Olga Mack and Yun Yun Huang’s How to Negotiate
Bios:
IN MEMORIAM
after Verlaine
This evening, I do not like the way the sun sets in gray ash on the horizon, or how the twilight leaves such a bitter taste, like tears mingled with a shiver. I do not like the smell of roses picked to be braided into crowns or gathered into garlands, nor the lingering scent of a violet born in the shadow of cypresses. Tomorrow on the green hill, there will be a new grave with a new name because death blew on a budding flower and a tempest broke a sapling. If your weight is light to those whose age has overwhelmed too many days and nights, I find you quite heavy, O inexorable earth, when you weigh thus.
A WHOLE BASKET FULL OF DEAD SNAKES
The Mistake won’t stop blogging about me, I say.
No one reads blogs, The Dark Lady says, adding,
No one reads poetry either. Why should you care?
I ignore the dig because she has a point,
But then again, so do I.
Why can’t she be more like you? I say.
Jesus. I wish we could just get divorced twice,
The Mistake can’t even get being an ex-wife
Right. Charming, The Dark Lady says.
Exactly, I say, though technically I’m not
Agreeing with her, charming in much the same way
That Marburg virus is charming.
Whatever, The Dark Lady says.
No, seriously, I say, forgetting about The Mistake,
Marburg is an awesome thing,
And now, since there’s no stopping me,
The Dark Lady takes a deep pull and snorts
Menthol smoke like a bored, middle-aged dragon
With giant fake breasts.
It’s a zoonotic filovirus related to Ebola,
Possibly vectored through Egyptian fruit bats—
These are cute little cat/rat/bird beasties,
I say, that work hard to pollinate the ageless Baobab,
Whose fruit wanders the continents of flavor
From vanilla to pear to grapefruit.
At this point, I give her the jazz hands,
And she takes another drag in resignation.
It’s a hemorrhagic fever that makes you vomit
And cry blood until all of your organs fail
And you die. The Soviets even tried to turn it
Into a weapon, but they didn’t do so well
And some dude croaked in the process.
Charming, The Dark Lady says. And I know
Exactly what she means.
LIBRARY
This forgotten bookshelf indicts the heads
Of failed lovers: how dare they give way when
So much consolation, so much inspired
Sweetness insists in stronger dependencies?
How these volumes ache with every unturned
Emptiness—just the stack behind the bed
Is full of mysteries, strange and burned
Letters sink into silence, dried and dead.
De-collated edges and flyspecks,
Mountains of words wilt from one century
To the next: beautiful faces, a vortex
Of sweet pilgrimages to some grassy
Tomb. Unfamiliarity is a gate
That keeps all would-be lovers from their fate.
CONSULTANT, My FOOT!
Everyone wants to be a doctor, yet not everyone wants to be a
“medicine man”. Every parent wants to have a doctor as a child, to be
called Mama Doctor, Papa Doctor; even if such child is actually a(n
unlicensed) patent medicine dispenser. Yes, ours is a society of
vanities, so that even the dumb politician pays (for his credentials)
to be doctored– not nursed. And now that “doctor” has become a dime a
dozen, they have set eyes on Consultant.
It all started many years ago when other health students were taught
that Medical Students were no better than them, that they had all it
took to compete with us and displace us, that the ELEMENTARY human
anatomy, physiology, pharmacology, pathology, paediatrics, obstetrics
and/or gynaecology that Medical Doctors taught their forebears to
upgrade them from Diploma holders to BSc carriers are enough armament
to fight us. So much for gratitude!
They were told that they are the generational ones, as against the
previous, orthodox, ones. They were told to give us hell. And why
shouldn’t they? After all, knowledge puffeth up– as does ignorance.
They were told they could be us. Yet, if we were no better, why then
be us?
The reason is obvious. It is half-knowledge. And it is all they
possess. It is half, not because it did not spend so long in school,
which it didn’t; or because it did not have a curriculum half as
comprehensive, which, again, it didn’t. It is half because it cannot
cure the patient; because it needs the Doctor (for it) to function
optimally; because it is, as my pharmacy wife put it, la cram, la
pour. And as the Yoruba observe,
Wúrúkú làá yírìnká
Gbọ̀ọ̀rọ̀-gbọọrọ làá dọ̀bálẹ̀
Kúná-kúná làá fọ́’jú
Kùùnà-kuuna làá d’étẹ̀
Ojú àfọ́-ìfọ́tán
Ìjà níí dááálẹ̀
And as with everything indoctrination, it was swallowed hook, line and
sinker by every Tom, Dick and Harry– and still is. The first symptom
was the protracted arguments with any medical student they could find,
ranting about how we know the same things, GENERATIONAL (emphasis
theirs) nurses that they (now) are; BSc nursing students more so than
School of Nursing folk… The first sign was conducting their own ward
rounds. And finally the chameleon has shown us its colour:
Consultancy.
