Call For Submission: AFAS REVIEW

Having taken cognizance of the need to give room for widespread inclusion of creative works in our annual publication, Association of Faculty of Arts Students, University of Ibadan is delighted to announce the call for submissions for the maiden edition of AFAS Review. This deviation from the norm – a turn-away from the Image Magazine – is geared towards creating a viable platform for the integration of works by writers/artists within and outside the university community.
The following categories are open to submissions:
Prose – essays, short stories and flash fictions not exceeding 2,000 words.
Poetry – a maximum of 3 poems per submission.
Drama – a brief satire not exceeding 2,500 words.
Artworks/photographs – visuals (in high resolution) portraying nature and traditional values.
Guidelines
There are no fixed themes. However, entrants should endeavor to explore relevant subject-matter.
Submissions are open to writers/artists from all parts of the world.
All submissions must be original, intellectual property of the entrants.
Submissions should be accompanied with a biography (not more than 100 words) and contact details of the entrant.
All entrants must be submitted via email to afasreview@gmai l.com with the subject – AFAS REVIEW.
Submission Deadline: 8th September, 2016
Selected entrants will receive a copy of the publication.
Kolade Olanrewaju Freedom
For: AFAS Review Committee
Signed:
Akubueze Chidiebere
Director of information, AFAS.

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THE IMPACT OF LITERATURE ON THE CONTEMPORARY SOCIETY – by Ayoola Goodness Olanrewaju @ Chrysolite Week 2016

“Literature is the breath of the soul, it is the embodiment of the imagination of the heart.” Samuel Amazing Ayoade BlazingPen
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Thank you Sir Samuel Ayoade
I will like to welcome all and also to express my unreserved appreciation for this extended privilege to lead the discussion tonight. I say thank you.
Our discussion on this tonight is to serve as a reminder and also to bring up into our consciousness the whole essence of literature as we continue to exercise our intellectual qualities in this area.
To begin with, the topic we are examining is ‘The impact of Literature on the Contemporary Society and of course, we all know this is not new in the discussions in the literary world.
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Literature as we all know is a mirror of life. In other words, it is considered to be a reflection of life. One major thing that we need to also understand here is that there is a deep connectivity between literature and the society. They are inseparable.
It is an avenue whereby the society heals itself from its many flaws. Of course, it is not disputable that we can also say that society has an impact on literature. What I mean by this is that, one cannot actually bring up a literature without finding such stimulus being triggered by, let us say, an event in the society.
From this, we can say literature is by a means where the activities of a society are checked to be properly positioned.
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The impact of literature on the society cannot be overemphasized.Some of the impacts are in terms of entertainment (Where boredom is escaped from), education ( where illiteracy is fought into fades), didactic ( Where moral consciousness is built), provocative (where our human intellectualityand reasoning are stimulated) and a host of others.
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In my own reasoning and to further on this discussion, I am of the opinion that the impact of literature on the society can be either positive or negative. This brings us to what is sieved from the literature (books and the likes) that the society consumes.
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To be candid, a large number of people tend to take out on the negatives in the presentations of literature in our society of today. They are often found out given to the negative insights that are condemned in a piece of writing. Does this means that the purpose of literature is flawed? Does this means that literature has failed in its essence? Or we begin to doubt if literature is even a panacea for what is considered abnormal in the society?
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For literature , in the actual sense, to have positive impacts on the society, there is need to emphasize on good literature. Of course, good literature, because nowadays there are bad literature just everywhere pulling high numbers of attractions and contending with the good. Every literature or literary creativity extended to the society must communicate truth infused with moral purpose. That is when literature can be what it is originally intended for. There is also the need for our society to get orientated on the positive effect of literature.
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On a final note, through literature a society is renewed. The onus is now on us to make it a conscious and continual duty to steer more of our literary expressions and creativity toward the sustenance of sanity in the society in the areas of general life experiences and encounters, the crave for change in political orientations, the crave for the world of peace and love and in the uplift of our cultural inheritance and prestige.
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Ayoola Goodness, 2016
@ Chrysolite 1st Year Anniversary, August 21, 2016

