FUNNY CHRISTMAS TALES

Here are a few short funny Christmas stories to keep you relaxed this Christmas.

The Tale of the Traditional Christmas Pudding

Martha decided to move with the times and try the delights of microwave cooking.  Whereupon, her devoted husband Archie went out and bought her a brand new top-of-the range Sharp Microwave oven.

Christmas approached and Martha got out her Christmas pudding recipe and assembled the ingredients.  She proceeded along traditional lines and even got the each member of the family to stir the mixture 'for luck'. When Martha consulted the microwave's manual for the cooking time, she could not believe that ten minutes would be enough for a traditional Christmas pudding.  Consequently she decided to substitute her normal cooking time of 50 minutes.

As Martha was in the lounge watching her favourite T.V. programme she did not see the pudding spitting in the microwave oven, nor did she hear the mini-explosions.  When she finally extracted the pudding from the microwave after nearly an hour of cooking on 'High', it smelt of burnt sugar and looked like a ball of tar.  Naturally, the Christmas pudding was a disaster, so much so, that Martha could not even prod it with a fork.  In fact the black ball stuck to the bottom of the bowl and Archie had to get a screwdriver to prize it from its base.

In a fit of pique, Martha threw the shrivelled Christmas pudding to Togo her St Bernard puppy.  After a few days she could see the funny side, and Togo loved his new indestructible toy, which amused him until the next Christmas.

Amusing Christmas Turkey Story

Sarah new young bride calls her mother in tears. She sobs, 'Richard doesn't appreciate what I do for him.'

'Now, now,' her mother comforted, 'I am sure it was all just a misunderstanding.'

'No, mother, you don't understand. I bought a frozen turkey roll and he yelled and screamed at me about the price.'

'Well, the nerve of that lousy cheapskate,' says her mum.  'Those turkey rolls are only a few dollars.'

'No, mother it wasn't the price of the turkey.  It was the aeroplane ticket.'  "Aeroplane ticket...." What did you need an airplane ticket for?'

'Well mother, when I went to fix it, I looked at the directions on the package and it said: "Prepare from a frozen state," so I flew to Alaska.'

Christmas Queue Folly

Just before Christmas I was shopping at a toy fayre in Worcester

I glanced to my left and caught sight of a queue at the doll counter; they were waiting for the shelves to be restocked with Mattel dolls.  As I looked I realised that in the queue was a good friend of mine.  Knowing Lennie well I was sure that he had no daughters nor did he have any nieces so I wondered why he should want to buy a doll at Christmas time'

'Hey, Lennie,' I cried, 'I hadn't realised you collected dolls.'
'I don't,' he replied laughing'

'Really,' I queried, 'then you must be buying a Christmas present then?'
'No, not at all, my friend,' responded Lennie, his eyes twinkling merrily'

'If you don't mind my asking then Lennie,' I said, 'Why exactly are you standing in this particular queue?'

'Oh that,' he giggled. 'It's like this, my mate,' he mused, 'I've never been able to resist a Barbie queue.'

Short Funny Xmas Story

Just before Xmas, an honest politician, a generous lawyer and Santa Claus all got into the lift (elevator) at the Ritz Hotel in London.  As the lift travelled from the 5th floor down to the ground level, one-by-one they noticed a £50 note lying on the lift's floor.

Which one picked up the £50 note, and handed it in at reception?

Santa of course, the other two don't actually exist!

Footnote: This yarn was sent in by John Bains:
Please send us your short funny Christmas stories

The Christmas Hold-up Tale

It was Christmas Eve; the department store manager was in his office just paying off Father Christmas.   All of a sudden a teenager and ordered the manager to hand-over the not inconsiderable takings. 

The manager was wondering what to do, so the teenager attempted to fire his gun in order to make the manager's mind, and open the till and hand over the money.  Although the robber pulled the trigger, nothing happened, so unbelievably, he peered down the barrel and then fired again.

This time it worked.

A Nice Drink - Funny Story at Christmas

Two days before Christmas Jimmy set-off in his minibus to collect a batch of open prison inmates.  His mission, as usual, was to take them for their radiation treatment at a nearby hospital.  Since it was Christmas, one of the 12 offered to buy Jimmy a drink.  So they stopped off at the Rose and Crown pub, and all had a nice drink.  On the way out Jimmy detoured to the gents, when he came out of the loo, all the prisoners had disappeared.  He looked in all the pub's bars, drove around for half an hour, no sign of the inmates.  They had all made their escape.

