Odafe Atogun's Blog
July 22, 2023
To Eradicate Corruption – Letter to the Nigerian President
Dear Mr President,
Greetings!
Nigeria is one of the richest countries in the world, yet it has one of the lowest minimum wages, lower than Afghanistan, Republic of Benin, Cameroon, Congo, and even Republic of Niger.
It is interesting to observe that in all of the countries mentioned above, there are those in the public and private sectors who earn outrageous salaries while some earn salaries that can barely take care of their transportation. I find this trend disturbing. A man once argued that the gap is justified because those on low wages are not educated. He went further to say that cleaners, house helps, drivers, messengers and the likes of them cannot expect to receive decent wages. I could not help thinking what a heartless moron he was. But I didn’t tell him so, Mr President. He was a big brute, and might have just chewed me up.
I tried to explain to the man that every worker is of equal importance in society, that the cleaner is as important as the president, the security guard of equal worth as the CEO. The man was livid. He did not let me continue. Spewing angry words at me, he stormed off. Mr President, I’m sure you see my point, unlike that brute of a man.
Here’s the thing. Society cannot function properly if all of us obtain the same level of education. Whatever our educational qualifications, we are of equal importance to society. Just the same way that a car cannot function if something as small as a plug is missing in it. It does not matter how big and expensive that car is, all the different parts must be in place for it to work. In fact, assemble the most expensive car in the world, attach the most ridiculous price to it, until you put fuel into it, it will not move. Take out the battery and it will not move. Cut out a tiny piece of wire and it will not move. Do we then say that fuel, battery or whatever is the most important component of that car? The same can be said of the human society.
Looking at our country, I have come to realise that corruption thrives only because many are not valued for their contribution to society. As a result, some are so poor and others so rich. I thought that if there was equitable distribution of wealth, the world would be a much better and happier place. I’m not saying that all of us should be rich. In fact, I know people who detest wealth. Personally, I do not want to be rich. Just to be able to pay my bills and write stories that would resound with the smallest messages.
I know a young man called Alaba, a plumber, who came to work for me once. He came to assess the job and told me what his fee would be. I told him I couldn’t pay him that amount for the job he was going to do. He said okay he would give me a discount, I should pay any amount. I explained to him that what I meant was that the amount he had charged was too small for the job he was going to do. Alaba was speechless. I told him that I would pay him twice as much, only that he should do a good job. He did a very good job.
Afterwards, Alaba explained to me that he and other artisans cheat their customers because they never pay well. So they do a bad job and overinflate the cost of materials. I told him, ‘Next time you go out to do a job, tell them your fee and stick to it. If they can’t pay, walk away. Only make sure that each time you work for a client, do it very well.’ ‘If I don’t do it somebody else would do it,’ he said. ‘If everyone develops the same attitude, they will be compelled to pay. You know why?’ I asked. ‘Why?’ ‘Because the client does not have the skill required to do the job. You must understand how important you are to society.’ I became a mentor to Alaba. Today, he has an HND in Building Engineering.
Mr President, in government offices, even in the private sector, the stench of corruption is overpowering. Some people, however highly placed, take ‘poverty mentality’ into public and private offices. By poverty mentality, I mean the mind-set that one must steal or cheat to earn a decent living. Ever before they got into office, they had imbibed poverty mentality. So they steal and steal and steal. Those in lower positions do the same thing because their salary is not enough to sustain them and because they have always seen poverty mentality as a way of life.
Mr President, eradicating corruption in Nigeria is not something that can be achieved through rhetoric or just by locking everyone up in jail commando- style. At the end of the day, if the root cause is not addressed, the plague will persist. Eradicating corruption should be a way of life based on decent and equitable wages for all workers. Other measures may then be taken.
I hope I have made some sense.
With best regards,
Odafe Atogun
November 4, 2018
Did van Gogh Live a Happy Life?
I made two discoveries in recent years. The first is that we could be successful and not be happy. Second, we could be happy without being successful. Given the opportunity to choose, which would you settle for?
In my experience, I have discovered that success exposes our human limitations: our flaws, our mistakes, our pains. It exposes the scars we sustained on the long and difficult road to success, making them septic and leaving us undesirable at times so much so that the joy of success becomes ruined.
