The Writings of Norah

Dirt roads whining through towns and villages... Economy plagued with thieves and pillagers.. Infrastructures a thing of memory.. Charity lost in treasury. .. Please can  I give my country for yours? Medicine ancient as ...discovery a novelty ..development a tragedy   It's only in my country you die with a doctor and no cause of death  I am begging ...please can I change my country for yours? A child is silenced at birth...  a teenager wagered to death.. a mother triggered to suffering. ... Please!! I say again...can I change my country for yours Youths left to hunger ..old men to nostalgia... Fat bellied politicians hovering all over... Guilt covered officials parading freely... Ooh please my friend!! can I change my country for yours?

“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