- Forum Clout
- 63,336
-
Reminder: Do not call, text, or mention harrassing someone in real life. Do not encourage it. Do not talk about killing or using violence against anyone, or engaging in any criminal behavior. If it is not an obvious joke even when taken out of context, don't post it. Please report violators.
DMCA, complaints, and other inquiries:
[email protected]
This creep is somehow the only person who cries and wallows in pity but also brags about himself to no end
- Thread starter Torque’sHeadBump
- Start date
G
guest
Guest
His actual token awards have dried up once the cat ladies got bored of him so now he has to settle for self importance derived from feedback from his test readers and friends. Things are going well for Donny.
- Forum Clout
- 37,460
In negroland that's as good as saying, yeah my two writing buddies think I'm the next Shakespeare.
I truly hope the fish van cometh for this crusty coon
I truly hope the fish van cometh for this crusty coon
- Forum Clout
- 16,429
Lol, seriously. "Wow, this is just like.... fuck who's that african writer? Oh yeah, you're just like him." Here's hoping he gets kleenex and allergy pills in his red cross package so he can finish the 20 page story his friends are raving about. Any year now.
- Forum Clout
- 20,305
this nigger's nose is 1/3 of his total body mass.
- Forum Clout
- 23,002
What about the alpha readers?! What do they think?!
- Forum Clout
- 37,460
The existence of Chinua Achebe implies the existence of Cheekua Achebe, Noseua.. Achebe...
- Forum Clout
- 67,630
I'm confused, I thought he's never written a book still, just compiling a bunch of peoples(how is that a thing to get awarded for?)?
Has he finally started really writing something original? Even just on his phone
Has he finally started really writing something original? Even just on his phone
- Forum Clout
- 11,084
I have no idea what the fuck this monkey is saying. He honestly might as well just make a vocaroo of him yelling "OOGA BOOGA OONGA DOOGA" and it would be more coherent.
- Forum Clout
- 76,317
Achebe is by far the most celebrated African author of all time. His book "Things Fall Apart" is read in schools across the country and probably the world. No one is comparing Ooga to him unless they're retarded.
- Forum Clout
- 31,425
This feller's got some nose on him, I tell you hhwhat.
- Forum Clout
- 63,336
Lmao, he was a tenured professor of Literature at Bard, one of the most prestigious liberal arts colleges in America, before going to Brown to be a professor of African Studies (lol). What’s Ooga doing?
- Forum Clout
- 18,145
Comparing him to Achebe is either idiotic or racist. I'd bet money these beta readers are white people who are only drawing the comparison because they are both Nigerian.
Here is the first chapter from Achebes Things fall apart
And here is the first chapter from the short story that Ekpeki wrote for the Dominion anthology that he also edited
One is a tightly constructed and well written chapter that introduces a lot of information with a well balanced mix of exposition and action and it already feels like its dancing on the boundaries of oral storytelling and western literary narrative.
The other is some rambling bullshit about fighting magic dinosaurs that reads like someone describing a movie he thinks would be cool but in a Nigerian accent.
Only a complete cretin or terrible racist could think they are comparable in any way.
Here is the first chapter from Achebes Things fall apart
Okonkwo was well known throughout the nine villages and even beyond. His fame rested on solid personal achievements. As a young man of eighteen he had brought honour to his village by throwing Amalinze the Cat. Amalinze was the great wrestler who for seven years was unbeaten, from Umuofia to Mbaino. He was called the Cat because his back would never touch the earth. It was this man that Okonkwo threw in a fight which the old men agreed was one of the fiercest since the founder of their town engaged a spirit of the wild for seven days and seven nights.
The drums beat and the flutes sang and the spectators held their breath. Amalinze was a wily craftsman, but Okonkwo was as slippery as a fish in water. Every nerve and every muscle stood out on their arms, on their backs and their thighs, and one almost heard them stretching to breaking point. In the end Okonkwo threw the Cat.
That was many years ago, twenty years or more, and during this time Okonkwo's fame had grown like a bush-fire in the harmattan. He was tall and huge, and his bushy eyebrows and wide nose gave him a very severe look. He breathed heavily, and it was said that, when he slept, his wives and children in their houses could hear him breathe. When he walked, his heels hardly touched the ground and he seemed to walk on springs, as if he was going to pounce on somebody. And he did pounce on people quite often. He had a slight stammer and whenever he was angry and could not get his words out quickly enough, he would use his fists. He had no patience with unsuccessful men. He had had no patience with his father.
