First look: ‘Where is Your Wrapper?’ cover reveal

Described by reviewers as “highly readable and imaginative”, “a book to be owned and gifted”, and “written by a powerful mind and talented writer”, Where is Your Wrapper? by Bisi Adeleye-Fayemi, which will be in bookstores this November, is a riveting collection of essays, short stories and poetry.

_{Beautiful, isn’t it?}

On why she chose the title, Bisi says, “I decided to call my new volume of essays Where is Your Wrapper? because we all need one, male and female alike, across generations and social classes. We all need protection from the vicissitudes of life, we need collective action and we cannot afford to lose hope.”

You can read an abridged introduction to the collection here.

About the author

Bisi Adeleye-Fayemi is a feminist scholar and activist, social entrepreneur, policy advocate, and writer. She has a BA (1984) and MA (1988) in History from the University of Ife, Nigeria (now Obafemi Awolowo University). She also received an MA in Gender and Society (1992) from Middlesex University, UK. She is the founder of the African Women’s Leadership Institute based in Kampala, Uganda, which has trained over 6,000 African women leaders over the past twenty years. She co-founded the African Women’s Development Fund, the first pan-African grant making foundation for women, where she served as Executive Director from 2001-2010. She is CEO of Above Whispers Media Group and founder of Above Whispers Media Foundation, and runs an online community called abovewhispers.com. She is a Visiting Senior Research Fellow at the Africa Leadership Center, King’s College, London.

She is one of the most vocal women’s rights activists and thinkers on the African continent, and a leading voice not only in the African women’s movement and civil society, but in the global women’s movement as well.

Join Bisi Adeleye-Fayemi at the Lagos Book and Art Festival (LABAF) on Wednesday, 11 November 2020.

DEVIL’S PAWN EXCERPT

Just before daybreak, a hooded man climbed the stairs to the topmost floor of a building in Sunshine Lodge, a private block of rooms for students, ten minutes away from the university.

The hooded man stopped at the first door after the stairs, dropped a tree branch in front of it and knocked loudly on the door before hurrying away.

The door opened a minute later and a guy’s head appeared. He looked around and, finding no

one, stepped into the lighted hallway. He had a large towel around his waist and his body glistened. His name was Simon Tyough, a second-year mechanical engineering student. He was tall and slightly buff, with a few strands of hair on his chin.

He picked up the branch at his feet. It was from a mango tree. He counted the leaves on it: nine. His heart sank. It was a message from the Black Cats: someone was about to die. That the branch turned up at his door meant he was going to be a part of the operation and had to meet with the other Cats that evening at 9 p.m. The last time a message like this was passed around, two people were killed, a student and his girlfriend who was just unfortunate to be at her boyfriend’s place when the Cats came for him.

The rest of the day breezed past. Simon could not concentrate on his lectures, and each time he remembered the message that had been left at his door, his heart stopped. It was four months since he joined the Black Cats. This would be his first time going with them on a mission.

***

As soon as PHY 203 evening tutorials ended, Ese hugged her bag close to her chest and left the lecture hall. There was another tutorial fixed for thirty minutes later, but Ese felt too ill to stay for it. She was weak and her head throbbed. She felt dizzy as she approached the steps of the lecture theatre. Her phone rang, but she did not pick it. With each step, her legs felt weighed down by iron shackles. She could make out several paired figures in the shadows as she walked through the faculty buildings. She didn’t really care that they were there; she simply noticed them. Two of such figures sat on one of the concrete chairs, kissing.

Ese stopped walking and closed her eyes. When she reopened them, she realised she was right at the spot where she had slapped Emeka in the face the first time he tried to toast her. Most guys would stop pestering her after a slap, but not Emeka. Apparently, he was so used to getting his way that he had tugged at her shoulder when she made to get away from him. So she slapped him. She apologised immediately, but Emeka did not seem to have heard her. Although he walked away quietly, the look in his eyes had chilled her.

She crossed onto the walkway behind Queen Hauwa Hall. The walkway, which spanned the entire length of the hostel building, was roughly two hundred metres of red and grey interlocking pavers. Part of the sick bay was visible from where Ese stood. To get to her own hostel, she would have to walk to the end of the walkway and cross to the side of the road where the sick bay was. From there, it was a straight walk to the gate. She quickened her pace, ignoring the pain in her skull.

