WAEC SSCE - Literature In English - 2013 (Prose)

Bayanin Amsa

The struggle for power is indeed a major issue in William Golding's Lord of the Flies. Almost every important development in the novel grows out of the contest for leadership between Ralph and Jack, and this struggle carries the book's larger meaning about civilisation and savagery.

The origins of the struggle. When the boys are first stranded, they hold an election and choose Ralph as chief, largely because he possesses the conch shell and looks the part. Jack, leader of the choir, wants the position for himself and resents Ralph's authority from the beginning. This rivalry sets up the central power struggle of the novel.

The conch and legitimate authority. Ralph's power rests on the conch, which summons meetings and grants the right to speak. The conch symbolises order, democracy and rational government. As long as it is respected, Ralph's leadership represents civilisation, rules and the common good, chiefly the keeping of the signal fire and the building of shelters.

Jack's rival power. Jack builds a competing base of power through hunting, meat and fear. He offers the boys the excitement of the hunt, the feasts of pig meat, and protection from the imagined beast, appealing to their appetites and their fears rather than their reason. Gradually he wins their allegiance away from Ralph.

The breakaway and tyranny. Jack finally breaks away to form his own tribe, painting his face and ruling by terror and ritual. His power is that of the dictator, enforced by violence and superstition. The shift of followers from Ralph to Jack charts the triumph of savagery over civilisation.

Deadly consequences. The power struggle turns lethal. Piggy is killed and the conch shattered, destroying the last emblem of ordered authority, and Jack's tribe hunts Ralph across the island, meaning to kill him. Only the arrival of the naval officer halts the bloodshed.

Conclusion. The struggle for power between Ralph and Jack is therefore a central issue that drives the plot and embodies Golding's theme: the fragile rule of reason and order is overthrown by the darker human craving for dominance, fear and violence.

Bayanin Amsa

In William Golding's Lord of the Flies, the death of Simon is the moral and symbolic climax of the novel. It is the moment at which the boys' descent into savagery becomes irreversible and Golding's grim vision of human nature is most fully exposed.

Simon as the truth-bearer. Simon is the mystic and visionary of the group, gentle, solitary and intuitive. Alone he confronts the pig's head on a stick, the "Lord of the Flies," and grasps the novel's central truth: that the beast the boys fear is not an external monster but the evil inside themselves. He then climbs the mountain, discovers that the dreaded "beast" is merely the corpse of a dead parachutist, and hurries down to free the others from their terror.

The manner of his death. Simon stumbles into the frenzied ritual dance on the beach during a storm. Caught up in their chant, "Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!", the boys, including Ralph and Piggy, fall upon him in the darkness and beat and tear him to death, mistaking the very messenger of truth for the beast itself.

Symbolic significance. The irony is devastating: the boys murder the one person who could have delivered them from their fear. Simon, often read as a Christ figure, is killed as he brings saving knowledge, so that his death dramatises humanity's tendency to destroy its prophets and reject truth. It marks the triumph of mob violence and irrationality over reason, goodness and spiritual insight.

Loss of innocence and foreshadowing. Simon's death confirms the complete collapse of civilised restraint on the island. Innocence is irretrievably lost, and the killing foreshadows the more deliberate murder of Piggy and the hunt for Ralph that follow.

Conclusion. Simon's death is deeply significant: it destroys the bearer of truth and goodness, exposes the innate savagery Golding believes lies in every human heart, and turns the boys finally from frightened children into a murderous mob, making it the tragic pivot of the whole novel.

Bayanin Amsa

In Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's Purple Hibiscus, the relationship between Kambili Achike and Father Amadi is one of the most important in the novel, marking the awakening of the timid heroine into feeling, confidence and selfhood.

How they meet. Kambili encounters Father Amadi, a young, handsome and charismatic Catholic priest, during her stays at Aunty Ifeoma's home in Nsukka. Unlike the rigid, fanatical religion of her father Eugene, Father Amadi's faith is warm, human and joyful, blending Christian devotion with Igbo songs and easy laughter.

His effect on Kambili. Father Amadi draws Kambili out of her silence. He talks to her gently, teases her kindly, takes her to the stadium, and encourages her to run, to smile and to believe in herself. Through his attention she discovers that she is worthy of notice and affection, and her stammering shyness gives way to growing confidence and self-worth.

Kambili's love for him. Kambili falls deeply and innocently in love with Father Amadi. Her feelings awaken her emotionally and sexually for the first time; she thinks of him constantly, treasures his words, and experiences the ordinary joys and jealousies of first love. This love is a measure of how far she has come from the frightened girl of her father's house.

The limits of the relationship. Because Father Amadi is a celibate priest, the relationship cannot become a conventional romance. He is affectionate and encouraging but maintains the boundaries of his vocation, and when he is posted away as a missionary they are separated, keeping in touch by letters. Kambili's love remains largely unfulfilled, yet it is not wasted, for it has already transformed her.

