Ruyi's World of Books & Stories

One develops a sharper sense of shame reading these semi-literate tirades shared as criticism of the NLNG-sponsored $100,000 Prize for Literature. One is ashamed not because of the quality of thinking exhibited by these self-identified writers, but by the atrocious grasp of grammar revealed in pretending to decide what is and isn't great writing. If, as a writer, you are incapable of producing decent sentence or coherent criteria in measuring the Art of your "fellow writers," shouldn't you be more concerned about that deficiency? It's ironic that you find it convenient to ridicule others for poor-quality production when you are the actual victim. Unfortunately, some of these entitled clowns and bitter failures masquerading as literary purists and critics, are only reacting to the absence of their friends and mentors in the grand contest. It's a proxy war the puppets clearly don't get. If your literary gods fail to make the long-list, or now the s...

Human traffic was heavy on this fateful Friday evening. It was one of the busiest bus-stops on the Lagos Badagry express way. I had alighted from a bus to board another one that would take me to my destination. Tired of standing at a spot, I decided to move forward a little closer to where the road leads to Egbeda. I was at Iyanaba to be precise. A bedraggled young man was in the crowd. He had a criminal look on his face. That caught my interest. He was tagging along with a woman with his eyes on her purse. He had a dirty handkerchief in one hand to conceal the activity of the other hand working on the woman's bag. The bag was half opened revealing things that should not be to the public. From my angle, I saw a few one thousand naira notes. They were not crispy like biscuits fresh from the oven but they were spendable. To cut the long story short, the thief succeeded in picking a few notes- maybe three or four. He quickly tucked them inside his wretched pocket and turned r...