On Writing.

I’m reminiscing about how I started writing at a young age.

It’s past 1 am and I can’t sleep so I’m reminiscing about how I started writing at a young age. It’s not a scholarly one. It was born from a ridiculous set of events.

I have a feeling that I have narrated this before somewhere in writing or verbally to a selected few.

I was a voracious reader growing up. I fancied reading the newspaper instead of watching the news - watching the news always seemed old-fashioned to me back then. My mom noticed my interest in literature and encouraged me a lot. I quickly became the friend of the librarian at my school where I read many books and the first I remember vividly is The Bamboo Girl by Anthony Kwamlah Johnson. At the end of primary school, I finished the books in the literature section of the library.

Ok. How did you start writing?

Sorry. There’s too much backstory to miss out on before the main gist. I love the English language as a course of study. Essay writing, comprehension, and summary were my favorite parts. I started writing short stories that I wanted to publish someday because why not? I remember using eighty-leave notes to write fictional stories that were just pure chaos. Good times.

In JSS2, I got the attention of the head English teacher; the school principal. I didn’t get her attention by winning any award or for one exceptional academic performance but for writing love letters. I was nine years old so it was bizarre because WHAT DOES HE KNOW ABOUT LOVE?

Frankly speaking, I didn’t even know what it meant to be in love or whatever. What was my nine-year-old brain thinking? That’s wild. It felt good though, because those lines were poetic and it’s a shame that I can’t remember those lines anymore but they were short and sweet.

I wrote the first one and it leaked because she had shown it to her friends who went and reported it. You see, both cases were reported. I didn’t get a scolding for the first letter - I remember the events vividly.

“This is good. Who wrote this?” the principal asked.

“It’s Abdul.”

“Abdul? Mrs. Azeez’s son?”

“Yes. (in chorus)”

I was overwhelmed with shame. I was summoned, in my XXL trouser that bathed up my XS body at the time.

“Azeez. Iwo lon ko letter si classmate e?”

I stared in silence and couldn’t answer. I was let go with the intention that oh, he must have watched it in a movie and the usual “don’t do it again”.

That was the moment I lost my dad so it was so chaotic. I wasn’t worried about the letter or getting punished or whatever at school but I was terrified of my mother who was at home. She didn’t get to hear of this one.

Two weeks later, pen wiz Abdul strikes again, and this time to another girl. I genuinely have no idea why this was done. Maybe I was just trying out my writing skills and wanted to be known as the guy with cool lines or whatever reason there must’ve been.

I think life was my opp. Someone saw the letter and reported it again to the principal and while the first reaction was “This boy is a good writer”, it was followed by “No, love letters aren’t it.”

You see, that day, one of my opp who was a teacher did interrogation as to what I knew as love. I defined it to be the “situation where you like someone and just feel them”. I remember her hovering around me with a 3ft slender stick which landed on my body a few times… a small price to pay for eventual greatness, I guess. Had they known?

Of course, people hailed me for being the writer and I remember some senior guys asking me to write for them. I was just praying hard that it remains in the confines of the school and that my mom never gets to hear of it when she resumes after her mourning period but life had other plans for me.

I saw a teacher leaving my compound as I was about to enter my house. I knew I was cooked but pretended. You see, my mother is a lovely woman. She said nothing, as usual, served my plate, and asked how school was and if everything was going fine. I felt relaxed, and confident that my secret was safe.

Next thing, there’s ewedu (jute mallow) to pick and my mom begins to read something that sounds familiar.

“Balogun leyin obinrin,” my mom beckoned with a beautiful smile.

I was cooked. I didn’t even bother, I just surrendered as the ewedu was carefully layered on my body. If there was Amala already and stew, one would just need to touch my skin and you’d get a spoonful of ewedu for your morsel.

The letter was confiscated and kept in my mother’s drawer for years. I saw the letter almost three years after the event.

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I didn’t change. I still got into more trouble with words of mine. I was just gifted with the use of words.

I remember an event which I’m not proud of but I had politely insulted an older brother of mine to not cheat me of my internet modem because he was older. I remember the first line of the said letter: “Dear Mr. Smart”.

Nawa, mehn.

Words are powerful and they’re my go-to for expression. You can hack deeper wounds using written words. I rank them above spoken words. You read some writeups and your existence feels like a fluke. You’ve been ridiculed and worse, you read it out loud in your brain.