How to Survive Facebook


  1. Identify friends who post angrily. If they are not wanting a conversation, but wanting to vent their view, just ignore the post. Remember that something made you friends. When you un-follow them you can keep in touch privately and avoid the tripe they post. Someone can be an idiot AND be your friend. A viewpoint is just a small fraction of that person.
  2. Take FB vacations. In all honesty, FB is mostly a waste of time anyway. I could probably have knocked out another novel with the time lost to the Zuck Machine
  3. Find groups where the controversial stuff is discussed and vent there. Venting on your timeline ratchets up the temperature for others while potentially drawing fire for your feelings. Venting about someone’s post is a bit like crying in the bathroom behind a closed stall door in high school…it doesn’t help and someone will eventually FB trolls will find you, dunk your head in the toilet and take pics of it.)
  4. Don’t take memes seriously. Frankly, if someone is quoting someone else or using a meme to express a complex viewpoint it just means they don’t possess the faculties to think their own feelings through. (And if you respond with a meme…well, re-read sentence two of this paragraph.)
  5. Watch more cat videos

American Tender-Age Detention Center

It took only months for the goal obtained

tender age children with cheeks tear-stained.

The White House man feels satisfaction

creating the child and parent fraction.

Put them on the floor, be careful to not hold,

the room is clean, hardly any mold.

Chain link walls rise from cement floor,

no curled razor wire, who could want more?

Time to eat because it’s 3 AM,

WAKE UP you grunt, forget your REM.

Diaper changes we cannot do,

prison policy dictates ‘no hugging’ too.

What’s all the fuss, brown babies on the floor?

Their parents are criminals, infesting our shore.

Who cares they’re babies, these disposable worms,

our props for publicity in the midterms.

Thoughts of wrong-doing? Don’t it let enter,

the American Tender-Age Detention Center.

Father’s Day

I put my cigarette out in a dish, on the table.

Grinding out my frustration, my contempt.

Commercials of dads in polos playing catch with kids.

Everywhere: on TV, on FB, on Twitter.

I throw my phone into the wall.

I light another cigarette,

sucking in my angst,

blowing out my rage.

Father’s Day.

The day I rue.

The father who left me behind,

and the kids who I left behind,

because that’s what fathers do.


I put my cigarette out in a cup, on the table.

Stubbing out the anxiety of this day.

I pour the three fingers of amber liquid

Into the tumbler next to the dish and the cup.

My father just left. My mom didn’t care.

I light another cigarette,

breathing in the fire,

exhaling the fear of

Father’s Day

The day I rue.

Me, as a father, the failure.

My father, as a failure, the cycle.

because that’s what fathers do.


I put out the cigarette, in the dish, two butts now.

Extinguishing the burn of this fucked up holiday.

I pour the rest of the bottle,

and lament the bottle’s emptiness.

I am my old man.

My father just vanished. My ex just took the kids.

I light another cigarette

Tasting the ash

of a burned out life.

Father’s Day.

The day I rue.

I was better off without him, wasn’t I?

They’re better off without me, aren’t they?

My father, a myth in my mind..

Me as a father, my mind amiss.


My phone on the floor, across the room

from the dish and the cup and the bottle

It rings.

I stagger to greet its electronic complaint.



Oh shit.

A Voice from Nigeria

A poem about the saddening and depressing state I find myself in anytime I think about my country.



Let me speak of this
This self I am
My skin, my origin
For life has a tale of me

Black blood formed
Formed to make me
In a land where
we are lost
I find a destiny all mine

Let me speak of men
Men with power
Some of words
Some from us
Pushing us to our death
Guns silencing us
Drinking from a goblet
Filled with our sweats

I eat forgotten bread
Bread is all I can have
I have been looked upon
Spoken against because
I wear a black hide
A battle won to keep our dignity
Yet keeping a dignity soiled

Let me speak of my home
Home, I can’t run from
A beholder of sorrow
Misery wraps me round
Makers of our own bitter pill
Achievers of a darkened future

Let me speak of our doom
Doom ahead, eager to trap us
This is my home
This is my land
All we have, all we own
Destroyed, wasted
My fatherland
But is it too late?
Too late to be rescued?
Too late for peace?