Unoka, for that was his father's name, had died ten years ago. In his day he was lazy and improvident and was quite incapable of thinking about tomorrow. If any money came his way, and it seldom did, he immediately bought gourds of palm-wine, called round his neighbours and made merry. He always said that whenever he saw a dead man's mouth he saw the folly of not eating what one had in one's lifetime. Unoka was, of course, a debtor, and he owed every neighbour some money, from a few cowries to quite substantial amounts.
He was tall but very thin and had a slight stoop. He wore a haggard and mournful look except when he was drinking or playing on his flute. He was very good on his flute, and his happiest moments were the two or three moons after the harvest when the village musicians brought down their instruments, hung above the fireplace. Unoka would play with them, his face beaming with blessedness and peace. Sometimes another village would ask Unoka's band and their dancing egwugwu to come and stay with them and teach them their tunes. They would go to such hosts for as long as three or four markets, making music and feasting. Unoka loved the good hire and the good fellowship, and he loved this season of the year, when the rains had stopped and the sun rose every morning with dazzling beauty. And it was not too hot either, because the cold and dry harmattan wind was blowing down from the north. Some years the harmattan was very severe and a dense haze hung on the atmosphere. Old men and children would then sit round log fires, warming their bodies. Unoka loved it all, and he loved the first kites that returned with the dry season, and the children who sang songs of welcome to them. He would remember his own childhood, how he had often wandered around looking for a kite sailing leisurely against the blue sky. As soon as he found one he would sing with his whole being, welcoming it back from its long, long journey, and asking it if it had brought home any lengths of cloth.
That was years ago, when he was young. Unoka, the grown-up, was a failure. He was poor and his wife and children had barely enough to eat. People laughed at him because he was a loafer, and they swore never to lend him any more money because he never paid back. But Unoka was such a man that he always succeeded in borrowing more, and piling up his debts.
One day a neighbour called Okoye came in to see him. He was reclining on a mud bed in his hut playing on the flute. He immediately rose and shook hands with Okoye, who then unrolled the goatskin which he carried under his arm, and sat down. Unoka went into an inner room and soon returned with a small wooden disc containing a kola nut, some alligator pepper and a lump of white chalk.
"I have kola," he announced when he sat down, and passed the disc over to his guest.
"Thank you. He who brings kola brings life. But I think you ought to break it," replied Okoye, passing back the disc.
"No, it is for you, I think," and they argued like this for a few moments before Unoka accepted the honour of breaking the kola. Okoye, meanwhile, took the lump of chalk, drew some lines on the floor, and then painted his big toe.
As he broke the kola, Unoka prayed to their ancestors for life and health, and for protection against their enemies. When they had eaten they talked about many things: about the heavy rains which were drowning the yams, about the next ancestral feast and about the impending war with the village of Mbaino. Unoka was never happy when it came to wars. He was in fact a coward and could not bear the sight of blood. And so he changed the subject and talked about music, and his face beamed. He could hear in his mind's ear the blood-stirring and intricate rhythms of the ekwe and the udu and the ogene, and he could hear his own flute weaving in and out of them, decorating them with a colourful and plaintive tune. The total effect was gay and brisk, but if one picked out the flute as it went up and down and then broke up into short snatches, one saw that there was sorrow and grief there.
Okoye was also a musician. He played on the ogene. But he was not a failure like Unoka. He had a large barn full of yams and he had three wives. And now he was going to take the Idemili title, the third highest in the land. It was a very expensive ceremony and he was gathering all his resources together. That was in fact the reason why he had come to see Unoka. He cleared his throat and began: "Thank you for the kola. You may have heard of the title I intend to take shortly."
Having spoken plainly so far, Okoye said the next half a dozen sentences in proverbs. Among the Ibo the art of conversation is regarded very highly, and proverbs are the palm-oil with which words are eaten. Okoye was a great talker and he spoke for a long time, skirting round the subject and then hitting it finally. In short, he was asking Unoka to return the two hundred cowries he had borrowed from him more than two years before. As soon as Unoka understood what his friend was driving at, he burst out laughing. He laughed loud and long and his voice rang out clear as the ogene, and tears stood in his eyes. His visitor was amazed, and sat speechless. At the end, Unoka was able to give an answer between fresh outbursts of mirth.
