Peanut Butter Principles by Eric Franklin is a very insightful and encouraging book. Mr. Franklin touches on some very good points on how to encourage children and others to reach their full potential. In Chapter 16, Mr. Franklin brings up his faith and points out something, I, myself, have learned, that, like the title of the chapter,”Faith Makes all Things Possible, Not Easy”, is very true. As the author points out, our journey to reach our full potential and to make our lives a success is not easy, but, with hard work and perseverance, it is possible. Mr. Franklin speaks of how to build the child’s self-esteem when helping them. Mr. Franklin tells us of the importance of persevering in our endeavors and not giving up so easily.
I agree with the ideas presented in Peanut Butter Principles by Eric Franklin. Thank you, sir, for a very enlightening book, which I can take into account for my own life as well. I highly recommend Peanut Butter Principles by Eric Franklin for anyone, not just parents, teachers or mentors. It has some very excellent guidelines anyone can put to use in their lives. Peanut Butter Principles is most definitely my cup of tea!!
Peanut Butter Principles is available here: http://www.amazon.com/Peanut-Butter-Principles-Leadership-Lessons/dp/0615912826/
Dance For A Dead Princess
by Deborah Hawkins
“Dance for a Dead Princess” by Deborah Hawkins is a really, really good novel. It had romance, suspense, murder, intrigue and will keep you on the edge of your seat page after page. When you think you have guessed the mystery, it will take you on a surprising turn.
Dance for a Dead Princess is the story of Nicholas, the Duke of Burnham who is widowed and has a charge who is a 16 year old girl, and who is quite a handful. He is trying to sell the Abbey, although the estate has been in the family for centuries. He meets Taylor, an attorney, who is handling the sale and also managing the estate of a very good friend of hers who was murdered. The deceased has a tape made by Princess Diana that reveals secrets people are after, including about her demise.
While everyone processes the legal papers concerning the sale of the Abbey and uncovers Diana’s tape, murder and romance take place. This book is absolutely fantastic and the ending is very surprising, I did not see that coming!! Of course, I will not reveal the ending, you will have to read that for yourself!!
I very highly recommend Dance For A Dead Princess by Deborah Hawkins. I would even like to see it made into a movie! Dance for a Dead Princess is most definitely ‘my cup of tea’!
Dance for a Dead Princess is available here: http://www.amazon.com/Dance-Dead-Princess-Deborah-Hawkins/dp/0988934728/
As a kid, I devoured the novels of Alexander Dumas. I agonized at the misery of The Count of Monte Cristo and The Man in the Iron Mask, and thrilled at the masterful sword battles against corruption of Athos, Porthos, Aramis–The Three Musketeers, plus one: D’Artagnan. “All for one and one for all” became a neighborhood rallying cry. Little did I know that the suffering and adventures of Dumas’ characters were often modeled on a real life character—his father.
The Black Count, by Tom Reiss, is a wonderful book in so many ways. Winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Biography in 2013, Reiss traces the life of Alex Dumas Sr. from a poor half-French, half black slave child in the French Caribbean, to General Alex Dumas, a hero in charge of thousands of troops in the French army under Napoleon during the French Revolution, to a real life Monte Cristo trapped in an Italian prison.
The Black Count, however, besides developing Alex, the general much loved by Alexander, the famous author, is rife with historical insight. For example, the history of the French sugar plantations in the Caribbean is explored, from the first sugar cane brought by Columbus, to France’s takeover from Spain and Portugal. By France’s rule, African slavery was in full swing, and from it came Alex Dumas, son of a French nobleman and a slave woman.
Alex Dumas was fortunate. Had his father left him in the Caribbean, none of this miraculous life would have occurred. But brought to France, Alex received a fine education, one that included swordsmanship from the finest teachers. This was possible because his education coincided with the stirrings of the French Revolution, and despite the insanity rampant at that time, part of the Revolution’s philosophy treated everyone as equal. This meant abolishing slavery in the sugar colonies and treating black citizens as equals in every way.
Thus, after joining the French army, Alex rose through the ranks as one of France’s most heroic and successful generals. He commanded thousands of men, and was quite often the actual hero, once holding a bridge in Austria by himself before help came along. His strength and sword skill made him much more than a sideline strategist like Napoleon.
