AND THE WINNER IS.......

The Red Vellvetts Team is pleased to announce the winner of the maiden edition of the RED VELVET WRITING CHALLENGE  is ANYAUWA; a brilliant piece written by Chijioke Oguno.

Chijioke Oguno: Winner Red Velvet Writing Challenge

Chijioke Lawrence Oguno  is a medical student  at the university of Abuja. He is a poet and writes short stories. He is a member of Kola Initiative and also writes for Kola magazine. He draws inspiration from life generally and is a huge fan of Chinua Achebe and Chimamanda Adichie.


Click here to read the winning story.

THE SIMPLER LIFE #AwakenYourLiteraryMind..............By Tolulope

He always walked amongst them, watching quietly, unseen, unnoticed and unheard shuffling along with chapped feet in leather hooves. And that's how it was going to remain until the day he heard the kids spell 'q-u-e-u-e' in their spelling game, under the almond tree. He couldn't -or- rather, he forgot to hold himself and blurted out 'Why would you spell the word that way when it would sound the same without the last four letters?' The kids would never forget the day they found out that Zumol can talk. Of course he could...

For him, nothing was quite as interesting as watching these people. They knew who they were and who they were going to be; his life was much simpler than that. His folks were warm in their manner of speaking and happy as can be but never spoke to him about his roots or ancestry even though they lived with nostalgia eating deep beneath the wrappers they draped casually across bare chests.  They longed for their previous home; a land distant and forgotten, a land where milk was butter and biscuit was bread. Two rivers ran through the hills of their land and met in an embrace right at the centre of the town where this couple first met.

Zumol desperately longed to hear the details first hand and there was nothing he did not do to find out. Oh, he probed so deeply and persistently, but they never responded... not even for once. After all, parents tell their kids something about where they came from. Yes, all parents do, except for this pair. But, you see, Zumol forgives easily and forgets even faster so he'd probe his parents as if yesterday did not just pass. One day, a passer-by asked him "When a messenger is deaf, what does he hear? Nothing". 

Then it hit him: His parents were deaf. What language then did they speak? All he knew was that they often communicated with him and he heard them. It couldn’t get simpler.Snorting loudly, he awoke and startled his parents with his childish neigh. You see, Zumol was a horse and the part where he spoke was only a dream.

NOT A SICKLED SOUL - #AwakenYourLiteraryMind.........By Yusuf

She always walked amongst them, watching quietly, unseen, unnoticed by her teachers, unnoticed by her classmates, sunk deep in a world of loneliness and silence which was hers alone.

When my sister, Mary, was a child – not too many years from today – she used to think she was the

same as other kids in the playground. She tried to run, jump, shout and clap at all the things other kids ran, jumped, shouted and clapped at. What she didn’t sense was that other kids didn’t make frequent visits to the doctor as she and mummy did. Stomach aches, frequent fevers, swollen legs, deep sores on her feet, the list went on and on and quickly thickened the size of her hospital file and emptied mum’s meager wage. It is only now that she is beginning to understand the meaning of those words – each piercing mummy’s heart as she sat wishing the words could mean something else or at least that dad were alive to share the burden with her – which fell out the doctor’s mouth. “Mary is has sickle cell anemia,” he said rather coldly.

All our lives haven’t been the same since that fateful day. It is said that a problem is half solved when you identify it. I doubt if it applies to Mary’s. We now have a name for what ails her and so she does not have to bear the thoughtless name people called her – Ogbanje - ọmọ ẹmi buburu! But Mary quickly learned that naming it only changed the way she was stigmatized. Now, the girls wouldn’t hang out with her. They boys wouldn’t speak to her although she heard that they frequently spoke about her and how strange they felt she looked. She was practically on her own.

But …

That isn’t all there is about Mary. Her insulted spirit is the strongest I know. She sparks up every day and makes you wonder what made you better than her. To Mary, today is a gift to enjoy, gyrate, and live. When the world shuts her out – as it often does – she goes deep inside and paints pictures full of love, joy, happiness, and tranquility. She once remarked to me when I asked why she was so upbeat, “I have sickled cells not a sickle soul!” Then it hit me. Don’t we, the “normal” ones, often think something is inherently wrong with the HIV patient, the leprous woman, the boy without sight, and the people we call imbeciles? If their unsolicited conditions can collectively be called sickled cells, by rejecting them aren’t we professing to have sickled souls?

