Essay

By Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, P243/244

“Do you try to treat cancer sores or the cancer itself? We cannot afford to give pocket money to our children. We cannot afford to eat meat. We cannot afford bread. So your child steals and you turn to him in surprise? You must try to heal the cancer because the sores will keep coming back.”
“Mba, Chiaku. You cannot justify theft.”
“I do not justify it. What I am saying is that Okafor should not be surprised and should not waste his energy breaking a stick on his poor son’s body. It is what happens when you sit back and do nothing about tyranny. Your child becomes what you cannot recognize.”

A friend asked me the other day, “Do you write?” It was a simple question. It had a simple answer, or so I thought. I answered truthfully; no, I don’t write. Unless you count the research reviews and essays that I have to regularly submit to my university professors, and the countless lists of things to do and things to buy and things to organise that I find necessary in order to bumble through life, I do not write.

That simple “No”, for some reason, struck a chord in me. I continued the conversation as normal, allowing the natural flow and change of subject, as occurs in such genial and everyday chats. My mind, however, stubbornly lingered on the topic of writing. No, I do not write. I do not write. As soon as that “No” left my lips (well, my fingertips; online conversations unfortunately seem to now make up quite a sizeable proportion of my communication with other human beings), my mind asked “Why not?” Why not, indeed? A series of thoughts and questions, some quite uncomfortable and unwanted, presented themselves in my mind – “well, I clearly have no time”, “science writing IS writing… right?”, “it’s okay, because I am a lover of literature”, “I read loads!”, “why don’t I write?”, “wait, DO I read loads?”, “ah crap, I don’t read loads”, “I wish I read more”, “no time!”, “I should MAKE time!”, “but I also want a first-class degree”, “why don’t I write?”, “CAN I even write?”, “there was that poem…”, “yeah, but that was in year 8!”, “hmm, fair point”, “why don’t I write?” – And so on and so forth.

I seem to pride myself on my love and appreciation of good literature. I’ve always rather fancied myself to be a bookworm. I can spend hours browsing around Waterstone’s or Borders (WHSmith lacks the authentic sophisticated bookstore ‘feel’, in my opinion), delighting in the mere presence of such an abundance of books, revelling in the feeling of being surrounded by millions of people and their voices and their stories, all printed and bound and eager to be heard. Fact and fiction, much of the time distinct but often mingled, contained in book form, waiting patiently and expectantly for someone, for me, to come along and turn the pages and allow it to be free, to take form and expression through my imagination. So many worlds, so many ages, so many characters, all waiting, waiting; they wait quietly for me to lose myself among them. The written word is powerful. It evokes emotions and stimulates thought. It has the ability to as easily save a life as to condemn one.

I could go on, getting evermore clichéd, but you get the idea. Oh, and I also happen to like books because of their smell; that ‘new book’ scent never fails to make me smile, and the mustiness of older volumes is strangely comforting.

Despite all my long-standing declarations of literary appreciation, I have come to realise that the past couple of years has seen a decline in the reality of my bookworm ways. I mean, I have a moderate collection on my bookshelves, but it hasn’t been updated for quite some time. Too many sit there unread. I used to be able to lose myself for hours in a book; nowadays, I find that quite hard. The internet is far too much of a distraction. Again, here I am making excuses. No; I won’t do that anymore.

I was initially startled by my mind’s insistence on pressing this matter of my reading, or lack thereof. And then, of course, I questioned my agitation: “Why am I surprised?”I now recognise that I realised a long time ago that I was letting my literary passion and ability slip away from me, but for some reason had chosen to ignore that feeling of guilt. My mind has finally reached the point of no longer being able to avoid the issue. I will stop simply masquerading as a book lover; I am rekindling my real love of literature, both reading and writing. Welcome back, precious quiet hours, to sharing thoughts and smiles and tears and laughter with wonderful pages bound in a cover.

So, after days of pondering and self-inquisition (and much admiration and appreciation of the particular friend who unwittingly started this whole thing), I have come to two conclusions:

One: I evidently spend far too much time arguing with and having discussions with myself. Is this normal? Probably not (then again, it probably is. Everybody seems to moan about over-thinking things).

Two: I need to read. I need to write.

And then it all ended. Every luxury was locked up, every bit of independence monitored and every emotion scrutinised. Nothing was spared, phonecalls were no longer allowed to be made so we lied to friends about not having time. No phonecalls were allowed to be taken so we rushed every call with hearts thumping and hung up as quickly as possible. Friends soon learnt not to call. Hair was no longer allowed to be styled so we covered it up. Western clothes were banned, branded items taken away and affection was no longer a God given right. There was only one way to earn it. Follow the rules and so we did.

We learnt to hide every part of our appearance and personality that may have made us attractive. We didn’t want to fall into her footsteps. Her actions made them do this. We wouldn’t make the same mistakes as her. We didn’t want them to think we would do the same and so slowly each one of us developed a double life. We learnt to speak without words passing our lips. We wouldn’t make the mistake of leaving a bag in the washing machine like she did.

