On the NLNG Sponsored Prize for Literature by Gimba Kakanda.

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 short-list, it's only because the prize isn't their birthright. And if you're out to caricature the prize, at least enable your brains and come up with critically sound arguments in assessing the crafts. It's possible you're not sufficiently schooled to appreciate a diversity of styles, programmed to see your local champion of a mentor or friend as the standard.

Well, you don't need a book to be a writer, you only need it to be an author. And what's the essence of producing hurriedly-stapled papers that hardly get beyond the shore of your father's or girlfriend's residence?

It's easy to write. I can finish a novel in a month or less, but God has not tasked me with torturing any innocent soul. Don't let the applause in your locality mislead you. Hone your skills, write, rewrite and edit. And even when you are about to declare yourself master of the game, contact a real editor to deflate your ego. Often, a writer is only as good as the dedication of his editors.

One of my model writers Arundathi Roy has, until 2017, only a book. She produced her second book after twenty years. During what you may call her "hiatus," she didn't stop being a writer, she was writing, columns and being human(e) - an activist. She didn't let the Booker Prize hype and her readers' never-ending praises fool her to rush. Her new book is not a disappointment. With just one book, she became a model for your mentors with 15 books and yet known only in their Local Government.

In Nigeria, among my contemporaries, one of my favourite writers is Oris Aigbokhaevbolo. He doesn't have a book. But believe me, it may take your mentor a lifetime to produce a sentence as decent as what this maverick crafts. Whether effortfully or not, at least he writes intelligently. It amuses me that my "non-writer" friends - functioning in banks, hospitals, and state bureaucracy - write better than these self-admitted prolific great writers.

The Perfect Lagosian by Osagie Robert.

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 round to observe if he was being watched. As he turned to go, he saw me and knew I saw what he had done. He flashed a menacing smile at me and uttered some words and waved in acknowledgment. Revealing his teeth suffering from malocclusion and urgently needed the attention of a dentist. At that very moment, I returned an exaggerated smile and muttered, "My guy your cup go soon full!". I had been a perfect Lagosian by minding my own business but I went home feeling sorry.

That night, I could not sleep. My mind kept on replaying the incident and I felt like an accomplice in that petty crime. I was caught up in the middle of two unpleasant situations. She was careless and her loss could make her more careful tomorrow. That is if she learns her lesson. And I hope she does. On the other hand, if the young man had been caught courtesy of me and had probably been killed by mob action, I would never be able to forgive myself. I protected a thief and allowed the lesser evil to be punished. I hope someday he would heed the few words I spoke to him and leave the trade before my prophesy comes to pass.

Women are the victims of this kind of activity. Some of them are not mindful of how they carry their bags. Most women are not security conscious. How would one person tail you from somewhere for about five minutes and get your bag opened without you noticing? That to me is the height of carelessness. I will never walk for two minutes even in a crowd without looking back to observe those around me.

What the eyes don't see, the heart does not grieve after. Be security conscious.