Image Credit-Isetfiretotherain

THE OLD TELEVISION #AwakenYourLiteraryMind........By Raphael

“He always walked amongst them, watching quietly, unseen, unnoticed,” Amara said, trying to describe Nonso’s sudden uncanny behaviour the last time she saw him. Her body quivered, her voice unsteady and she occasionally used gestures to imprint her words in mind.

The old television was on when she stormed into my room unapologetic, uninvited. Kunfu Panda was playing and I laughed at Pow’s wanton silliness and exaggerated screams, ‘Awesome!’ in the face of danger. Nonso is my brother but it felt like Amara knew him better. Before he travelled to Portharcourt, for greener pasture, he spent most of his time with her. They sometimes cuddled on his bed, whisper to their ears and laugh at their silly jokes. I would excuse myself to the parlour and pout at the HD television hanging on the wall. 

“I dont like this television, it’s too clear and colourful,” I said when dad bought it to replace the old television. He planned to discard the old television but I protested we keep it in our room. I hardly believe anything I saw on the HD television. I preferred the old television, that gave a sharp contrast between a movie and NTA; when movies played on the VCD, the colours were bright but the moment NTA is flipped, the images blurs, and sometimes tiny black dots fill the screen. From tender age I learned to associate poor images to live broadcasts.

Our shared one-room was all Nonso and I had in common; beds placed side-by-side with the old television in-between. Nonso would lie down and face his wall and I would lie down and face mine. The only time we enjoyed flamboyant gist was when Super Eagles played; Nonso would lament how Enyeama punched a ball he was supposed to catch, how Mikel passed the ball to a defender instead of a striker, how Musa sometimes outrun the ball like a lorry without brakes. And when the images on the television blurs, “Oh Lord! What is wrong with this stupid television?” he would scream and smack the television by the side, several times and unsuccessful, most times.

“Let me try.” I would say and tap the television gently by the side. This worked mostly. I concluded it was the television’s subtle way of saying ‘am old, please cuddle me’. Nonso would muse when I did get it right.

I went to the kitchen to get a glass of orange juice for Amara. As I passed the television in the parlour, a female newscaster was serious reading something. The image was spotless. I assumed a Nigerian movie was showing cut-scene news to drive home a point and didn’t bother to pay attention, because of my vendetta for Nollywood’s amateur movies. Amara screamed. I abandoned everything I held, dashed to see what was wrong. “Pictures of Nonso and four others had been flashed on the screen,” she said. I turned to take a look, the television goes off.

Image credit- Linktech

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ANYAUWA; THE EYES OF THE GODS #AwakenYourLiteraryMind........By Chijioke

He always walked amongst them, watching quietly, unseen, unnoticed. He is the eyes of the gods, ever watchful, listening to every whisper. Some even say that he hears the thoughts of men. Anyauwa; is talked about only in the folk tales where he acts as an assurance of the gods staying true to their words. On that night, Anyauwa was watching when Uche  awakened his brother Ekwe for the late evening hunt. The night was quiet, only the hooting owl kept it awake. As they made it to the forest, the twitching of the dried bushes provided a continuous companion and the smiling moon made the path clear. Ekwe struggled to stay awake but Uche walked on and urged him to keep up with his pace.

As they got to where they laid their trap to catch òsa ( the squirrel), they saw neither the trap nor the òsa nor the enticing food they kept to draw the òsa into the cage.

"What happened here? Who stole our trap?" Uche asked, looking at Ekwe whose face was filled with confusion too . 

"Amadioha!!!" He exclaimed looking to the sky. "Who dares to steal from the poor?"

Just then, as if it were a sign, the sleeping night came alive with a piercing whistle coming from all directions.

Ekwe hid at the back of Uche as hefty men with a well padded chests emerged from the bush, armed with bows, arrows and machetes. They ignited the night with their torches.