What could Jimmy do?  Thinking quickly, he braked at a particularly long bus queue, and told the waiting people that he was a relief bus.  Where-upon he picked up the first 12 and drove them to the open prison.  He then radioed ahead to the warders giving a 'Code Yellow' message.  This was a pre-arranged signal that some of the prisoners were playing up.  Jimmy unloaded his passengers, he then beat a hasty retreat.  Amazingly, his trickery wasn't discovered until the New Year. 

for more, click the link below http://www.guy-sports.com/humor/christmas/christmas_stories_funny.htm#Short_Funny_Xmas_Story 

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!

Wishing you, my lovely readers and your lovely family a very Merry Christmas and may all your dreams come true!!! I'm also grateful for all your support and encouragements even when i'm MIA. thank you all so much!!! 

VERSE TO THE GIRL CHILD BY BANKY W

What frightens the extremists and really gives them the spooks?

There’s nothing scarier to them than a girl with a book

Not a soldier, or a bomb, or a gun, or a landmine

There’s nothing more dangerous than her enlightened mind

So they kidnap, and enslave, and try to stand in her way

And they rape, and oppress and try to make her afraid

Because they know, that for sure, she’ll grow up one day

And when that day comes, she’ll be strong enough to bring change

So respect to the girl child, you’ve got grown men scared of you

Salute to our future Chimamanda’s, and our Tiwa Savage’s too

To our future Oprah Winfrey’s and our Maya Angelou’s

Because we know you will grow, and your success is inevitable

They can try to fight it, and they can try to deny

They can kidnap at night, and they can try to terrorise

But may nothing and noon ever succeed in snuffing out your light

And that little light of yours, will one day shine bright

They say the truth will set you free, well this is the gospel truth

There’s nothing more powerful than a girl with a book

       By Banky W 

Inspired by a quote from UN Secretary General Ban-Ki Moon

US BOX OFFICE THIS WEEKEND

According to box office mojo, below is the US Box Office line up for this Easter weekend. Happy Easter people!

TW LW          Title         Studio  Weekendgross  change Theatrecount   Average   Totalgross Budget Week

1	1	Captain America: The Winter Soldier	BV	$26,612,000	-35.5%	3,825	-113	$6,957	$201,526,000	$170	3
2	2	Rio 2	Fox	$22,500,000	-42.8%	3,975	+27	$5,660	$75,363,000	$103	2
3	N	Heaven is for Real	TriS	$21,500,000	-	2,417	-	$8,895	$28,500,000	$12	1
4	N	Transcendence	WB	$11,150,000	-	3,455	-	$3,227	$11,150,000	$100	1
5	N	A Haunted House 2	ORF	$9,100,000	-	2,310	-	$3,939	$9,100,000	$4	1
6	4	Draft Day	LG/S	$5,900,000	-39.7%	2,781	-	$2,122	$19,548,000	-	2
7	6	Divergent	LG/S	$5,750,000	-22.1%	2,486	-624	$2,313	$133,915,000	$85	5
8	3	Oculus	Rela.	$5,202,000	-56.7%	2,648	-	$1,965	$21,191,000	$5	2
9	5	Noah	Par.	$5,000,000	-33.8%	2,537	-745	$1,971	$93,274,000	$125	4
10	7	God's Not Dead	Free	$4,801,000	-13.3%	1,796	-64	$2,673	$48,327,000	$2	5
11	N	Bears	BV	$4,774,000	-	1,720	-	$2,776	$4,774,000	-	1
12	8	The Grand Budapest Hotel	FoxS	$3,425,000	-15.8%	1,280	-187	$2,676	$44,967,000	-	7
13	9	Muppets Most Wanted	BV	$1,068,000	-53.1%	929	-1,332	$1,150	$48,318,000	$50	5
14	10	Mr. Peabody & Sherman	Fox	$800,000	-57.3%	780	-1,221	$1,026	$107,183,000	$145	7

OLD WATERS

Okechukwu had just received the message of his uncle’s call from little Nma, his eight year old niece who had hurriedly rushed to the farm in her excitement. His uncle had just received a letter from his eldest son, Ogaranya, who had travelled to Canada for his master’s degree in  July; Nma had exclaimed in short breadths. Ogaranya’s Master’s degree scholarship to Canada had been a dream come true for the family; as none of the member’s of Nwenze’s family had gone through the tertiary institution talk less of a master’s degree.

