Today is the first day of the rest of my creative life. I started the day by reading a book review by Dennis Mugaa, ‘Reading Gabriel García Marquez in Nairobi’.
I admire his knowledge, the depth, the well-read boy who keeps reading. Initially, I read his interview with The Republic. They asked him what kind of books he read growing up and he mentioned raiding his mother’s library and reading everything and anything he could put his hands on.
We all know Naomi Nduta, Amanda Nechesa, Wairimu Gathimba, Carey Baraka, Frank Njugi, Keith, don’t we? These are writers I greatly admire; I’d pay to breathe the same air as them (don’t tell them I said that). They happen to be avid readers. And this reading culture started in their childhood.
I know it’s unfair to them to say this, but when I read their work, writing seems easy to them. Poetry seems to flow seamlessly, and they have a way with words that I’m afraid I don’t. Like I said, it’s unfair to them and to me.
In an Interview with Chukwuebuka Ibeh, The Republic asked, “If your life at this moment was the chapter of a book, which book (fiction or non-fiction) would that be?” At this moment, I am ‘Rafiki’, a character in Rafiki Man Guitar by Meja Mwangi.
Rafiki, a musician and guitar player who made no living playing the guitar, finds himself giving up on art (music and guitar) after his wife leaves him until he finds a real job. So, he got a real job, and so did I. Now I get paid, enough to move out and feed myself.
In a previous article titled ‘I’m no longer a child’ that I’m yet to publish, I empty my thoughts on what adulting means to me. I remind myself I am grown and should take control of my life. That is to say, I know my role in this miasma, where I’m like, “Can’t write better, why are my sentences looking like that, this isn’t the best work yet, you have such a long way to go” and so on.
I must admit, having a parent or aunty who went before me, who read as much as I’m trying to, a lecturer or writer, heck even a creative, would make this easier. Being a creative in a house of entrepreneurs is not for the weak (maybe because I haven’t made money from it).
Think of it this way, walking a path that everyone or someone has walked before is easier. The path is outlined, sometimes the grass is trimmed and if you’re lucky, the path is tarmacked; if you’re unlucky, then at least you have a list of do’s and don’ts.
But wanting something that no one in your immediate family or distant relative has tried or done is beginning to feel like I’m lost in a cold and dark forest. And what’s worse? I read to run away, I wrote to ease my brain, but my soul wants to tell stories. And each step I take feels heavy.
I’m not sure if my feet will land. I’m not sure I will swim through this. I don’t know what my year would look like if I gave this thing that’s foreign to me a good chance, a bloody chance, another chance. I have no idea what I’m doing, but this feels right.
