The Writings of Norah

“You have been programmed for it” that is the statement I can remember my grandmother saying the day I first complained to her about my size. I was only 10 and I know she said that good-naturedly. I can’t even blame her because in most respect she spoke the truth. I am fourth generation to an African family of over sized queens and proud of it. The queen bit, anyway. By the time I turned 18, I was known in my community as Pumpkin. Being overweight wasn’t so bad; the thing is I couldn’t seem to make any friends. Maybe I was too reserved or just unfriendly; whatever the reason I was alone in my life up till about 22. Anyway, I am still no miss social but now among the sprinkling of friends I have, I’ve got my laptop. She is the pathway to meet my best friend, the internet. The web has for many years been my companion and confidant, she provides entertainment, fun and education all in one beautiful, anonymous package and then she went ahead to betray me, in the worst way possible

In my mind I seek solace, in my heart I search for refuge  Not from where I came from, not in where am going forth For in that strange land, in that beckoning realm,  Welcome is as uncertain as finding a patch of dry earth, in a rainy day. A refugee I am termed politically, an alien thought of amusingly  a burden considered annoyingly, but the state is not a choice the title not a heritage, for it could be anyone, it could be everyone. Atrocities, desolation, chaos a pushing force Peace, serenity, a pulling energy Stuck in the middle I am, Neither wanted at home nor welcomed abroad. So in the recesses of my being I find my own In the center of it all, I meet my doom For whence does my help come from? So long as I feel the sun, as much as the wind blows my way I know I breathe! And in breathe therein life lives and thus hope continues plus out there, a special few remain in whose bosom my heavy head could rest whose bounty is for all

At the edge of the Kalahari Desert On the arid African soil, stands A small distant village setup From its bellies belching out   Women of all ages, bodies of all sizes In search of life’s sustenance Clustered, flocking towards the stream Saddled with calabashes, covered with wraps Onward they go, the water they search With songs of old, singing they stride As happy as can be, being with sisters Thump, thump they walk, la la they sing Blissful as can be, joined in union. An excuse, a reason to be ties- free   Water they search, marching they go As free as can be, as lovely as you see Chap, chap they march, Ha!ha!ha! they laugh For things that can and those that will be An opportunity, a need to belong A flee from duty, an escape from reality An absence from pressure, A relief from culture Swish, swish they swim, Knowing all the while The very short time they have A flight from traditional husbands A rest from unending cho

Africa in some cases seems to have dodged the worst of the global warming. Cameroon in particular is thankful to have escaped forest fires and erratic climate changes. Seemingly free from the hazards, the issue of water locked areas in most areas of Douala, the economic capital of Cameroon is being regarded with an air of mystic. Strange and peculiar things happening, reclaimed areas suddenly feeling up with water only at night, still dark waters swallowing up unsuspecting children never to be seen again. To crown all these bizarre incidents, the water flows forth with the colours of hell, dark, sinister and bottomless. The suspicious minds of the Sawa pe ople have come with conspiracy theories about the affair. Some say that it’s a curse from the gods for the crimes of modernity; others allude to it being sent mystically by the terrorist group, Boko Haram. Is this “le marais” as is locally called a curse or a natural occurrence? Is it a biological weapon from Boko Haram or a me

The best times in my childhood were the seasons when my parents took us visiting to my grandmother (Biggy) in the village. She will occupy our evenings by the camp fire with the most amazing tribal stories ever. As I grew bigger and became interest in story telling through creative writing, I always wanted to do it just the way my Biggy did. Believe me that is easier said than done, a lot of the time, the beauty of the tale gets lost in translation. I kept practicing over time and I think I have caught a little of the secret to translate a folktale into an epic write up. Here are 6 principal guidelines that I chant like a mantra in my head when I engage in writing folktales: · It must be based from an actual existing tale: This might seem obvious but a lot of people miss the point. Get a story that has been pass down from generations. It might be myth or real but others should have heard about it or can make connections to it. · Study other documented versions of the story

I think the phrase “if you want to be happy, always be yourself” is so highly overrated. As far back as Eve in her first sin of deceit to Adam, or Delilah with her seduction game to Samson, or the more notorious historical figure of Elizabeth Bathory “the blood countess”. She who claimed to need the blood of innocent girls to stay young, or we can speak on the more modern day Victoria Beckham who kept insisting she has natural boobs to her fans for so long. Let us come home to Africa and put into limelight all those young women who have made the decision to glean happiness from their dreary day to day lives.  Well the above examples could be better considering how most of them met their end, but in their favor they were absolutely certain of the gain at the moments of those monstrous deceits and were happy in the decisions. Women are the kings of charade. Over the centuries, they have mastered the fine art of masquerade to perfection. This could be seen with African mothers teach

Power in possession is like a house pig at a dump No matter how trained, how clean, dirt is always ideal Power suits, ties, and corporate briefcases, eager for a rump Courting, mating, procreating all without an appeal Hopefuls all eager to suit up in the gooey gruesome grub Pledges, speeches, oaths, all made before the communion The cup awaits, frantic, all battling for the broth Drinking, eating while covering treason in layers of onion For the pain to unravel, the pig will surely concede Deep, ducking into the murky pond of the spoils For more were before and much more to proceed We met it like that! The dunk an inherent choice It is clear, put in a sty one will get dirty And out of it, the pig will produce dirt And to dunk in ones dunk, its respect shown at thirty And besides they met it like that, this path of dirt

