laplace12:


Nope.

Rather her self-confidence crashed into your insecurity.

Vickybee:

My nemesis, you say? Actually, i am the same as "Vickyyb" but the account has been deactivated and you weren't a threat to me. No guy on this earth can ever be.

You were just an inconsequential tiny sadomasochist seeking for an attention of female Nairalanders.


You are beneath my class and don't expect me to start spewing drivels with a dolt like you, little monsieur.

TheSonOfMark:


I ask once again :how on God's green earth were you (supposedly) offered admission when your command of the anglo lingua is this poor? The highlighted phrase, amongst several others, definitely confirms my earlier assertion that silly, featherbrained females are ubiquitous on Nairaland.

crackhaus:

Cool off Vicky.

Vickybee:

Crack, I'll start being a good girl towards Nairaland guys.

TheSonOfMark:


No, she shouldn't. I'll push her till she deactivates her "Vickybee" account like she did to her "Vickyyb" account, trust me.

Eventually she'll call on the mods ,like a sissy that she is, to come rescue her by banning me. That certainly wouldn't deter me.

crackhaus:

It's not that serious bro

It is the Americans you blame as you struggle to craft a response to Ngozi that sounds neither bitter nor desperate; ‘something funny’ your friend said, so people would be left with no doubt about your maturity and sense of humour. You blame the Americans for organizing that workshop and putting you on the guest list where you first met Ngozi. This is what the Americans have often been guilty of: causing wars through third parties and standing back, claiming ignorance of roots and beginnings. They made you meet Ngozi. They made you love Ngozi.

This is what the love of Ngozi meant: that you ignored pride and your status as a local champion from a small town who had been told by some well meaning but not so literary friends that you didn’t need any workshop- you applied for her ten day workshop. Ten days where you could listen to her speak and stare into her big brown glassy eyes, her skin smooth like flat milk chocolate. Where you could see a shimmer as light bounced off her forehead, a sparkle as light bounced off her eyes. You imagined her skin in terms of taste. You thought it would have the consistency of small cocoyams, the ones that overcook a little in between the big hard ones, the ones that slide out of their skins when held with a little pressure with the tips of one’s fingers. It is not something you would have admitted to anyone, especially not after you discovered she was married to a handsome doctor-man. You imagined he did sixty push-ups every morning and spent an hour after work every day at the gym. Your man boobs would not even let you entertain the thought of eating small cocoyams. Not around this hunk of a husband.

This is what the love of Ngozi meant: that even when she sent you a nasty manhood-shrinking email about you tweeting negative things about natural hair –an email that shocked you because you did not read or realize she had just announced to the world that hair was political- you sent her three even more manhood-shrinking replies, first denials, then explanations, then begging and groveling in ways you would never admit to anyone whose respect you still desired. She ignored it all. The cocoyam’s skin would not come off. Not with the hot boiling water of manhood-shrinking pleas. Not with requests for intercession to a mutual friend who simply laughed at you on twitter.

This is what the love of Ngozi meant: that you remembered that she passed your stories to someone who thought they were good in New York and wanted to speak further, to see if you could make those stories into a novel. You remembered that and let it re-inflate your manhood. You erased words like: I am disappointed in you. It didn’t matter anymore. She was a small cooked cocoyam again, even if she wasn’t talking to you anymore. The love of Ngozi meant you swallowed your cocoyam in silence and didn’t send back an email saying, Ngozi, you are too big for this, this is beneath you.

She sends you a two line mail many weeks after you are nominated for a literary prize. It makes you sad instead of happy: it dries out the cocoyam in your mouth instead of adding palm oil to it. You cannot swallow. The second line is a phrase: ‘Very well deserved’. This is not how she speaks to you, not in brief impersonal phrases that could have been sent by a secretary. Not phrases that you later found out were sent to another person who was shortlisted, without editing. It brought back that manhood-shrinking feeling when you learnt. Some words of congratulations feel like warm spit in the face instead of a gentle pat on the back. Still, this is what the love of Ngozi meant: that you found your own palm oil to lubricate the drying cocoyam in your mouth and only complained to a few friends you thought could understand.

