Paidion Coalition

Plagiarism, especially for a college student, is pretty scary. The repercussion of an FF is too humiliating to think of. It is forever in your record and no one wants to hear your side of the story. I got a close call once. I had refused to put quotation marks on a quote, even though I did accredit and introduce the quote. Well, I got dropped a letter grade. I stewed for a while because I had put in a lot of effort on the paper, but was grateful that I didn't get an F or the disastrous FF. Since, I have been very careful of my attributions. However, I do not carry this carefulness to social media. Most especially on Twitter, but not so much on Facebook. Well, twitter's 140-character limit doesn't allow much for accreditation. It is enough to say "I love and care about you," but sometimes isn't enough to implement originality and honesty. For example, sometimes I find this really amazing quote and I tweet it. Problem is that the quote is probably too long t...

Here are five social media management tools that can make your life easier, helping you to tackle the world of social media: 1) TweetDeck: It is the best social media dashboard application that allows you to manage all your social media accounts. It allows you to connect Twitter, Facebook, MySpace, LinkedIn, Foursquare and Google Buzz in one window. You can update all or just a few with the same status at one time. The application allows you to split the program into columns which show different things. This application is free.

Courtesy of Kennesaw State University PRSSA (KSUPRSSA) Public Relations Student Society of America (PRSSA) should be your greatest asset, in connecting with students who are doing what you are doing and connecting with professionals who are doing what you plan to do in the future. So, how best to connect with fellow PRSSA members but through Twitter? And with PRSSANC coming up quite fast, you do need to brush up on your networking skills. Check this list and follow those you aren't following already.

As I departed from the Chaparral Suites and made my way through the scenic route to the airport, I went through what Erica Brown calls #nationalconferenceproblems which simply put is PRSSA national conference withdrawal syndrome. So as I journeyed back to the airport, my mind, soul and spirit wasn’t in the shuttle bus, but back at the hotel which I had left way too early. Once again, I couldn’t believe how much I’ve learned in the short amount of time and how much more I still have to learn about PRSSA. Each time, I open a layer of PRSSA involvement, a thousand other pools right in front of me to be explored. I guess that’s the appeal of PRSSA. It’s an unending learning cycle.

On my flight to PRSSA Leadership Rally in Scottsdale, Arizona, I finally had time to read a few chapters of “Social Media and Public Relations: Eight New Practices For the PR Professional” by Deirdre K. Breakenridge. I had won my copy in the #PRStudchat’s #8newpractices book giveaway. As I opened the cute blue book with red inlay and a huge giant globe of technology on its cover, Breakenridge immediately introduces the eight new practices in the first couple of pages. As I read the book, I couldn’t help being grateful for my generation. To explain better, I will use one of the new PR practices. According to Breakenridge, a PR professional must be a technology tester. I couldn’t help but think about how I take it for granted that technology is extremely important in the daily execution of a PR professional. In fact, the use of a Mac and an iPhone always makes it into different “how to recognize a PR professional” lists. Of course not all PR professionals are Apple consu...

Shout out to @ chikaunigwe  and Jennifer Egan   for the inspiration.  @ chikaunigwe tweeted about Egan's experimental writing and I was immediately excited. I've had a couple of stories floating around my head, refusing to make it to paper. But the challenge of tweeting a story gave me a break, I love challenges. So, I shall be tweeting the story everyday. The time will vary. On Tuesday, Thursday and Friday, I will start tweeting at 6 p.m. EST. On Monday and Wednesday, there is no time set in stone, as I have classes from 1 to 8:30 p.m. EST. The weekends are fair game. Basically, to keep up with the story, follow me at  @ olubela . A white car, with blue stripes and NYPD written in large blue block letters, rolls into the scene. — oluwami (@olubela) May 25, 2012 The driver turns off the engine, removes the key from the ignition, steps out of car, reaching out to dashboard to retrieve a cup holder. — oluwami (@olubela) May 25, 2012

It is a lost battle. I stand up and rush to bathroom, cursing as I speed to my upheaval pit. Done, I trudge to the sink. In the mirror, I see his body. The knife had been dragged around after the plunge. The slashes of the knife form an X with the knife finally resting in the eye of the letter. He is naked. On his stomach, the words “I am a rapist and a narcissistic pig” inked black. The uneven swirls of the letter give credence to the mastery of the hand that had held the tattoo style. I bend, turn on the tap and splash water on my face. I squint, bidding the image away but the words keep dancing in the back of my eyes.

Just because I don't feel older or don't really want to celebrate today doesn't mean I do not know understand what it means. Just because there has been a bump in my journey doesn't mean I wouldn't celebrate how far I've come. Just because I've been so busy in the past few weeks that my head constantly spins doesn't mean I shall not take a few minutes to show myself some love. Don't ask me my age, where I am, or what's happening to me. Today, I shall write myself a damn good poem that's going get published someday. And when people ask why, I shall say "because it was my day, and I had a few hours break from a hectic schedule." Tonight, I shall be in poetry class. I shall have the fun of my life critiquing colleagues who do not see every critique as hatred, but a step to get better. I shall return home and prepare for my presentation tomorrow. Until then, I wish myself a happy +1.

By Atilola Olubela At the crack of her dawn, she took pride in swings of Joys, At her sweeping power of freedom: A relief of characteristic Fragility. Months bled into years. The sun shone. Leaving reflections of hope;  Laced with grandiose illusions.

