The Full Story
My Journey

I grew up in a house of books that was not a library. My mother, a high school principal, majored in English language and Literature, and in tribute to the years expended in her academic pursuit, the brown shelf in our living room constantly creaked under the unforgiving weight of books. Thick-back thesis, vast poem collections, and novels whose fat spines flaunted an assortment of veteran authors beckoned like crouching soldiers from the floor of our three-bedroom apartment. As a result, reading came naturally to me.

 

 I started off writing essays in junior high about holiday experiences or bad road trips. At first, I dreaded the times my teacher gave me these assignments. I found it a hard task having to describe places I have never been to, though eventually I realized that the more essays I wrote, the more I looked forward to the next one. Once my mother had returned home from the school where she taught with a wide grin. She had read one of my pieces to her students, and they not only loved it but craved for more. That day, her chest puffed with pride, my mother had squatted so that our eyes leveled and in a somber tone said that writing was my gift to the world. Back then at twelve, I was too young to comprehend how those words would eventually shape my future. 

 

Then came the euphoria of university, graduation, and writing my first manuscript of about 84,000 words. In the heat of my excitement, I sent off excerpts of my maiden piece to multiple publishers, held my breath, and waited for the ping of the mail. I was crushed. None of them wanted anything to do with a sensitive historical fiction that centered on the 1967 civil war in my country, Nigeria. One of them asked me to write about a future Nigeria, and insisted that the past only breed hate.

 

They forget that the future cannot do without the past.

 

I took the rejections hard. It never occurred to me that there was a reader for every story, and that perhaps it had less to do with my story and more to do with the audience. I considered the rejection a criticism of my ability as a writer. My confidence was shattered. I was not good enough. 

 

I guess this is the thing about second chances and never quitting on yourself. A few months later, I mindlessly sent an excerpt of the same piece to a reviewer. For a month I kept refreshing my mail for feedback and when it did come, the reviewer wanted to read the rest of it.

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That was all it took, one person to believe in me.

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And it made all the difference.

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That was the turning point, the beginning from where I never looked back. With six books published so far after five years, having my works read globally assures me that I am making a difference. And it remains the reason I must continue to write.