Some moments change your life forever. One of those moments occurred on a Friday night, around 8 pm, about twelve years ago. It was a dark, moonless night, deepened by the lack of electricity in the whole neighborhood. Shadows flickered behind drawn curtains. I sat at the dining table, an empty dinner plate pushed away, staring at my phone, a Nokia 600 series I had saved up for three months to buy. I was working at a small private clinic in Akure, three months post National Youth Service, while seeking placement for residency. I was alone in the house, with sullen silence for company. The dull yellow light from the lantern cast long shadows on the walls. I was miserable; everything was falling apart, nothing was going as it should, and the silence left me at the mercy of my darkened thoughts. I waited, with practiced patience, as Facebook slowly loaded. I navigated to the notes section and wrote my first poem when it did.
I fell in love with words very early. My father nurtured this love by first handing me the daily newspaper once he was done reading and having me read it aloud to him, quietly guiding me as I stumbled over the big words. Then, he opened his library and let me borrow his copies of the classics. I voraciously consumed every word written—everywhere and anywhere. In university, I had a routine: every Monday morning, I would walk the length of the school, stopping at every departmental notice board and reading every article and announcement posted. My first writing was as a scribe, a chronicler of people’s words, collecting quotes, phrases, and sentences that stood out to me from my many voyages into the written world.
During my intern year following graduation from medical school, I fell in love and experienced my first heartbreak. I turned to words, but this time, as a creator. A broken heart transformed me from a reader into a writer. I did not yet own a computer; I wrote my first novel by hand, scribbling furiously day and night. Writing the novel was cathartic, and writing has always been since then. I wrote my first poem a year after writing my first (unpublished) novel.
Following my first poem, the trajectory of my creative writing shifted. Suddenly, I became a poet. I can say this with certainty now—2 poetry collections, several published poems in print and online journals, several featured poems in three anthologies later, and more recently, being shortlisted for the 2023 ANA/KMVL poetry prize. Critical acclaim is validating; it fans the embers of self-belief while blowing away residues of doubt.
Another of those moments happened two years after the first. I had moved from Facebook notes, encouraged by friends to lean into my budding talent for poetry, to blogging. I joined Blogger and later WordPress. One day, I stumbled upon NaijaStories, an online community of Nigerian writers. In 2013, writers who would become heavyweights in the Nigerian literary community gathered to write, edit, critique, and collaborate on NaijaStories, a site created by Myne Whitman. I wrote, posted, critiqued, and developed for the next two years. Lifelong friendships blossomed. I read everything posted on the site, sat at the seat of the masters, and learned. I was a long way from breaking out from my cocoon. I wrote over 300 poems, sharing links on all available social media sites to generate traffic to my blog.
One of those lifelong friends was Su’eddie Agema. He was already a rising star in the Nigerian literary landscape, but his down-to-earth, humble persona made him accessible for connecting and providing advice. One of those pieces of advice was to write a book, a poetry collection. Let me rephrase: he gave me an ultimatum. He also offered to edit and publish it. In 2018, after rejecting my first manuscript (even though Su’eddie claimed he loved it) and several delays, my first poetry collection, The Book of Pain, was published by SEVHAGE Press.
Soon after, Su’eddie began to pester me into thinking of publishing a short story collection. I did not neglect prose over the years, even as I focused on poetry. I have written a bunch of short fiction and microfiction, published on my blog, and a few in online and print magazines. You are constantly on your toes when you have a sensei like Su’eddie. So, very soon, I will publish a short story collection, and like my debut poetry collection, SEVHAGE Press will have the honor of birthing my first prose child.
Writing is exactly like childbirth. The excitement of conceiving an idea and watching as it takes form on the page. Then, the anguish of submissions, rejections, despair, and more rejections. Finally, when your work makes it onto online or print media, or it makes it to a book, the pain fades and becomes a distant ache. When your work gains critical acclaim, you are like a proud parent watching your child excel and flourish. I am accustomed to this feeling, being a father and watching my child grow and excel. This October, I leaped out of my seat, ran laps around my living room, and silently screamed (not wanting to entertain police knocking on my door, please) like a proud parent as I read my name on the shortlist for the 2023 ANA/KVML poetry prize. This was all I wanted. Strange that I did not hope or dream of winning. It is understandable, really, if you have ever been surrounded by literary genius and realized with humbling clarity how mediocre you are in comparison. Making it onto the shortlist is an affirmation: I am not woeful; I have potential, and I can strive for excellence and make it into the company of the excellent. Making it onto the shortlist is validation: I am talented, I can call myself a writer with a full chest, and I have what it takes.
I think I have seven books in me before the muse leaves me. I have two full-length poetry manuscripts seeking a home: one is my odyssey on grief, and the other is about seeking and craving colors—hope in a world full of pain and suffering. Once again, I am in the pangs of childbirth, dealing with submissions, rejections, despair, and hope. Like a two-time parent to book babies, I can see what happens on the other side more clearly: when the child is born, the labor pangs become a speck of cloud pushed to the recess of the mind.