Queen Hauwa Hall was notorious for poor hygiene; too many students lived in it. The hall was meant for first- and second-year students like Ese, but, like many students, Ese resided in Alexander Hall, which had smaller rooms half the size of Hauwa Hall, but was better serviced and less crowded.

That night, however, Ese wished she resided at Hauwa Hall; it was closer. She stood at the end of the walkway, waited briefly for a car to pass, then ran across the road. The effort mixed another cocktail of pain in her head.

The sick bay was open. Ese could see a few students waiting inside. She thought of going in for treatment, then remembered she had some Panadol in her room and kept walking towards her hall. It loomed in the distance and towered above the Social Centre opposite it.

***

The four of them – Kunle, Dave, Oche and Simon – sat huddled together under the shadows of one of the umbrella trees scattered around the campus, passing around a wrap of marijuana. Simon declined the joint when it was passed to him. He sat with his

hands in the pocket of his hoodie.

“Simon, relax,” Dave said, slipping on a pair of gloves.

Simon nodded gratefully, even though Dave’s words had zero calming effect on him. He had only begun smoking when he joined the Black Cats. He hated the way it dried the inside of his mouth – a far cry from the kick he had gotten when he first tasted vodka.

Tonight, his fear was a stranglehold around his neck and his heartbeat was amplified in his ears. Before today, he hadn’t been involved in the cult’s dirty business. He had hoped his novice days would last forever, that this day would never come. But here he was, about to participate in punishing a girl for an unnamed offence against Emeka.

He wanted no part in this. He was from a Christian home and, though he had not been  consistent with church since his parents died, he still read his Bible. He didn’t have the nerve for violence. He had been forced into this, abducted by most of the guys here, after days of evading them, and beaten into submission.

“Action at last,” Kunle said, a fresh joint between his lips. Though small-statured, he was the loudest of the gang. Dave snatched the joint from Kunle’s lips. He handed it to Oche who sat between Simon and him. Oche was Emeka’s cousin and a typically quiet guy. He puffed on the joint and slowly let the smoke out of his lips. He passed the joint back to Dave. “That’s her coming,” Kunle said.

Simon shuddered. It was only a few hours ago that he had learnt their target’s identity. Emeka, whom he had met only twice since becoming a Cat, had spat her name: Ese. She seemed like a quiet girl; she didn’t deserve the attention she was getting from the Black Cats. But Emeka’s orders were final. He’d sounded really bitter an hour ago as he repeated his instructions and dropped the guys off near the Social Centre. He was waiting nearby with the car, ready to pick them up as soon as they picked up the girl. Simon wondered why Emeka was participating in the abduction. He could have asked Skulls to oversee this.

Simon looked up. Ese was walking slowly, as though there was something wrong with her. She stopped and held her head in her hand. Simon willed her to keep going, make a dash for her hostel before they grabbed her.

Kunle jabbed Simon in the ribs with his elbow. He knew what this meant. He brought out the vial of chloroform in his pocket and emptied its contents into Dave’s gloved hand.

_________________________________________________

Kukogho Iruesiri Samson is an award-winning author of 4 books What Can Words Do? I Said These Words, Words of Eros & We Who Sowed Hurt and Beaded Pains, all of which are available on OkadaBooks. He is also the Founder/CEO of popular educational and publishing firm, Words Rhymes & Rhythm Publishers Ltd.
Devil’s Pawn won the GTBank Dusty Manuscript Prize in 2018 and will be available at farafinabooks.com from October 15. But the eerie cover, gripping blurb and riveting excerpt has you wanting to pre-order, right?

Jowhor Ile, author of And After Many Days, Makes the 2020 Caine Prize Shortlist

We are excited to announce that “Fisherman Stew” by Jowhor Ile, published in The Sewanee Review (2019) has been shortlisted for the 2020 Caine Prize. He is one of the three Nigerians amongst the five writers shortlisted. The Caine Prize is a £10,000 prize awarded annually for a short story by an African writer published in English.