I often wonder about the lives of great artists like Vincent van Gogh. For a man who was prodigiously talented, arguably the greatest painter that ever lived, one could say that his life contradicted his work. What madness caused him to sever his own ear and drove him to an asylum? His words: ‘canvases will tell you what I cannot say in words…’ Each time I grapple with the notions of success and happiness, I find
some comfort in the profound words of the great artist. Nevertheless, his last words ‘The sadness will last forever’ often leave a hollow, haunting feeling in my heart. Perhaps the composition of his painting, Portrait of Dr. Gachet, melancholic and compassionate at once, reflected his own life far more than his self-portraits. The message of his work, Sorrow, can be peeled off layer by layer to reveal new and deeper meanings. I thought he gave The Church at Auvers a soft, beautiful touch that portrayed it to be much more than a place of worship or religious rituals. This is a work that can hardly be described with words, but on canvas it bared the innermost beauty of the artist’s mind.
Vincent van Gogh was truly a great artist. Only 37 when he took his own life, there must have been a thought on his mind at the moment he fired the shot that led to his death. I want to believe that that thought must have been as profound as the messages he left on canvas.
Sometimes I dwell on Rembrandt, wondering at the recklessness that made him live beyond his means. Often I ask myself: ‘Was that trait the secret of his great gift?’
‘Was that what made it possible for him to unleash such astounding imagination that grips the world till today?’ ‘Did he acquire that trait as a result of the tragedy of losing three infant children in succession, the eldest at only two months?’
I wonder about Kafka too. What could have driven him to want to commit suicide on at least one occasion? He died of illness at the unripe age of 40. Born 3 July, died 3 June (is this a mere coincidence?).
What is it that connects success and tragedy? Well, they may not be connected in all cases. Certainly, there must be people who are both successful and happy. And I know people who are very happy but not successful. Success minus Happiness. Happiness minus Success. Given the benefit of hindsight which would you choose?
Back to van Gogh and Rembrandt. Compared to van Gogh’s short life, Rembrandt enjoyed longevity. Both enjoyed great success as painters, just that one may have lived a life devoid of happiness. Or did van Gogh live a happy life? Indeed, did Rembrandt live an unhappy life?
May 21, 2018
The Innocent Thief
Dudu was famished that evening. He had not eaten all day. He looked gaunt, eyes and cheeks sunken. His boots were torn. His trousers sagged, his collar looked frayed. He cut the picture of a homeless man. Holding a small bag tightly to his chest, he walked into the supermarket with a faint smile on his face, leaving you to wonder what a man like him could be happy about.
He found a trolley. He pushed it with an effort, picking items off the shelves. Gradually, the trolley filled up. The supermarket attendants glared at him with hostility, the same question on their minds: ‘How is he going to pay for all the groceries?’ One or two of them followed him around for a while, but the smell emanating from him drove them back. So they monitored him from a distance.
Dudu was not aware of the interest he was generating. He was minding his own business, the small bag he had clutched to his chest earlier now firmly strapped to his waist. He fingered the bag again and again. It contained all that he would ever need. This thought broadened the smile on his face.
He pulled up with surprise when someone called his name questioningly: ‘Dudu?’
He turned round and was confronted by a well-dressed young man in his early twenties.
‘Dudu?’ the young man repeated in awe.
Dudu smiled in response.
‘My name is Jimmy. I’m a software developer like you,’ the young man said. ‘I met you at a couple of workshops a few years ago and I have been following your progress since.’ There was excitement in his voice. ‘Congratulations for your recent success! I read about it just yesterday. I hope to be like you one day.’ He extended his hand with a smile.
Dudu smiled back. He looked round furtively to make sure no one could hear their conversation. He preferred to remain anonymous. ‘Thank you,’ he replied, taking Jimmy’s hand firmly. ‘I wish you every success.’
As Dudu pushed his trolley away, Jimmy watched in admiration, shaking his head, knowing all that the man had been through.
Dudu could not believe that anyone would recognize him. He was a shadow of his former self. Years of hardship while he had tried to sell the computer software he developed had taken a heavy toll on him. And then his fortune had changed unbelievably in the last few days. In the bag around his waist was the contract, plus some of the cash advance he had received earlier that day to clean himself up. Thankful that he would not be sleeping on the street that night or ever again, he looked forward to soaking himself in a warm bath when he returned to the apartment he had rented a couple of hours ago.
