This is Why I Write.

...Omonoba...
Our people say:
Eng: If the owner of a calabash calls it a worthless calabash, others will join him to use it to pack rubbish.-Nigerian Proverb.
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I have written since forever. I will write for as long as my fingers permit me and when they fail, I will speak the words that someone else will write for me. I am only a story-teller and there are stories to be told. Remember the baobab tree?

I met sour lemons and sweet honey, Those, I cannot change. So, there are times when I have wished that lemon was just a little bit tasty but so have many millions before me. Lemon has not changed. Lemon will never change. So, guess what? I found a way to make use of it. If you drink tea or sprite without lemon, you better wake up from that boring dream. And I do  not know how much more of a blessing than a curse it is that I have learned to see color in the midst of black. It may not be white but it is color all the same and if I cannot paint about it then surely, I must be able to write about it. If the devil now decides to be the thieving idiot that he always is (thunder fire his already burning head), then surely I will be able to sing about it. Somewhere on my table is a wooden box that has all the letters I have kept. The short ones, the long ones, the awfully illegible ones and those that I can so clearly remember writing or receiving. Bottled up by the cuticles of my fingers are many more letters unwritten. You know, I wasn't always listening in economics class and sitting right under that man's nose didn't mean I couldn't communicate with someone else at the back of the class or about seven rows away. Who didn't pass letters in class? Are you sure? It was usually something that I didn't have to say like 'Are you done reading chapter eleven' or 'nawa for you oh, how you dey? Just checking'. There are the actual notes where a boy would tell me about how he longed for Sunday to see me in my Sunday wear.. Okay,  those were few but they were pages-long; foolscap pages long. This is why I write. Because those silly letters in my wooden box will never forgive me if I do not continue their legacy. The ones at my finger tips? They'll torment me. Scorching sun and biting snow I can manage but the torment of stories untold, I may never be able to handle. Speaking of the weather; one more poem on yellow flowers and singing birds and...never mind. Because I cannot always write and sing about green apples or blooming gardens or strawberries. I like strawberries but not better than mangoes. I like yellow flowers but not better than Ixora bushes and palm-wine. If I had to talk about the palm tree, I would have a collection of books. Maple Pudding? Is that even something? What about Ogbono and Egusi and Nsala and my father's groundnut soup (groundnut, not peanut) wonders untold. As much as this might be embarrassing, growing up I never played ten ten. Neither did I play frisbee. I'm not proud to say I never really played ten ten but I watched everyone around me play it. Thank you but no apology if ten ten doesn't fit into your idea of an awesome childhood game. So, for the sake of passion and one of the few things I do best, let me write. If it is not quality enough well you do not have to worry because there's 700million poems on bright neon-blue skies. And yes, lest I forget, my speed bump is writer's block. You know, one time during one of our intimate moments together; myself and the block, I had to go out there and find inspiration. Guess what I found? Everyone talks about golden-brown skin and sun-kissed beauty. The block; bless its heart, reminded me about the song less sung...The Albino Child.

NakedSha.