her innermost desires, draws parallels and cuts across the entire female gender.

She often does not proffer solutions and even when she does, she does not force them on her readers. Plumptre essentially wrote this book for herself. In her own words, she wrote that she writes “to simply escape”. She further said she writes because reality is subjective and the ideals only exist for a few moments when we choose to allow it to”. And so readers would do well to subject the ideas espoused in this book to there are own ideals and live by leaving reality to take its hold on them.

The story, story issue.