Hannah Faleti I. has spent a lifetime in Nigeria. She is currently living in the cosmopolitan city of Ibadan, north of Lagos and the Gulf of Guinea.  She begins law school in March of 2018 at Obafemi Awolowo University where she hopes to become an advocate for civil rights. Her poetry and writing reflect the grand dynamics of her homeland of Nigeria. Hannah will curate a weekly series of postings from Nigeria for Introvert Press.

Mirror’s Deceit by Justine Alley Dowsett and Murandy Damodred


Mirena hit the ground hard. Rocks dug into the side of her face and her hands stung fiercely where she’d scraped them by instinctively trying to break her fall, even though there was no way she could have anticipated it. Her stomach lurched with the impact as she tried to fight off a wave of disorientation and nausea that threatened to overwhelm her.

A horn sounded. Two quick blasts. Despite herself, she counted them. I made it! I’m home.

She struggled to sit up. The air around her filled with the sounds of doors and windows being flung open as every person in the Stoa rushed to see who had arrived in the courtyard of their hidden College for talented Magi. Mirena grinned; her expression half grim determination and half hard-won pride. She forced herself the rest of the way to her feet and pushed the remaining nausea aside as nearly sixty students and half a dozen staff members barrelled down on her.

The cheering started as soon as they saw it was her and that she was on her feet and relatively unharmed. Mirena’s grin grew wider. I passed my exam in record time. Only four years study to make it to this moment, where most people take decades. The Mentor is going to be so impressed!

The gathering crowd parted to let the aging Mentor pass uninhibited. With his presence, the noise died down, slightly. The grey-haired Mentor smiled at the sight of her, leaning heavily on his cane as he alone out of all those gathered made his way down the steeply curving steps to stand just outside the sizeable ring of tall standing stones.

“Well done, Mirena,” he very subtly drew upon his majik to enhance the volume of his voice so all could hear him praise her.

Mirena beamed and starting running the minute the words were out of his mouth. She crossed between two stone pillars and flung herself at the Mentor, careful to throw her slight weight at him on the opposite side from where he held his cane, so he’d be able to keep his footing.

There was a collective gasp from the crowd that subsided as they realized the Mentor was still standing. “Whoa, there!” he called out, catching Mirena in one arm. “I know you’re excited, but you’re not done yet!”

“I know, but I’ll do the next part with no problems! You’d expect nothing less from your number one student…” She winked at him.

The Mentor shook his head. “Remember what I told you; rushing into things will only lead to a job half-finished. You have to look before you leap.” He put a hand under her chin to lift her blue eyes up to his before tilting her chin to the right. “I dare say that you wouldn’t have gotten these,” he noted the cuts the rocks had left on her cheek, “if you’d been more prepared to make the trip through the Sentinal Stones.”

“I would’ve been more cautious, but I was being chased by a large winged monster!” She exclaimed, stepping back from him so she could wave her arms emphatically. “I had to think fast and perform under pressure, so a slightly bad landing should be understandable…”  

“Tall tales, Mirena?” the Mentor asked, but his tone was light and his words kind.

“No, really. It’s true, it got my back with its claws, see?” She turned slightly to show him the claw marks that marred her left shoulder and the blood that she could now feel running down the length of her simple white dress.

Now it was the Mentor’s turn to gasp. He called back over his shoulder for someone to fetch the Healer.

“It’s okay, I’m fine. Just let me finish my test.”

He furrowed his brow momentarily, but when the Healer didn’t immediately manifest in the crowd, the Mentor had no choice but to step to the side and gesture for Mirena to continue. Nodding once and taking on a serious expression, she faced the spot where the Stoa’s headmaster had been standing moments before and applied her concentration to a line cut into the stone in an impossibly straight fashion.

That line was made by generations of Magi passing this test before me, including last person graduate four years ago; Terrence Lee. He only beat me in total time by a few days at most… I guess it’s not too bad to be second best when you’re being compared to the youngest and most talented Panarch in history!

Mirena returned her focus to the task at hand when she realized that everyone was now waiting expectantly. Everyone is watching. I can’t afford to fail. I have to concentrate!

