She came to my room this morning with a barrow-load of scrolls. For me to read. I’m learning that success at this job, just like any other job demands constant improvement in quality. I’m also beginning to recognize a style, a niche… I can’t say yet but it’s there, the space I think I can fit into as a writer… I’m almost seeing it.
I’m also buying scrolls of my own. Since I read stories written by great pen wielders like Toni Kan Onwudia, Stephen King… I’m currently reading Dean Koontz… I see a kind of writing that might be meant for me and all I can do for now is to read. Till I find it.
By the way, these days, I’m giving a real effort to making new friends and being genuinely interested in whatever they’re involved in too. I’m learning that it is the way to live. I’m open to being friends… hit me up on Twitter, Facebook, by email? Let’s mix minds. Plus I’d love to read stories you’ve written too. Please share a link.
Back to business, I’m beating a tune that sounds familiar even though it’s not sampled from any specific melody you’ve heard. It’s a call from somewhere in your past, when you were lost in the infinite sea of the universe. Listen as AfroSays:
RAMBLING: GOLDEN MORN… GETTING ACKNOWLEDGED
This is a rambling. It is not a story. It’s a spontaneous expulsion of random thoughts. Kindly Read and tell what you think?
I grew up, deriving nourishment from the breasts of my mother. Later in life, I was told that such natural nourishment would account for the mass of my thinking faculty and its inherent quality. I do not know if that is true because I still need the help of the Texas Instruments and the Holy Spirit to multiply double-digit, odd numbers.
Maybe it was because natural nourishment wasn’t my forever. I switched from the embracing milk of my mother to the distracted tits of Mother Nestle. That moment probably meant more than the successful weaning of a baby boy somewhere in rustic Ipaja; it signaled the beginning of a series of emotional investments in women who wouldn’t love me half as much as I did them.
That aside, Mother Nestle fed me half-heartedly with water, Dano powdered milk, sugar and Golden Morn. Her nourishment never had the same taste twice. It’s not that I remember how good (or not) the food was then, but I have kept at her teats two decades after my first introduction, hoping that one day I would get figure out the perfect way to derive nutrition from the everlasting hag.
I was told that I could not get up from my bed or stand or my two tiny legs till I was given a strong dose of heroin via direct needle to the brain. The Golden Morn was probably manufactured with whatever addictive substance they considered suitable for young, weak flesh because it was my strong thing. I was useless without a reasonable-size, early bowl of the gunk.
And I grew, into a boy. Short, but not the shortest; smart, but not the smartest; cute, they say, but not the cutest. I wasn’t the ‘est’ at anything. No awards, No medals, nothing to feed my tiny ego on, only the pain that comes with knowing that some form of ‘est’ was latent but redundant. I began searching.
Do not be deceived. These were the still times of saliva-eliciting, cement-hard tiles of oblong Okin biscuits. If you were alive and exposed then, I and most of my mates lived for 50 kobo, cigar-resembling chewing gums; colorful, icing-sugar-made Balewa treats; melted and re-solidified golden cones of sugar called “Ekana Gowon”; milky, cough inducing Ofio nuts; Tasty Time lollies made of water, sugar, cheap flavoring and coloring that gave the iced mix look like coagulated blood and gave your tongue a vampire finishing when you indulged, a badge you carried around with pride; rock-hard jaw breakers we called “Eyin Alangba”; eternal loops of brown, chocolate-color coconut candies called “Baba dudu”.
The point is I was a kid and I was already bothered about getting acknowledged. It took me years to figure out how to excel at anything I wanted but the answer was simple at the end of it all. Except for cases where natural inclination was an absolute determinant, in early life, success mostly depended on confidence. Hard work too, but mostly confidence; not just to try, but to win before you started. But as I would later discover as well, there was no formula to these things. If you tried enough, you just might have won as well.
I did get acknowledged towards the tail end of my secondary educational career at King’s College Lagos. I found a strong Christian belief that pumped me with confidence. Now I’m done with my university education and there are a few meaningless plaques in my father’s house. It’s a new phase all over again. I’m that kid all over again, looking for the next pseudo-truism to get me through till forty because these days, confidence alone just doesn’t do it.
I hope I find the new requirements for adult success as quickly as possible, because this time again, I want to be acknowledged.