It had taken a while in my head to remember the days, days when I fought to become a writer, promising my family that one day I’ll become the best, the best that will change the world with my poems, my songs and motivational words.
I can remember how I was laughed at, jeered at and told that it will be better for me to learn a trade.
Now, this you may not understand but I’ll explain; you see, my father was a man giving to polygamous ways, and he had more than six wives, I just couldn’t understand how he was able to, though he was a graduate of business from Oxford University in London. I wish I know what he learned in there before he came home and married more than one wife.
Well, for me I was never given the chance to go to school more than primary six but my dad had a library at the time and nothing could stop me from devouring all the books in there. I love reading, and my hunger for it made a way for me to write and read all kinds, I was not particular about a genre or writer, from motivational books, fictions to horror; the hawk series, mills and boom to Nigerian stories, though I always love stories that give a meaning to a better life after suffering due to the way things were with me at then.
Growing up was not an easy cast but it was well, as I grew up being trained by my step-mother who herself was another story entirely as she travelled almost all the time, leaving me alone with the wolves I call brothers, sisters and step- mums; my life was in between, but I learned a lot from it.
As I’ve read in the happily ever after stories, I’ll say life can work that way too for anyone but to those who can fashion it out for themselves, having a plan, being focused in their vision and doing the right things. Truly it was tough but at the end, my father died, my step mother stepped on everything he had, leaving nothing for anyone as she had the most privilege when he died in England (they both there together). I was left alone, my brothers got something but they could not help one another out in anyway. I had to send myself to school by doing anything I could lay my hands upon.
My break was at the end; my singing got noted, my book got published after a lot of trails and errors, I was made a choir master as my songs, poems got noticed, family and friends want to get a come back from me. Speechless I stand.
Still I am asking myself; am I a writer now?
To be continued