So they said I couldn’t write. And I didn’t get even. I got mad. I pulled out this sheet of paper and began this blab. I was going to prove a real point. Stupid people. Anybody can write. Can they not? And even if writing isn’t for everybody, I am not everybody. People who can’t even do anything with their lives can’t just walk into mine , shoot down my dreams with their stupid soliloquy and walk off with such audacity.
I can write. I know I can. Or else, why on earth would I be trying so hard to convince you when I haven’t yet convinced myself? Maybe I am just scared that the critics are spot-on. Maybe I’m just being plain stupid, thinking this writing thing is for someone like me. But why not? After all, writing like singing is an art form; a talent; a gift for the gifted; an effortless drudge that makes tonnes of cash for the Rowlings and Bernsteins of the former world.
So why do I dispute with myself? I am either talented or I’m not. ‘Quit prevaricating and write,’ I say to myself. ‘Write. Write what you feel. Write from your heart. If it makes you escape to some fantasy island, write. Write without censure,without regard,’ I add.
But again, there’s the argument that talent isn’t enough; traditional mumbo-jumbo tied at the hip to age-long advice: that I’ve got to add great attitude and discipline to make my own luck which I think is crap, short of horse shit. My generation writes it’s own rules. We are the masquarades dancing in the village square. We are the troupe nauseated by the lure of conformity.
‘But you’ve got to pay you dues too, you know,’ one of them said.
Really? Dues are paid me, I don’t pay anything. Our forebears may have been gullible enough to pay theirs, relearn their gifts , or even add a title or two to their names but how many of them Doctors of Literature were an Achebe, an Angelou or a Hemingway-a natural force, a pure flow untainted by the sickening sound of verbosity and intelligibility?
Personally, I owe you no explanation whatsoever. I can write. I know I can write. You know I can write . Period. End of story.
About the Author: Nehi Igbinijesu is a Nigerian trained economist. He has worked at several banks in several positions. In addition to banking, Nehi has been a contributor to Connect Nigeria, anchoring the Discover Nigeria Series, a history project to depict positive elements about being Nigerian. He recently authored a soon-to-be-published book for mothers titled, The Code: A Story About Raising Great Women. He lives with his family in Lagos, Nigeria. You can connect with him on Twitter at; @PNOigbinijesu