Jowhor Ile was born in Port Harcourt, Rivers state. His debut novel, And After Many Days, won the Etisalat Prize in 2016. And After Many Days is a novel of childhood; of the delicate, complex balance of power and love between siblings and the unique ecosystem of a family. It is also a portrait of a society, as the old world gives way to a new status quo.

Jowhor has received fellowships from East Anglia University, UK and Yaddo. He also earned an MFA at Boston University, where he lectured.

Others shortlisted are Chikodili Emelumadu’s “What to do when your child brings home a Mami Wata” published in The Shadow Booth: Vol.2.; Irenosen Okojie’s “Grace Jones” published by Hachette; Rémy Ngamije’s “The Neighbourhood Watch” published in The Johannesburg Review of Books, and “How to Marry An African President” by Erica Sugo published in adda: Commonwealth Stories.

We wish the shortlisted writers the best of luck.

Dear Writer, Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff

The tweet below recently found its way to the small corner of Naija Twitter that is “Literary Twitter”. 

Don't 👏argue 👏 with 👏 your 👏 editor 👏 over 👏 minor 👏 details

they are better than you at writing, it's their job to be, that's why they're an editor

— Ben Trautman (@CaptainPlanetOW) February 6, 2020

 

Eghosa Imasuen, author of Fine Boys, weighed in on the matter in a series of tweets which we have put together below. 

It isn’t bad advice not to argue “small details” with your editor because they are likely right. An editor is a specialised reader. Appreciate the luxury of engaging such a reader of your work, but it is what it is: a luxury. You will not be over the shoulder of readers, when the book is published, explaining in their ear why a mistake is not a mistake.  

There will always be exceptions, especially from our POV as authors from the global South. But all things considered, with an editor from your culture, no italicisation of your language’s words to protest, etc, listen to your editor. At least over the “small stuff”. 

I’ve seen both sides now, writer and editor. I’ve seen what happens to a manuscript when a writer’s reputation and skill means that editors can’t edit them anymore. I’ve seen when youth and surefootedness means the writer can’t listen even if they tried. I’m currently looking at an older version of Fine Boys. The manuscript still has notes from the copyedit. Things I fought for, small things, I see now that the editor’s suggestions worked.  

Perhaps this is about the words, “argue” and “minor details”, and if editors are better writers. Editors aren’t writers. The process is collaborative. If the manuscript has been substantively edited and is at the last copyedit, don’t sweat the small stuff. Listen. The final decision is still yours.  

 

Follow Eghosa Imasuen on Twitter @eimasuen.

The Orchid Protocol – exclusive excerpt

DCT agent Patrick Emenalo returns to work on the same day there is a bombing at a popular fast food joint in Lagos. Dark Cell, a terrorist group, claims responsibility and demands the release of Red Baron, arms smuggler and crime boss. 

Patrick, caught in a game whose rules are set by shadowy crime syndicate, The Orchid, must race against time to stop the terrorists before they strike again. 

Face-paced and seamlessly written, Onyekwena’s debut takes bold steps into the widely uncharted world of organised crime in Lagos.

Here is an excerpt from The Orchid Protocol by Onochie Onyekwena.

Enjoy.

 

IDOWU MARTINS STREET, VICTORIA ISLAND, LAGOS

Hasta La Vista, a once-popular fast-food joint, was in chaos. Most of the damage was on the left side of the building. The bomb unit had discovered that the explosive device was detonated in one of the toilet stalls. There were bricks and red and yellow nylon strips all over the section where a bouncing castle used to be. The roof of the restrooms and the adjoining part of the food court had been ripped open by the blast. It was also flooded due to all the burst pipes. 

The police had sealed the entrance to the parking lot to keep reporters and concerned citizens away from the crime scene. Several reporters were yelling questions at every law enforcement officer they saw. Meanwhile, on the other side of the police seal, paramedics were attending to victims with lighter injuries. Some police officers were helping the response unit retrieve bodies from the building, the mix of their black and yellow uniforms lending more disarray to the sight. Another police officer tried to usher two kids away from the stretcher that carried their father. Though the fire service had put out the flames from the blast, the building was covered in smoke and dust.