He picked a few more things then headed for the front of the store. There were several check-out lines. On one of the lines was a ‘big man’, with an aide tending to his trolley. He had a potbelly, smelled of freshly minted money and he kept turning round and round, smiling amicably at the world, very pleased with himself. Thinking that that line was probably the fastest, Dudu stayed behind the big man.
The big man made a face and turned away, irritated by the odour that suddenly suffused him. Dudu did not notice the man’s reaction. He was more concerned with the bag strapped to his waist, planning his future, all the things he would do. He was vaguely aware of the big man issuing loud instructions to his aide to go and fetch something from the car. He was not aware that a number of attendants were watching him like hawks from a distance.
Moments later, the big man reached into a large purse he was carrying, then froze. He searched inside the purse frantically. And then he pointed a trembling finger at Dudu. ‘He has stolen my two hundred thousand naira!’ he screamed.
The supermarket attendants promptly swarmed around Dudu, who could only stammer a few inaudible words of protest. They grabbed him and yanked the bag from his waist while he struggled helplessly, weakened by hunger.
‘He stole my two hundred thousand naira!’ the big man kept screaming over and over, spreading out his hands in disbelief, turning round and round for everyone to see how shocked he was.
Some attendants gathered around the bag on the floor, others held Dudu by his trousers to prevent him from escaping. They opened the bag and found a thick role of naira notes. The money was counted. It amounted to two hundred thousand naira exactly.
‘Here is the two hundred thousand naira he stole,’ one of the attendants announced triumphantly, straightening up and raising the money above his ahead to show everyone before handing it over to the big man.
Dudu wore a perplexed look. He tried to say something but several fists landed on him. And he was soon under a barrage of vicious attack. His cries were hopeless. They struck him with all manner of objects, anything they could find. ‘Thief!’ they yelled. The entire supermarket turned into a riotous scene. Suddenly, an infernal cry emanated from Dudu’s throat, startling his attackers and causing them to step back for a moment. Lying helplessly on his back, he looked up at the wild faces in dazed agony, wondering why something that was meant to be a blessing would turn into a fatal curse. He was bleeding from the nose, mouth, ear, eyes. All over.
Jimmy arrived at the scene then and saw him on the floor. He dropped his shopping basket, his heart racing with anxiety. ‘He is not a thief,’ he screamed, rushing forward, trying to break through the ring of people that had surrounded Dudu. He could not make it. The mob charged at their victim with renewed energy. ‘Thief!’ they screamed louder than before as they struck him. And then they began to drag him on the floor.
‘He is not a thief,’ Jimmy kept mumbling and crying, like a child, completely powerless to rescue the man.
Dudu was almost naked by now, except for his trousers which hung around his knees in tatters. And then someone jumped up and stamped on his head. Blood, flesh and bone splattered everywhere. And then an eerie silence fell.
Just then the big man’s aide came running, panting, relieved to see that his boss was okay amidst the confusion that had engulfed the supermarket. ‘Oga, oga, I have been looking for you,’ his voice boomed as if through a megaphone. ‘What happened?’
The big man pointed at the dying man on the floor. ‘He stole my two hundred thousand naira,’ he replied, still unable to hide his shock.
‘How could he have stolen your two hundred thousand naira, Oga?’ the aide asked, wearing a look of utter dismay. ‘You handed it to me earlier as we entered the supermarket.’ He put his hand into his pocket and brought out a roll of money. ‘Here it is!’
Jimmy began to weep uncontrollably. Holding his hands to his face, his back against the side of a shelf, he slid slowly to the floor.
Everyone began to hurry away. Dudu lay there like a bloodied rag doll, breathing very faintly, until he could no longer make a sound, until a whimper could no longer be heard from the world.
THE INNOCENT THIEF
Dudu was famished that evening. He had not eaten all day. He looked gaunt, eyes and cheeks sunken. His boots were torn. His trousers sagged, his collar looked frayed. He cut the picture of a homeless man. Holding a small bag tightly to his chest, he walked into the supermarket with a faint smile on his face, leaving you to wonder what a man like him could be happy about.