Unfortunately, returning from a campaign in Egypt, Dumas was captured by Italians hostile to the revolution. He spent years as a captive, ala The Count of Monte Cristo. Finally released, he made it home to his family in poor health, and by the time he recuperated, Napoleon had realized that abolition of slavery had hurt France’s sugar income. Slavery was reinstituted, and acceptance for blacks cooled considerably. His father died poor and out of the limelight, and despite his popular novels, Alexander Jr. faced discrimination throughout his life.
The Black Count is a well-told story of history, character, and adventure. And for fans of Dumas Jr.’s swashbuckling novels, to think that his popular heroes are fictional representations of the father he idolized, makes them all the more appealing to read.
I gained admission into Olabisi Onabanjo University in 2005, and I’m still in school. My Matric Number therefore is 050
but I’m still in 500 Level- not even final year! Yet I’m not in school because I repeated, neither did I resit. I’m still in school because I’m in Nigeria, because I’m in Ogun State, because I’m in OOU.
But I didn’t get here by lack of somewhere else, (lest you say beggars can’t be choosers). I could have gone to any University in Nigeria. (My results were tenable anywhere in Nigeria.) It was therefore not a dearth of options, it was not a lack of acceptance anywhere else, it was a matter of (imposed) choice.
My father had learnt that OOU had the best medical school in the country (as it did a baker’s-dozen years ago), and made me come here. Little did he know that after the crest came the trough, that after the zenith came the nadir, that after the peak came the depth.
And that’s where we are NOW.
My mates went to Unilag, UI, Uniben, Uniilorin… Of course they are House Officers now. They had hostels, generator-powered classrooms, school buses that they could take to Intercollegiate Quizzes. I have none of that, and I’m still in school. What is worse? I contribute money to buy the class generator, and contribute money to procure fuel- yet the heat is not cured, so much that the lecturer brings her own fan to class.
You see, OOU is plagued by strikes. Internal, national, external, even extraterrestrial. And who pays? I! I lose time, I waste rents and fares and now fees? Many of my colleagues lost parents in this struggle. Many fathers (and mothers) paid the first school fees of 15 000 but are not alive today to see us pay 150 000- all at no fault of ours! Yes, it saddens. I’m glad you feel my pains, but Prof does not- and cannot. Not while he’s Dean. Not while he expects me to book an appointment to see him. Not while he plays deaf, insensitive, insane.
Yet I don’t complain. I keep quiet through strikes- whether wise or stupid, whether precious or preposterous, whether logical or political. He gets paid for work he did not do; remember the ill-fated “No work no pay?” And, surprisingly, disappointingly, insanely, he expects me to pay for these lost sessions, for his unofficial leave, and, in essence, for his strike.
Does that sound sane to you? It doesn’t to me! You see, a sane mind comprehends that if you enter for a 6-year course, you pay for 6 sessions, provided you don’t repeat a class. Not so?
It is bad that School Fees have consistently increased over the years from 15 000 in 05/06 to 150 000 in 12/13 (indigene figures). It is worse that these new fees are applied across board. It is worst that I am now expected to pay for those times I wanted to learn but had striking lecturers. It is insane that I am threatened with rustication and expulsion for
refusing.
You see, in Medical School more than anywhere else, my lecturers are meant to be models of character. And when they resisted, defied, Jonathan they taught me to do the same. It should therefore come as no surprise that I shall resist this insane directive.
Interestingly, his name also starts with J; Jonathan, not Jesus.
And before you tell me that a Medical Student ought not to protest, I will tell you that although I am sheep, I am not a fool. On the contrary, I am (believed to be) sharp in mind enough to comprehend Medicine- in all its mightiness.
And that it was on such sentiments that I accepted an irrational increase in school fees. It was on such sentiments that Prof denied me the opportunity of featuring in Uniilorin’s Medical School’s Health Week Quiz. It is on such sentiments that my school bus is allegedly usurped by members of Faculty. It was and is on such sentiments that… abegi, make I no bore you jare.
It is hightime I said “Enough is enough”. And, yes, I am saying it- the peaceful way. I believe in sanity and amicability. In Psychiatry, insanity is subdued with force- you don’t let a mad man roam around, you hold him against his will till he is well. And if Prof does not sempe, he risks force, he risks violence: he wants me to steal. I gladly told my parents that the
University had accepted that I would pay 6 school fees and no more. What do I say now? That there’s a new Pharaoh in Egypt who knowest not Joseph? Or that there is some (mental) instability at work?