It was already November, how fast time flew! Okechukwu hurriedly reached for his bicycle which he had fastened to a tree. He had to dust off the withering leather seat of his bike as the harmattan dust had accumulated in the short while he had stayed in the farm. He was alone in the farm except for the very distant Nkem at the far corner of his farm. He had noticed weed growing on some of the budding plants on the farm and decided to uproot them before they caused havoc. A stitch in time they say saves nine.   

He carried little Nma in the little space he created on the seat meant for one as he journied back home. Though the sun was blaringly hot, the dryness of the harmattan could be felt even more, as he rode back to the family’s compound. A lot of thoughts were going through Okechukwu’s mind, for one, his Uncle had summoned him to read the letter Ogaranya had sent from Canada as his uncle could neither read nor write, but more thoughtful was Okechukwu on the contents of the letter.  

THE VENDETTA BY GUY DE MAUPASSANT

Paolo Saverini's widow lived alone with her son in a poor little house on the ramparts of Bonifacio. The town, built on a spur of the mountains, in places actually overhanging the sea, looks across a channel bristling with reefs, to the lower shores of Sardinia. At its foot, on the other side and almost completely surrounding it, is the channel that serves as its harbour, cut in the cliff like a gigantic corridor. Through a long circuit between steep walls, the channel brings to the very foot of the first houses the little Italian or Sardinian fishing-boats, and, every fortnight, the old steamboat that runs to and from Ajaccio.

Upon the white mountain the group of houses form a whiter patch still. They look like the nests of wild birds, perched so upon the rock, dominating that terrible channel through which hardly ever a ship risks a passage. The unresting wind harasses the sea and eats away the bare shore, clad with a sparse covering of grass; it rushes into the ravine and ravages its two sides. The trailing wisps of white foam round the black points of countless rocks that everywhere pierce the waves, look like rags of canvas floating and heaving on the surface of the water.

The widow Saverini's house held for dear life to the very edge of the cliff; its three windows looked out over this wild and desolate scene.

She lived there alone with her son Antoine and their bitch Semillante, a large, thin animal with long, shaggy hair, of the sheep-dog breed. The young man used her for hunting.

One evening, after a quarrel, Antoine Saverini was treacherously slain by a knife-thrust from Nicolas Ravolati, who got away to Sardinia the same night.

When his old mother received his body, carried home by bystanders, she did not weep, but for a long time stayed motionless, looking at it; then, stretching out her wrinkled hand over the body, she swore vendetta against him. She would have no one stay with her, and shut herself up with the body, together with the howling dog. The animal howled continuously, standing at the foot of the bed, her head thrust towards her master, her tail held tightly between her legs. She did not stir, nor did the mother, who crouched over the body with her eyes fixed steadily upon it, and wept great silent tears.

The young man, lying on his back, clad in his thick serge coat with a hole torn across the front, looked as though he slept; but everywhere there was blood; on the shirt, torn off for the first hasty dressing; on his waistcoat, on his breeches, on his face, on his hands. Clots of blood had congealed in his beard and in his hair.

The old mother began to speak to him. At the sound of her voice the dog was silent.

"There, there, you shall be avenged, my little one, my boy, my poor child. Sleep, sleep, you shall be avenged, do you hear! Your mother swears it! And your mother always keeps her word; you know she does."

Slowly she bent over him, pressing her cold lips on the dead lips.

Then Semillante began to howl once more. She uttered long cries, monotonous, heart-rending, horrible cries.

They remained there, the pair of them, the woman and the dog, till morning.

Antoine Saverini was buried next day, and before long there was no more talk of him in Bonifacio.

He had left neither brothers nor close cousins. No man was there to carry on the vendetta. Only his mother, an old woman, brooded over it.