I have not bothered to read the numerous (read: innumerable) reasons
they must have given. I am a Nigerian; I know how manifestos are
written for and crammed by– la cram, la pour–; I know that the leaf
dancing atop the river dances to tunes from beneath the waters. They
feel that spending a lifetime with myriads of doctors makes them at
least as good as one. Yet, spending a lifetime in court does not make
one a Judge; for the robes do not make the Pope, neither does the hat.
Or does it now? now that we have GENERATIONAL blah-blah-blah– emphasis
mine.
And again, if we are no better, why do male nurses so want to be us?
Could it be because they feel so out of place in an overwhelmingly
feminine profession that injures their ego, that will not even allow
them be midwives, or is it midhusbands? Could it be that the title
Consultant will soothe such injured ego hitherto (barely) bandaged by
CNO-ship? No, it is not personal– yet.
He who comes to Equity must come with clean hands, and not protect
their own interests, their own traditions, while they fight others’
status quo: Nurses, for example, hold onto their tradition that
midwifery is the exclusive domain of females; how then can they
protest our tradition that Consultancy is the exclusive reserve of
Doctors? Shall we talk about pharmacists, technologists, and whoever
else waka come?
Personally, I do not mind having C. Nurses, Pharmacists,
Technologists, or whoever else waka come. Already, na the whole world
sabi say no be only Doctors waka come. Plus, eventually there will be
only one Consultant, and that will be the one that always was: us. Yet
have I found myself wondering if they just have hidden agenda, if
coveting our Consultancy a step toward much more sinister objectives!
So that I fear for the consequences of this theft. I fear for our
society. I fear for posterity. For our society is one where every
chemist shop is a hospital, where “doctors” are seen, injections given
and abortions done; where everyone working in a hospital is a Doctor,
even a brown-uniformed orderly (that instructed one patient to X-ray
his infant’s testicles; and another, his wife’s pregnancy; yes, I said
X-RAY, not ultrasound); where a Nurse forgets a tight tourniquet on a
neonate for so long that she nearly ruins his arm; where Pharm D is
misconstrued to be a means of turning pharmacy students into Medical
Doctors as against PhD-holding pharmacists. Alas, everyone wants to be
a Medical Doctor, even when they say we are no better!…
No, this is not to say Doctors are perfect; we are only a lot safer. I
for one have been in Medical School for 9 years and I’m finally in
final year! Na beans? All so I can be a lot safer; abegi just leave
ASUU out of it. If I had read Nursing for instance, even at BSc level,
I would be a lot more than I am: I would have been in the Civil
Service for some four years, I should be a Professor by now! Yet am I
still here saying Yes, Ma to even nurses I am older than and way
better than, saying Sorry, Ma to nurses that were in SS-what when I
was already in Med School. Abegi, no provoke me o!
Sentiments aside, If our purpose of working in the Health Sector is
the wellbeing of the patient, how does the (overbloated ego of the)
C. Nurse/Pharmacist/Technologist help the mission, other than creating
the proverbial two-captains-in-a-ship?– and we all know how that ends.
And it is in this spirit that I salute the ongoing NMA strike action.
It is not at all sentimental; it is not to show the superiority
complex that Doctors are said to have; it is not to display that
we are gods on earth
that they say we are
bearing in hands the powers of life and death
that we actually do bear;
it is to verify what the others have said.
They have said that Doctors are no big deal. They have said they can
do our work. They have even said they are more important. Well, this
is Nigeria: all talk and no walk. Or can they walk the talk? Can they
admit patients? Can they manage patients on their own, or even
together sef? Can they discharge patients? Whatever happened to
‘Nurses own the wards but Doctors own the patients’?
Yet that will not be all: They have eyes on the position of Chief
Medical Director. Being Permanent Secretaries of Ministries of Health
is not enough, they want to run hospitals and own them. So they can
kill unsuspecting masses– like they already do in the chemist shops
cum abortion centres some of them run, even orderlies?
Yet this is past nipping in the bud: they have become an undying
hydra-headed monster; cutting off a head, an ambition, only brings two
in its place!
Oh, where are the eyes of Medusa?
Ayokunle Ayk Fowosire.
Sagamu.
And peradventure my position is yet ambiguous, nurses own the wards,
techs own the labs and Doctors own the patients. Which is the
greatest?: wards, labs or patients?; which would YOU rather be?
Abegi, anyone that wants to be a Consultant (and particularly Chief
Medical Director) should enroll in a Medical School o jare; JAMB is yet
conducting UTME. And when you don’t make that annoyingly high score,
don’t quit, don’t go to School of Nursing or School of Health, keep
writing JAMB every year. Trust me; you will get in– eventually…
And by the time you have finally wriggled out of Med School and
Residency having failed many an exam, you will have understood why
many a parent screams Praise the Lord at Inductions into the medical
profession, and why Chief Medical Director remains the exclusive
reserve of Doctors.
And only then can you truly be a Consultant– without My FOOT!
A Small Journey
Darlene P. Campos
Grandma took me to a place I did not know.