The Village PalmWine – by Caleb Asset

and the evening came, with the sun hiding under the blanket of the
gloomy sky, like every other evening
in August. The sky had fallen, leaving behind her
dirty tears where gentle strides imprint
themselves on muddy earth. I found my place
with others seating on bamboo-made benches,
clinging to gourds under the unbrellas of an
almond tree. The sweetness of the palm-wine
cast her shadows on the lousy lips of drunks
around me.
Earlier, i had driven to my hometown Emede for
my mothers funeral. With friends and invitees
gone, i decides to pass the night there. but the unending tales of my
illiterate old uncles whose teeth has be smeared with kolanut couldn’t
make me think straight. so I begged to take  a stroll and find my way
to the palmwine joint.
I had made myself comfortable with six or seven
gourds of daybreak palmwine, feeling the thrill of
her intoxicating nudity, when a fat lady stealth
from behind, pance on her husband who had just
made himself comfortable with the romance of
the wine. Her strokes painted pictures of bright
brown bruises on his flesh. Her strenght and
curse made the wines go sour as he finally got a
chance to escape from the claws of his wife. in tears, he managed to
run away and his wife followed suit with threats pouring from her
tongue.
Domestic abuse on men is something i cant
bear. As laughter and gospel of the previous
scene filled the air, i was soarked with fury and i shouted in anger to a dirty
young girl on dreadlocks staring at me. I spat in
front of her and told her how dirty she looks. I
bathe her with scores of words of insult to
impress all observers. I intentionally used all the grammar i have in
my vocabulary. By the time i was through,
everyone has disappear from the csence to my surprise except for her,
staring blankly at me. I decides to return home while it
was midnight.
On arrival, i fell on my sofa and snore beautifully.
The snore must have woke me up and the crowd
gathering around me is a sign that troubles has
tied themselves tightly to my trouser.
I had mistaken my mom’s mud house for a
hunter’s hut, falls on his bed beside his wife who
also had mistaken me for her husband that night. He return
home early in the morning from the bush, seen
us wrapped in each others arms and has called
to everyone awake to come and bear witness to
the abomination cause by the village palm wine. of course, nothing
happened between us. My hands were only wrapped around her waste and
she reciprocate.
They drag me speechlessly to the shrine of
‘Onio-Ise’, the goddess of Emede, to pass
judgement on me. At that moment, I wished i had stayed with my uncles
last night to bathe in the thrill of their tales. but it was too late.
On arrival, we patiently wait
for the Priestess to excuse or accuse my actions.
A couple of minute crawl by, and she finally came dressed in read
garment beaded with white cowries. she stare at me with an air of
familiarity, and as i raise my face to
look at her, behold! She was the same girl on
dirty dreadlocks, on whose face i have heap
coals of insult under the influence of the village
palm wine.

CHRYSOLITE SHORT STORY CONTEST (CSSC001)

Chrysolite Writerz Nigeria is calling for entries on the theme “SACRIFICE” to commemorate Samuel Amazing Ayoade’s 12 Years of writing and 6 Years of Poetry.
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*Submission should not be more than 2500 words.
*Send as attachment to chrysowrite@gmail.com with the subject line as CSSC001 and your short biography in the body of the mail.
*Winning entry shall be screenplayed and the winner shall co-write a play with Samuel Ayoade.
*All top 3 entries gets a 2month online publishing contract.
*Entry closes JUNE 20.

Chronicles Of Sandra by Samuel Ayoade

Sandra broke into tears. I tried to console her but to no avail as she sobbed even more, the harder I tried.

She was the lonely maltreated girl that lived next door. I knew her father and mother so well. Even if I didn’t, I thought I did. I just liked her, the natural liking anyway. She has a stature smaller than her age. It was lately that I noticed a kind of ‘rapid development’ you’d expect to see in a girl at puberty, but she’s just 14.

