THERE IS A POSSIBILITY THAT I AM NOT DEEP ENOUGH.

I was talking to some literature buffs; people who have read the classics, the currents and the weird. I was able to follow the conversation but when the topic of writing comes up, I tend to get rather introspective. It is good to be confident as a writer but when your readers comprise of twitter followers, your cat and people that like you, it is hard to know whether you are good or you are just good at lying to yourself.

My mind easily went to the stuff I have written, this is stuff that has been on this blog, hosted on websites and has had the privilege of magazine space. In a country where there is hunger, fuel lines, power cuts, rape and disaster all I have done about it is write what pleases me. I mean I could be doing better, I could be going deeper and I could be less self-involved. I also know big words, I could write a think piece on HIV and blow myself away. There is a possibility that I am not deep.

Decisions are part of life. From little decisions like whether or not to get Siliza to massive decisions like where can I run to when I owe Siliza K200? The problem with writing sometimes is that it is not a choice. I wrote my first story when I was seven years old, it was my own rendition of Goldilocks and yes, I even illustrated. I don’t know why I needed to tell stories and retell them, I don’t know why my mind wandered and formulated these scenarios that I simply had to share. I lied to my younger brothers during power cuts about a childhood that existed in my head before they were born. They knew I was lying but they listened anyway because I told a good story. What we hear and see influences what we produce so my next story was about a woman who slept with her best friend’s husband. I was ten years old and had no bearings of infidelity. I think that story was a result of my sister’s Mariah Carey cassettes and Sharon Stone movies. The story was tragic but I wrote parts of it every single day, it was almost like even I was eager to see the end even if it was in my head; who knows maybe one day I will rewrite it. I didn’t choose to write, come on in this economy I would have chosen to be Dangote instead. Writing is an art. Some people put together sentences that just make prostrate and ululate for the gift of language. Art has many aspects and parts to it and I don’t think today is the day I talk about art. I am cooking mushrooms and I might not be done talking about art in time to enjoy them.

Have I already mentioned that what we hear and see influence what we produce? Yes, I have and it is true. Except we are all different people. We all see the fuel crisis but I see the man in the Corolla with the take-me-home tire completely irritated by the woman he has to endure the queue with. I see the exhausted fuel attendant who had to take the blame for the crisis even when he has no clue why it is happening. Election time is nigh, cadres are everywhere and if you are lucky a K50 can get thrown at you. The other day I was on a bus ride home and a cadre bought everyone on the bus Tango Pina from the street hawker. I don’t even like Tango Pina, but it was free so I drank it- okay I lied, I love Tango Pina, that fizzy, sweet bottle of diabetes and goodness is something I cannot resist. Have you ever really looked at political cadres? I mean all of them regardless of their political affiliation. They aren’t machete brandishing retards, they are funny guys who just want to win. They are confident and they dance around shirtless in trucks filled with their sweaty counterparts. Even if my own mother was running for president, I would not dance around shirtless. People are people, they change form, occupation and circumstance but they are people. I see people. So maybe I am not deep enough because I more interested in individuals.

Most of the art that has found its home in the Louvre was created during The Renaissance. Dante wrote his Divine Comedy through the not so amusing plague. George Orwell wrote Animal Farm and 1984 through trying times. That is what art does. Sometimes it stands right in the middle of disaster and chooses to depict it in the way that it pleases. Art doesn’t deny the existence of human tragedy and turmoil. It revels is, highlights it. Sometimes art is the very thing that fossilises these moments in history. Art gives insight, and expands our minds. What would we know if someone hadn’t decided on hieroglyphics? If people before us didn’t decide to paint in caves using egg yolk and flowers. It shows that humanity is a force that will continue to exist even after all the tragedy has passed. It reminds you to laugh at your poverty. Whatever your poverty is.

Classics weren’t classics when they were written. Every classic began with a person with their own perception of the world around them. Then their perception turned out to be extremely popular and translated over generations. Perhaps deep is not who I am and the first person who should be alright with that is me. The irony of my life is that I was born and overdue baby, not a premature baby. I imagine that premature babies are so eager to live life that they demand to get out and have a head start at living life. I took a while to get into this life thing and now that I am here, I am eager to live, see, experience and tell some stories while I am at it. On the off hand, maybe being an overdue baby made me eager to catch up on that one month I didn’t live.

I just want to live life fully and live to tell it.