On the other side of the channel she watched from morning till night a white speck on the coast. It was a little Sardinian village, Longosardo, where Corsican bandits fled for refuge when too hard pressed. They formed almost the entire population of this hamlet, facing the shores of their own country, and there they awaited a suitable moment to come home, to return to the maquis of Corsica. She knew that Nicolas Ravolati had taken refuge in this very village.

All alone, all day long, sitting by the window, she looked over there and pondered revenge. How could she do it without another's help, so feeble as she was, so near to death? But she had promised, she had sworn upon the body. She could not forget, she could not wait. What was she to do? She could no longer sleep at night, she had no more sleep nor peace; obstinately she searched for a way. The dog slumbered at her feet and sometimes, raising her head, howled into the empty spaces. Since her master had gone, she often howled thus, as though she were calling him, as though her animal soul, inconsolable, had retained an ineffaceable memory of him.

One night, as Semillante was beginning to moan again, the mother had a sudden idea, an idea quite natural to a vindictive and ferocious savage. She meditated on it till morning, then, rising at the approach of day, she went to church. She prayed, kneeling on the stones, prostrate before God, begging Him to aid her, to sustain her, to grant her poor worn-out body the strength necessary to avenge her son.

Then she returned home. There stood in the yard an old barrel with its sides stove in, which held the rain-water; she overturned it, emptied it, and fixed it to the ground with stakes and stones; then she chained up Semillante in this kennel, and went into the house.

Next she began to walk up and down her room, taking no rest, her eyes still turned to the coast of Sardinia. He was there, the murderer.

All day long and all night long the dog howled. In the morning the old woman took her some water in a bowl, but nothing else; no soup, no bread.

Another day went by. Semillante, exhausted, was asleep. Next day her eyes were shining, her hair on end, and she tugged desperately at the chain.

Again the old woman gave her nothing to eat. The animal, mad with hunger, barked hoarsely. Another night went by.

When day broke, Mother Saverini went to her neighbour to ask him to give her two trusses of straw. She took the old clothes her husband had worn and stuffed them with the straw into the likeness of a human figure.

Having planted a post in the ground opposite Semillante's kennel, she tied the dummy figure to it, which looked now as though it were standing. Then she fashioned a head with a roll of old linen.

The dog, surprised, looked at this straw man, and was silent, although devoured with hunger.

Then the woman went to the pork-butcher and bought a long piece of black pudding. She returned home, lit a wood fire in her yard, close to the kennel, and grilled the black pudding. Semillante, maddened, leapt about and foamed at the mouth, her eyes fixed on the food, the flavour of which penetrated to her very stomach.

Then with the smoking sausage the mother made a collar for the straw man. She spent a long time lashing it round his neck, as though to stuff it right in. When it was done, she unchained the dog.

With a tremendous bound the animal leapt upon the dummy's throat and with her paws on his shoulders began to rend it. She fell back with a piece of the prey in her mouth, then dashed at it again, sank her teeth into the cords, tore away a few fragments of food, fell back again, and leapt once more, ravenous.

With great bites she rent away the face, and tore the whole neck to shreds.

The old woman watched, motionless and silent, a gleam in her eyes. Then she chained up her dog again, made her go without food for two more days, and repeated the strange performance.

For three months she trained the dog to this struggle, the conquest of a meal by fangs. She no longer chained her up, but launched her upon the dummy with a sign.

She had taught the dog to rend and devour it without hiding food in its throat. Afterwards she would reward the dog with the gift of the black pudding she had cooked for her.

As soon as she saw the man, Semillante would tremble, then turn her eyes towards her mistress, who would cry "Off!" in a whistling tone, raising her finger.

When she judged that the time was come, Mother Saverini went to confession and took communion one Sunday morning with an ecstatic fervour; then, putting on a man's clothes, like an old ragged beggar, she bargained with a Sardinian fisherman, who took her, accompanied by the dog, to the other side of the straits.

In a canvas bag she had a large piece of black pudding. Semillante had had nothing to eat for two days. Every minute the old woman made her smell the savoury food, stimulating her hunger with it.

They came to Longosardo. The Corsican woman was limping slightly. She went to the baker's and inquired for Nicolas Ravolati's house. He had resumed his old occupation, that of a joiner. He was working alone at the back of his shop.