Like the rez, it was cold and in the middle of nowhere.
She showed me her new home and baked me bread the way she used to.
Grandma left me when I was 15 and gave me the key to her house.
Take me out, she said, before I rot.
She asked if I missed her or if I missed her bread instead.
I said I missed her even though she hated my father.
And always told me I was just like him.
Grandma led me to the exit.
Like the rez, it was warm and welcoming.
I asked why I had to leave so early and she told me,
You’re not ready yet,
But I will see you soon.
The first thing to give author Michelle Bellon credit for, is knowing how to grab her reader’s attention right away. Her novel, Rogue Alliance, opens in a facility known only as “The Institute”. There, a man is imprisoned. He cannot remember his name, how he got there, or who he was before. He’s named himself Brennan Miles. At the Institute, he is subjected to torturous experiments at the hands of Dr. Shinto (I guess the name Frankenstein was already taken), who has altered his genes to make him a sort of human-vampire hybrid. He’s stronger and faster than any human, but dependent on blood for survival. This blood is given to him via infusions which are periodically withheld to see how he responds. Why would Dr. Shinto do this? As the doctor explains to his guest, Victor Champlain, he did it because he could.
Victor Champlain runs a major drug operation and has hired Dr. Shinto to develop a new street drug. He also has a lot of enemies and is in the market for a good bodyguard. When he sees Dr. Shinto’s project, he thinks Brennan might fit the bill. So he helps Brennan escape the Institute, and in doing so earns Brennan’s loyalty.
Elsewhere, DEA Agent Shyla Ericson has just gotten a promotion. She’s heading up a team of local cops trying to gain enough evidence against Victor Champlain to put him away for good. She’s thrilled- until she learns that Victor has recently relocated to the idyllic Northern California town of Redding. While the small town intimacy, beautiful scenery and slow pace might be lovely for some, for Shyla it’s a place of nightmares. It’s where she spent her hellish childhood and adolescence, where she became both a victim and a pariah in the eyes of the locals, and where she left as soon as she could. Needless to say she’s not happy to be going back even if it is technically a promotion.
As an adult, Shyla has a drinking problem and an inability to allow anyone to get close to her. That can make her hard to work with, but she gets her job done. When the job calls for her to go undercover and be Victor’s new girlfriend, that’s just what she does, hoping to learn as much as possible about his operation. Brennan is ever present and he and Shyla soon become attracted to one another. She is the first person who makes Brennan question his loyalty to Victor.
However, things begin to get troublesome in the last third of the book, when Shyla’s cover is blown, Brennan chooses to protect her in spite of his loyalty to Victor. At this point their relationship takes on some uncomfortable dynamics. For example, while trying to deal with a hitman Brennan hits Shyla, when she gets in the way. The blow was for the purpose of keeping her away for her own safety when she was being reckless, but it still doesn’t quite sit well. It becomes potentially more problematic as the two characters spend more time together and such incidents pile up. The relationship starts to take on some sadomasochistic dynamic. In spite of this, it is usually portrayed as romantic (Brennan does this to protect Shyla) and we’re told that this is a good, healthy relationship for both characters. The author makes it very clear to the reader that Shyla and Brennan are in love and meant to be together. However, some readers might be find this relationship troubling.
These problems are frustrating, because Rogue Alliance is a good story and had the potential to be a much better book. It’s very easy to get caught up in Brennan’s mysterious past and his current condition; which has roots in sci-fi (genetic manipulation) and fantasy (vampires, sort of!) but is made to feel quite plausible. Shyla’s attempts to take down Victor and his operation are also a suspenseful narrative. Few readers will have much problem with the Brennan/Shyla romance either, until it takes on some potentially uncomfortable dynamics. If a reader can get past that, there is a lot to enjoy.
The book ends with several plot lines unresolved, but since Michelle Bellon writes at the beginning of the novel that this is intended as book one in the “Rogue Saga” there’s every reason to expect that these points will eventually be resolved in later installments.
Lynn Snyder’s Blackmail and Other Stage Plays
Blackmail and Other Stage Plays is a compilation of seven plays that would be perfect for small town and city theaters. Each one is written with clear, concise and captivating dialogue and they all capture the interest of the readers. I hope to see them produced and acted out on stage some day. I highly recommend this book and rate it 5 out of 5 stars and 2 thumbs up.
Travelers With No Ticket Home: Poems by Mary Mackey
Travelers With No Ticket Home is a collection of deep and beautiful poetry. The poems flow from page to page. Some of my favorites are the “Kama Sutra of Kindness” poems beginning on page 64, “To My Mother On Her Second Non-Birthday” on page 59, “Under a Yellow Porch Light” on page 57, “Dreaming of the Dead We Have Loved” on page 56. This book is must-have for all poetry lovers. If you aren’t into poetry, give this book a try, it will make a poetry lover out of you. I highly recommend this book and give it 5 out of 5 starts and 2 thumbs up.