If I had my way, I wouldn’t be a Writer.
I’d be a footballer, an engineer or something fancier.
If I got a penny for every time someone asked me, “how does an engineer become a writer?” Teni would sing, “Now my papa no be Hesley Fonane but we go dey okay.” (For that one person who does not know Teni, her song “Case” or who flat-out doesn’t get this reference, that’s my way of saying I’d be a billionaire.)
I understand it’s a fair question. Why would a guy who dropped Literature in the second term of Form Four, who had a C Grade in Ordinary Level English and studied the Sciences and Engineering at higher education think he could write? While I always reply with something along the lines of “it’s my passion and I’ve always done it,” the reality is a little different. If I had had my way, I wouldn’t be a writer.
Permit me to drag you to the dawn of my childhood. You see, I have lots of older siblings, all of born them in the '80s. My parents had their hands full raising them. They decided if they ever had another kid, they would do things a little differently. Then I came along. Where my older siblings had been given the largesse to roam the neighbourhood, I was raised under strict supervision, seldom allowed to set foot outside our fenced compound. Where other kids got toys and video games, I got books from an early age. Then the books became my nicotine. I was addicted, cursed to be a consumer of literary works until death.
Reading was not my only passion. In effect, there was one thing that stood out above all else, my love for football. I watched it all the time, I played every time I could and if ever a discussion on the game, I would be there. My enthusiasm for the sport was a stark contrast to my talent. I was and still am what the locals might call a bona fide mashball[i]. This did not stop me from playing, seemingly nothing could, that is until I went to boarding school.
In my first year in boarding school, I distinguished myself as the guy you didn't want on your team. To be honest, there was a handful of us in that category, a group known as the antis. Yes, our mates named us anti-footballers.
There comes a time in every man’s life, when he gives up on his first love. When he acknowledges that love is one-sided and that fairy tales end in movies. Mine came in form two, my 2nd year at boarding school. Every day for the previous year, I would dress and head pitch-side hoping to get a chance to play, every day I would be disappointed. In the second year, I hoped things would be different and they were; things got worse. I was never picked to play, and even on the days when people weren’t particularly interested and when those who had shown up to play couldn’t form two full teams, my classmates would prefer to invite younger students to play than to pick me. Now that really hurt and was more than my pride or poor heart could take. I went to the field less and less until eventually, I stopped altogether.
Like an addict in search of a new high, I fell back into my old habits. I started to visit the library more often. If I could not have the girl of my dreams, I could settle for her less beautiful much more welcoming friend.
Then it happened. In my third year in boarding school, I came across “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.” At that point, I had read perhaps hundreds of books but this one was different. It was more than a book, it was a puzzle, a painting and a magic trick rolled into one. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle promised to dazzle me, then he weaved words like magic, presented a mystery my mind couldn’t fathom then broke it down before my eyes as easily as taking candy from a baby. I read each of the stories with the wonder and bewilderment of a stunned audience witnessing a magician cutting a damsel in half. When I was done with the book, I wanted more. I scoured our school library to find anything on Sherlock Holmes. I came across, “The Hound of the Baskervilles.” When I was done reading that, I knew it as though an angel had walked out of heaven and commanded me, I would have to write at least one book before I die.
Then came the period of mental incubation. Over the following years, I would write some poetry and short stories but for the most part, my mental energy was engrossed in creating stories which I would only pen down much later in life.
In my final year at the university, I came to a crossroads. I had to make a choice. Continue with engineering or pick another path. I started to seriously consider my options. I was 21 going on 22 at the time. I realized I had a small window. A window within which I could take a gamble. A window within which I could shoot for the stars.
It dawned on me. Perhaps it was destiny or happenstance or some cocktail of both, I would never know which, but the meandering corridor of my life had let me to a door labelled writing. The choice was mine, open the door and walk in, or keep moving. I picked writing. The rest, as they say, is all history
It’s funny, looking back at it now, had those lovely bastards regularly picked me on their teams, had they let me play, I would have gone to the library less, if at all. I might never have horned those my writing skills. I definitely wouldn’t be here today. If I had had my way, I wouldn’t be a writer.
[i] A person who cannot play soccer to save his life.