Your name ends up in the Boston Review where she gives an interview about race and her new book- the first page of which you have read and like very much. She sounds irritated when they ask her about the prize you were shortlisted for, which she too was once shortlisted for. She calls the prize over-privileged. She mentions your name and says that although you are her boy, and she has not quite bothered to read your work, you have not made the shortlist of ten best African fiction writers domiciled in her mailbox. You would have sent her an email to ask why. Or even joked about it. But she no longer reads or replies your emails. There is no palm oil left for this cocoyam. The cocoyam dries in your mouth. This is the first time you think of it- how silly this cocoyam analogy is. You spit it out, the cocoyam. This is the consequence of loving Ngozi: you get free publicity in the Boston Review

Vickybee:

My nemesis, you say? Actually, i am the same as "Vickyyb" but the account has been deactivated and you weren't a threat to me. No guy on this earth can ever be.

You were just an inconsequential tiny sadomasochist seeking for attention of female Nairalanders.

You are beneath my class and don't expect me to start spewing drivels with a dolt like you, little monsieur.

Vickybee:

Yes!

AB: I would love to ask you about the Caine Prize. I find it interesting that so many Nigerians are on the short list this year—that it’s four Nigerians out of five . . .

CA: Umm, why is that a problem? Watch it.

AB: Well, none of them are you!

CA: Elnathan was one of my boys in my workshop. But what’s all this over-privileging of the Caine Prize, anyway? I don’t want to talk about the Caine Prize, really. I suppose it’s a good thing, but for me it’s not the arbiter of the best fiction in Africa. It’s never been. I know that Chinelo is on the short list, too. But I haven’t even read the stories—I’m just not very interested. I don’t go the Caine Prize to look for the best in African fiction.

AB: Where do you go?

CA: I go to my mailbox, where my workshop people send me their stories. I could give you a list of ten—mostly in Nigeria—writers who I think are very good. They’re not on the Caine Prize short list.

Also, you do realize that Nigeria is the most populous country, and we have a crazy, chauvinistic nationalism. So when you say anything bad about Nigeria, we attack you, but when we all go back to Nigeria, we attack each other. That’s how it works. We’re very happy that there are four. Actually, we think all the people on the short list should be Nigerians, because we are born with the natural arrogance of the Nigerians. Of course, what’s wonderful is that there’s nothing to be arrogant about. Nigerians feel very superior to Ghana, for example, but then you go to Accra, and Accra actually works [laughs].

Who’s the other Nigerian on the short list? There’s Chinelo and Elnathan but I don’t know who the others are.

Misogynist2014:
How can someone in her right mind call a fellow human 'boy'?! She must be very silly. Her billions worth of property and trillions of fans have gone into her beautiful and One in a million brain.

hifaif:


TheSonOfMark is an intellectual wizard. Dude is in a class of his own. Better don't mess with him. And try and leave CLASS out of your arguments. It is becoming commonplace.

Anyway, how is the day going for you?

repogirl:
I'm guessing you live in the same house with her to know that she cooks for.her hubby and they make love later.

What makes you believe she doesn't practice what she goes on about all the time? Are you saying she is a fraud? What gives you the right to even make this sort of conclusion on her behalf?

Chimamanda to me always comes off as an 'I too know', she forms an opinion of something and that's the right thing, anything else is wrong. She is quick to speak without considering what she says might come off as offensive or not entirely truthful or properly researched.

She is a hopeless cynic and proud also, probably because of her achievements, she needs to take care with her approach and most importantly her words and should just stop being a 'know it all' already.

Elnathan might have been wrong but she sort of pushed him to it, I don't care how she explains it here but she had it coming. I read that whole article on her disagreement with the caine's writers prize thingy and could clearly see her pride and cynicism in it's full glory.

Anyway, why do I care sef?

TheSonOfMark:


Ofcourse you wouldn't. Judging from comments like yours, identifying the infamous ubiquity of featherbrained gyno-humanoids such as yourself is a stroll in a park.

IamTerra:
choi! Ima chop kiss stewpid gyal lol and to think I left uyo to we for go Kilimanjaro lol

TheSonOfMark:



Thanks for the compliment, monsieur.


I guess the petite simpleton should just admit she has androphobia instead ranting on about feminism. Humour me but such females usually end up as playthings in our beds.

laplace12:


I studied mechanical engineering.

And you?

My big time role model.

One, out of many things that's synonymous with both of us is that we fear no man.