He found a trolley. He pushed it with an effort, picking items off the shelves. Gradually, the trolley filled up. The supermarket attendants glared at him with hostility, the same question on their minds: ‘How is he going to pay for all the groceries?’ One or two of them followed him around for a while, but the smell emanating from him drove them back. So they monitored him from a distance.
Dudu was not aware of the interest he was generating. He was minding his own business, the small bag he had clutched to his chest earlier now firmly strapped to his waist. He fingered the bag again and again. It contained all that he would ever need. This thought broadened the smile on his face.
He pulled up with surprise when someone called his name questioningly: ‘Dudu?’
He turned round and was confronted by a well-dressed young man in his early twenties.
‘Dudu?’ the young man repeated in awe.
Dudu smiled in response.
‘My name is Jimmy. I’m a software developer like you,’ the young man said. ‘I met you at a couple of workshops a few years ago and I have been following your progress since.’ There was excitement in his voice. ‘Congratulations for your recent success! I read about it just yesterday. I hope to be like you one day.’ He extended his hand with a smile.
Dudu smiled back. He looked round furtively to make sure no one could hear their conversation. He preferred to remain anonymous. ‘Thank you,’ he replied, taking Jimmy’s hand firmly. ‘I wish you every success.’
As Dudu pushed his trolley away, Jimmy watched in admiration, shaking his head, knowing all that the man had been through.
Dudu could not believe that anyone would recognize him. He was a shadow of his former self. Years of hardship while he had tried to sell the computer software he developed had taken a heavy toll on him. And then his fortune had changed unbelievably in the last few days. In the bag around his waist was the contract, plus some of the cash advance he had received earlier that day to clean himself up. Thankful that he would not be sleeping on the street that night or ever again, he looked forward to soaking himself in a warm bath when he returned to the apartment he had rented a couple of hours ago.
He picked a few more things then headed for the front of the store. There were several check-out lines. On one of the lines was a ‘big man’, with an aide tending to his trolley. He had a potbelly, smelled of freshly minted money and he kept turning round and round, smiling amicably at the world, very pleased with himself. Thinking that that line was probably the fastest, Dudu stayed behind the big man.
The big man made a face and turned away, irritated by the odour that suddenly suffused him. Dudu did not notice the man’s reaction. He was more concerned with the bag strapped to his waist, planning his future, all the things he would do. He was vaguely aware of the big man issuing loud instructions to his aide to go and fetch something from the car. He was not aware that a number of attendants were watching him like hawks from a distance.
Moments later, the big man reached into a large purse he was carrying, then froze. He searched inside the purse frantically. And then he pointed a trembling finger at Dudu. ‘He has stolen my two hundred thousand naira!’ he screamed.
The supermarket attendants promptly swarmed around Dudu, who could only stammer a few inaudible words of protest. They grabbed him and yanked the bag from his waist while he struggled helplessly, weakened by hunger.
‘He stole my two hundred thousand naira!’ the big man kept screaming over and over, spreading out his hands in disbelief, turning round and round for everyone to see how shocked he was.
Some attendants gathered around the bag on the floor, others held Dudu by his trousers to prevent him from escaping. They opened the bag and found a thick role of naira notes. The money was counted. It amounted to two hundred thousand naira exactly.
‘Here is the two hundred thousand naira he stole,’ one of the attendants announced triumphantly, straightening up and raising the money above his ahead to show everyone before handing it over to the big man.
Dudu wore a perplexed look. He tried to say something but several fists landed on him. And he was soon under a barrage of vicious attack. His cries were hopeless. They struck him with all manner of objects, anything they could find. ‘Thief!’ they yelled. The entire supermarket turned into a riotous scene. Suddenly, an infernal cry emanated from Dudu’s throat, startling his attackers and causing them to step back for a moment. Lying helplessly on his back, he looked up at the wild faces in dazed agony, wondering why something that was meant to be a blessing would turn into a fatal curse. He was bleeding from the nose, mouth, ear, eyes. All over.
