Nigeria: Tell All Writers

AFP photo

By

John Chizoba Vincent

Tell all writers, those who care to listen, that the darkness sometimes is saved on a shelf of rightful solitude in tattered pages of red and black ink. Let them know that their worth is not validated by the judge’s opinion, nor by vain praises. Tell them that rejection is normal to writers. Tell them that writers don’t give up immediately; they don’t give up the quest for a successful life, they keep fighting and dreaming. They keep writing and don’t give up the fight to be known. Tell them to be purposeful writers. Tell them that those broken letters carved yesterday could be a milestone to climb. Giving up is letting yourself down, you are worth much more than giving up. You are a star, the mirror through which the world sees. You are a prophet, a teacher, a mentor, a doctor, a lawyer, a child, a mother, a father. You wear everyone’s shoes to know how and where it hurts them. You are a god and the best you can do for yourself is to see the best in you.

I have watched you grow into a nation of many colours. I have watched you give birth to children of many symbols. I have known you even before you were born. Why do you have to give up? This is the right time to pick your broken self up. The moon in your eyes, I remember how it glowed gloriously. I remember how it gave light to you before the winds came to put out its flame into your thoughts. Be much better, be much appreciated. Writers, be yourself and call the wind of love to continue to be your harsh reminder of what is at stake.

Tell all writers what is at stake in our beloved country. This is not the right time to write of love and forget the lost glory of our land. Nigeria is dying. Our mother is sick and needs a doctor. Who amongst us can treat her? Who amongst us can heal her of his ancestry, the ancient historical pains? The contextual content of these wet Benue roads are home to drive us insane. We no longer live anymore. We live in another man’s treasured house. We no longer live here anymore. Nigeria is sick and needs our ink like never before. Point your accusing finger northward to the politicians; finger the mouth of the gods. Tell the gods that Nigeria is sick and she’s dying.

The fireplace in your heart, I remember the warmth before its coals became ice in this land. Rise up writers! Let’s match this madness to the street. Let’s tell the street the way the fire crackled and resonated with the music in our heart. Writers, gear up let’s fight and then save our future for the next generation to come. I remember everything, but writing is like sweetened gall, an alloy of pain and pleasure; a reminder that poisons are not always bitter but sweet sometimes.

All writers come out let’s rewrite Nigeria. Tell all writers to come out and write. This is not the right time to start seeking awards and all. Don’t go looking for awards while our problems are still there. Write to the police, tell them their crimes, write about the army, tell them their personal problems. Write to our flammable leaders and educate them of their problems. It is only one who is closer to you that tells you how bad your mouth smells. Write about pain, write about hunger, write about the boy child, write about the girl child, write about the hardship, write about suffering, write about the genocide; write about the killings. All writers come out, let’s write an end to this.

The night is cold, old and grey, but my thoughts would not let it die. My anger won’t let it snow down and slide into an abyss. We must fight with our ink. Tell a writer to tell a writer to tell another writer to tell another writer that we have to fight with our pens. A tear trickles down my cheek to water the stands of joy withering in my heart. When shall we see the good of this land? If life is a desert, every man carries his own oasis in his eyes and chews the dust raised by his feet for survival. Writers, we must learn this and much more of other things that lurked behind.

My fellow writers, I have seen the branch from which the words of birds fall and break into pieces and I am not afraid this will still repeat itself over and over again. And now the soles of my feet are sore from trekking and walking down to this boredom called freedom and the shackles of shabby depression and desperation but this one thing I know for sure; I shall return from this journey with the head of death of this country on my palms. Tell all writers to come out, the street is not smiling.

Beat not the gong of sadness anymore, writer. Let’s fight, do not spin a web of dirges for our mother. Let’s fight to save her in her lifetime, her ear was made a desert yesterday where many water has gone into different holes. Let’s revisit those verses from whatever book they are written. Tell all writers to come out from their comfort zone and let’s write for tomorrow. All writers come out!

John Chizoba Vincent

John Chizoba Vincent is a cinematographer, filmmaker, music video director, poet and a writer. A graduate of mass communication, he believes in life and the substances that life is made of. He has three books published to his credit which includes Hard Times, Good Mama, Letter from Home. For boys of tomorrow is his first offering to poetry. He lives in Lagos.