Uche and Ekwe knew they were in trouble. As the men drew closer, Ekwe shouted "Mama o, help me"

"Silence, grab them" said their leader with a thick voice. "Now we can bury our king"

Anyauwa knew that his wings would have to fly faster if the boys were to be rescued. He flew back to the eye socket of the gods and awakened Amadioha whose thunder lighted the sky. The thunder travelled for miles as guided by Anyauwa.

The men were still marching the boys to their doom when Amadioha's thunder struck four of them. The others tried to flee but their feet were stuck to the ground as Amadioha took the form of a fiery tongue hanging on the air.

"Who dares harm my children?" His voice rang out. The men were trembling with fear, the leader could only mutter incoherent words.

"Ah ah our king is dead and we are here to get slaves that will accompany him to the grave as directed by IKUKU the gods of Agbaland."

" Let them go, and If you ever come into my land again, you will be burnt beyond any grave." Amadioha said.

Uche and Ekwe were set free and they took to their heels running faster than a gazelle. What they had seen tonight was beyond the tales of the tongue. Amadioha returned to its chambers and Anyauwa pulled away from the socket wandering around, watching, listening quietly, unseen, unnoticed.

image credit- Favim

PLASTIC #AwakenYourLiteraryMind ...........By Bomi

She always walked amongst them, watching quietly, unseen, unnoticed; as if the idea of her existence was inexistent.  She wanted to be accepted, she wanted someone to call her name, Bisi, to start a conversation, to talk about her hair and ask if she just had it made. Then that Thursday after classes, as she pretended to mind her own business, Kate, the popular girl with the large, round bottom and tissue paper augmented breasts, turned to her, smiled at her and said hi.

She paused. She blinked. She said hi twice.

‘I think you’re cool, come here, walk with us.’ Kate said. The other girls in Kate’s circle were beaming. Bisi was exhilarated.

‘Thank you. Thank you.’ She said.

She became popular, like them, plastic, like them. When Kate told her to skip classes, to join them in scaling the school fence, to go for a party, to have a little alcohol at the party, she did. When Joy, another plastic girl, told her to lock the bathroom door as Ifeoma took her bath, she did, and Ifeoma sat stuck in the bathroom for hours crying, begging for the door to be opened, the plastics laughed.

Then one Wednesday morning during breakfast, at the school dining hall, Ifeoluwa, the shy girl who had pimples all over her forehead and couldn’t see without her glasses, spilt orange juice over Kate’s new Neiman Marcus’ dress with the pink, satin sash and the word ‘excellent’ written on the chest region. Kate screamed. Ifeoluwa promised that she didn’t mean to, she didn’t see Kate coming, she wasn’t looking; she was sorry. She said she was sorry.

Later, Kate gathered all the plastics, they came up with an ingenious way to make Ifeoluwa pay for her stupidity; they would take her bag wherein she puts her notebooks. They would hide the bag where it would be impossible to find. She would not write for the rest of that day and maybe beyond.

Bisi was told to steal Ifeoluwa’s bag; she did. She and Joy and Remi hid it downstairs, next to the flowerbed at the back of the school. During Economics, Ifeoluwa’s asthma attack began and her inhaler was inside her bag. She searched frantically for the bag while trying her utmost to breathe in. Some of the students noticed and told the Economics teacher, ‘sir, something is wrong with Ife.’

The teacher figured it was asthma and joined in searching for the bag. ‘Who has Ife’s bag?’ He asked. The plastics looked at each other, Kate grinned, Joy grinned, Remi grinned, Bisi wanted to grin, too, she couldn’t. She wanted to get up, to go get the bag but Kate gave her a look.

Ifeoluwa was having a seizure now. Bisi ran downstairs next to the flowerbed and retrieved the bag, but when she got back, everyone was looking worried, the plastics were looking frightened, the Economics teacher was screaming at Ifeoluwa to wake up. 

image credit- Studio Bueno

MEET THE JUDGES!