"Look at that wall," he said, pointing at the far wall of his hut, which was rubbed with red earth so that it shone. "Look at those lines of chalk," and Okoye saw groups of short perpendicular lines drawn in chalk. There were five groups, and the smallest group had ten lines. Unoka had a sense of the dramatic and so he allowed a pause, in which he took a pinch of snuff and sneezed noisily, and then he continued: "Each group there represents a debt to someone, and each stroke is one hundred cowries. You see, I owe that man a thousand cowries. But he has not come to wake me up in the morning for it. I shall pay you, but not today. Our elders say that the sun will shine on those who stand before it shines on those who kneel under them. I shall pay my big debts first." And he took another pinch of snuff, as if that was paying the big debts first. Okoye rolled his goatskin and departed.
When Unoka died he had taken no title at all and he was heavily in debt. Any wonder then that his son Okonkwo was ashamed of him? Fortunately, among these people a man was judged according to his worth and not according to the worth of his father. Okonkwo was clearly cut out for great things. He was still young but he had won fame as the greatest wrestler in the nine villages. He was a wealthy farmer and had two barns full of yams, and had just married his third wife. To crown it all he had taken two titles and had shown incredible prowess in two inter-tribal wars. And so although Okonkwo was still young, he was already one of the greatest men of his time. Age was respected among his people, but achievement was revered. As the elders said, if a child washed his hands he could eat with kings. Okonkwo had clearly washed his hands and so he ate with kings and elders. And that was how he came to look after the doomed lad who was sacrificed to the village of Umuofia by their neighbours to avoid war and bloodshed. The ill-fated lad was called Ikemefuna.
The drums beat and the flutes sang and the spectators held their breath. Amalinze was a wily craftsman, but Okonkwo was as slippery as a fish in water. Every nerve and every muscle stood out on their arms, on their backs and their thighs, and one almost heard them stretching to breaking point. In the end Okonkwo threw the Cat.
That was many years ago, twenty years or more, and during this time Okonkwo's fame had grown like a bush-fire in the harmattan. He was tall and huge, and his bushy eyebrows and wide nose gave him a very severe look. He breathed heavily, and it was said that, when he slept, his wives and children in their houses could hear him breathe. When he walked, his heels hardly touched the ground and he seemed to walk on springs, as if he was going to pounce on somebody. And he did pounce on people quite often. He had a slight stammer and whenever he was angry and could not get his words out quickly enough, he would use his fists. He had no patience with unsuccessful men. He had had no patience with his father.
Unoka, for that was his father's name, had died ten years ago. In his day he was lazy and improvident and was quite incapable of thinking about tomorrow. If any money came his way, and it seldom did, he immediately bought gourds of palm-wine, called round his neighbours and made merry. He always said that whenever he saw a dead man's mouth he saw the folly of not eating what one had in one's lifetime. Unoka was, of course, a debtor, and he owed every neighbour some money, from a few cowries to quite substantial amounts.
He was tall but very thin and had a slight stoop. He wore a haggard and mournful look except when he was drinking or playing on his flute. He was very good on his flute, and his happiest moments were the two or three moons after the harvest when the village musicians brought down their instruments, hung above the fireplace. Unoka would play with them, his face beaming with blessedness and peace. Sometimes another village would ask Unoka's band and their dancing egwugwu to come and stay with them and teach them their tunes. They would go to such hosts for as long as three or four markets, making music and feasting. Unoka loved the good hire and the good fellowship, and he loved this season of the year, when the rains had stopped and the sun rose every morning with dazzling beauty. And it was not too hot either, because the cold and dry harmattan wind was blowing down from the north. Some years the harmattan was very severe and a dense haze hung on the atmosphere. Old men and children would then sit round log fires, warming their bodies. Unoka loved it all, and he loved the first kites that returned with the dry season, and the children who sang songs of welcome to them. He would remember his own childhood, how he had often wandered around looking for a kite sailing leisurely against the blue sky. As soon as he found one he would sing with his whole being, welcoming it back from its long, long journey, and asking it if it had brought home any lengths of cloth.