She furrowed her brow, unconsciously mimicking the Mentor’s usual expression. Feeling the wind in her hair and the moisture riding on it from the nearby crashing of waves against the island on which she stood, Mirena took hold of her majik and felt the power of it build within her. She deftly added strength from the earth at her feet and some heat from the sun at her back and then she added what she liked to think of as the ‘secret ingredient’; a tiny piece of her own essence, her soul. Aiming it all at the space before her, directly above the tell-tale crack, she bent reality to her will and forced it to obey her. Two matched silver rings made up of all the elements spun in the air more expertly controlled than even the best circus performer could have managed, and with a sudden snap they locked together in place and between them she saw herself… from behind.

Mirena grinned once again, showing teeth this time. Opening a portal in front of you to travel to a spot within your viewing takes a great deal of concentration and skill. Let’s see what they all think of that!

The watching crowd gasped in a most satisfying way. Mirena went to take a bow while still holding the portal open with her majik just to prove that she could, when she took note of the Healer rushing down the stone stairway. Why is she running? I’m not hurt that bad… Can’t she see that?

But the Healer didn’t stop at her side, she brushed past her. Mirena whirled to follow the woman with her eyes, dropping the portal spell in her distraction. Behind her in the center of the circle of Sentinal Stones lay a woman dressed in a short light blue dress over black leggings. At first glance she looked to be unconscious and badly hurt; much worse than Mirena had been on her own landing.

Mirena’s first thought was that maybe she wasn’t the only one to pass her test today, as unlikely as that concept was, but she quickly realized that she didn’t know this woman. She wasn’t a student or a teacher from the Stoa, she was a stranger. It’s possible she didn’t know what she was doing. Perhaps she activated the Sentinal Stones by accident, which happens from time to time. Though usually not here…

As Mirena pondered the incident she felt the Mentor brush past her, followed by two other members of the faculty.

“Don’t crowd around!” The Mentor called out, his voice still amplified above normal volume by his majik. “Give her some room. It looks like whatever journey she’s taken to get here has taken a lot out of her. Hemora,” he addressed the Healer, “you’re in charge. Just let us know what you need.”

As the teachers made room for the Healer, Mirena got another glimpse at the mysterious stranger who had stolen her thunder. Despite the bruising on her face and scrape-marks similar to Mirena’s own, the woman appeared to be about Mirena’s age and very pretty with porcelain-coloured skin and long hair so dark it was nearly black. No sooner had she noted these details did the woman’s eyes open suddenly. They were deep blue and piercing and despite all the people in the courtyard and within the shadow of the tall standing stones, the stranger’s eyes locked onto Mirena’s own and held them.

Mirror’s Deceit

by Justine Alley Dowsett and Murandy Damodred

She’s destined to change the world. Her rival has made a desperate flight to the past to stop her.

In a seeming utopia, Mirena, a gifted student of majik, is on the verge of graduating from a secret college that will give her a leg up in her political career, when her achievements are overshadowed by the arrival of a mysterious woman with an unknown agenda.  Desperate to keep what she sees as her rightful place in the spotlight, Mirena goes to astounding lengths including taking it upon herself to pose as a double agent to investigate a rebel force plotting to destabilize the government. Unfortunately, her actions cost her the trust of those around her, so when she is proclaimed the Dark Avatar of the Destroyer, she finds she has nowhere to turn.
Justine Alley Dowsett is the author of eight novels and one of the founders of Mirror World Publishing. Her books, which she often co-writes with her sister, Murandy Damodred, range from young adult science fiction to dark fantasy/romance. She earned a BA in Drama from the University of Windsor, honed her skills as an entrepreneur by tackling video game production, and now she dedicates her time to writing, publishing, and occasionally roleplaying with her friends.