Jimmy arrived at the scene then and saw him on the floor. He dropped his shopping basket, his heart racing with anxiety. ‘He is not a thief,’ he screamed, rushing forward, trying to break through the ring of people that had surrounded Dudu. He could not make it. The mob charged at their victim with renewed energy. ‘Thief!’ they screamed louder than before as they struck him. And then they began to drag him on the floor.
‘He is not a thief,’ Jimmy kept mumbling and crying, like a child, completely powerless to rescue the man.
Dudu was almost naked by now, except for his trousers which hung around his knees in tatters. And then someone jumped up and stamped on his head. Blood, flesh and bone splattered everywhere. And then an eerie silence fell.
Just then the big man’s aide came running, panting, relieved to see that his boss was okay amidst the confusion that had engulfed the supermarket. ‘Oga, oga, I have been looking for you,’ his voice boomed as if through a megaphone. ‘What happened?’
The big man pointed at the dying man on the floor. ‘He stole my two hundred thousand naira,’ he replied, still unable to hide his shock.
‘How could he have stolen your two hundred thousand naira, Oga?’ the aide asked, wearing a look of utter dismay. ‘You handed it to me earlier as we entered the supermarket.’ He put his hand into his pocket and brought out a roll of money. ‘Here it is!’
Jimmy began to weep uncontrollably. Holding his hands to his face, his back against the side of a shelf, he slid slowly to the floor.
Everyone began to hurry away. Dudu lay there like a bloodied rag doll, breathing very faintly, until he could no longer make a sound, until a whimper could no longer be heard from the world.
April 14, 2018
Saturday Morning at Jabi Park
It is a bright morning. Like the sun, I’m out early. I drive to Jabi Park, and manage to find parking after driving round and round for minutes. It seems the whole city has converged. Abuja is a small city; I often tell myself that the entire residents can fit into a small football field.
Jabi Park is a mecca for fitness enthusiasts, brimming with people every Saturday. Ironically, it is also a food bazaar of sorts. Today is no different. I start to jog and promptly lose my zeal, bogged down by too many thoughts. I slow to a walk. Petrol. Water. Light. I haven’t seen electricity in days. I’m almost going deaf from the noise of power generators that has continually consumed my neighbourhood. My head is throbbing just thinking about it. I wish I wouldn’t have to go back home.
In spite of all the noises in the park, the music and all, it is sane compared to the environment around my home. I stop under the shade of a tree. A man with a potbelly is power-walking in my direction, dressed in Nike t-shirt, shorts and trainers. He has a small parcel in one hand. I’m inspired to get down to business. But to my utter surprise, the man unwraps the parcel and brings out a piece of moimoi, which he proceeds to stuff into his mouth, breathing heavily from the effort. He brings out another piece. I watch him with amusement, wondering why anyone would work out and eat at the same time. I laugh quietly to myself, careful not to draw his attention as he goes past me. A man wearing a tie walks by hand-in-pocket. He looks bored with life, his clothes are hanging on him. I note that his tie is bright red, probably trying to draw attention. His shoes are worn. I wonder how many miles the poor shoes must have covered and what he was doing in the park dressed like that. Two young women, one fat, one thin, walk by, quarrelling loudly about a man, who each claims to be hers. They are dressed in similar sportswear; they wear similar lipstick.
The harmonious sound of music from different dance classes grows louder. Heady. I begin to sway slowly under the tree. A couple of children on skates go past me at a dangerous speed, howling with infectious delight. I smile to see them so happy, so free, so young.
I know I should start jogging, but I feel too heavy with thoughts. I wish I could skate away from all my worries.
The potbellied man is coming back in my direction, still holding the parcel in one hand, stuffing moimoi into his mouth with the other hand, breathing heavily. To my surprise, he approaches me. ‘Hey, share my moimoi with me,’ he says. ‘No, thanks,’ I respond with a smile, shaking my head. ‘Go ahead,’ he insists, stretching the nylon towards me, ‘it is delicious!’
The aroma of the moimoi overpowers me; I can tell that it is delicious indeed. I did not wait for another invitation. Time to get down to business, I tell myself. I start to jog away. Either that or I would be tempted to share his moimoi with him. I pick up speed. Gradually, thoughts drop away from my mind. I drag air slowly into my lungs.