So we successfully floated a competition and entries have been received! But a competition is never complete without judges, so we went head hunting. We have five judges on the panel, and we want you to meet them and to understand the thought process that informed our choices:

• We needed someone who is a very good writer and and is able to reason objectively regardless of preference for certain genres of creative writing. This is where Toritseju Onwubiko comes in. Toju is a quintessential architect, ace photographer and a writer. You can read from him at www.Confessionsofanartaddict.WordPress.com He has great passion for art and has a way with sarcasm that is infectious. ‎

• Editing goes beyond detecting typos. You could write a very good story that is badly edited and
  
  that would totally defeat your story. We wanted someone on the panel who is an excellent editor and has an uncanny ability to pay attention to details.Oluwaseun Stephen Oke is awesome at this. Seun is an erudite Legal Practitioner and a Chartered Secretary&Administrator, a poet and a writer. He is very dogged, focused and unassuming. 

• Now redvelvetts is a blogsite, and we aim to post five of these stories on the blog. We needed someone who is into the business of blogging, very objective, and knows what is blog-able! She is Ifeyinwa Obiechina founder of abjlivingabujaloving.blogspot.com, a blog that has reputation for churning out priceless resources on positive change for Nigeria. Iphie is a brilliant Legal practitioner and blogger. She recently headed an editorial team for the first ever publication of 'Fides'  a publication by the Catholic Youth Organisation of Nigeria, Holy Cross Catholic Church Gwarinpa 2 Parish. It is not just another magazine, it is a hit. She is firm proponent for positive change in Nigeria which should stem from every citizen's actions.

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• Redvelvetts is less than year old. It has active followership of over 10,000 visitors all over the
  
  world. We needed our fans to have a voice in this competition. We went for someone who has keenly followed our blog, gives objective feed back without bias and has been very supportive. He is Jeremiah Oyibo. Jeremiah is another brilliant Legal Practitioner, focus,firm believer in hard work, doing pretty well for himself and has zero tolerance for societal dysfunction, he would not just condemn but move to correct.

• And finally there is Adesuwa Ehinome Iluobe. She is an active contributor to Redvelvetts and abjlivingabujaloving.blogspot.com. She writes the LIFE AS SHE SEES IT column on Redvelvetts,which attracts some of the highest views on the blog. Adesuwa is the CEO of Seams Clothiers and has a passion for satirical fiction. She is also a Legal Practitioner.

So now you have met them.  Young, vibrant people committed to ensure that five top entries emerge for the next stage of the competition starting December 15, 2014. Goodluck to all those who have entered the competition and may the best man win!

HUMAN RIGHTS DAY? A MOCKERY!

MAY THE SOULS OF THE INNOCENT SOULS SLAIN REST IN PEACE!

So while we were busy marking the INTERNATIONAL HUMAN RIGHTS DAY yesterday some people's RIGHT TO LIFE were snatched from them forcefully and unexpectedly by a group of people that has decided that human lives mean nothing. That humanity means nothing .The news was so disturbing and kept haunting my mind. For me, it was simply a mockery of what we were marking. I felt as though the perpetrators carried out their act while laughing at us once again leaving their signature. BLOOD SHED.

A day without blood shed in Nigeria is no longer normal. Innocent people leave home hale and hearty to make a decent living, telling their children and loved ones that they will be back soon have to die for a day to be regarded as normal now. If a god were being appeased with these sacrifices, that god must be drunk by now with so much blood!

Things have spiralled out of control. Our leaders only "condemn these killings" while they go on their way to organise political rallies and wash their dirty linens in public through books and interviews. Is this how we fight the enemy? How and when will all this madness end? What shall we tell our children tomorrow?

They keep saying that the sponsors of these evil maniacs are in the government, can't they be fished out? All we have is Big talks and minimal actions while the lives of Nigerians are being played like pawns on a  drought board (Oh, chess is too classy) and we (Nigeria) have become STAGNANT .

Sigh....

I am tired of saying it is well with Nigeria but as it is, that is all i can say.One day i pray that God will bless us with truthful leaders that have good conscience. One day i pray that an end shall come.

GOD BLESS NIGERIA.