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Literature / Re: What are you reading today?
« on: January 12, 2010, 08:36:07 PM »
I just finished with The white Tiger by Aravind Adiga, 2008 Booker prize winner.

It is a debut, and one of the most engaging novels I have read in recent time. It knocked my socks off.
Here is a review from Financial Times.

The White Tiger
Review by Adrian Turpin

The White Tiger
By Aravind Adiga
Atlantic Books £12.99, 321 pages
FT bookshop price: £10.39

Literature has a noble tradition of sympathetic psychopaths. Balram Halwai, protagonist of Aravind Adiga’s impressive first novel, demands admittance to their hall of fame.

On the run after committing murder, Balram spends his nights writing to the Chinese premier, who is about to visit India. His intention is to correct misconceptions about his country. But what he offers is no bloodless sociology lesson. Everything worth knowing about the “new” India is in the story of his life, from village teashop boy to Bangalore entrepreneur.

The White Tiger is a book of two Indias. The first is a country of light, the necklace of relatively prosperous cities near the ocean. The second, into which Balram is born, is “the Darkness”, whose presiding deity is the mud of the Ganges in which little flourishes and from which nothing escapes.

Or almost nothing. For, like the white tiger, Balram is a creature that you might meet once in a lifetime. The son of a rickshaw driver, he defies the expectations of his caste to become chauffeur to a corrupt local landlord. From here, it only needs a little blackmail before he finds his way to Delhi, driving his boss’s son.

Adiga’s portrait of the Indian capital is very funny but unmistakably angry. From his master’s Honda, an increasingly unhinged Balram observes a city riven with status anxiety, where every sparkling new mall hides in its hinterland a flea-bitten market for service staff; every bottle of Johnnie Walker has a bootleg counterpart. Above all, it’s a vision of a society of people complicit in their own servitude: to paraphrase Balram, they are roosters guarding the coop, aware they’re for the chop, yet unwilling to escape.

Ultimately, the tiger refuses to stay caged. Balram’s violent bid for freedom is shocking. What, we’re left to ask, does it make him – just another thug in India’s urban jungle or a revolutionary and idealist? It’s a sign of this book’s quality, as well as of its moral seriousness, that it keeps you guessing to the final page and beyond.
.Copyright The Financial Times Limited 2009. You may share using our article tools

Member Poetry / Re: TWO WEEKS MORE
« on: October 22, 2009, 06:58:42 PM »
THE PULSE really shocks. CRISP and clear , simple but not simplistic. Good.

Member Poetry / Re: Like Myself
« on: October 22, 2009, 06:49:29 PM »
Tabdi jan , This is poetry.

Member Poetry / Re: Love Poems
« on: October 22, 2009, 05:59:38 PM »
Thanks for the encouragement Malam Jibo, muna koyo ne. As for the Hausa way, I am experimenting on something I will post it here soon Insha Allah.

Literature / Re: What are you reading today?
« on: October 17, 2009, 08:53:18 PM »
I am reading KIRAN DESAI's Hullabaloo in the Guava Orchard. It is the delightful story of Sampath Chawla, bored post office clerk and dreamer, who takes to the branches of a secluded guava tree in search of the contemplative life-only to find something rather different...

Desai was born in India in 1971, and was educated in India, England and the United States.Her second novel, The Inheritance of Loss, won the MAN BOOKER PRIZE in 2006 and was shortlisted for the Orange Broadband Prize for Fiction in 2007.

Member Poetry / Love Poems
« on: October 12, 2009, 11:51:30 PM »
As the brightness of your thoughts
Blind my sight

As the echoes of your poems
Awake the sage in me

As fluorescence of your portraits
Haunt me in my dreams

As the benevolence of your smiles
Tickle the mucus of my brain

As the countenance of your sways
Stir passionate fluids in my heart

As the magnificence of your voice
Push me further from the folds of sanity

Your BEING descends
And engulfs my BEING

I shiver, I wail, I laugh and I think

“I will seize her by the neck
Tie unto a stake
Strike her with whips of karangiya*
Mutilate her, maltreat her, malhandle her…

…till she chooses to dance to the rhythm of my beats

(For Sa’adat)

Didn’t the poet
Wear the sight of saints
To see beyond the face of the sun?

Didn’t the poet
Don the garb of mourning
To dance the kiss of death?

Didn’t the poet
Gulp the drink of madness
To  sing the song of songs?

All, for the poetess’s sake?

Is that why
                 He swaggered
                       And crashed
Into the wilderness as dust of dusk?

Could it equally be why?
He was slapped, smashed, chained and hanged
Across the seven stakes
In the Web of Love?


