“I think fiction allows us to sit for a while with people we would rather not meet.”
“Gerçek bir demokraside, aptal bir şef kimsenin adına konuşamaz!”
“Monica, "Asker adam, dinle," dedi, elleriyle insanlara gülmeyi kesmelerini işaret etti. "Asker adam, gidip onur yiyecek, vicdan mı içeceksin? Karın ve çocukların, elin boş döndüğünü görünce seni mutlu mesut karşılayacaklar mı? Sana daha önce de söylemedik mi? Sen delisin. Yalnızca deliler orduda albay olup ülkeden para çalmadan döner.”
“Yarışı kazanmak ayak sayısıyla ilgili olsa, kırkayak, köpekleri kolaylıkla yenerdi.”
“Listen, dis foreign TV channels dey spoil de image of our country. Dese white stations dey make billions of dollars to sell your war and blood to de world… We no bad like dis. OK, why dem no dey show corpses of deir white people during crisis for TV? Abi, people no dey kill for America or Europe?”
“You dey speak grammar!” someone shouted. “Wetin concern us wid America and Europe? Abeg, give us cable TV.”
“Remove dis toilet pictures!” said another.
“So our barracks be toilet now?” the police answered. "What an insult!“
"You na mad mad police,” Monica said.
“Ok, cable TV no be for free anymore!” the police said.
“But it’s our pictures we are watching on cable TV,” Madam Aniema said. “Why should we pay you to see ourselves and our people?”
The police answered, “Because government dey complain say cable TV dey misrepresent dis religious crisis.”
“Once in his life a man ought to concentrate his mind upon the remembered earth. He ought to give himself up to a particular landscape in his experience; to look at it from as many angles as he can, to wonder upon it, to dwell upon it. He ought to imagine that he touches it with his hands at every season and listens to the sounds that are made upon it. He ought to imagine the creatures there and all the faintest motions of the wind. He ought to recollect the glare of the moon and the colors of the dawn and dusk.”
“Only the image of my father is unclear, as if something obscure but vital has been blotted out, and only the raging surface is left. Who is he, this man whom I have known and not known all my life?”
“There on the landing sits the typewriter. It is clogged with dust, the ribbon dried and flimsy. Looking at it gives Felix a feeling close to vertigo. He realises he can replicate in his head the exact sound it used to make. The clac-clac-a-clac of the metal letters hitting the paper, the ribbon raising itself each time to make the impression. The machine-gun fire of it, when the work was going well. The stops and pauses when it wasn't, to allow for a sigh, a draw on a cigarette. The ding every time the carriage reached its limit. The whirr as the page was snatched out, then the rolling ratcheting as a new one was wound in.”
“It's not fair to spend so much time working towards something, only to have someone else's lapse in judgment, poor choice, one mistake, destroy it all.”
“A cross between a foreign legion boot-camp and a secret-society initiation ritual, the ordeals were grounded in pain. One thing was obvious: the agenda, which was dedicated to grave discomfort, had been drawn up by a passionate sadist.”
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