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On W


Today, I was thinking about how I can be very spineless… In real life. Like I always say, I’m Yoruba and by unfortunate default, I was taught to smile and take crap. Plus I’m a ‘safe’ person naturally so you’d most likely never find me fighting, except under extreme circumstances… then I can be a beast. 

But when I write, the rules change. Writing is like the exercise to my arms which strengthen my heart. I am not afraid to think when I write; not afraid to form an opinion; not afraid to take a side; not afraid even to fail. 

When I write no one can hurt me, and even if they do, I welcome the pain like a martyr smiling to be fried in the boiling oil. Writing is one of the few things I know, that give me unpurchasable joy. 

When I read a great book (like The Fishermen by Obioma Chigozie), I feel jealous not because it’s another great book that isn’t written by me, but because I realize that someone else might feel the intensity of what I feel for writing. And that’s scary…

On Wandering

Not all those who wander are lost!’ the mad man would shout all through the streets with people jeering at him and mimicking his cry. ‘Not all those who wander are lost!’

It was amazing to me, because I was sure he was raving mad; and to me, mad people are only aimless containers of a once-existed soul searching for a final place to die. 

Then one day he stopped in front of me at the bus stop just close to my house and said, ‘Rosie (my name is Rosie!),  your phone is ringing tonight. And tonight it will stop ringing. But not all those who wander are lost’ 

Now he is dead – he got bit by a snake. About what he said,  I still wonder and wonder and wonder ; but alas! I am lost. 

On Wheel

What did the crippled say to the random stranger who asked him if he’d like to be assisted across the road?

Oh yes sir! If you wheel‘ 

On Whispering

I love whispers. The way they tingle your ear with more than just the proximity of the lips, but also with the promise and expectation they bring. 

I love whispers. The way they gloat in exclusivity, giving you the pomp to believe that only you deserves to know.

I love whispers. And their lack of protocol as they swish fast straight through the auditory nerves to the brain. 

I love whispers. And the unfailing way we look at the whisperer after he or she pulls back. There’s a deception in both eyes that there are words left unspoken… But precisely not, for the words we whisper are the very words that need to be heard.

2 Discussions on
“On W”
  • On Writing:
    If it’s any consolation (for lack of a better word), I (and I’m sure I speak for a lot of people) feel that intensity when we read what you write. And I love it.

    Keep it up

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