It wasn’t the first attempt at a terror attack of this magnitude in Lagos, but it was the first that had succeeded. Detective Tega Isong, his partner Peter Chiaba and a member of the bomb unit were also on the scene, scraping through debris for any remains of the suspected explosive device. 

After ten minutes of sifting through dust and shattered bricks in what used to be toilets, Detective Chiaba found a half-melted mobile phone battery and some charred metal rods, the type which the bomb unit guy had described as detonators used to arm C-4 explosives. The bomb squad was already taking swabs for traces of C-4 components. Judging from the degree of the damage caused by the explosion, they estimated that about three kilogrammes of C-4 was used in the attack.

Chiaba picked out his pad. “About thirty people still in there, plus staff.” He paused. “They’ve recovered ten dead bodies so far.”

“Shit. Have the DCT guys gotten here yet? I think this is their stuff.”

“Yeah,” Chiaba said and pointed, “over there.”

“Alright, go and see if the bomb squad has got anything. I’ll talk to the DCT.”

Tega walked over to the other side of the car park, past all the debris, until he spotted a crouched DCT agent holding a tattered face cap in his hands.

“Patrick?” he called out.

Patrick turned to look at Isong and then returned his eyes to the face cap. “Hello Tega, it’s been a while.”

Patrick’s jaw was twitching as he fiddled with the face cap.

“I just got the latest count. It’s ten dead with fifteen injured. This is serious,” Tega said.

Patrick looked around. Traffic was building up as the police tried to keep the growing crowd off the road and away from the crime scene. He gazed left and right, scanning both sides of the road carefully. He pointed at the CCTV cameras he saw attached to a tall street light behind the crowd of reporters and civilians across the left side of Hasta La Vista. “Can you get me feeds from those cameras?” he said to Tega.

“Sure thing.”

Just then, Detective Chiaba, Jessica Etche of the DCT and Nsikan Akpan, the leader of the police bomb unit, approached them. Jessica had been with the DCT since its inception. She joined a year after completing her studies in forensic medicine at Florida International University. Detective Chiaba first met her at a security symposium a year ago; everyone noticed the girl that barraged the keynote speaker with complicated questions.

Chiaba spoke up. “I think we found something,” he said and nodded at Jessica.

“What is it, Jess?” Patrick said.

“Sergeant Akpan said the place was bombed with a few kilogrammes of C-4,” Jessica said, passing the remains of the burnt phone battery to Patrick. He observed it for a few seconds and turned to Akpan. “Remotely detonated.”

“It appears so,” he said. “Whoever it was could have been anywhere between two to two hundred miles from here and still be able to detonate it.”

“How is that possible?” Jessica said.

“It’s a mobile device. Whoever rigged it, wired it in such a way that it would detonate if any call came in. I strongly believe that’s what happened.”

“Alright, Jessica, take the samples you’ve found to the lab quickly.” Patrick turned to Tega. “Can we get a list of the victims as soon as they’re identified?”

“Right,” Tega said. “Chiaba will get that started.”

As Chiaba, Jessica and Akpan walked away from him, Patrick couldn’t take his eyes off the destruction.

“We couldn’t have seen this one coming,” Tega said.

“But we should have. That’s why we’re here.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. We’re not superheroes.”

Patrick sighed. “The person—the people that did this, what could they possibly want so badly that they would attack and kill innocent civilians?”

Tega shrugged. “Beats me. Whatever it is though, my guess is that we’ll be hearing from someone pretty soon.”

Just then Patrick’s phone rang. “Sorry, I have to take this,” he said to Tega.

“No p,” the detective said, watching Patrick as he stepped away with his phone glued to his ear. He came back two minutes later.

“That was the chief. I have to get back to the station.”

“Alright, we’ll finish up here,” Tega said.

The Orchid Protocol is now available in bookstores MedPlus outlets nationwide. You can also order a copy HERE.

Find the author on Instagram: @officialonochie.