Thomas Aquinas said, An unjust law is no law at all. I therefore have a choice to fight back with these peaceful, respectful, amicable, words, or to raise arms and defend my sovereignty. I hope Prof listens now. And I pray he doesn’t make me turn to violence.
For in the latter case there will be no respect for grey hair as I strive to pay 300,000 for last year and this- and seek 150,000 for next year’s.
And Prof, please, don’t ever threaten me with rustication for fighting for my rights when you don’t hesitate to demand yours from Dr J in Aso Rock.
The Constitution of Nigeria allows me freedom of speech and expression (I know it’s easy for you to forget that, and I forgive you). My training in Medical School allows me to make a provisional diagnosis. Everything aforesaid is by liberties guaranteed by either or both.
By inference, therefore, you are liable and I can sue you for infringing on my rights to freedom of speech and expression- and for delaying me unnecessarily in school. And I doubt I have slandered you, in which case I tender unreserved apologies apriori.
And I for add my name but you fit forget to remember say you no suppose threaten me or rusticate me. And I
have a suspended final MB to write. Even as I am in 400 level, and 300 level, and 200 level- all at once.
For I am tagless, nameless and faceless. I am the Spirit of the OOU Medial Student. I am the Truth.
Minoan bowl depicting the Minotaur, from www.nem.tku.edu.tw
The Minotaur Speaks
By Christopher Bernard
In the darkness a line glimmers~ like a piece of spider silk, a tendril of its web~ quivers and pulls around another corner, then disappears in the gloom, trembling in the rancid darkness, hot and stale as a cellar, binding the random corners of my chaotic home.
At one end clings the man the gods have sent to kill me~ (we’ll see about that!)~but the thread’s other end winds and coils and shines, leading . . . where?
Oh, farther into the maze where father Minos left me, the bestial child his whore of a wife, my mother Pasiphaë, dropped nine months after coupling with the Thracian bull whose member she had coveted~
mating monster with monster, how did they expect to escape having a monster for their offspring!
And so Minos threw me into this foul place, scrawled into confusion like a ball of tangled yarn, no one can find a way out of, no matter how brave or cunning, a darkness I explore to find but deeper darkness, and there left me, to feed on sacrificial virgins, the beautiful, pure-skinned, untouched children of the Greeks.
I trip over their bones as I bang from wall to wall, lost, hungry, bellowing in the dark, still hearing the echoes of the weeping that come from the maze’s mouth, where the others cower, crowd, and wait their turn in the labyrinth, their death duel with the Minotaur.
The line tugs. Where does it go? It slackens again~who bound it to the one Greek they promised would kill that abortion, the bull-man~
as if I had no soul, no mind, no heart, no memory of happiness under the sun’s gaze, and only howl and snort, bucking my horns on the rocks in an agony of memory of those few weeks I knew the bright flash of day.
It tugs again, and thrums~he is looking for me, this Theseus, with his smooth face, his eyes shining with bald terror, imagining me~
one hand trembling on the rock face, the other sweating at the end of the thread. The thread! it may lead back to the maze’s entrance, escape out of this stinking darkness into the air and sun,
the immensity of light and breath of cloud and the sweet moon, the high sky above me~could it?
Of course, it could! Someone~ a lover?
someone who loves Theseus (even my mother didn’t love me!)
gave him, of the thread, one end. And the other she holds, waiting for him, standing patiently at the dark hole where she saw him disappear, frightened and hopeful, feeling each quiver and jerk with fear,
to keep her dearest love from being killed and eaten by me.
What if I follow the line itshows,sowhite,inthe darkness?
Lord sun above me, beyond this mantle of rock~ if I follow the thread, will it lead me back up to the flowery air and the sighing of the sea, back to light and life and even a hope for love under the stars, back to the heaven called day?
It slackens. Grab it, now, beast! It is so light~so frail~ how could anything so fragile be a promise a beast could believe, a hope in this slaughterhouse, this fist of stench and weeping~ my hope?
I’ll let you guide me, one way to my death at the hands of Theseus, the other to my life in a girl’s hands, bright with day.
Lead me, thread. And do not break until I am dead or free.
_____
Christopher Bernard is a poet, novelist, essayist, photographer and filmmaker living in San Francisco. He is author of the novel A Spy in the Ruins, the short-story collection In the American Night, and The Rose Shipwreck: Poems and Photographs. He is also co-editor of the webzine Caveat Lector.