The old woman pushed open the door and called him:

"Hey! Nicolas!"

He turned round; then, letting go of her dog, she cried:

"Off, off, bite him, bite him!"

The maddened beast dashed forward and seized his throat.

The man put out his arms, clasped the dog, and rolled upon the ground. For a few minutes he writhed, beating the ground with his feet; then he remained motionless while Semillante nuzzled at his throat and tore it out in ribbons.

Two neighbours, sitting at their doors, plainly recollected having seen a poor old man come out with a lean black dog which ate, as it walked, something brown that its master was giving to it.

In the evening the old woman returned home. That night she slept well.

THE ADVENTURES OF ALADDIN- THE BROTHER'S GRIMM

Once upon a time . . . a widow had an only son whose name was Aladdin. They were very poor and lived from hand to mouth, though Aladdin did what he could to earn some pennies, by picking bananas in faraway places.

One day, as he was looking for wild figs in a grove some way from the town, Aladdin met a mysterious stranger. This smartly dressed dark-eyed man with a trim black beard and a splendid sapphire in his turban, asked Aladdin an unusual question:

"Come here, boy," he ordered. "How would you like to earn a silver penny?"

"A silver penny!" exclaimed Aladdin. "Sir, I'd do anything for that kind of payment."

"I'm not going to ask you to do much. Just go down that manhole. I'm much too big to squeeze through myself. If you do as I ask, you'll have your reward." The stranger helped Aladdin lift the manhole cover, for it was very heavy. Slim and agile as he was, the boy easily went down. His feet touched stone and he carefully made his way down some steps . . . and found himself in a large chamber. It seemed to sparkle, though dimly lit by the flickering light of an old oil lamp. When Aladdin's eyes became used to the gloom, he saw a wonderful sight: trees dripping with glittering jewels, pots of gold and caskets full of priceless gems. Thousands of precious objects lay scattered about. It was a treasure trove! Unable to believe his eyes, Aladdin was standing dazed when he heard a shout behind him.

"The lamp! Put out the flame and bring me the lamp!" Surprised and suspicious, for why should the stranger, out of all such a treasure want only an old lamp, Aladdin wondered. Perhaps he was a wizard. He decided to be on his guard. Picking up the lamp, he retraced his steps up to the entrance.

"Give me the lamp," urged the wizard impatiently. "Hand it over," he began to shout, thrusting out his arm to grab it, but Aladdin cautiously drew back.

"Let me out first . . ."

"Too bad for you," snapped the stranger, slamming down the manhole cover, never noticing that, as he did so, a ring slid off his finger. A terrified Aladdin was left in pitch darkness, wondering what the wizard would do next. Then he trod on the ring. Aimlessly putting it on his finger, he twisted it round and round. Suddenly the room was flooded with a rosy light and a great genie with clasped hands appeared on a cloud.

"At your command, sire," said the genie.

Now astoundede, Aladdin could only stammer:

"I want to go home!" In a flash he was back in his own home, though the door wa tightly shut.

"How did you get in?" called his mother from the kitchen stove, the minute she set eyes on him. Excitedly, her son told her of his adventures.

"Where's the silver coin?" his mother asked. Aladdin clapped a hand to his brow. For all he had brought home was the old oil lamp "Oh, mother! I'm so sorry. This is all I've got."

"Well, let's hope it works. It's so dirty . . ." and the widow began to rub the lamp.

Suddenly out shot another genie, in a cloud of smoke.

"You've set me free, after centuries! I was a prisoner in the lamp, waiting to be freed by someone rubbing it. Now, I'm your obedient servant. Tell me your wishes." And the genie bowed respectfully, awaiting Aladdin's orders. The boy and his mother gaped wordlessly at this incredible apparition, then the genie said with a hint of impatience in his voice.

"I'm here at your command. Tell me what you want. Anything you like!" Aladdin gulped, then said:

"Bring us . . . bring . . ." His mother not having yet begun to cook the dinner, went on to say: ". . . a lovely big meal."

From that day on, the widow and her son had everything they could wish for: food, clothes and a fine home, for the genie of the lamp granted them everything they asked him. Aladdin grew into a tall handsome young man and his mother felt that he ought to find himself a wife, sooner or later.