“Sandra,” I called to her with my arms around her shoulder through her neck to her other arm.

“Please stop this. Stop crying. What’s the matter?” I asked.

She put my arm away and drew two steps from me. Facing the corridor wall, she stooped low with her head tucked between her thighs.

“Sandra, please talk to me, I can’t watch you do like this.” I drew closer to her as those words eloped from my confused lips.

I bent low over her, “Sandra, where is mother?” I actually meant to say Mummy.

The sobbing stopped. Good one. At least I succeeded in this attempt. Then she looked straight at the wall, and again raised her angle of elevation to make a 180o direct contact with my eyes, high above hers. Then, I noticed that stern look.

Thoughts ran through my head. Could I have hurt her? She had never looked into  my eyes that way before.

“San…”

Then she cut in, “You asked for mother.”

“Yes, I mean your mum. Is she home?”

“You don’t know her, you’ve never seen her.” She concluded, still staring at me.

It was more of unbelief than confusion to me. I saw her last evening. She called at my house to check for almonds – she so loved almonds.

“Clara is not my mother.” Her eyes brightened up as she said those words. I saw something in her eye balls that spelt desperation just like when a lion sees its prey. That would be the first time I would hear her supposed mother’s name, and probably the last.

“Mother was gone seven years ago. We were still in the village.”

Was gone? Who even cares about grammatical structure in this case?

“She went where?” I managed to ask.

“She died.” She replied. This time, the tears were returning to her eyes.

“She died of Chronic Pneumonia according to Doctor’s diagnose.” She actually meant Doctor’s diagnosis.

“That time,” she continued, “father did not have money, we lived in a hut. We slept on bare floor; we couldn’t even afford a mat. And the hut was close to the river in our village.”

My mouth was a-gap. The Sandra I knew had a multimillionaire as a father. I gave my face a wipe to really check myself of any sleeping pill I might be on, but it wasn’t a dream.

“Doctor said cold caused her sickness.” She continued, “It was when father could no longer buy her drugs that she died.”

“So, how did you get to the city?” I summoned the courage to ask the girl with the bitter experiences or should I say, experiments; not knowing I was about to taste of the most acrid part of the apple.

“Father sold all our properties, including the hut, after mother died. It was I and him alone. With the money he got from the sales, we came to the city where father served as a house-guard for two years. I lived in the boy’s quarters of the house with him.”

My heart melted within me, my eyes went teary. I could no longer stand it. My knuckles shook and I stooped low to join her on the bare floor as she continued,

“It was after this that father started his own business which everyone now sees.”

“Then, who is Madam?” I queried.

“Madam? You mean Clara?” She retorted and I nodded an affirmation.

“Father married her.”

“She is a mother to you then.” I concluded

“No! No!” She barked, “Clara is not my mother. She hates me and I hate her too. There are days I don’t sleep but cry all night from body pains. She doesn’t give me food, only when father is back from office. I do all the house chores while she sits in the house all day. I hate her.” She spew those words like a drunkard.

“Sandra, you are not to hate anyone, however you are treated.”

“Uncle.”

“Yes.”

“What if they hate you first?”

My lips shook at that, but I tried to mutter these bitter words, “Love all and pray for all, even your enemies.” Funny me.

“What if they want to kill you?”

At that, there were no more sermons on my lips, no more words in my tongue. My salivary gland went dry.

“Uncle, talk to me. Am I ugly?” She enquired.

I looked into her inquisitive eyes like one trying to count the un-numbered stars on a bright moon-night. I wondered and pondered on what beauty and ugliness has to do with the current topic of discourse. But, I knew she was beautiful, pretty and…

I had lost my tongue and vocal cords to astonishment. All I could do was stare, keep my gaze straight on her on her inquisitive eyes that displayed eagerness and confusion amidst its many reflections. So, I saw the bright eyes, the pointed nose, the oval shaped fairly complexioned smooth face, the naturally coiled hair, and the the the…

“Jesus! This girl is beautiful. I pray for a kid as this.” I thought I thought within myself.

