Why I Write…

I’m not quite sure why I do it. I don’t have a particularly profound reason I kinda just do and, as it turns out, I’m not half-bad. My earliest memory of writing extended prose, or anything substantial, was in Year 11 (SS1/2). English Literature class. My teacher whom shall not be named but is, nonetheless, forgiven once thought I plagiarised my work!

I think it was then I started to think to myself – I might actually be decent at this writing thing.

Now, I don’t think it was that good I just think she underestimated my capabilities given that I’d moved from Africa (Lagos, to be precise). I mean I’d been in the UK since Year 9 (JS3), but I digress. Simply put, she was just a hater.  GCSE mocks came round and I had to do a creative piece on smoking I aced it! (maybe she was in an ecstatic mood, maybe she was trying to make up for the previous accusation, we will never really know). I think it was then I started to think to myself I might actually be decent at this writing thing.

I also write for a City Church Lagos and VALOUR.

I hate being cliché.

Once, I was catching up with an aunt – and she mentioned that I’d been writing and making up stories from a really young age! Somewhere between there and Year 11 – life happened. I kinda like that I had forgotten that, because it saves me from being the ‘I’ve been writing ever since I was 2’ cliché. I hate being cliché. Previously, I had tried so hard to keep a secret diary but I kept misplacing the code sheet or forgetting the code (my calling was clearly not hieroglyphs but everyone was doing it – peer pressure ey?). Sometimes, I wonder what life would be like it if I kept writing from the age of 2.

“They don’t think it be like it is, but it do.”

— Oscar Gamble

I guess the moral of this story is just because something is cliché doesn’t make it any less true or bad. Cliche is just that — cliche. 

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