January 16, 2018
Soothed by Murakami’s Words
This is the story of how my wife Victoria and I started 2018.
We left Abuja for Dublin on 1 January, Victoria to undertake a one-year master’s degree programme, me on a few months’ holiday, hoping to get some writing done. At the time of our leaving, I had no idea that I would not write a single word in a month, no idea that the following weeks would turn out to be more of a nightmare.
On the first leg of our flight via Frankfurt, about an hour after we had taken off, a young lady sitting across the aisle to my left took seriously ill, and the flight attendants and a kind doctor on board battled to save her life. The doctor was Nigerian; he wore a t-shirt on which the word HUSTLE was boldly written. He looked nothing like a doctor. I was impressed by his professionalism as he attended to the lady throughout the duration of the flight, and, thankfully, she was okay in the end.
Victoria and I slept on the flight from Frankfurt to Dublin and we disembarked groggily when the aircraft landed. My friend Damian was waiting to pick us at the airport. We crowded into the small car with our luggage after we had exchanged warm greetings. As Damian drove, the conversation shifted to getting accommodation. Damian had been trying to get us a place over the last month. ‘It is almost impossible to get an apartment in Dublin, the last viewing I went for there were over forty people,’ he said. The implication of his words did not dawn on us at the time.
We checked into the Charleville hotel (which would get embroiled in controversy on social media with a blogger weeks later), and we promptly began house-hunting. The days that followed were more shocking than harrowing. Each viewing we went for had thirty to fifty people in attendance. It did not take long for the harsh truth of Damian’s words to dawn on us. Out of desperation we offered to pay six months’ rent in advance. Then we offered to pay for a year, still without luck. In wet, freezing and windy conditions we travelled from one end of Dublin to the other. Sometimes Damian drove us, or we took a taxi or bus. We took a fast bus to the Sanctuary, Blackrock, County Cork, mistaking it for the Sanctuary, Blackrock, County Dublin. By the time we realised our mistake it was too late. We never made it to the viewing; we were three hours on the bus, and over two hours late. In any case, staying in Cork was out of the question. We took the next bus back to Dublin. Over six wasted hours.
I found time to buy a copy of Murakami’s ‘Wind Pinball’. His words soothed me as I read after a hopeless day. I read how he and his wife were stuck for their monthly payment to the bank. And how, defeated, trudging along with their heads down, they stumbled across money in the street. The exact amount they needed to pay the bank. He wasn’t sure whether it was synchronicity or some sort of divine intervention. I shared the story with Victoria. She was amazed, and I saw a glint of hope in her eyes. I was hopeful too, but I did not know that I would be using the words ‘divine intervention’ a few days later.
Ten days after we arrived in Dublin, at our wits’ end, Victoria replied to an advert on daft.ie at 4 a.m. and the landlady invited us to come along for a chat. The appointment was at 7 p.m. on a freezing night, when the winds howled as if from the darkest corners of the world. We arrived an hour early, and sought shelter in a building nearby which had a reception area. It is one of the poshest areas of Dublin; we wondered if we had any chance at all. It would take just ten minutes by bus to Victoria’s university. We prayed silently. Just before 7 p.m. we got back into the cold and made our way to the building which housed the apartment we were to view. As we approached, we saw a woman enter the building. Victoria was about to press the buzzer, when the door opened and the woman who had just entered asked, ‘Victoria?’ We nodded eagerly, our lips frozen by the cold and anxiety. We exchanged greetings and she ushered us into the lift to the fourth floor.
It was the only time we attended a viewing alone. The woman was in early middle age and she told us she was Polish. She quickly showed us round the apartment. Then we sat down for a chat. ‘Do you like it?’ she asked. Victoria and I exchanged astonished glances. ‘We love it!’ we said as one. ‘When would you like to move in?’ she asked. We both thought we were in a dream. ‘Now, if possible,’ I said with a small uncertain laugh. ‘Yesterday,’ Victoria said with more laughter.
It was a Wednesday. ‘Would it be okay if you moved in on Friday?’ she asked.
‘Perfect!’ we replied.
‘This is …. unbelievable luck,’ Victoria said.
‘No, it is divine intervention,’ I said without hesitation.