One day, as he left the market, Aladdin happened to see the Sultan's daughter Halima in her sedan chair being carried through the streets. He only caught a fleeting glimpse of the princess, but it was enough for him to want to marry her. Aladdin told his mother and she quickly said:

"I'll ask the Sultan for his daughter's hand. He'll never be able to refuse. Wait and see!"

And indeed, the Sultan was easily persuaded by a casket full of big diamonds to admit the widow to the palace. However, when he learned why she had come, he told the widow that her son must bring proof of his power and riches. This was mostly the Chamberlain's idea, for he himself was eager to marry the beautiful black-eyed Sultan's daughter.

"If Aladdin wants to marry Halima,' said the Sultan, "he must send me forty slaves tomorrow.Every slave must bring a box of precious stones. And forty Arab warriors must escort the treasure."

Aladdin's mother went sadly home. The genie of the magic lamp had already worked wonders, but nothing like this. Aladdin however,when he heard the news, was not at all dismayed. He picked up the lamp, rubbed it harder than ever and told the genie what he required. The genie simply clapped his hands three times. Forty slaves magically appeared, carrying the gemstones, together with their escort of forty Arab warriors. When he saw all thls the next day, the Sultan was taken aback. He never imagined such wealth could exist. Just as he was about to accept Aladdin as his daughter's bridegroom, the envious Chamberlain broke in with a question.

"Where wlll they live?" he asked. The Sultan pondered for a moment, then allowlng greed to get the better of hlm, he told Aladdin to build a great, splendid palace for Halima. Aladdin went straight home and, in what was once a wilderness, the genie built him a palace. The last obstacle had been overcome. The wedding tbok place with great celebrations and the Sultan was especially happy at finding such a rich and powerful son-in-law.

News of Aladdin's sudden fortune and wealth spread like wildfire, until.... one day, a strange merchant stopped beneath the palace window.

"Old lamps for new," he called to the princess, standing on the balcony. Now, Aladdin had always kept his secret to himself. Only his mother knew it and she had never told a soul. Halima, alas, had been kept in the dark. And so, now, wanting to give Alladin a surprise as well as make a good bargain, she fetched the old oil lamp she had seen Aladdin tuck away, and gave it to the merchant in exchange for a new one. The merchant quickly began to rub it . . . and the genie was now at the service of the wizard who had got his magic lamp back.

In a second he whisked away all Aladdin's possessions and magically sent the palace and the princess to an unknown land. Aladdin and the Sultan were at their wits' end. Nobody knew what had happened. Only Aladdin knew it had something to do with the magic lamp. But as he wept over the lost genie of the lamp, he remembered the genie of the ring from the wizard's finger. Slipping the ring on his finger, Aladdin twisted it round and round.

"Take me to the place where the wizard has hidden my wife," he ordered the genie. In a flash, he found himself inside his own palace, and peeping from behind a curtain, he saw the wizard and the princess, now his servant.

"Psst! Psst!" hissed Aladdin.

"Aladdin! It's you . . .!"

"Ssh. Don't let him hear you. Take this powder and put it into his tea. Trust me." The powder quickly took effect and the wizard fell into a deep sleep. Aladdin hunted for the lamp high and low, but it was nowere to be seen. But it had to be there. How, otherwise, had the wizard moved the palace? As Aladdin gazed at his sleeping enemy, he thought of peering underneath the pillow. "The lamp! At last," sighed Aladdin, hastily rubbing it.

"Welcome back, Master!" exclaimed the genie. "Why did you leave me at another's service for so long?"

"Welcome," replied Aladdin. "I'm glad to see you again. I've certainly missed you! It's just as well I have you by me again."

"At your command," smiled the genie.

"First, put this wicked wizard in chains and take him far away where he'll never be found again." The genie grinned with pleasure, nodded his head, and the wizard vanished. Halima clutched Aladdin in fear:

"What's going on? Who is that genie?"

"Don't worry, everything is all right," Aladdin reassured her, as he told his wife the whole story of how he had met the wizard and found the magic lamp that had enabled him to marry her. Everything went back to normal and the happy pair hugged each other tenderly.

"Can we return to our own kingdom?" the princess asked timidly, thinking of her father, so far away. Aladdin glanced at her with a smile.

