Writers are very selfish people. Bloggers especially are the worst of the lot. We make you read our works. Eternally cursed to look for the I in you.
Like heck you asked for it!
I am here to apologize on behalf of all writers.
We are sorry for educating you and making you laugh without your explicit consent; seducing you with the imaginary strokes of our pens.
How many times have you been forced to read?
A billboard, an unsolicited text…
You sit and wonder, ‘’ Freaking! I didn’t ask to read that!’’ but you still indulge anyway.
My great great uncle could not read. He led a simple life. His greatest worry was in which of his wives’ huts he would rest his bones come evening.
Deep down the first of his three wives was his favorite.
The sour porridge she served in the morning was his favorite. Furthermore, he had coughed the most dowry for her.
Nevertheless, he did not want to show it.
Sometimes in his stupor, he would skip one of his wives and would be met with silent treatment come sunrise by the aggrieved party.
Woe unto him if he skipped numero uno. The way to his heart would be devoid of sour porridge. In its place, dry oversalted cassava.
He did not have bloggers coming to his hut and pushing their writings down his throat. Even the village messenger blew his horn at considerable decibels.
Daily life revolved around grazing his cattle with his sons. His children numbered in tens. At times he wasn’t sure who belonged to which wife. What mattered was that they were all his.
In the evening came the drink at the baraza with the elders. The day capped off with story time with his kin under the moonlight.
Such an ideal life.
The first time he saw a book was when a black missionary visited and left a book he called the bible.
It was as smooth as the leaves they used to wipe their behinds.
As the head of the homestead, no one was allowed to touch it before he did. No one could understand it.
He got to comprehend it, only till his children started schooling.
If you have seen a herd of cattle, there is always a white bird which lingers in the vicinity.
You will find it resting on top of their backs. The cows are mostly oblivious to it.
The bird is called a cattle egret. It plucks ticks and flies from cattle. Off their bodies and noses. It eats them.
This is a special relationship. Symbiotic; as I heard in the science class I didn’t doze through.
It is the same between you and I. The reader and the writer.
Most of the time, you hardly notice us.
Like the cow bird, we stealthily creep upon you. Our words shape your thinking. We take away laborious thoughts off you, substituting them with our own.
Our wish is not to be noticed. We only want for you to accept our presence in your lives.
Ideally we hope that you eat and breath our words like holy books. I know this sounds blasphemous but can’t a man dream?
I am a self conscious writer. I laboriously read through each word.
How will I make you my reader feel? Did I use complicated vocabulary?
Did I hit the right spot?
I jealously read through other works of literature.
Occasionally we suffer from writer’s block.
The symptom is that you feel as if you are gambling with the alpha-bets; not sure of what words to use.
The only cure for this is to keep writing. A dawa ya moto ni moto typa thing.
Don’t fret. This is normal. Hats off to the consistent writers. You are an inspiration.
Writing always feels like the first time. It has uncanny similarities to the willful art of seduction. Each time evokes unfamiliarity.
There is always one party more willing to convince the other. It is awkward. I wonder if I lasted long enough.
I do hope I am good enough to keep you coming back for more. For the holier than thou, I CU…see you, pardon me ahem!
Oh! If you got here, congratulations. It took you two minutes to read this.
Keep reading, a book, a blog, a grey ticked message…most probably your ancestors couldn’t, unless they were from the kingdom of Timbuktu.
FYI, you can start now with our recommended list.