Me and writing

Someone asked me to write about me and writing sometime ago. I sent this to her. Think she wouldn't mind me sharing on my ill-used blog.

I grew up reading a variety of books, but started thinking about writing seriously as a teenager when I read “Beautiful ones are not born” and “Fragments” by Ghanaian writer Ayi Kwei Amah. Drawing loads of analogy with what was happening in Nigeria at that time (the mid 90s); I wrote a review of both books and attempted to show how we could learn from the experiences of the characters and country depicted. I remember showing it to my dad’s journalist friend, who said he found it quite interesting, but returned it with more than a third crossed out with red ink. 

I was not deterred by his editing and rewrote it following his grammar advise but keeping all my arguments and postulations intact. I sent it back to him, and he returned it with only a few red marks and an encouragement to write more.

I have been writing since then and have experimented with many literary genres, but find that I can only satisfy my urge for description and scenery with prose. Since I have strong attachment to my culture -- which by the way is steadily being eroded by a combination of western culture and Christianity, wonder if they are not one and same -- I see writing as a way to save it, at least that way, it can endure forever.

I have great respect for the achievements of writers like Wole Soyinka,  Chinua Achebe and Cyprian Ekwensi – who I consider the greatest of these legends, on account of his body of work, which covered many genres. However, I would be very unfair to Chim Newton, Toni Kan, Helon Habila and a host of writers who inspired my generation while working for a teenage romance magazine that I have also had the privilege of briefly working with as a contributor. These writers, more than the old masters, helped propel my quest to be a writer. I wanted so much to write like these guys; to play with words like Toni Kan did and to convey with such few words, the seriousness of an event, like Chim Newton did. I was also influenced by western writers such as Anne Rice, Stephen King, Frank Herbert, Frederick Pohl, Philip Jose Farmer, J.R.R Tolkien, and a host of others.

From my list above, you would have, if you are familiar with the works of the writers mentioned, noticed that I have a thing for Science fiction, fantasy and horror. I fell in love with science fiction and fantasy in senior secondary school and have since never looked back. Science fiction and fantasy books currently make up about 70% of my extensive paperback collection. As for Anne Rice and Stephen King, let’s say my love for them transcends their genre as I consider them among the greatest writers alive.

It was very easy for me to decide I wanted to be a writer, but translating that into fact took years. Yes, I started writing in my late teens, but I only recently began having enough confidence in my work to put them out there, and say “I am a writer” without feeling like a fraud. I approach writing with a feeling of inadequacy, even when a story appears to be struggling within me to be written, I still struggle to find which voice or genre best suites it; would it be better told as piece of poetry, drama or prose. It is my belief that the strength of a story lies more on the choice of point of view than on how dramatic its telling is. I really don’t know how true this assumption of mine is, but in my writing I tend to experiment with point of view a lot, and rarely begin a story with particular a point of view in mind.

Unlike some writers who find it easy to write in all situations, I am one of those who must be inspired to write. I find I write very well under deadline, even then, I only write well at certain times of the day and must “feel” the story for it to be acceptable to me.

As for length, I only decide on a specific length when I am writing under restriction, like for a competition, and even in such situation I find it a struggle keeping to, let say, 600 word limits. This of course does not constitute much of a hindrance, as I easily edit the story to bring it down to the maximum, killing lots of “favoured” lines along the way.

I have never seen myself as much of a poet and started writing poetry in the university as a way to express my heart when my habitual shyness made it difficult to chat up the girls and it grew from there to encompass my frustrations with the economy, my dying culture and a nation ill at ease with itself.

I said before that I have read a lot of African writers, but some stayed in my mind more than others. I can still recall scenes from Peter Abrahams “Mine boy” as if I read it yesterday, just like I can still visualise the hills that were so central to Ngugi wa Thiong’o’s “The River Between”. These writers, through their use of imagery, left imprints of their lands in my heart and my greatest wish in life is to someday through my work, leave such imprints in people’s heart.

My writing is me, it is something I loath to give out or lose. I know I can do this and nothing else, and would die a happy man if I have books out there that people appreciate.  For me heaven on earth is not too farfetched from a house with a window overlooking a lush green valley, a table, chair and lots or writing materials with which to paint pictures with words forever.

Of trusty old-timer-writers, Celebrities reading Africa and the question of writers camaraderie

His abode was Spartan, though not overly so. The low, old styled chairs – some wood, others possibly wrought Iron – and the ancient shelves teeming with sheets of paper, made it needless for me to wait to see him scribble – something he did intermittently throughout the hour I spent with him – before identifying him to be scholar.

He was old, possibly way into his 60’s or early 70’s, but his voice still retained a solid timbre that I wondered at but fully understood when he smiled boldly at my proud “I am a writer” retort to his question about my vocation.

“Aha!” He had happily exclaimed, “A colleague of the pen, I should have known you from your inquiring eyes, not to mention that jotter you are grasping and the pen poking out of your shirt pocket.”

I smiled back at him, holding his still very sharp eyes that brimmed with not just intelligence but also a knowledge fountain that I would not mind drinking from. “You write sir?” I asked foolishly, for want of something better to say in the face of an enigma.

Understandably, he screwed up his face at my awe. “Yes I do, was with Daily Times in its hay day, still dabble as you can see.” He held up a sheet of paper on the table, turning both sides to show it was covered with scribbling, “Yes, I still dabble, you know how it is, once a writer always a writer.”

I nodded my head, agreeing while praying silently he does not ask me to demonstrate my meagre skill. He didn’t. He turned, still smiling, to the lady that accompanied us to see him. No problem, he said, a writer, I can trust.

Simple words, yet they touched me deeply, enough that I felt the beginning of a tear. Here was a man still holding fast to a camaraderie I am only beginning to understand. Just like an old soldier warming to a young serviceman, this old timer was willing to overlook every other aspect of my person because of a shared passion.

