Have you ever wondered how life happens to us?How our failure to consistently abide by our prior plans for our lives ridiculously change everything?Complicate things?You glance over your past and consider the winding path you have come and you wonder if that has been really you.Countless decisions made along the way; some in haste,some well considered and others thought well considered till you really realize the fact basis wasn't right.Yet you are here.With consequences to live and tonnes of more decisions to make.It is life.
So,at some point I went to college.Well that is good.I studied English and Literature.Mmmh.OK.And then I wrote a poetry book.OK.Purple Bloom for that matter.Yees.
It has been...10years?Yeah,ten years of painstakingly learning to do what,if you were to ask me,I have had no business teaching my self to do best.I could have been a scientist-whichever discipline of science my head could have taken me to,an architect,a painter,an artist,a banker-These were my desires-but not writing.It has been a long tiring journey of learning to realize a thing that I can't explain why I so badly needed to be done but which impulsively and calculatively I have felt over the years must be done instead of the easy obvious choices I could have taken to just like fish takes to water.
So,have I been a victim of my own changed flow of life?Yes.One day in 2014, I woke up and I felt for once I needed to do something crazy.I needed to publish a book-hitherto not part of the script.The feeling was right.The holy spirit was at work-I think so.I went to the custodian of my paltry wealth and demanded to be given a good portion of what is mine; a portion of what I am supposed to live on, to publish a book.It didn't matter what I was going to survive on.No.Whether the book would sell-who cared?The moment was right.The feeling good.I was going to push 8years of writing to the edge of precipice.And it was done.It was so fulfilling.
The fact that I studied Literature and English didn't warrant the bold step out of a comfort zone to spend ones fortune on publishing a bunch of words in verse for reasons so twisted when sure investments opportunities were available.No,there are other flimsy reasons.It is the burden of the calling.
I don't think of myself as a poet.Or a writer.No. 'Am a man of few useful talents.I am still looking for my what my real talent is.I am just that guy who occasionally is visited by "lofty" ideas that in their powerful spell make me do one of those few things I know just a little how to do-write.
When I did my book,it wasn't 'cause I am a good writer.Real writers know themselves.I know of many writers out there.Very good writers.Very good Poets.And I bet you know them too.
For me,when under the control of the spell of strange muse I can't shake off,I write.Call it "juogi" .Ask Adipo Sidang,he will enlighten you about how this thing works.
I labour with words because it is my calling,not because I am good.No.I write,not thinking of money,because prior to today, I didn't have that money; many people have been here before me and some had lots of money yet some never had it yet they have all lived-the wheels of life never stopped turning because of such disparities-some happy,some sad-then they went on to death,each leaving their tales that defined what people thought of what their being here changed or meant.
I Write poems because that is who I am.It is what I must do.Bacause no matter how less poignant what I create is,how less aesthetic,less mature or very creative,well thought of...it matters not.What comes to me that has to be said must be said because it is one of the many pieces of the jigsaw puzzle of the tale of our existence that I must provide to help complete the whole tale of what and who we are.
And so writing I must.Publishing I must.The calling has been,is and will always be right.The feeling is just awesome.
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