Written by Oyewande Alimi. Sirens blaring on a warm September noon, a familiar sound to the workers and visitors at St. Patrick's Hospital, Port Harcourt.  Jacopo Harut Visconti walked through the corridors of the renowned hospital, pacing around restlessly. He certainly looked out of place, a young nurse hurried past him. Turning abruptly, she studied him and rushed off. He was pretty sure she thought he was insane. It was over 40`c with the blazing Port Harcourt sun. He was clad in a beige trench coat, black turtle neck top walking in awkward manner with his yellow wellington boots.

Continued from Dec 1, 1998 VI Today is going to be different. It seems like it is just yesterday that I stood in this very room for this very reason. I pull the left collar leaf of my shirt to my lips with my right hand, stalling close to my lips so as to not get my very light pink lipstick on it. I let go. I rest my index finger on my lips as I look at the judge’s seat, not seeing it. I move my back of my hand across my lips, not caring much for lipstick smearing. I bite my lower lips, snapping my finger gently.

Continued from Dec 1, 1998 V I stare at the paper in my hand. Freedom or restrictions. I couldn’t really tell. It is one thing to brace yourself for such summon. It is another to get the summon. If I had been told, a year ago, that this day would happen, I would have called the messenger a liar. But then, I wouldn’t have predicted all that had happened in the past year either. Yes or no, there is no option. I flip the paper, wondering why the lightness of the paper couldn’t translate to its content. Am I scared? I have no idea. My phone rings. I fish for it. It’s Sandra. I press the green button.

I slept on this thought and woke up forgetting all that I thought of while I was groggy. I started pondering on this after seeing the “How not to kill the Nigerian Dream” article in Vanguard Nigeria, published on the 22th of January. I excitedly had opened the article only to be disappointed. It was a well written piece publicizing a book written by Gani Fawehimi. I had no problem with the article except that it made a promise that it didn't keep.

This week, I am taking a hiatus from my Dec 1, 1998 story. I decided to do a couple of things. You shall know them when you see them. And I am sorry if I disappointed you. But in my defense, I didn't write "to be continued next week" in my last post. No, I am not going to leave you high and dry. I would get back to the story, soon, and be on my way to completing the project. But I need to get some things sorted out. The first is this article. I read it on Malaka Gyekye Grant's blog and knew I had to share. It is exactly what I think, what I say, yet what I do not do. Please, take a big chill as you read this. Like they say, the truth is bitter! You Lazy (Intellectual) African Scum! They call the Third World the lazy man’s purview; the sluggishly slothful and languorous prefecture. In this realm people are sleepy, dreamy, torpid, lethargic, and therefore indigent—totally penniless, needy, destitute, poverty-stricken, disfavored, and impoverished. In this demesne, ...

By Atilola Olubela CONVENTION.                            BANALITY. LETHARGY. A bane cyclic of our society, Mediocrity clad in Ignorance.

Continued from Dec 1, 1998 IV                                                                                    Wat do u mean? I stare at the words trying to decipher its meaning. Somehow the words do not register. Wat do u mean wat do I mean? My fingers move fast, connecting with the buttons. Are you serious? Chinedu is dead . My thumb hovers over the send button. Logic kicks in. Whether I like it or not, I have to be extra careful with records. Anything that might either indict me or someone close to me has to be eliminated. I press the back button until an empty screen shows. It is better if I talk to Tomi face to face.

                                                                                        Continued  from Dec, 1 1998 III The sun is mild and weather conducive. I sit with my parents in the gazebo, sipping orange juice while listening to my parent s  talk about Nigerian politics. It is always an interesting discourse, with my parent s taking different side s of the cons and pros table. I figure that they need the sparring match to hone my mother’s arguing skills. But of what benefit to my mother, I wonder. Her law firm is doing well and she seems to have retired from the court scene. I guess they continue the tradition for my sake. Every now and then, my input is requested to settle the differences. And each time, I carefully weave my way out of it withou...

The many sisters skipping the night We sit in the dark Staring at the sky Wondering at our captivity Fuel subsidy a day made We look and wonder

    Ever since Heather Whaling tweeted about achieving something on her PR bucket list, I've been intrigued by the idea. I made up my mind to make one, but kept dragging my legs on the issue. As Justin Goldsborough and Matt LaCasse rolled out their own lists, #PRbucketList soon became a familiar hashtag.     A few days ago, just as I was about to switch off my bedside lamp, I pulled my leather-bound journal and jotted down my wishes. They were supposed to replace my New Year Resolutions. I had done away with NYR a while ago, but I was excited about my #PRBucketList. It was a great surprise to find out that Nikki Little went the same way. She published her Why I'm Trading New Years Resolutions for a Bucket List post, four days ago. Finally, I dragged my journal and decided to share my own list. Here is it: Graduate December 2012 - I really cannot stress how much I am tired of being an undergraduate. I've planned my school schedule till December 2012. And except...

Continued  from Dec, 1 1998 II THREE WEEKS LATER           I look out of the window, fighting the protest at being paraded at the Wilson’s party.  My parents would have none of my objection and ordered me out of the house. The reason:  I had never left the house ever since I got back from school, a nd  since I had pronounced myself okay - the reason I'm not going back to Dr. Linda – I better act it. I shove my complaint as I had dressed up and got into the front seat of my father’s car. I look out of the window, hoping that the driver isn’t beside me and my parents behind; annoyed that I have to act nice and proper while choking on my disgust for the flamboyant display that I'm sure to see at the wedding. I swear each time I attend a Nigerian wedding, the prospect of eloping is so alluring. But b eing the only daughter of my parent,   I'm sure  that isn’t going to happen.  And being single, the prospect is jus...