We had actually gone to view a vacant room in an ancient storey building somewhere in Surulere. The agent had informed us after we agreed to other terms – exploitative, as usual – that the only remaining hurdle was the owner, renowned for his selectiveness. We were given a 50-50 chance of getting the room, even with the help – paid– of a woman said to be his favourite tenant.

Now, there was I, to the surprise of every one, with barely a few words, receiving the old timers good will and declaration of trust.

Anyway, we left the old man to his Spartan home and lifestyle a few minutes later, but not after I had agreed to return often (the room was for a friend) and talk about the “art” with him. His handshake, when he bid me goodbye, was surprising firm and warm. I am sure you know we got the room, so no need to dwell on that.

My tale about the old timer is digressive. I was actually on my way to a HIV and AIDS themed edition of my recently found craving, the Celebrity Read Africa project and only branched to Sulurere at the behest of a house-seeking friend, who was counting on using my persuasive skills, as she calls it, to her advantage in the house negotiations.


As I once again resumed my journey to the Island, I pondered my encounter with the old journalist, I wondered if we, the writers of today, have not lost that sense of belonging readily seen in our fore runners.

It was not the first time I have had cause to ponder on the issue. I also had cause to do so while sitting as part of a panel discussing futuristic writing at the recently held Lagos Book Fair. I had looked down on the audience, made up mostly of writers in their twilight years, from the national theatre stage and wondered if we have not actually demarked ourselves into age grades. I mean, why is it that at certain literary events young writer abound, while in others, the old timers hold sway? Are we, young writers, not losing too much by this lack of interaction? Are they, the old timers, by not associating with the young writers, not leaving life changing stories untold?

It would be rascally of me not to excuse the elder writers here, because in our society the young seek out the old not the other way round. If we, young writers, do not seriously seek out and pay the necessary homage to our forerunners, learn from their experience and tell the stories they could not finish, we are doomed to get serious knocks from posterity.

Meanwhile, I arrived late to the event I was headed to, on account of my ‘branching’. I entered the Terra Kulture library just as Tosin Jegede was rounding off her reading. Looking around quickly, I could see that most of the headlined celebrities showed face, a great improvement from previous events. I think the organisers have finally found their mojo and are using it right.

It was about 4:30 pm and the event was already in top gear, no sign African timing, the usual suspect – aside from me sha, but I have already explained myself.

A brief look to the front of the room showed Essence, Modele – of the Makeba style headgear, Chude Jideonwo and Myne Witheman – who I was looking forward to meeting (doesn’t her colour become her?) – completing the headliners list. Missing in action were Tosyn Bucknor, Segun Odegami and Tosin Otitoju.

The sight of school kids in their colourful uniforms sitting prominently in the packed hall was heart warming. Finally, the core ideal of Celebrity Read Africa was being met, I thought as I sought for an elusive seat to rest my sweaty frame on.

After some serious looking, with help from a friendly usher, I spotted an empty seat and made my way towards it. I was just settling down when I noticed Nze Efedigbo, a fellow writer, seated two rows in front of me, finally, a known face in a sea of faces. A brief look around revealed several other known faces – people I had met at previous literary events and others, not so well known to me, but possessing faces I had come across online in writers' circles. Suddenly it dawned on me that by virtue of my inclination, if not talent, I have come to know those who are arguably the future of Nigerian literature, only not well enough to do more than smile when our paths cross. There and then, I made up my mind to fight against my shy nature which usually keeps me from going over to introduce myself to people I have had cause to exchange ideas with online. I will, I decided, greet as many people as I can today.

My decision played out well, as I easily shrugged away my habitual shyness around strangers and moved around the room like someone on a mission greeting those whose paths has crossed mine before and the odd stranger, but that was after the event closed.

Before then Chude read a Tolu Ogunlesi short story that was consistent with the day’s theme of HIV/AIDS. After him came Christine, winner of Nokia first chance reality show, who I have heard a lot about but yet to hear sing. The beautifully petit lady did more than sing, she spoke eloquently about the personal experience of her friend who was infected with HIV by her fiancé. It was so touching how she told of the fiancé committing suicide out of regret, while the lady in question later died, but not from HIV. She, for me, brought the message home, after which she went on to sing so sweetly. I for one will buy her album the very day it drops, even if she toes Tuface’s 1500 Naira per copy line.

However, Christine’s performance brings me to the question of Nigerians and acquired accents that have no regional base, but that will be talk for another day. For now, she can sing for me any day, no leles.

Chiedu Efeozu, whose reading I have not heard for a long time, delivered another of his usually well thought out poems right after Christine. Then another musician, Jodie, of the West African Idols fame gifted the gathering a soul stirring song “up above my head” that got most people nodding along.

Finally a young poet, Noble, wrapped up the days performance with a poem about the state of Nigeria and the way forward. Like I said before, I got to the event very late and as such missed most of the readings.

Unlike the last edition, I did not feel the pulse of the interactive session that followed, though a witty and sound minded Essence did much to liven it up, while inputs by Myne Whiteman, Modele, Chude, Tosin Jegede and members of the audience were quite interesting. Me I was already beat, and a little pissed at the young ladies serving energy drinks for missing my row.

High point for me was meeting Myne Whiteman and getting her to sign a copy of her book for me, was sad though as I didn’t get to ask her how it feels to be a published writer and getting the recognition she has obviously worked for. Still, I did what I promised myself to do, mix with fellow writers.

It was quite early, but my phone kept ringing, another busy bodied friend wanted me to grace another of our blue moon dates. I left the venue like always, on a boxer motorcycle, grateful for the old-timer that gave me further reasons to remain on this path. Yes, a writer I can trust.