Before the war ended

An excerpt from Allison Chimaeze Eñeogwe’s autobiography, Perseverance: Arise and Shine

From my radio, I knew by late 1969 that Nigerian troops began an unprecedented move towards the Aba axis. Aba-Ngwa people are as farmers and producing the best garri throughout Nigeria. This movement of the federal troops seemed to be total as they were combing from village to village. The majority of Ngwa people who had no money to feed themselves if they fled from their homes decided to take on the greater evil – mass surrender. The information from the radio revealed that those who surrendered were treated fairly. All they had to do was to hide in the bush or anywhere and await the retreat of the Biafran army. Then, when the Nigerian army advanced towards them, the people came out with white handkerchiefs in their hands, shouted “One Nigeria” and were safe from harm. 

I went to Amepku Uratta, got my father with his wives and brought them to Umukalu Ntigha, Brother Levi’s village. By this time, he had also left Eziala Mbawsi – his in-law’s place – and moved to his village. 

Other refugees living with us were moving northwards towards Umuahia, but my wife was very sick and I knew that if we went further, she was going to die. Going further meant getting to Mbaise area or Okigwe. In such a place, where were we going to get food? So, I called my father and told him that we were going to surrender now. I told him what I had been hearing from the radio, the modality of surrender and how those that surrendered were treated.

This time around, my father was afraid. “Do you mean that after we have managed all these days to escape death from Nigerian soldiers you want us to surrender now so that they will kill us?” he asked. 

“No,” I replied. “The war has been going on for a long time and everybody is tired now. Most of the soldiers are now interested in whatever will end the war than what will protract it.” 

“Chimaeze, if you say we should surrender, let us surrender. If they kill us today, I have lived longer than you and I have eaten more food than you. I will abide by your suggestion.” 

Having gotten the approval of my father, I called everybody in Levi Okeogu’s compound – his elders, himself and all other refugees. I told them of the decision we had to take that very day, in view of the fact that federal troops were at our doorsteps. I had to be careful about making this thing open because I was afraid that someone might decide to report me to pockets of Biafran soldiers that were around the area who would not waste time in coming to execute me as a saboteur.

Since we were within shelling range of artillery guns, we could hear the booming sounds of all sorts of weapons, both small and large. Earlier, Levi had taken me to the bush with his brothers to map out our strategy. Thus, by 2 p.m. on 24th December 1969, we moved into the bush between Umukalu and Osusu Village and laid down flat in the bush. At about 4 p.m., we heard the marching song of the Nigerian army in Hausa, and I gave the order to shout, “One Nigeria” and rise up with handkerchiefs and move towards Osusu road and let the soldiers see that we were not armed. 

Earlier in the day, we had buried my father’s double-barrel gun and other guns in the compound of the Okeogus, which we did not recover. I had to buy new guns for my father after the war. 

As the Nigerian soldiers saw us moving in that convoy – male, female, boys, old and young – they were astonished. Some of them even knelt down and prayed to God and thanked him while others said, “So the war is ending?” Immediately, I came out from the bush with my wife and my two little children, my mother, my father and his entourage behind me. I was wearing a white long-sleeved shirt with white trousers. The soldiers shouted: “Welcome, my men. Food dey, water dey.” They instructed us to head to Okpuala-Ngwa hospital, where Isiala-Ngwa North Local Government Headquarters is located today. 

Not long after the first detachment of troops passed, another detachment came by. I was wearing my wife’s wristwatch – a Buler Swiss watch – the one I had bought for her for our wedding. One soldier approached me and quickly removed the wristwatch from my wrist and it fell. Immediately, two of his colleagues picked up the watch from the ground and said, “Sorry, teacher.” One blew the sand off the wristwatch and put it back on my wrist. “We are sorry, teacher,” they repeated.

According to these kind soldiers, they had been in the bush for three years now praying that the war would end. Now that the people were coming out to surrender, their greedy colleague wanted to treat them badly. One of them warned the offender that if he engaged in such misconduct again, he would kill him. His partner nodded in confirmation of the threat.

They ordered the soldier to apologise to me, and he said, “Sorry, teacher.” I am sure it was the way I was dressed that earned me the name, “Teacher”. 

We marched to Okpuala-Ngwa hospital where thousands were already gathered, loosely surrounded by some Nigerian soldiers. Immediately I settled down, a soldier came towards me and saw my radio – it was a Philips. The soldier told me that as soldiers, they took anything they desired from any refugee – radios and other valuables – but he had vowed that he would never take anything from the owner simply because the situation permitted it. So, he humbly requested to buy my radio. I told him that it was alright but that, since it was getting late, he should come over the next morning so we could talk about it. 