“Uncle! Am I beautiful? You just said it.” She responded to my ‘thought’.

Oh my God! So, I actually said those words. Or, how did she get to know my thoughts?

“But Clara said I’m ugly. She lies against me to gain father’s favour, so father could punish me.”

The sun’s reflection went down on us and the corridor became darker. I thought I saw something on the corridor wall like the shape of a woman or a mermaid, the jewel of the sea. The wall suddenly became blood-soaked and the soaked area looked like a woman. I noticed her particular gaze on Sandra and I can still remember the beautiful smiles of the wall. Don’t be surprised, walls do laugh!

My trance was cut short when Sandra touched my hands and said, “Don’t cry for me Uncle.” The soft tone in her voice got my heart pierced the more, this time with a dagger and not a sword. I shifted my gaze to her and held her hands.

I was sure she didn’t see the drawing on the wall.

“Sandra, I’m not crying. What did Mama look like?”

Still holding her hands, she looked away towards the compound’s exit gate as she muttered the response, “She looked like this: fat, of average height, fair in complexion, nice and kind, loving and caring. That’s all. And always smiling too.”

That made me understand that I saw her mum in the wall few minutes back.

“Sandra,” “Look into my eyes,” I was emotionally broken though, but I feigned a counsellor, “You can make it, Sandra.”

Her countenance changed that instant, like one who had just lost his possessions to theft. I felt her hands melting out of mine like an iceberg in a furnace. So, I let go.

“What’s wrong Sandra? Don’t you believe you can?” I made my amazement known.

“Not anymore Uncle, I don’t think I can.” The last word managed to elope before she started the cry again.

I drew nearer, holding her bending shoulders high.

“Talk to me Sandra. What makes you cry?”

“Uncle, it’s… it’s Uncle Joseph.” The words struggled out of her lungs.

I knew Joseph, he lived next street, I’m only a year older than he was. How could he have hurt this little girl?

“What about him? Did he make a promise which he failed to fulfil?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“On days when Clara beat me up and send me out, I go to Uncle Joseph’s house across the street. We would play together before father comes back. But yesterday…”

Like her breath failed, she stopped. What happened yesterday?

“He beat you?”

“No.”

The evening sun was still fading and darkness was hovering the face of the deep, and covering the surface of the heart too. I knew her father would soon be back from work, and then the case would be settled. She loved her father. But, what happened yesterday?

“He stroked my hairs, like he always did. He said he loved my natural coiled hair… Then he robbed his hands on me, my hands, arms, necks and legs too…  I wanted to flee, but I was weaker than his strength. So, so, so, he, he, he, he, s…..” Sandra’s tongue began a stutter and she broke into tears again.

By then, I had known what happened. Shit!

I had always known mighty Joe to be suave. But this innocent little girl too?

“I can’t become great in life again. Am I pregnant, Uncle?”

“No.” I said. How did I know? And how am I supposed to know? Or what should I have said but to console her that all hope wasn’t lost. She could still make it.

This was six months before she was announced dead from complications from a sexually transmitted infection and premature child delivery. What a bitter chronicle and pathetic end. My heart failed me on hearing the sad news.

Ah! Mighty Joe!

#CHILDHERO Short Story Contest – CHRONICLES OF SANDRA by Samuel Amazing Ayoade . peregrinereads.org/childhero-contest-chronicles-of-sandra-by-samuel-amazing-ayoade/


Please, save a writer…
peregrinereads.org/childhero-contest-chronicles-of-sandra-by-samuel-amazing-ayoade/
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Please follow the link above to vote (by commenting below the story) for Samuel Amazing Ayoade Blazing Pen… your vote counts. Simply stroll down and comment on the story…. Save a life.
CHRONICLES OF SANDRA by Samuel Amazing Ayoade.
Thanks in advance.
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And to all who have already cast their vote of comments. God bless you.