Half of a Yellow Sun

whistling sound of the doorbell. My neighbor and my best friend stood tall at the door with a soccer ball resting on his hips against his palms, inviting me to play soccer as he did every day. Once the fiercely hot burning sun started to set and the sky turned from bright yellow to a delightful mixture of orange and pink, I tied down my soccer shoes and rushed towards the ground with him, inviting our other friends on our way. We got ready to play in the humid yet pleasant weather to enjoy…

became like Pip’s father then, always making himself available to cheer Pip’s spirits. “To-night, Joe several times invited me, by display of his fast-diminishing slice, to enter upon our usual friendly competition; but he found me, each time, with my yellow mug of tea on one knee and my untouched bread-and-butter on the other” (9). Joe never left Pip. And still, Pip did not even consider Joe before leaving for London. Pip did not visit Joe or try to contact him in any way. Joe finally went to…

Jack London’s official name is John Griffith Chaney. He was born on January 12, 1876, in San Francisco, California. When Jack was a boy, he was part of the working-class and worked very hard as a teen. Jack’s first experience of writing was when he had his stories published in the Overland Monthly. His first famous book he published was The Call of the Wild, and other famous novels by him are White Fang, Martin Eden, and The People of the Abyss. Jack married Bess Maddern and had two children…

Cairo, you come upon the Valley of the Kings. Here the pharaohs made secret tombs in the sides of mountains. The Valley of the Kings is one of the most isolated spots on earth. Almost nothing grows there – no tree, no shrub, no blade of grass. The sun hits down from an everlastingly clear sky whose bright blue is the only colour divergence to the dull, constant dark gold rock and sand, hills and valley floor. All along the desert cliffs there are many tunnels which lead towards the Valley of…

The Orange Sun, Bioethics and Praxis of Systemic Annihilation in Kaine Agary’s Yellow Yellow ABSTRACT From the quasi-oral form, African Literature has cascaded through systemic phases in less than two hundred years of contact with the Western written form. It has migrated from that dark romance portrayed by western writers to contemporariness of self-reappraisal. The primary inclination of these texts has been the ultimate question. What have we achieved with our independence? The unsavoury…

think of a world equal on monetary value. In Steinbeck’s work, The Grapes of Wrath, a strong negative connection is made between money and greed. John Steinbeck begins his novel painting a picture of the drought: thick clouds of dust block out the sun, and families like the Joad’s are fearful of slipping deeper into destitution, whether it was about money or hope. Readers are introduced to Tom Joad, a newly…

's mower so it would carry me and cut the grass, too. I moved up the food chain of machines that consumed gasoline when a demented adult friend, who wanted it out of his garage and never expected me to get it running, gave me an old, broken-down, sun-faded, green Cushman Scooter. It was an ugly two-wheeled box with a simple chunk of foam covered by split and cracked black vinyl on top for a seat, two small diameter wheels, and flat tires. Inside the box was an oily chunk of rust my friend had…

Under the Rug It had all started on a quite reasonably nice day. The sun was out, the birds chirping, the sky such a beautiful light blue. The clouds were Mr. Richter’s favorite, though. They always had been. He always thought they looked like cotton candy. Thick, melty, sugary cotton candy was his favorite. He often dreamed about it while he was away at work, his least favorite thing. He worked in an office, which is already terrifying enough. He was walking home from work that day, briefcase…

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Fearsome Battle in the Enchanted Forest The silver sun was slipping out of sight, as we inched our way over a rickety wooden bridge. On the far side, there was a tiny path leading down a slight slope. Not even a path really, more like clues—a snapped twig here—some tramped down weeds over there. We followed the clues until the ground became thick with fallen limbs and decaying pine needles. Then we wedged between the thickets into the Enchanted Forest and I could sense the…

I’ve been writing forever. I did it all the time when I was a little kid (little, because I technically still am a “kid”); I began with animal-centric fables and eventually graduated to ten-pagers about kids with magical forests behind their houses. Even when I wasn’t writing, I was expressing in that same practiced way; I lectured imaginary audiences while making my bed and brushing my teeth every morning. The internal monologue never stopped, and neither did the laugh track; writing it down…