The following day, the soldier came as arranged. He was not alone. The night before, I had made enquiries in the camp and I was told that I was fortunate I passed through the front and came in here with a radio. I was advised to quickly do away with the radio before I was accused of using it to communicate with Biafra soldiers. Throughout that night, I was afraid that what I had been warned about may occur. 

I asked the soldier how much he would pay for my radio. The other soldier opened his bag and brought out a new radio exactly like mine. He was just there to advise on a fair price. “Talk truth for God, how much did you buy this radio?” my “customer” asked him. The soldier replied that he had just returned back from “pass” to Ibadan and that “truth for God”, he had bought his radio for 15 pounds. 

I didn’t argue with him over this position and the buyer said he would pay me 15 pounds. I had been expecting to get five pounds at most. The soldiers left and in less than ten minutes, the buyer returned and gave me 15 pounds of Nigerian currency. That was when I discovered that Nigeria had redesigned the currency during the war. The money felt like a thousand pounds and marked the beginning of my financial recovery. 

The Biafran currency was, however, still a legal tender among us in the camp. 

We stayed in the camp until 31st December 1969, when they told us to go back to our different homes in the areas that had been liberated by Nigerian soldiers. So, on 1st January 1970, we started our journey back to Egbede.

 

PERSEVERANCE: Arise and Shine is about an “Iron Man of Action” who rose from being an apprentice electrician to a top industrialist.

At 18, young Mazi Allison Chimaeze Eñeogwe dropped out of school for lack of funds and moved to Port Harcourt where he became an electrician. His uncommon ingenuity made him stand out, and he rose fast in his chosen career, which was truncated by the civil war in 1966, during which he had to cross enemy lines for trade. Once the war was over, he settled in Aba and got involved in different industrial ventures. His faith as a Jehovah’s Witness always put him in good stead before people, and his sense of humour has seen him through many dark days.

PERSEVERANCE: Arise and Shine chronicles this proud Ngwa man’s challenges – sell-outs, fraud, kidnap attempts, false detention and a two- year self-imposed exile – and how he has come out of it all still holding his head high.

 

Available on Kindle HERE.

Image source

Before You Send Out Your Manuscript

Dear Writer,

Writing is an act of self-exploration and submitting your work to a publisher can be the scariest act of your life. As publishers, we are aware of this and sympathetic. If we select your work for publication, we would do our very best to make the process pleasant for the writer.

However, to increase the chances of your manuscript being picked up by a publisher, we advise that you adhere to the rules of grammar, punctuation and submission.

Some mornings, we log into the submissions account and there are hundreds of emails waiting to be read, most of them with manuscript excerpts. Unfortunately, our request for more hours in a day hasn’t been granted (yet), so we can’t afford to waste any of the twenty-four we get. If you are a writer submitting your work to a publishing house, here’s how you can make our lives (and the lives of other editors and editorial assistants) easier.

Do Not Show Off

Contrary to what your friends and family members might have told you, you’re not the best writer since Okri or Arimah. But even if you are extremely talented, we won’t read your manuscript unless your email contains a synopsis of your novel and an excerpt of reasonable length (we suggest three chapters). We do not want to read a list of every award you’ve won since Primary School. We know every book we’ve published; don’t list them in your email or tell us that your work is better than those of seasoned authors. Allow us to judge that.

 

The moment we see emails like the one below, we know we won’t download or read the submission.

“If kachifo would like peharps, a demonstration, i would e-mail them my worst poem and they will be bewildered by beauty and admiration my stock of quality can give. I do not beg because i know writers like me would catapault the industry. My goal: to exceed Ngozi Adichi, ECHEBE, WOLE SOYINKA and to messure above SHAKESPARE and MILTON. Please e-mail me! (Sic)”

Do Not Send Your First Draft

Do as much work as you can in cleaning up your manuscript before sending it in. Does your story flow? If we can’t make sense of it, we won’t read past the first paragraph or chapter. Spell check! It doesn’t say much about your commitment to the written word if your manuscript is riddled with grammatical errors.