"The magic that brought you here will take you back, but with me at your side, forever."

The Sultan was almost ill with worry. His daughter had disappeared along with the palace, and then his son- in-law had vanished too. Nobody knew where they were, not even the wise men hastily called to the palace to divine what had happened. The jealous Chamberlain kept on repeating:

"I told you Aladdin's fortune couldn't last."

Everyone had lost all hope of ever seeing the missing pair again, when far away, Aladdin rubbed the magic lamp and said to the genie,

"Take my wife, myself and the palace back to our own land, as fast as you can."

"In a flash, Sire," replied the genie. At the snap of a finger, the palace rose into the air and sped over the Sultan's kingdom, above the heads of his astonished subjects. It gently floated down to earth and landed on its old site. Aladdin and Halima rushed to embrace the Sultan.

To this very day, in that distant country, you can still admire the traces of an ancient palace which folk call the palace that came from the skies.

www.eserver.org

BOOK REVIEW: MONITORED

Morenike Ademiju reviews Monitored, prose by Oladimeji Ojo. She is currently a student at the Nigerian Law School, Lagos Campus. When  not studying provisions of the law she reads novels, writes short stories and poems.

Monitored is the story of you and I, the choices we make, the consequences of our actions and our relationship with God. It tells this tale through the life of Hadiza and her journey to understanding what most of us still struggle with. It tells the story of God’s love, our choices and freewill as humans to accept or reject said love. Monitored is undoubtedly Christian fiction, but it’s Christian fiction like you’ve never read before. It neither preaches nor condemns, neither compels nor rebukes. It simply states what is. It lacks those qualities that have unfortunately made Christian literature a bore to read. It charts its own path, as it tackles major issues in a manner which is both uncluttered and detailed enough to pass on the message.

The crux of our life, our relationship with God, our everything is the expression of our freewill. The book underscores the importance of this and twines it’s tale in a manner which leaves neither doubt nor room for shelving our decisions on other circumstances, it shows quite clearly that every decision, religious or otherwise, is made by each of us for ourselves and of our own volition. It weaves our humanity in a loop round about us, questions the things we see and how we see it. It’s links Christianity into our day to day lives, from the emotions that we feel to the shadows at our feet in a manner that passes no judgment or shoves the religion down our throats. It brings vital questions to the fore front of our mind, ‘what ifs’ and ‘perhaps’? It pushes waves of guilt into our minds and raises questions as to our decisions.

Ojo’s themes are brave and show the courage of a new writer who’s moving away from the status quo. Themes such as sexual abuse, homosexuality, humanity and its ignorance, sex and the soul, relationship with God and most of love are neatly woven in the tale of Hadiza who represents each of us and the battles we fight.

Monitored is not a cliff hanger, it doesn’t leave you clinging to chair in excitement, rather, it’s message seeps slowly into your heart, raises questions you thought you knew answers to and above all, opens your eyes and your mind to myriad of things and you come to realize that perhaps you knew nothing at all.

The book delves into a world beyond our eyes, a world in which our souls play a prominent role, a world which most believers acknowledge its existence but which we often times find oh so easy to ignore. It drives home the effect of our decisions the burden of our choices. It strips us of the cockiness of our supposed understanding and lays bare our ignorance of the world just beyond this one. It portrays man’s confusion through the years and puts a new spin of some of our more familiar stories. It will raise questions in your mind as to your religion, or lack of. It points out the hypocrisy of man and its subsequent effect on the religious doctrines.

Ojo’s book shows how often our desires rule us. How those desires lead us to make certain choices. It tackles the issue of sex and its import on man’s soul. Sexual abuse and its significance on one’s spirit. It tells of forgiveness. But most of all, it speaks of love. Man’s love for himself, for his fellow man but most of all, Gods love for man.

The book tells all of this in a simplistic manner. It almost seems as though the writing was made simple to compensate for the complexity of the issues raised and the questions answered in the book. The choice of words is basic, intending to connect with everyone who picks it up. The complexity of the issues tackled in the book is broken into bits and pieces carried into our very heart. The plainness of the language takes nothing away from the beauty of the writing. Rich content, detailed descriptions and a seamless flow of activity are all attributes of Ojo’s Monitored.