Years of piled up pain, decades of covert hatred Pages after pages of documented hostile peace treaties Passed on from leaders to lesser, hearts to history books From father to child, the flame of unrest burning Burning up the last vestiges of calm, growing Growing far bigger than the dreams of grandeur of A young, adolescent girl. The melodies of armistice Turning into cacophonies of hate, and hate, Hate is just like a chainsaw awaiting its handler To wield its ferocity through vast forest of humanity Obliterating even the unsuspecting The Blames, the Blight, the Strife, the Strikes Soaking up the hearts, diluting the soul into 'Nanonites of insubstantiality'. The body turn apart Dragged down into turbulent murderous tsunami of treachery Unwilling to change, unprepared to forgive Resting their tush on all the wrongs of yesterday Failing to grow, failing to develop, failing to provide A basic atmosphere of serenity for which the Children of earth could

I used an hour to write this for my first ever online competition, lots of mistakes and also missing a chunk of material due to poor editing. But im so glad i did this. WATCH OUT FOR THE FULL DEVELOPMENT ON THIS STORY. check this website for the short story.... http://corruptionwatchconnected.org/show/my-corruption-free-africa/post/123/needle-guilt--by-ndenge-norah

Do you go along pointing out peoples faults or better still do i? Do we compliment ourselves forgetting the rest? What is sin? Or what is not sin? Picking popular prejudiced sides or thronging with those that do all The right? Traipsing through tunnels of morality all the while mind blocking All that which we have omitted. Why do we keep looking at our reflections in the pool, all the while Only seeing the shadows lurking behind Why do we not see the it in us? choosing to chase out the shadows inside Before running after that which is out? Most at times life is just a rose, we are the ones making weapons out of it. Casting blames when it is possible just to be plain, yes being yes and no is no All that et cetera. We go about faulting colonialism for our underdevelopment, forgetting to t hank slavery for all our strength. Difficult, I know, but one thing to note, We all have sinned Ponder well! you’ll see.

Battle- ready, weapons drawn The children of morality march Not with canon, not with drones Ethics and principles will they launch A fight against corruption A war zone with no boundaries Doctrines of old, the scholars’ option  Purging through all territories Retribution, retribution A bribe taken, an evil spawn A shadow now, a ghost always Fight it! Battle till dawn Corruption the wolves will howl Anti- we all should scream For a plague we must remove Or to dust with all our dreams

The female African cup of nations to be hosted this November, in Cameroon is an event that will bring together people from all walks of life and ethnicity. The cities of Limbe, Douala, and Yaounde will in particular during this period be at its peak in tourism and commerce. Hotels, restaurants, shops and petty traders are in for a business height this year. Cameroon is in for a change and development. Now the tick of the matter for me is not Cameroon per se. I want you, the visitors, to be able to get the most out of your AFCON experience. From lodging to safety, then fun and entertainment. Here are some basic seven tips that could make a world of difference. ·        - Pre planning: Make hotel reservations ahead of time. It’s not just any trip, it’s a trip spurred by an event, and so, many others are also on the roll. To avoid disappointment and uncomfortable lodging arrangements you have to make arrangements ahead of time. There are several hotels that have good offers this se

Years ago she lived and breath Aeons past, on earth she reigned A Southern portion way afar Some strange village she was birth From the gods brought to save the ruined An accord taken binding as tar Victory after victory she brought Never a weapon raised legends say Warriors falling not from fighting Conquest after conquest she hatched Arms relinquished never a gainsay Only standing, only talking A good tale therein lies a hitch Blessed the village, on her a curse The gods gifted, her love demanded Never a mortal should her heart twitch Lest all gained shall all vanquish Eloika an agreement demanded As it is always the circumstance One day he came from across A warrior unaffected by her stature Unconcerned of her beauty and stance Regarding her purpose as dross Yet to him her heart purr’d Desirous were the gods of her heart Fearful were the elders of their fate A haven amassed, a future in doubt For love felt, a cry is

A river crossing the mossy land Its water a dreary murky flow Its depths a bottomless endless hollow From its bed arises an oracles wand To direct the people’s choice To its abyss the herald goes A human as all can see Pressed “nsanja” and a dry tea Walking in his weight on toes To take a message from the gods Dry he delves into the waters Unwet he arises from its pits                 The response a leader seat A calabash sort after From it the successor name The elders sit around waiting For the gods have spoken A leader has been chosen The messenger declaring A new chief to anoint The Heralds   

The crackling and cackling of sticks burning The distant sounds of owls hooting Children, parents attentively listening To the old man quietly speaking Complaints unheard even with insects biting campfire storytelling Shivers unseen with the wind blowing All are sitting with the fire blazing Listening to that old man talking Stories of time past, the future bringing Lores as old as the oroko spilling Tension in all sweetly sweeping Even as the old man is coughing It is the now, the future coming From the campfire, the words whispering For our traditions keep changing But old men will always keep telling

A river crossing the mossy land Its water a dreary murky flow Its depths a bottomless endless hollow From its bed arises an oracles wand To direct the people’s choice To its abyss the herald goes A human as all can see Pressed “nsanja” and a dry tea Walking in his weight on toes To take a message from the gods Dry he delves into the waters Unwet he arises from its pits                 The response a leader seat A calabash sort after From it the successor name The elders sit around waiting For the gods have spoken A leader has been chosen The messenger declaring A new chief to anoint  The Heralds    

The African woman shivers in dread The black mother trembles in pain Plagued by the limitations of her reach Unable to satisfy her hunger Unable to fulfill her desires. Hunger! not just for food nor for water Perishing! not just from famine nor drought Her blatant cry is for knowledge Her deepest pain for liberty For when the food will come And the thirst be satisfied, Where then would she be found?