Send a Synopsis

Besides doing all the work you can on your manuscript, do even more on your synopsis – it often determines if your manuscript will be read or not. We rarely spend more than five minutes on each email. In that time, we read the synopsis and decide if we should download the manuscript excerpt or not. Do not send your manuscript without a synopsis, and do not send your synopsis without a manuscript. Both are important. And please, do not send a link to your blog, your Facebook or Instagram accounts, telling us to read your works there. We can, but we will not.

Obey Instructions

Often, submission guidelines request that you send in a synopsis, and attach an excerpt from your work to the email. Your synopsis can be sent in the body of the email (we prefer this), but do not send your sample chapters in the body of the email. Save your excerpt as a Microsoft Word document and send it as an attachment to the mail. However, do not assume this is all a publisher will ask for. Every publisher is different. Find out the guidelines of the publisher you want to send your manuscript to and follow the guide to the letter! If you will not dedicate time to reading and following the guidelines, the editor will not dedicate time to reading your work.

Editor vs. Fairy God Editor

We are editors, not fairy godeditors. No fairy god editors are waiting in the wings, dedicated to turning ALL writers’ rags into fine cloth. We won’t edit your story and send it back to you “even if it won’t be published”. Also, it’s very unlikely that we’ll to send you an email when we are done reading your excerpt just to tell you what we didn’t like about it. There are simply too many submissions and like we said, there aren’t enough hours in the day.

So while we try to send a response, if you don’t one within eight weeks, it means Kachifo will not be publishing your work under our Farafina imprint but we wish you all the best.

Here are our submissions guidelines:

To have your work considered for publication by Kachifo Limited, please send an email to submissions@kachifo.com, including a strong excerpt of about three chapters or 10,000 words saved in Microsoft Word, a one-page synopsis of the work, and a short author bio. (Note that a synopsis is not the same as a blurb or a teaser. A synopsis should contain “spoilers”, and should give a summary of the entire story, including and especially how it ends.)

The sample of the manuscript should be properly formatted (double-spaced, left-justified only, 12pt Serif font). Our preferred font is Courier New.

Introduce yourself and your work in the query letter in the body of the email. The subject of your email should be the title of your manuscript followed by the word “Submission”. Your submission will be acknowledged and assessed by our editors. We will respond within eight weeks if we are provisionally interested in publishing your work.

At this time, Kachifo Limited is not accepting unsolicited poetry or short story collections submissions.

Please note that we only accept submissions via email to submissions@kachifo.com. We do not accept hard copy submissions.

Unsolicited submissions sent to other Kachifo email addresses may be overlooked. Hard copy submissions will not be acknowledged or returned.

Please see the FAQs or email submissions@kachifo.com for further information on how to publish with us.

If you would like to know more about Prestige, our publishing services imprint, visit www.prestige.ng.

Image 1 source

Our Farafina E-book Store is Live!

On the 20th of October 2018, Kachifo Limited launched its new e-bookstore, farafinabooks.com.

Now, you can buy and read, on your devices, your best-loved titles from any of our imprints: Farafina, Tuuti, Breeze and Kamsi.

To Start Reading on Farafinabooks

A Letter from the Author of ‘There’s an Elephant in My Wardrobe’ – to Parents of Children with Anxiety.

Its World Mental Health Day and author of the forthcoming There’s an Elephant in my Wardrobe, Yejide Kilanko, has some advice for parents about managing a child with anxiety.

Read the letter below.

Dear Parents,

The world we live in can be alarming at times. Children are not exempt from the fear and anxiety many adults experience on a daily basis. If you’re wondering how to help your child living with anxiety, I offer the following tips as a helpful starting point.

COVER REVEAL: ‘There’s an Elephant in My Wardrobe’ by Yejide Kilanko

 

Finally!

The breathtaking cover of Yejide Kilanko’s new children’s book, There’s an Elephant in My Wardrobe.

The colourful book tells the story of young Adun who is bullied by an elephant claiming to be her friend.

Yejide Kilanko is the author of the novel, Daughters Who Walk This Path, which we published in 2014. 

There’s an Elephant in My Wardrobe will be available in stores by December 2018 and pre-order information shared later this month.