Writing Genre: Nigel Shinner

Of all the genres I could write, I focus on contemporary thrillers. I take inspiration from real-life crime stories and put my own spin on them, trying to twist the basic elements of fact into an engaging, suspense-filled roller coaster ride of a story. I would never be a cloned soldier on a space battle cruiser, so I can’t write about it with the conviction I desire. I also, do not mix with Elves or Dwarves and so while I may enjoy a little fantasy story, I cannot find the common ground. However, I can put myself into the mind of a hero character, who comes up against criminal characters, terrorists, or killers, in everyday situations. Horror lurks around every corner, and what occurs behind closed doors is often far more frightening than anything in a fictional world.






Mindfield Series: Mettle (Part Three)

Edentu D. Oroso is the head of Special Projects Group for Kakaaki Magazine, a magazine published in Nigeria delving into development journalism. He is a seasoned magazine columnist, biographer, motivational speaker, and poet. A former President of the Writers’ League Benue State University Makurdi, Edentu is a member of the Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA) Benue State Chapter and its former Director of Welfare. His published works include the eBook Tears From A Rose, Wings of Freedom – a biography of Ralph Igbago; and The Alfa Sky, a biography of Air Marshall Ibrahim Mahmud Alfa, Nigeria’s longest serving Chief of Air Staff. He coauthored The Hidden Treasure a compendium of essays on former President Goodluck Ebele Jonathan, and coedited Voice of the Earth, an anthology of poems. He has been featured in many poetry anthologies such Sentinel Online, Bridge for Birds, and Cerebra(lity).

Part One

Part Two


Nature is a great teacher. Hidden in its complex mold are some of the greatest lessons of the human experience. Nature’s lessons do not cost much. Often times they are given almost for free. What is required of the learner is a keen spirit of observation. Then the ability and capacity to try out the apparent lessons observed in nature’s whim.

At barely twelve years old, I learned an important lesson. Nature was the teacher as well as the classroom. The lesson, however, was conveyed through an intermediary, which was my mother. I remember all too clearly those childhood memories at the fishing camp located on one of the vast beaches that sprawled along the Gbajimba village waterfront. Their import stirs the mind with the significance of the human will in the face of odds. They remind one of the truth that man’s mettle is defined by the odds he confronts.

Now the story. The first time it happened, it took me unawares. My mother and I had been regular in the fishing brooks and open waters of the River Benue, specifically, along the Gbajimba waterfront. In the swift river currents, swollen by the rains, we had fished so many times before with diverse expectations and catch. But on this particular night during a holiday in my last year in primary school, it was different.

We had set out with modest expectations early in the evening from our fishing camp on the beach across the river opposite the Kabawa camp on the eastern reaches of the river bank at Gbajimba village, Benue State, Nigeria. The weather was clement. A sprinkle of stars dazzled the night sky and the cadence of a subtle wind wooed the senses as if to say there was something spectacular about the night and its offerings.

My mother, who sat in front of the dug-out canoe, looked up into the night’s sky and said with a hint of enthusiasm as she rowed away, “The weather’s so calm and friendly tonight. I hope it turns out to be a good catch as well.”

My lukewarm response from the stern boat was, “I hope so”. Those flights of enthusiasm were recurrent decimals in her daily romance with nature. So it had little effect on me.

The downstream currents made the upward glide of our canoe a bit difficult. But we had to row all the same with a force of will, using long bamboo sticks at times to pull through the river bank to get to our destination, the point where our net was to be cast. We made it there as usual in spite of the strain. There were other fishermen and women, Ijaws and Jukuns, already on cue at the edge of the swollen river bank for their turn to cast their nets. We waited patiently for our turn as the night sped on.

Then the unexpected happened as our turn got near. Of a sudden, the azure sky became very dark like a thousand thick blankets pulled over our senses. A clap of thunder echoed through the silence of the night reverberating in the distance like an explosion of a hydrogen bomb, shuddering our canoe and those of other fishermen and women by the river bank. A fierce southwesterly wind howled, slapping our faces with its vehemence. The thunderclap, now accompanied by lightning, became persistent, breaking the dark veil of the night with its flashes of light. An awesome storm was in the making. The river currents began to bob to the sweeping wind, and soon took dimensions of huge waves as the first showers of rain poured down and pelted us like pebbles from the heavens.

“It’s going to be an interesting night of fishing!” Koloendi, my mother, said in our language.