The woman smiled softly. ‘Those are the words I was waiting for – divine intervention,’ she said, and we all nodded in agreement. She continued, ‘When I received your response to my advert telling me about the two of you, I told myself that they need help.’ Her words seemed to echo in the room for a long time.
And so, thankfully, our ordeal came to an end.
Now I’m sitting in the apartment on the fourth floor, drinking a beautiful view of Dublin and writing this. I have changed my ticket to go back home earlier than I had planned. I look forward to going home, but I’m terribly saddened that I will be leaving Victoria in Dublin on her own. But I must go back home to get some work done. Over the last few weeks I have discovered that Dublin may not provide me the right atmosphere to write after all. It is peaceful up here in the apartment, but something is missing. I still have a few weeks to go. I wish I can stay.
■ PS: May you enjoy divine intervention when you need it most.
October 20, 2017
IN THE WORLD OF GIANTS
I’m sitting at my desk, thinking of what to write. My mind is blank, so I stare at the bookshelf opposite me. I have my glasses on. I can see the lettering on the books clearly. I love my glasses. I got them recently, when it became clear that my eyes had started to dim. I’m told that the glasses make me look like a nerd. I have never looked like a nerd, and I had always wished that I looked like one. So now I wear my glasses at the slightest opportunity, grinning quietly to myself while the world observes me with mild curiosity.
On the bookshelf Kafka sits notably in The Complete Novels. To his left sits J.M. Coetzee in Summertime, to his right Gabriel Garcia Marquez in The Autumn of the Patriarch. I scan the shelf slowly. With reverence. The array of authors is impressive and I tremble at the quality of creativity on display. Amongst them Wole Soyinka sits broodingly, his words, You Must Set Forth at Dawn, like an urgent warning designed to get me writing. Maybe I should write like Soyinka, I think to myself. And then my eyes come to rest on Milan Kundera’s Identity, and I realise that, like him, I must find my own voice.
I look down at my computer, fingertips to keyboard, but still not knowing what to write. I return my gaze to the bookshelf. I try to imagine the boundless worlds contained in those books. Amazing that the authors had started each story with just one word. One magical word that unfurled timeless and riveting tales. Just one word. It occurs to me that if I could come up with that word, my story would be on its way to completion.
I try to think of the word. My eyes return to the bookshelf. Suddenly, I see a book with my name on it, as if it had never been there. I push my body forward to take a closer look, adjusting my glasses on my nose. Nerd! A smile spreads across my face. Five words come to me in a rush: In the World of Giants.
I sigh and begin to write.■
In the World of Giants
I’m sitting at my desk, thinking of what to write. My mind is blank, so I stare at the bookshelf opposite me. I have my glasses on. I can see the lettering on the books clearly. I love my glasses. I got them recently, when it became clear that my eyes had started to dim. I’m told that the glasses make me look like a nerd. I have never looked like a nerd, and I had always wished that I looked like one. So now I wear my glasses at the slightest opportunity, grinning quietly to myself while the world observes me with mild curiosity.
On the bookshelf Kafka sits notably in The Complete Novels. To his left sits J.M. Coetzee in Summertime, to his right Gabriel Garcia Marquez in The Autumn of the Patriarch. I scan the shelf slowly. With reverence. The array of authors is impressive and I tremble at the quality of creativity on display. Amongst them Wole Soyinka sits broodingly, his words, You Must Set Forth at Dawn, like an urgent warning designed to get me writing. Maybe I should write like Soyinka, I think to myself. And then my eyes come to rest on Milan Kundera’s Identity, and I realise that, like him, I must find my own voice.
I look down at my computer, fingertips to keyboard, but still not knowing what to write. I return my gaze to the bookshelf. I try to imagine the boundless worlds contained in those books. Amazing that the authors had started each story with just one word. One magical word that unfurled timeless and riveting tales. Just one word. It occurs to me that if I could come up with that word, my story would be on its way to completion.
I try to think of the word. My eyes return to the bookshelf. Suddenly, I see a book with my name on it, as if it had never been there. I push my body forward to take a closer look, adjusting my glasses on my nose. Nerd! A smile spreads across my face. Five words come to me in a rush: In the World of Giants.
I sigh and begin to write.
March 8, 2016
9 Things That Makes Libraries Great
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