That was years ago, when he was young. Unoka, the grown-up, was a failure. He was poor and his wife and children had barely enough to eat. People laughed at him because he was a loafer, and they swore never to lend him any more money because he never paid back. But Unoka was such a man that he always succeeded in borrowing more, and piling up his debts.
One day a neighbour called Okoye came in to see him. He was reclining on a mud bed in his hut playing on the flute. He immediately rose and shook hands with Okoye, who then unrolled the goatskin which he carried under his arm, and sat down. Unoka went into an inner room and soon returned with a small wooden disc containing a kola nut, some alligator pepper and a lump of white chalk.
"I have kola," he announced when he sat down, and passed the disc over to his guest.
"Thank you. He who brings kola brings life. But I think you ought to break it," replied Okoye, passing back the disc.
"No, it is for you, I think," and they argued like this for a few moments before Unoka accepted the honour of breaking the kola. Okoye, meanwhile, took the lump of chalk, drew some lines on the floor, and then painted his big toe.
As he broke the kola, Unoka prayed to their ancestors for life and health, and for protection against their enemies. When they had eaten they talked about many things: about the heavy rains which were drowning the yams, about the next ancestral feast and about the impending war with the village of Mbaino. Unoka was never happy when it came to wars. He was in fact a coward and could not bear the sight of blood. And so he changed the subject and talked about music, and his face beamed. He could hear in his mind's ear the blood-stirring and intricate rhythms of the ekwe and the udu and the ogene, and he could hear his own flute weaving in and out of them, decorating them with a colourful and plaintive tune. The total effect was gay and brisk, but if one picked out the flute as it went up and down and then broke up into short snatches, one saw that there was sorrow and grief there.
Okoye was also a musician. He played on the ogene. But he was not a failure like Unoka. He had a large barn full of yams and he had three wives. And now he was going to take the Idemili title, the third highest in the land. It was a very expensive ceremony and he was gathering all his resources together. That was in fact the reason why he had come to see Unoka. He cleared his throat and began: "Thank you for the kola. You may have heard of the title I intend to take shortly."
Having spoken plainly so far, Okoye said the next half a dozen sentences in proverbs. Among the Ibo the art of conversation is regarded very highly, and proverbs are the palm-oil with which words are eaten. Okoye was a great talker and he spoke for a long time, skirting round the subject and then hitting it finally. In short, he was asking Unoka to return the two hundred cowries he had borrowed from him more than two years before. As soon as Unoka understood what his friend was driving at, he burst out laughing. He laughed loud and long and his voice rang out clear as the ogene, and tears stood in his eyes. His visitor was amazed, and sat speechless. At the end, Unoka was able to give an answer between fresh outbursts of mirth.
"Look at that wall," he said, pointing at the far wall of his hut, which was rubbed with red earth so that it shone. "Look at those lines of chalk," and Okoye saw groups of short perpendicular lines drawn in chalk. There were five groups, and the smallest group had ten lines. Unoka had a sense of the dramatic and so he allowed a pause, in which he took a pinch of snuff and sneezed noisily, and then he continued: "Each group there represents a debt to someone, and each stroke is one hundred cowries. You see, I owe that man a thousand cowries. But he has not come to wake me up in the morning for it. I shall pay you, but not today. Our elders say that the sun will shine on those who stand before it shines on those who kneel under them. I shall pay my big debts first." And he took another pinch of snuff, as if that was paying the big debts first. Okoye rolled his goatskin and departed.
When Unoka died he had taken no title at all and he was heavily in debt. Any wonder then that his son Okonkwo was ashamed of him? Fortunately, among these people a man was judged according to his worth and not according to the worth of his father. Okonkwo was clearly cut out for great things. He was still young but he had won fame as the greatest wrestler in the nine villages. He was a wealthy farmer and had two barns full of yams, and had just married his third wife. To crown it all he had taken two titles and had shown incredible prowess in two inter-tribal wars. And so although Okonkwo was still young, he was already one of the greatest men of his time. Age was respected among his people, but achievement was revered. As the elders said, if a child washed his hands he could eat with kings. Okonkwo had clearly washed his hands and so he ate with kings and elders. And that was how he came to look after the doomed lad who was sacrificed to the village of Umuofia by their neighbours to avoid war and bloodshed. The ill-fated lad was called Ikemefuna.
