When you began to write, to scribble the stories as they came to you, to write letters to everything that moved, they cheered and clapped and told urged you on. They boasted about you to everyone they met. “Have you met her?” They would say, “She writes so well”. They would tell you it’s a gift, a blessing- these words you were given, but no one told you just how hard it would be to carry them from heart to page.
They did not warn you about the words, about the power they carry, about the way they will choke you, squeeze the life force out of you but will stop short of killing you. Neither did they tell you that to battle with the words will be futile, that letting them out is the only way you can breathe, it is the only way you can survive even though you are aching and bleeding, especially when you are aching and bleeding.
They did not tell you just how hard it would be to make a life from just the words or that if you walked another path in search of the naira, the words would pull you too hard, too fast. That sometimes the words would hold you down and unless you let them out, sleep will elude you and madness will consume you.
How can they tell you when they do not know? How can they speak of things that they do not understand and will never experience? But when you find your kind, the ones whom have words in their veins and not the sticky red liquid that is mundane, the words in your hearts will leap and joy will tighten your throats.
But the words will save you, they will be there when life is dreary and wet. They will sear through your pain and give you wings. They will comfort you when the world turns it back, they will be your rock when the world goes crazy.