“Did I hear you say an interesting night of fishing, Mama?” I probed naively. “How can anyone go fishing in this storm?”

She turned and stared at me through the blanket of darkness sensing my fear of the elements. She couldn’t make out my outline immediately, so used her torchlight to graze over my face momentarily.

“Take no notice of the storm,” she replied, almost on top of her voice for the splashing rain, wind and thunderclap had taken over completely. Nature’s fury was at its highest. “This is the best time to go fishing. Now, get ready. We are sailing out. We’ re riding the storm to a bumper catch!” she added confidently.

“No, Mama. We are not going out into those towering waves in this dug-out canoe,” I argued. “Not in this storm anyway. I suppose you don’t want us to drown out there?”

“My son, I mean well,” she said calmly. “This is the best part of our fishing expedition tonight. When there’s a storm, when the river currents are turbulent, that’s when all kinds of fish come out to play. That means a bumper catch for us!”

I almost didn’t believe her. Why would any fish find comfort in turbulent water or in a storm for that matter? I was scared of the prospects. Yet for the fact that my mother who was wiser in such matters had given her assurance of our safety and the possibility of a bumper catch, I gave in to her wish.

“Mama, I’m hoping that you would handle this well,” I said indifferently. “I’m not too comfortable with the storm. I’d rather suggest we wait for the storm to subside”.

“Don’t you worry! All will be fine!” she assured me. “Now, look at it this way. We have the choice to wait here by the river bank till the storm is over. We also have the choice to plunge headlong into the storm and turn the situation to our advantage. Between the two options, I’d rather go for the latter option.”

This theory didn’t seem to cotton with me. “Mama, why?” I asked naively.

“Because if we wait by the river bank, we will still be drenched by the scud-like rain, the wind too will continue to slap our faces, and the waves will continue to bang our canoe against the river bank. In essence, it is still the same risk as going all out into the storm. But if we do take the plunge, we stand to profit from it because we are sure of a bumper catch. Which do you prefer between the choices?”

“The latter I guess,” I said.

“Now, let’s set out! But be careful to steer the canoe away from the crest of the waves; always place the canoe in the troughs, that is, in-between the crests of the waves. That way, we are assured of safety. Keep your calm and focus. Are you ready?”

“Yes, I am,” I called back loudly.

“Ok. Here we go!”

So we pulled out of anchor at the river bank and embraced the storm, the waves rising threateningly and the wind howling and blinding us in its fury. Yet we were undaunted as we rowed on, taking the waves in-between troughs as they came in turn.

Once we had edged a little distance away from the river bank, my mother told me to reverse the canoe as swiftly as possible in such a way that the front of the canoe, the prow, will now face the direction of the river bank where we had left, while my end, the stern, will face where we were headed. This was quite a dangerous move in the violent storm. It had to be done with precision on the crest of a wave, and in a matter of seconds, else the canoe would be imperiled by the onrushing waves. However, I did the manoeuver successfully. Once that was done, she began to cast the net in the darkness aided only by a miniature torchlight she held between her jaws. Meanwhile, the thunderstorm raged on.

Few minutes into the bargain, the net was fully cast. In less than twenty-five minutes afterward, we were at the point of retrieving our net due to the swift downstream currents. The catch was bumper just as my mother had envisaged. In fact, it was the best catch I had seen in a long while. Different species of fish got caught in our net. Some were fairly large, some were of medium size, and some had to be hit with a wooden wedge to silence their thrashing and writhing in the bowel of the canoe.

Perhaps, as my mother had hinted, they were out to play in the turbulent currents and got caught in the process. I was overly happy with the outcome of our fishing expedition that particular night in spite of the odds. We went through the rigorous motions of rowing our canoe against the storm and casting our net more than six times before the early hours of the morning when the storm subsided. By daybreak, we had a canoe nearly filled with assorted fish.

That was the first among so many fishing expeditions of similar hue. Subsequently, I knew unreservedly each time we went fishing and there was a thunderstorm, that we would ultimately ride on its crest and make the most of it because that was the time nature was astir in the depths and all kinds of fish were in their elements.