The deafening silence of night
Sharpen the blades that carve
The melodious sounds:
Da sunan rabbu zan fara wakata
Haba waka zan yi gun tauraruwata

By the throw of the lyrical spear:
Tunaninki fa shine abincina
Begenki fa shine ruwanshana

Shiny rays assemble
And permeate through the guarded walls

Furucina nakeyi yau da gaske
Duk a sammai ba abunda ya kaiki haske
Penetrated into the inner recesses of the orb
Softened the subtle fangs
And forced a smile on gloomy face

The lovely chants
Like a hoppy jump
Into a stagnant pond
Stirred rosy ripples
In a lonely heart


I would not mind

If you give me your face

I would not mind to cut to pieces:

Slice off your long pointed nose
Soak it in vanilla ice cream
And swallow it up

I would not mind;

To plant a tulip of poetry
On your lips

Pick up your eyes and paint on them
The poems of my heart

I would not mind;

To sculpt a verse of love on your cheeks
And hang it where it will swing freely in my heart

And the essence of your face
I’ll gather together, bake, smear in honey
And chew as the gum of love

Then I’ll rise through the pillars of bliss, fed with love
And chant Ayyuruuruiii *
Or does that sound odd?

I would not mind
If you will give me your face

Even if you have to cut it
Off your head with a blade
As long as that blade,
Is the sharpest blade of love

I would not mind
I would not mind

Literature / Re: Must Read Novels, pls!
« on: October 12, 2009, 11:39:03 PM »
1-THE FAMISHED ROAD, SONGS OF ENCHANTMENT, ASTONINISHG THE GODS, STARBOOK AND TALES OF FREEDOM all by the Nigerian Booker Prize winner BEN OKRI. you can purchase STARBOOK  from his Nigerain publisher Farafina

Tales of Freedom is OKRI's LATEST its narrative style is a mixture of short story and haiku, the japanese poetry form, he called that stokkus Okri is an enigma A MUST READ.

2-MEASURING TIME BY HELON NABILA. Habila hails from Gombe and the has won the Caine prize for African writing and a commonwealth writers prize.Contact his Nigerian publisher(



« on: October 12, 2009, 11:19:38 PM »


The face of Badi’atul Jamal, maiden of pure incense,
mermaid with the tail of the golden fish, lady of the
lavender mist, princess of the light of the skies,
queen plenipotentiary, invader of the hearts of men,
of male demons, of male spirits and androgynous
ghosts poped up before you.

You stared at her. The tongues of your heart protruded
like a chamelion’s, licked her smiles and kissed her
dimples. A silent invisible spear emanated from the
heart of her eyes and pierced through your heart. The
cast iron armour, a protective charm which Audu Baduku, the
half demon , half human, crippled-cobbler
wizard gave you, watched, heplessly as the spear drove
through your heart, with the ease of a needle piercing
a lump of wool. As the spear journeyed through the
labyrinthine corridors of your heart, your
counternance changed. You were surprised: a spear
penetrating through a charm of Audu Baduku, the
interpreter of the language of the invisible spirits,
guardian of the shrine of blood and skulls, the
master,profounder and discoverer of the seventy seven
condensed mediums of sorcery?

Suddenly, tall shadows of soundless winds seized you,
like an motherless chick in the mighty clutches of a
hovering hawk and wheezed you into the past.

"No substance , related , associated, connected to
metals of old and new, past or present, dead or living
shall; even in the turbulence of seas , quakes of
earth, explosion of galaxies, dare, penetrate your
heart." Audu Baduku whispered forcefully , as he
thrust the charm into your hands. His palms felt like
heavy heated magnets.

"Go," he quirked.

As you hurdled out of the twisted stems of the large
baobab tree, the shrine of the wizard; an oasis in the
middle of the sahara , surrounded by seven oceans,
seven wild forests, seven black skies and protected by
seventy seven rows of ihiritus (demons of the seventh
grade), the voice of Audu Baduku rose again and
thundered:"when the wild whispers of the whirling winds nudge
the stubborn eyes to sleep in the invisible
receptacles of the 10th night of the 10th month of the
year of the warring tongues." He paused, inhaled a sea
of air , then spurted: "inhale the incense of
tubarkal, place the charm on your chest and recite in
the language of the spirits of the metals, the dark
alphabet of the black verse from the invisible
chapter of the book of sorcery."

You staggered out of the shrubs like a drunk, swam
across the oceans with the happiness of a dolphin,
charged through the forests like a raging bull and
pierced through the rows of the demons with the
temerity of lightning, carrying about you , a moutain
load of fear, a load as heavy as a bad conscience and
as mighty as the rocks of kwatarkwashi.