Part 1

Part 2

We’re always making promises to ourselves. And to our Glorious Creator.

Sometimes we have to distinguish between promises and dreams.

There is so much I dream of.

I dream of being a mother.

Of changing the world by raising a saviour who can challenge injustice.

I’m not sure how much I can take.

I fight with them when they show me the test results because I don’t want to believe it. I don’t want to believe anything.

The thought of somebody I love so much having to look after me like that…

At some stage. You realise that you have to sacrifice for real.

It’s not those small choices that seemed big at the time.

It’s not about left or right or making a particular phone call.

It’s simpler than that. Continue reading “Promises” »

I’m sat dusting a very small collection of framed photographs. They are all similar in pose and background. I try to remember the story behind these faces of Grandparents I never had the chance to meet.

They had been forced to have these pictures taken and that’s all I remember. One, lone fact solely because my brother had interrupted the story with ‘so that’s why they all look so moody’ we had laughed and the story had come to and end. I smile at the memory and continue dusting.

I’ve saved my favorite picture till the end. The only picture in colour, my mum’s mum. The only Grandparent I had met. I stare into her big, blue eyes, the camera really hasn’t captured the depth nor the colour. I ponder the same question, why were her eyes so blue? And then it all clicks into place. The overheard conversations, the stories, they all begin to make sense. I remember snippets about a war in my Great-Grandma’s time, how there was always a presence of white soldiers there then, my Grandma’s fear of the white man when I had told her my teacher in England was white and male.

I stop dusting, put the picture back and ponder, could it be?

The end of innocence is a blur for most it occurs somewhere between the ages of 12 – 16 but to pinpoint it would be impossible. It seems a variety of events and experiences, combined, end the age of innocence. For me it was this one event, which truly shook me awake and hurled me into reality.

I’m now sat opposite you, leaning against a plain blue wall. I can see you maturing before my eyes. Your face has aged since we started talking, since I opened up to you. You let out a deep sigh and rub your chin just the way our Dad does. You want to know about the scribblings in my notebook, are they fact or fiction? It’s the fourth time you have asked me. We keep coming back to the same question. You know all the problems, you’re surprised I know so much about the deeper family issues yet you still can’t understand the pain it’s causing me.

This time I get up from the bed, turn off the lamp and switch on the light. I feel the stress of the night hit me with a wave of exhaustion. Sitting back down, I roll up my pyjama bottoms to give you a clear view of marks left behind from the blades. The red, sore lines criss-cross all around. Some are beginning to heal and the depth of some will leave scars for years to come. A small price to pay for the relief my private activity causes. You stare at the answer to your question. Your jaw clenches up and you run out of the room. You don’t make it to the bathroom, I hear you retching as you throw up on the landing. I switch off the light and climb into bed. I’ve had enough of vomit for one night. As my head hits the pillow, I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep forgetting about the bag I left in the empty washing machine.

Outside my window lies freedom, outside my window lies a world which I help to rule, outside my window I belong.

I barricade my door and my heart begins to beat the well known rapid rhythm. I smile to myself, bite my bottom lip and crawl under my bed. It’s somewhere here I know it, I gasp for breath as my movements upset the settled dust and cobwebs. My elbow nudges into something bumpy. I feel it some more and then smile to myself, I have my bag. I pull out of the bed with my hidden treasure and sit silently on the floor. All my senses have peaked, waiting to catch any signs of disturbances. Nothing detected I climb onto my bed and hide myself and my bag under the duvet. I manage to contain an uncontrollable need to giggle.
I still have an hour but it’s been so long since we did this that I can’t seem to keep to the rules. My rules. I know it’s risky, if someone was to walk into my room right now it would be the end of everything. Yet that thought just ignites the excitement, blurring the rules some more. Lucky for me no-one walks in. No-one notices the odd bump my bag is making under the duvet and I don’t notice the notebook free itself from my bag and hide itself into the hills of the duvet. Continue reading “The Truth” »

We are stood on the wall outside the gym. The sloping walkway plays host to deceptive shadows, sliding over the cigarette butts and energy drink cans.

Yasui

We are tired of being owned. After the twins left, it was like there was no right to self determination anymore. All of us have been played like Palestine at some point. Occupied and cast out from our own identities, shelters and relationships.

Watashi wa…

We watch the car park. Waiting for some sign of movement, some flicker of head lights. It is summer again, so the sun sets later. It must be after 10pm then. My belt is tied tightly around my waist with precision. My legs are growing fast, so my ankles have long escaped the stiff black material around them. My forearms are covered in bruises. Minefields. The soldiers pick themselves up again to continue running. Limbs blown in all directions. So many the ground is made of mistakes.

We no longer speak English. This is our protest. Although they pretend it doesn’t bother them, we know it does, we know more than there pride allowed them to maintain. The Japanese flag in the Dojo was taken down. Continue reading “Gomen Nasai – I am sorry” »