The import of nature’s lesson, however, did not register fully in my consciousness until a little over two decades later when I was privileged to attend a fish farming seminar in Abuja under the auspices of Premium Resource Network.

In the seminar, we were exposed to various fish farming techniques as obtained in the contemporary. But the one that caught my attention most was the process of aeration in a fish pond. In layman terms, aeration is a process whereby the water level and freshness of a fish pond is maintained through an inlet and outlet. In the construction of either a concrete pond or earthen pond, consideration is given to the inlet pipes which carry water to fill the pond. An inlet pipe, which should be about 15cm above the water level in the pond, not only supplies fresh water but serves to aerate it, thus, availing needed oxygen to the fish in the pond. The outlet pipes allow for water holding and easy drainage of the pond.

Now, how does this relate to nature’s storm, the kind that my mother and I experienced in our fishing sprees? The waves stirred by the fierce wind are a natural way of aerating the water currents or depths. An abundance of oxygen is supplied by the turbulence of the river as seen in the waves or bobbing water. This becomes a perfect playground for all kinds of fish. The implication is that they are at their best when a river is turbulent and life’s essence, oxygen, is in abundant supply. A great lesson!

As I tried to place side by side my experience of nature’s ways at the fishing expedition and that of the fish farming seminar, my mother’s words by the banks of river Benue in Gbajimba village many years ago re-echoed: “When there’s a storm, when the river currents are turbulent, that’s when all kinds of fish come out to play. That means a bumper harvest for us!”

It can be inferred from this that the best part of our lives is almost always hidden in the storms of life. The storms would always be there to test our will. How we perceive and react to them will determine how we ride their crests to victory or how we become consumed by their rage.

I learned quite early in life not to be afraid of the storms of life, but to embrace them with confidence and a sense of purpose. Ordinarily, fishing in a rainstorm, a violent one at that, is nigh impossible. But wizened by the ways of nature, my mother, and other fishermen and women, knew that the only way to conquer a storm is by risking a ride in it. She taught me that storms are profitable if we learn to banish the fears that arise out of their unpredictability. While others perhaps were indoors, frightened by the howling storm, or scud-like rain, we went out riding the storm in our canoe and caught as many fish as we could possibly dream of catching even inclement weather.

I learned also that between each successive wave, there is a trough. In positioning our canoe in-between the crests of the waves, we were assured of safety in the rainstorm. In physical terms, storms are the circumstances or violent waves we face in life. In every circumstance, there is a window of opportunity – a trough, a moment of respite. Once you can locate that trough or window of opportunity, you can safely ride the crest of the next wave. All that is required of you is to position yourself in the trough in such a way that it takes you to the crest of the succeeding wave without endangering your boat of life.

Looking back now, my perception of the rainstorm during our fishing expedition was of great danger whereas my mother saw in it an opportunity to showcase her mastery of the elements. She rode on the storm instead to achieve her aim, which was a bumper catch of fish, not minding the risk involved.

Our circumstance by the river bank suggested insurmountable odds. Most of our situations in life suggest this. But we were willing at that time in point to take calculated risks by venturing out into the turbulent water when common sense said we shouldn’t. This means circumstance is a figment of our imagination. It can only demean you and make a mockery of your will by virtue of the sheer force you accord it. The truth is your world comes alive in the midst of a storm. The storms or circumstances of life are nothing other than the aeration you need to be the very best you can ever be in the oceans of life.

There are all kinds of storms in life though. Whether it’s a financial storm, an intellectual storm, a matrimonial storm, a spiritual storm, a political storm, or a storm of friendship, it remains but the circumstance that can be surmounted. See that circumstance as beautiful clay in our hands. You reserve the right to throw the clay away. You also have the right to stare at it daily without doing anything positive about it. But most of all, it is your responsibility to turn that clay into something of rare value. This takes ingenuity of mind, guts, and calculated risks. Once your mind is set on this path, then you have taken the right steps towards going beyond your circumstance.

The lesson nature taught me the courtesy of my mother was never to allow my circumstance, which are the storms of life, define my destination. I should rather let my destination define my situation. This is in cognizance of the fact that man’s mettle is defined by the odds he confronts. Odds, therefore, are the elixir of life.