Significance. The relationship symbolises liberation and healing. Father Amadi represents a loving, life-giving faith opposed to Eugene's oppressive religion, and through him Kambili blossoms into a young woman capable of love, courage and hope.

Conclusion. The bond between Kambili and Father Amadi is a tender, formative and ultimately platonic love that, though it cannot be consummated, awakens and strengthens Kambili, making it central to her growth and to the novel's theme of freedom overcoming fear.

Bayanin Amsa

In Ernest Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea, Santiago's attitude to nature is complex, blending love, reverence and kinship with a clear-eyed acceptance of the harsh law of struggle and survival. He is both nature's devoted admirer and its determined adversary.

Love and reverence for the sea. Santiago regards the sea with affection and respect. He thinks of it as la mar, the feminine form, as something that gives or withholds great favours and cannot help its nature, unlike the younger fishermen who call it el mar and treat it as a hostile contestant. To him the sea is beautiful and generous even when cruel.

Kinship with creatures. Santiago feels a deep brotherhood with the living things around him. He calls the stars, the flying fish and the birds his brothers, pities the small warbler that rests on his line, and sympathises with the sea turtles. Above all he comes to love the great marlin he is fighting, admiring its strength, dignity and nobility and calling it his brother even as he must kill it.

Respect for a worthy opponent. His struggle with the marlin is a contest between equals conducted with mutual respect. Santiago honours the fish as a noble creature and feels that it is worthy to take his life or that he is worthy to take its own. There is no hatred in the killing, only reverence.

Acceptance of nature's harsh order. Yet Santiago accepts that nature is a place of predation and struggle. Man must kill to live, and the fish was born to be a fish just as he was born to be a fisherman. When the sharks devour the marlin he feels guilt for having gone "too far out," beyond his rights, but he does not rebel against the natural law that has destroyed his prize.

Conclusion. Santiago's attitude to nature is therefore one of reverent love and kinship joined to stoic acceptance. He sees the sea and its creatures as brothers to be honoured, while recognising and enduring the merciless struggle for survival that binds all living things together.

Bayanin Amsa

In Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's Purple Hibiscus, the visits that Kambili and her brother Jaja make to Aunty Ifeoma's flat in Nsukka are the turning point of Kambili's development. Away from the terror of her father Eugene's house, several aspects of her character are gradually revealed.

Her deep repression and timidity. At first the visits expose how thoroughly her father has crushed her. She is painfully shy, stammers, struggles to speak at meals, and cannot join easily in the free, laughing conversation of Ifeoma's household. Her difficulty even in laughing shows the extent to which fear has silenced her.

Her capacity for warmth and love. As the visits continue, Kambili's suppressed capacity for affection surfaces. She responds to the love and freedom of the household and develops her first, tender feelings of love for the young priest Father Amadi, revealing a warm, romantic and yearning inner self hidden beneath her silence.

Her growing self-expression and confidence. Under Ifeoma's encouragement Kambili begins to open up: she learns to smile, to laugh, to run at the stadium, and to speak her mind more freely. Her transformation from a mute, fearful girl into one who can express joy shows a latent liveliness and strength that her home had stifled.

Her sensitivity and capacity for jealousy. Her feelings for Father Amadi and her uneasy relationship with her outspoken cousin Amaka reveal a sensitive, self-conscious nature capable of jealousy, longing and wounded pride, the ordinary emotions of a maturing adolescent.

Her budding independence. The freedom of Nsukka plants the seeds of quiet rebellion against her father's tyranny, so that the visits reveal a girl capable of growth, questioning and eventual independence.

Conclusion. The visits to Aunty Ifeoma reveal Kambili as a naturally warm, sensitive and intelligent girl whose true self, long buried by fear, blossoms into affection, confidence and the first stirrings of independence once she is given love and freedom.

Bayanin Amsa

In Asare Konadu's A Woman in Her Prime, the marital experiences of Pokuwaa and her mother Koramoa illuminate the pressures traditional Akan society places on women, especially the demand that a wife bear children. A comparison reveals both similarities and contrasts.

Pokuwaa's marital experience. Pokuwaa is the woman "in her prime" whose story dominates the novel. She has already passed through more than one marriage and is now married to Kwadwo Fordwuo. Her central torment is childlessness. Though her husband is patient and does not abandon her, the community's expectation that a wife must produce children drives Pokuwaa to endless sacrifices, ritual baths and consultations with priests and diviners. Her marriage is thus overshadowed by anxiety and the fear of failure, and its worth is measured, by the village, almost entirely in terms of fertility. Peace comes only when she stops obsessing over rituals and, in a calmer frame of mind, at last conceives.

