So many words have been uttered on the art of writing: when to, how often, technique, and the list goes on and on.
This is isn’t one of such a piece. These words simply capture my thoughts about what it feels like to have your words disrobed in public. You know that vulnerability that comes with asking your social circle to tell you in the plainest of terms what they think about your art, that is what this is about.
Eyes over the brims of steaming mugs of cocoa; my parents and we the children, usually sat on the settee on cold harmattan evenings, during electricity blackouts, trading stories of events of the day and listening to my father bringing to life tales; of Caesar Augustus, Brutus, the Oba of Benin, Kunta Kinte, Akin and Okonkwo, from his memory and books which lined the shelf in our sitting room. I imagined what it be to create such stories, how it will feel….
Like Achebe’s stories made Adichie appreciate the fact that people like her could exist in books, Habila’s and Abubakar Adam Ibrahim’s books made me realize I could also tell valid stories about where I was and where I had been. This birthed my writing in the early 2000s. And so, here, I present to you my first work of fiction set in Northern Nigeria.