He is a Writer, Maybe
As a writer, when you tell me to say a few things about myself, my reply could come in a trilogy the size of the Twilight Series. But I guard myself against what your exciting request can make me do. In this regard, I would love to share a portion of the whole ‘About Me’, where I’m introduced as a writer.
I’m yet to be the writer I hope to see when I look in the mirror, but when I look back at the miles covered so far, I relish when you call me a writer or just simply smile when you read my work. This is because of how I got here. I probably would have been the last person in the world to write if I went with the flow of fate.
DON’T RELEASE THE FOURTH PARAGRAPH!
When I was in my last lap in elementary school, I noticed I had an issue.
You see, as we advanced from one class to another, there was always a paragraph added to our English Comprehension stories. It started in Primary Three and by Primary Six, we had four paragraphs for most of the stories we read.
I was one of the best students of English Studies, from Composition to Dictation. In fact, back in Primary Three, I was the only one in my class who could spell the word ENGINEER without missing an ‘e’. But when it came down to comprehension, it was horror. The stories we read were amazing, but I couldn’t get myself to go beyond a third paragraph. Every time we approached the fourth paragraph, I would shudder so badly that on one occasion, I cried.
Nobody knew this because I was introverted enough to go unnoticed, but on the day I got noticed for shaking like you would when you bathe in the cold, I would quickly feign malaria.
I graduated from both Primary School and the fear of the fourth paragraph, but I always found reading long texts a herculean task. When I finished ‘The Animal Farm’ few years later, I felt like the GOAT of the readers’ club.
YOU CAN BE ANYTHING ELSE
When I turned twelve, I knew in the instant that I wanted to be a writer (and the US president, but mostly a writer). I was a huge fan of movies and animations so much that I could sit by the TV unfazed by the need to eat or sleep. But when NEPA couldn’t guarantee me 24 hour-access to media content (thank you NEPA for your unfaithfulness though), I knew I needed to generate my own stories. I couldn’t direct a blockbuster on my slim budget or gather my classmates to tell a story of how aliens from Pluto auditioned for a Santa’s Reindeer Job Opening. All I could do was write.
By the end of my first draft, I knew I couldn’t stop writing. Not even TV could take me off the books I had scribbled my thoughts on or drawn out my ‘matchstick’ characters painted either blue or red to distinguish hero from villain.
I was piecing together a new story when my schoolteacher in Junior Secondary School noticed me. He wasn’t just any teacher, he was the coolest. He taught Hausa but his English was Queens. He dressed like the mascot of Monopoly.
On this fateful day, he was shocked because while all my classmates made noise as a part of adolescent human nature, I was writing!
“Can I read what you’re doing?” He asked, and to that I nodded.
He took my work away for about two days. I didn’t mind the long wait. My masterpiece in the hands of my role model? What else made sense?
When he came back with my work, it was with a smile. But this was the kind of smile that rested on your face after you’ve laughed hysterically at someone, or something.
“Listen kid,” he started. “Be an engineer, or a doctor. You cannot make a good writer. No one will be able to understand anything you write.”
I felt stung. Not angry at this young man but just confused. It was not until I got home that I began to reel out streams of tears. I didn’t regret sharing my work with him. I regretted ever writing. And for years, I didn’t put pen on paper, except of course, for the main reason everyone did – schoolwork.
BUT, I’LL BE DAMNED!
Today, I shouldn’t be a writer.
I have been more of a closet writer than a published one. I have created amazing characters who go into hiding in the pockets of my mind when I step out in the public, and would only manifest when I retire to my space.
I haven’t read more than the average writer or written more than the average reader ever since. I still struggle with long text, and I hope I can get to the end of the stories I write. But I will be damned if I don’t write again.
If writing is that job I’m not good at, it is also the addiction I can’t get over. And if it’s like I’m stuck with this narrative, then I bet the only way out of it is to write a new one.
In the end, the only way out is to write.