And here is the first chapter from the short story that Ekpeki wrote for the Dominion anthology that he also edited
The hunting party waited quietly at Igbo Igboya, the forest of fears.
Morako oversaw the hunt; he was a lero or feeler. The rest waited to move on his signal. But for now, he lay waiting, careful not to alert the beast lest the intended prey became the hunter. Here, the roles of the prey and the hunter could switch in a flash, leaving the hunter to scurry for survival. But he knew that the father Obatala himself had chosen them and imbued them with sacred gifts which, though not making them immune, offered them a measure of protection.
The Nlaagama slithered forward. At almost twelve feet tall, the enormous, lizard-like beast towered over banana trees. Its forked tongue, about eight inches, swung pendulously and tasted the air. It bent on the bait left by the Umzingeli hunters, a horse-like antelope with thick, strong legs and a horn like the mythical creatures of the old world. The Nlaagama ripped into the antelope with the savagery that made Morako swallow.
With the beast distracted, Morako gave the signal. The Umzingeli, four coal black forms, detached themselves from the trees around. The beast stirred only momentarily before resuming its feeding. The Umzingeli merged with the environment, activating the power of anjayiyan-okan, the chameleon mind, and becoming part of the environment to remain hidden and undetectable until they detached themselves.
The beast would sense them soon. Morako signalled them again and they ran towards the beast with their spears extended. It stood still, trying to detect them, sensing that something was wrong.
Morako shot a spike of placidity at the beast. It struggled to cast off the artificial lethargy. The warriors were closing on it. They needed to be close enough to access the gaps between its scales. Without their skill of merging, the beast would detect them before they got close enough to use their weapons. This was the tricky part: attacking while maintaining the chameleon mind, the delicate merger that allowed them to move silently and remain invisible.
This was not a static merging which shielded them completely from detection. It was a minute merger of their feet with the ground and the leaves and twigs and droplets of water as they ran. It was activated as they stepped, but deactivated when their feet left the ground, so that they had to consciously reactivate with each step. It was more difficult and required a delicate touch and a continuous synchronization with the environment. It was a skill that only the best of the Umzingeli could use. Properly timed, it enabled them to mask their movement as when they used static merger in complete stillness.
They were within striking distance of the beast when it reared suddenly and howled, shaking its neck violently and throwing something off from its back. The last hunter materialised some yards away and Morako noticed the broken half of the spear protruding from the back of the beast. It was wounded but far from defeated. He stared at it. The hunter pulled out another spear and twirled it, preparing to attack. The beast pawed the earth and roared, belching liquid flames at the hunter. From his vantage, Morako saw the hunter roll out of the path of the lava like substance the monster spat and vanish, re-merging and blending into the environment. The beast howled again as a spear found its way into one of the gaps between its scales. The beast bathed the clearing with lava, turning to search if the burnt body of a hunter would appear. None did.
But it seems to Morako that the beast could perceive the hunter, though it could not see him. It screeched and two large wings unfurled from its body. With its enormous wings, the beast fanned the air. In a swift movement, it lifted itself off the ground.
Morako nudged the Climbers. It was time for their role. As the beast soared upwards, the Climbers dropped a net from the trees and entangled its wings, dropping it to the ground. Flames cackled around, and the climbers, armed with clubs and spears, attacked it. The beast snapped at most of their attacks as it ripped the net with its claws and fangs. Morako knew the reinforcements would be in trouble if the beast managed to free itself. He signalled the remaining hunter who materialised as from thin air and buried his spear in the neck of the beast. As the hunter yanked his spear out, hot sizzling blood spurted from the wound, scalding the climbers as they scurried away. The hunter backed off to join the other hunters where they had been knocked off. The beast belched liquid fire amidst its dying throes, panting but refusing to die.
A figure walked in, dragging a tree trunk. It was Oni, the elephant man. The climbers and hunters made way for him. He hefted the trunk and walloped the dying beast in the head. He didn’t need to do it twice.
Morako oversaw the hunt; he was a lero or feeler. The rest waited to move on his signal. But for now, he lay waiting, careful not to alert the beast lest the intended prey became the hunter. Here, the roles of the prey and the hunter could switch in a flash, leaving the hunter to scurry for survival. But he knew that the father Obatala himself had chosen them and imbued them with sacred gifts which, though not making them immune, offered them a measure of protection.