Koramoa's marital experience. Koramoa, Pokuwaa's mother, represents the older generation and offers her daughter counsel and support drawn from her own married life. Her marriage is presented as more settled and enduring; she has borne children, chief among them Pokuwaa, and so has met the social requirement that torments her daughter. Koramoa embodies the traditional wife who has weathered the demands of marriage and now, in maturity, guides the younger woman through them.

Points of comparison. Both women live within the same patriarchal, custom-bound society in which a woman's standing depends heavily on childbearing and on conformity to communal expectations. Both experience marriage as an institution governed by tradition rather than by romantic choice. The key contrast is that Koramoa's marriage yielded children and social security, whereas Pokuwaa's is defined by the struggle for that very fulfilment. In this way mother and daughter mirror two stages of the same female experience.

Conclusion. The comparison shows that, while both women are shaped by the same traditional pressures on wives, Koramoa's marriage represents the fulfilled model that Pokuwaa painfully strives towards, so that their experiences together dramatise the burden custom places on the married woman.

Bayanin Amsa

In Ernest Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea, the boy Manolin plays a vital part in Santiago's domestic life. Though he is not the old man's son, he cares for Santiago with the devotion of a son, and his presence lights up the loneliness of the old fisherman's existence on land.

Practical care in the home. Manolin looks after Santiago's daily needs. He helps carry the fishing gear, the mast, the sail, the harpoon and the coiled lines, up from the boat to the old man's shack. He brings Santiago food and coffee, worries about whether the old man has eaten, and even arranges meals, sometimes obtained from Martin at the Terrace, so that Santiago will not go hungry. He tends to the shack, the blanket and the equipment, easing the hardships of Santiago's poverty.

Loyalty and faith. Manolin's role is emotional as well as practical. Although his parents, believing Santiago to be salao (unlucky) after eighty-four days without a fish, have made him fish in a luckier boat, the boy's loyalty never wavers. He continues to seek out the old man, insists on his belief in him, and longs to return to fishing at his side. This unshaken faith comforts Santiago and sustains his self-respect.

Companionship. The boy is Santiago's chief companion at home. They talk together of baseball and of the great DiMaggio, recall past catches, and share an easy, affectionate intimacy. In his solitude Santiago repeatedly wishes aloud that "the boy were here," showing how much Manolin's company means to him during the ordeal at sea.

Symbol of continuity and hope. Manolin represents the passing on of skill and love from one generation to the next. At the end, weeping over the exhausted old man and the ruined marlin, he vows that they will fish together again, promising continuity and hope beyond Santiago's defeat.

Conclusion. Manolin is, in effect, Santiago's surrogate son and caretaker. Through practical service, unwavering loyalty and warm companionship he brings comfort, dignity and hope to the old man's domestic life, making their bond one of the tenderest elements of the novel.

Bayanin Amsa

Asare Konadu's A Woman in Her Prime is deeply rooted in the traditional beliefs of an Akan village, and superstitious beliefs and practices pervade the novel, shaping Pokuwaa's struggle to bear a child and the life of the community around her.

Belief that childlessness has a spiritual cause. The governing superstition of the novel is that Pokuwaa's failure to conceive is not a medical matter but the work of unseen forces, offended spirits or an unfulfilled destiny. This belief drives the entire plot, sending Pokuwaa from one remedy to another in search of supernatural intervention.

Ritual sacrifice and worship of the gods. Pokuwaa performs repeated sacrifices to appease the gods, notably offerings connected with the river god and other deities of the land. She rises at dawn to make sacrifices of sheep and to observe prescribed rites at the appointed times, especially around the cycles of the moon, believing that faithful sacrifice will unlock the gift of a child.

Reliance on priests, diviners and fetish shrines. The community turns constantly to fetish priests, diviners and medicine men who interpret the will of the gods, prescribe rituals and dispense charms and medicines. Their pronouncements carry great authority, and Pokuwaa submits to their instructions in hope of a cure.

Wider communal superstitions. Beyond Pokuwaa's case, the villagers hold a web of beliefs about ancestral spirits, taboos, omens, curses and malevolent forces such as witches and the dreaded sasabonsam. Everyday life is regulated by observances meant to keep the living in harmony with the spirit world.

The author's attitude. Konadu presents these beliefs with understanding but also with quiet criticism. Pokuwaa's long dependence on ritual brings her no child; only when she abandons her anxious round of sacrifices and finds inner calm does she at last conceive. The novel thus questions blind reliance on superstition while acknowledging its hold on the community.

Conclusion. Superstitious beliefs and practices, the spiritualising of childlessness, sacrifice, divination and communal taboos, form the cultural fabric of the novel, and Konadu uses them both to portray traditional Akan life faithfully and to suggest the limits of superstition.