Imagine yourself out on a very hot and sunny day. You are exhausted, thirsty and sweating. You decide you need to drink cold water, need air conditioner, need to pee and even sit for a while to relax while using a WiFi to surf the internet. But you are out of cash.

There is a bank close to you. What do you do? I bet some banks might start watching out customers who are inside the banking hall not for any real transactions, but to use free facilities. 

Often times I have had to ponder the essence of literature.  Not the words themselves but the genres in which they come. Their forms. 

Tragedy,  Comedy, Science Fiction, Satire; Are all these of benefit to the world we live in OR do they merely entertain. 

And if they merely entertain what value should we place on them. Should we glorify them as we do more honourable works.  Or keep them at a lower pedestal from those that hope to make a point, prove an idea.

How is glory earned? 

Sadly, only a few care about writers, 

Yet many lives are testimonies of their letters.

A word can be as fragile as a bubble, 

Yet strong to lift one out of trouble. 

Many a times I'm on doomed missions,

But words help me make right decisions. 

When I can't think of what I love, 

You write about what I love.

You stir up laughter and smile. 

Your place is with stars in the sky. 

The most valuable of all skills is that of using two or more words to end one's strife.

Words are not enough to tell how your words changed my life.

South East Celebrity Nite is an annual social event designed to bring together, sons and daughters,and also an interactive section for the nite

celebrate sons and daughters of South East origin who have made names in the world of music, comedy, acting, modeling and athletic.
The event will also be a relaxed forum for interaction with the celebrities on Socio-Economic issues for the benefit of the people of South East and their youths in particular. The discussions will revolve around sharing knowledge, experiences, ideas and suggestions in developing and enhancing progress on entertainment business for our youths. This type of interactive section will sharpen skills, encourage and build confidence in the upcoming entertainers because they have heard directly from their brothers and sisters who had undergone the same struggle on their way to the top.
The South east Celebrity Nite is slated to hold at Crown Tent Hall, Nike Lake Resort Hotel, Enugu on November 6, 2015. The event will be most exclusive and high profile night for top celebrities and special invited guests. Coming Soon........50% Loading

This book published in 1975 by Danish writer, teacher and psychotherapist Per Holm Knudsen was an object of social media ridicule some days back. How can you teach a kid how a baby is made? Well, the book has gone viral and according to reports, How a Baby is Made book is sold for more than $600 per copy on Amazon US now and over £1000 on Amazon UK

Find the book review here http://9jabooks.com/books/?id=31

Chinua Achebe, who died in Boston today at the age of eighty-two, was a few weeks shy of thirty years old when Nigeria was granted independence from the British Empire, on October 1, 1960, and he was already acclaimed, worldwide, as the preëminent novelist of black Africa. The British publisher Heinemann had brought out Achebe's first novel, Things Fall Apart, only two years earlier, and it had to have been the first African novel that many of his admirers on the continent and off had read. The sure tragedian's authority with which Achebe tells the story of Okonkwo, an Igbo elder of immense strength and pride, a figure of heroic qualities within the traditions of his culture, who is ill-served, brought low, and undone by those same qualities in his first violent encounters with colonial power, has ensured that still today, with more than ten million copies sold, Things Fall Apart remains the best-known work of African literature.
The great African novel? The book could as truly be called a great novel, period. Many writers would prefer to carry that badge of universality, but Achebe who has gone to his grave without ever receiving the Nobel Prize he deserved as much as any novelist of his era has said that to be called simply a writer, rather than an African writer, is a statement of defeat. Why? Because his project has always been to resist emphatically the notion that African identity must be erased as a prerequisite to being called civilized. Growing up as what he called a British-protected child in the colonial order, the young writer came to see that the Empire's claim that Africans had no history was a violent, if at times ignorant or unconscious, counter-factual effort to annihilate the history of his continent's peoples.
Achebe made his case in many forms essays and lectures, interviews and acts of protest, and as an ideologue and propagandist for the failed Igbo-nationalist secessionist state of Biafra but he made it most cogently on the final page of Things Fall Apart. With the reader in the full emotional grip of the many dimensions of Okonkwo's epic fate, the author boldly and deftly adds another, shifting to the perspective of a colonial governor who considers Okonkwo's story good material perhaps not a whole chapter but a reasonable paragraph for the book he is planning to write:  The Pacification of the Primitive Tribes of the Lower Niger.
Having, with his first effort, created a permanent place for the African novel in the world literary canon, Achebe continued to be a prolific imaginative writer, producing novels and stories that evoked, in a range of voices, the trials of Nigeria's pre-colonial and colonial history, and the traumas of its post-independence ordeals: from No Longer at Ease and A Man of the People in the sixties to Girls at War and Anthills of the Savannah in the aftermath of the Biafran war. But the fact that he must be remembered as not only the father but the godfather of modern African literature owes at least as much to the decades he spent as the editor of Heinemann's African Writers Series. In that capacity, Achebe served as the discoverer, mentor, patron, and presenter-to-the-world of so many of the now-classic African authors of the latter half of the twentieth century. The series's orange-spined, generously inexpensive paperbacks carried a stamp of excellence that drew readers everywhere to essential works by writers as varied as Kenneth Kaunda, Ngugi wa Thiong'o, Dennis Brutus, Tayeb Salih, Léopold Sédar Senghor, Ousmane Sembène, Wole Soyinka, and Nadine Gordimer, to name but a few: it is an extraordinary legacy.
As a storyteller, as a voice of his nation, as a cultural impresario, an intellectual combatant and provocateur, Achebe gained with age the status in Nigeria of a bard and a sage that the modern world rarely affords to writers. After suffering terrible injuries in a car crash, he spent much of his time in the last decades of his life in America, where he settled into long-term professorships at Bard College and Brown University. But when he returned to Nigeria he was received as a national hero. Crowds of thousands sometimes tens of thousands gathered to pay tribute to him. The adoration hardly softened him, though. He was, in his old age, as much a scold to his compatriots as he had ever been in his youth.
I met Achebe a few times in his wheelchair-bound American years. When he gave you his hand it was at once firm and soft and notably warm. He had a gentle presence a man fully capable of wit and mischief and open laughter, but whose default expression, at ease, was one of sympathetic melancholy. His voice was another matter: low-pitched and rich and adamant. When he spoke, it was with great command and unmistakable music. In Boston, in 1999, at a celebration of the centennial of Ernest Hemingway s birth, I had the honor of sitting on a panel with Achebe, on the subject of writing about Africa. He was as cogently withering about Hemingway's Africa a place he could not recognize because there were no speaking Africans there as he was, in one of his most famous essays, about Joseph Conrad s. At the end of the session, the floor was opened to questions. An evidently confused woman in the audience took the opportunity to ask In what sense are you writers about Africa? The other panelists Nadine Gordimer and Kwame Anthony Appiah were too baffled to respond. Not Achebe. He leaned into his microphone, and very slowly and melodically, with rolling Rs and drawn out Os, roared: Read. Our. Books. The woman said, But I'm asking you. And Achebe said, I'm telling you: Read. Our. Books. 
What better epitaph for the man, and what better way to remember him today: read his books.