The Nlaagama slithered forward. At almost twelve feet tall, the enormous, lizard-like beast towered over banana trees. Its forked tongue, about eight inches, swung pendulously and tasted the air. It bent on the bait left by the Umzingeli hunters, a horse-like antelope with thick, strong legs and a horn like the mythical creatures of the old world. The Nlaagama ripped into the antelope with the savagery that made Morako swallow.
With the beast distracted, Morako gave the signal. The Umzingeli, four coal black forms, detached themselves from the trees around. The beast stirred only momentarily before resuming its feeding. The Umzingeli merged with the environment, activating the power of anjayiyan-okan, the chameleon mind, and becoming part of the environment to remain hidden and undetectable until they detached themselves.
The beast would sense them soon. Morako signalled them again and they ran towards the beast with their spears extended. It stood still, trying to detect them, sensing that something was wrong.
Morako shot a spike of placidity at the beast. It struggled to cast off the artificial lethargy. The warriors were closing on it. They needed to be close enough to access the gaps between its scales. Without their skill of merging, the beast would detect them before they got close enough to use their weapons. This was the tricky part: attacking while maintaining the chameleon mind, the delicate merger that allowed them to move silently and remain invisible.
This was not a static merging which shielded them completely from detection. It was a minute merger of their feet with the ground and the leaves and twigs and droplets of water as they ran. It was activated as they stepped, but deactivated when their feet left the ground, so that they had to consciously reactivate with each step. It was more difficult and required a delicate touch and a continuous synchronization with the environment. It was a skill that only the best of the Umzingeli could use. Properly timed, it enabled them to mask their movement as when they used static merger in complete stillness.
They were within striking distance of the beast when it reared suddenly and howled, shaking its neck violently and throwing something off from its back. The last hunter materialised some yards away and Morako noticed the broken half of the spear protruding from the back of the beast. It was wounded but far from defeated. He stared at it. The hunter pulled out another spear and twirled it, preparing to attack. The beast pawed the earth and roared, belching liquid flames at the hunter. From his vantage, Morako saw the hunter roll out of the path of the lava like substance the monster spat and vanish, re-merging and blending into the environment. The beast howled again as a spear found its way into one of the gaps between its scales. The beast bathed the clearing with lava, turning to search if the burnt body of a hunter would appear. None did.
But it seems to Morako that the beast could perceive the hunter, though it could not see him. It screeched and two large wings unfurled from its body. With its enormous wings, the beast fanned the air. In a swift movement, it lifted itself off the ground.
Morako nudged the Climbers. It was time for their role. As the beast soared upwards, the Climbers dropped a net from the trees and entangled its wings, dropping it to the ground. Flames cackled around, and the climbers, armed with clubs and spears, attacked it. The beast snapped at most of their attacks as it ripped the net with its claws and fangs. Morako knew the reinforcements would be in trouble if the beast managed to free itself. He signalled the remaining hunter who materialised as from thin air and buried his spear in the neck of the beast. As the hunter yanked his spear out, hot sizzling blood spurted from the wound, scalding the climbers as they scurried away. The hunter backed off to join the other hunters where they had been knocked off. The beast belched liquid fire amidst its dying throes, panting but refusing to die.
A figure walked in, dragging a tree trunk. It was Oni, the elephant man. The climbers and hunters made way for him. He hefted the trunk and walloped the dying beast in the head. He didn’t need to do it twice.
One is a tightly constructed and well written chapter that introduces a lot of information with a well balanced mix of exposition and action and it already feels like its dancing on the boundaries of oral storytelling and western literary narrative.
The other is some rambling bullshit about fighting magic dinosaurs that reads like someone describing a movie he thinks would be cool but in a Nigerian accent.
Only a complete cretin or terrible racist could think they are comparable in any way.
- Forum Clout
- 32,781
Shut up and write a book, nigger. Just one book.
- Forum Clout
- 65,393
Let me guess what's in the book
White man bad?
White man bad?
- Forum Clout
- 13,756
Wow, he is a terrible writer. Nice made up gobbeldygook of emotionless details, stupid.
- Forum Clout
- 45,009