You did not sleep that night, you placed the charm on
your palms and stared at it in wonder and awe. How?
You begin to doubt, can this piece of worthless black
wrought iron protect me? But when you remember the
ugly look on Audu Baduku’s face , his red sullen eyes,
which to you resembled that of an ihiritu ( a demon of
the seventh grade, even though you have never seen
one). The frightening faces of lifeless masquerades
and transparent ghosts floating in the atmosphere of
Baduku’s shrine, and the ugly guttural rumblings that
that sent the earth vibrating in the name of
incantations , you became a believer.

Your belief became steady , firm, fixed and
absolutely unflinching when a volcano of voices
erupted with a fast-flowing magma and solidified the
barren fields of your mind.

He outwited Sarkin Bokaye Ayyana; the chief of all
wizards, in a sorcery-duel.

He commands the loyalty of seventy seven thousand
ihiritus (demons of the seventh grade).

He is the inventor of seventy seven sciences of
geomancy, sorcery and wizardry.

He is the father, husband and mentor of Inna the
wretched witch of witches. Inna the sorceress who
sucks up the limps of infants with her affliction ,
shan Inna, the suck of Inna

But now, your belief began to loose it grip and
firmness as the spear drove through the charm . It gave
no pain and there was no blood. You watched as the
charm melted and how the spear began to pierce your
heart. Quickly, you rummaged your pockets, brought out
a plain , light , silver ring. You slut it in your
fingers. You remembered, how the turbulent waves of
black seas splashed against the banks, how the fiery
bolts of lightning flashed haphazardly across the sky,
setting it aflame with glow, how the explosive
rumblings of thunder clapsed like the roar of a
thousand devils, how the howling winds seized your
fingers and tossed them into smokeless fires to burn
for a brief eternity ; a purification rite which
prepared you and made you worthy of being the occupier
of zoben sihiri, the magic ring. The ring which
enables you to commune with Audu Baduku at any given
time. You remembered how the skies growled:

This ring is worthy of only the pound of flesh of
pristine purity.

You caressed the ring, you loved its smoothness. You
admired its essense. You remembered the simple rules
of its use:

Rub your palms on fresh dust

Sprinkle the fresh dust

Blow a fresh breath

Wait for the soundless rumblings of a gigantic thunder
and the invisible haphazard flashes of dark

Then make your wish

And it will be.

You extended your hands down to the floor. Your body
quivered and emitted waves of shock. Your hand was wet
and decorated with mud. The floor was watterlogged.
You bacame disturbed. How do I get fresh dust? As you
ransacked the holes, edges, columns, spaces of the
room for the availability of dust, the face of
Badi’atul Jamal vanished.

You jumped up, tumbled , summersaulted, danced and
cried. A raging madness seized you. Seventy local
wrestlers led by shago, the undefeated champion of
dambe boxing assembled in your medulla oblongata. They
clenched their fists , closed their eyes and locked
their horns in a violent combat. Dan Anace, the
legendary dambe musician cheered them up. The pitch of
his kalangu, talking drum, echoed into the distant
skies. Seventy seven legions of air-kicking , wild,
ingarma horses formed up in the plains of your
cerebrum for a durbar procession.

Your eyes protruded out. You wailed:

How dare she vanish?

But your voice was not heard. It was muffled by large
pangs of pain.

The sword of Barbushe, the sword of Yunfa , the spear
of Da'u fataken dare and the arrow Gogannaka,
all together struck the eye of your brain. You stood
up, shook your body vigorously and spoke unitelligibly
in seven dialects of the language of the silent
ghosts. You bent down on all fours, like a gigantic
spider, and began to crawl, taking giant slow strides
towards the thin, narrow path of contaminated sanity.



Literature / Re: Must Read Novels, pls!
« on: January 26, 2008, 07:01:02 AM »

« on: January 25, 2008, 08:55:16 PM »
As for the dwellers of dala, kano was their ancestor, after him barbushe became the chief priest and leader, let me share a babushe kirari with you
Barbushe ba’a sa  maka  hannu
kowakkira   ka  yakai  gwanki
Barbushe  dan  mutun  dan  aljan
kowat tabaka  yaga  makanta
Barbushe dan  azabar  tahiya
Barbushe  kai  ka gyaran  yatsu
yatsun rabin gidan tsumburbur
na tsumbura mutan  tsololo
Barbushe  dan mutan dan aljan
Barbushe wa mutun ko iblis

« on: January 25, 2008, 08:34:12 PM »

‘Barbushe ba’a sa  maka  hannu
kowakkira   ka  yakai  gwanki
Barbushe  dan  mutun  dan  aljan
kowat tabaka  yaga  makanta
Barbushe dan  azabar  tahiya
Barbushe  kai  ka gyaran  yatsu
yatsun rabin gidan tsumburbur
na tsumbura mutan  tsololo
Barbushe  dan mutan dan aljan
Barbushe wa mutun ko iblis

shin  ko awai takobin barbushe? in akwai shi ti ina yake?

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