Oladimeji Ojo’s monitored, is indeed a book that could lead you on a journey to understanding if you let it, regardless of religion, age, sexual orientation, as it tackles issues faced by most of us as humans.

Monitored is available at bookshops

THE NEW YORK TIMES REVIEW OF CHIMAMANDA'S AMERICANAH BY MIKE PEED

Realities of Race

‘Americanah,’ by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

By MIKE PEED

Published: June 7, 2013

What’s the difference between an African-American and an American-African? From such a distinction springs a deep-seated discussion of race in Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s third novel, “Americanah.” Adichie, born in Nigeria but now living both in her homeland and in the United States, is an extraordinarily self-aware thinker and writer, possessing the ability to lambaste society without sneering or patronizing or polemicizing. For her, it seems no great feat to balance high-literary intentions with broad social critique. “Americanah” examines blackness in America, Nigeria and Britain, but it’s also a steady-handed dissection of the universal human experience — a platitude made fresh by the accuracy of Adichie’s observations.

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Ivara Esege

So an African-American is a black person with long generational lines in the United States, most likely with slave ancestors. She might write poetry about “Mother Africa,” but she’s pleased to be from a country that gives international aid rather than from one that receives it. An American-African is an African newly emigrated to the United States. In her native country, she didn’t realize she was black — she fit that description only after she landed in America. In college, the African-American joins the Black Student Union, while the American-African signs up with the African Students Association.

Adichie understands that such fine-grained differentiations don’t penetrate the minds of many Americans. This is why a lot of people here, when thinking of race and class, instinctively speak of “blacks and poor whites,” not “poor blacks and poor whites.” Many of Adichie’s best observations regard nuances of language. When people are reluctant to say “racist,” they say “racially charged.” The phrase “beautiful woman,” when enunciated in certain tones by certain haughty white women, undoubtedly means “ordinary-looking black woman.” Adichie’s characters aren’t, in fact, black. They’re “sable” or “gingerbread” or “caramel.” Sometimes their skin is so dark it has “an undertone of blueberries.”

“Americanah” tells the story of a smart, strong-willed Nigerian woman named Ifemelu who, after she leaves Africa for America, endures several harrowing years of near destitution before graduating from college, starting a blog entitled “Raceteenth or Various Observations About American Blacks (Those Formerly Known as Negroes) by a Non-­American Black” and winning a fellowship at Princet­on (as Adichie once did; she has acknowledged that many of Ifemelu’s experiences are her own). Ever hovering in Ifemelu’s thoughts is her high school boyfriend, Obinze, an equally intelligent if gentler, more self-effacing Nigerian, who outstays his visa and takes illegal jobs in London. (When Obinze trips and falls to the ground, a co-worker shouts, “His knee is bad because he’s a knee-grow!”)

Ifemelu and Obinze represent a new kind of immigrant, “raised well fed and watered but mired in dissatisfaction.” They aren’t fleeing war or starvation but “the oppressive lethargy of choicelessness.” Where Obinze fails — soon enough, he is deported — Ifemelu thrives, in part because she seeks authenticity. Never has Ifemelu felt as free as the day she stops hiding her Nigerian accent under an American one, the accent that convinces telemarketers she is white. She refuses to straighten her hair (a favorite Web site is HappilyKinkyNappy.com), even if she must endure muttered disparagements from African-Americans when out with a white man — “You ever wonder why he likes you looking all jungle like that?”

Early on, a horrific event leaves Ifemelu reeling, and years later, when she returns to Nigeria, she’s still haunted by it. Meantime, back in Lagos, Obinze has found wealth as a property developer. Though the book threatens to morph into a simple story of their reunion, it stretches into a scalding assessment of Nigeria, a country too proud to have patience for “Americanahs” — big shots who return from abroad to belittle their countrymen — and yet one that, sometimes unwittingly, endorses foreign values. (Of the winter scenery in a school’s Christmas pageant, a parent asks, “Are they teaching children that a Christmas is not a real Christmas unless snow falls like it does abroad?”)

“Americanah” is witheringly trenchant and hugely empathetic, both worldly and geographically precise, a novel that holds the discomfiting realities of our times fearlessly before us. It never feels false.

Mike Peed is on the editorial staff of the Sunday Review section of The Times.