Edosewele's script

I didn’t understand the enthusiasm about Chimamanda. Everybody talked about her like she had saved West Africa. A savior of west Africa, Nigeria even so, she was nearly a demigod. I didn’t understand these worshippers, because to worship was to serve this god but this god of fiction I didn’t know or understand. I had read her book Half of a Yellow Sun in secondary school, and thought it was impactful, but that was it, no other impressions. 

I began re-reading recently, when My brother, My Father and I had an argument about the Biafran War, apparently the difference between the mind of a teenager and that of an adult varies greatly. The pores on my scalp prickle at the flush of thrill, and I have developed an intense obligation, to  eradicate all her books  from the shelf at the bookstore. 

Omelogor was the latest character I imagined  would come to life. She would form, like little gel soluble  gathering from the book to frame her body and to fill its vessel, and when she had formed, with a piercing gaze she would stare at me, her brows would raise as she scanned me, with her arms crossed, a sneer would form on her lips, her eyelids would be taut and her eyes would stare, not blinking as she assessed me. She would scan me from my head to my knees, because she wouldn’t see my feet tucked under my seat. She would sit by my side, and  with her legs crossed, ask. “Are you the one ? ”. I will nod my head, unable to speak or swallow the puddle of saliva, that would have gathered in my mouth, then she would relax and smile confidently, taunting me with her lips painted with a bright Red lipstick and, say “So what will it be, that you would like to know ?.I had questions to ask her, her opinions I wished I had known, and more I wished to know, maybe it was because I wanted to befriend her, because befriending her would be in beauty of how confident she was. 

Reading Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s books always imbues me with a slight feeling of self-obsession. It is not in the stories of Feminism and us as a community being completely capable of greater things or even how pretty the covers of her books looked. It was the swell of confidence she supported within us, the specificity of her voice, like she whispered in our ears, creations and imaginations of characters unborn. The type of power she wielded for her words to be brought to life. To the point, where I am audacious enough to disagree with my father on opinions that I had never really agreed with ,but had rather feigned agreement to please him. Most times he appears to be shocked and other times extremely annoyed. I open my mouth to say “Daddy I understand what you mean and how you want it, but I don’t really agree with it. His fingertips would reach for his lips and his eyebrow’s would be knitted in confusion, as if his daughter of over 20,had gone mad for having a different opinion. It seems as if, the one who is supposed to be an  extension of him, must simply have no idea to think of rather than his. He tells me, “Whatever I say ,just say yes and do it”, and I say “I apologize in advance Daddy, I won’t always say yes”. 

It is easy not to look at our inner workings and marvel at how gorgeous we are. We are often  stricken by the shame of neglecting its beauty, so we become occupied with tearing it apart, searching for some wild perfection, we believe is pleasing to ourselves. I think and want to be occupied as a person, searching for myself, the oddities and wonders I can bring to life. It seems as if many are not focused on this, it seems as if many of us aren’t taught to be centered on this 

Who would have thought that I would think of my writings as something worth of value, social media worthy even, to look at them and admire random words put together, as they form blissful imaginations. For the years they were secretly kept I mourn for them, fading in ink and lead, smelling of damp moist air. My stacks of A4 paper, some days reeking of sadness or exhilarating joy. They were nothing but mere appearances of a confidant and some solace, put together as a means of escape. How beautiful, I think to myself as I look at them now. I read and read and read again, the things written as a teenager, amazed at the humor it exudes and how empathetic the sorrows are, crafted from words. What more can I write, how well can I write, what forms of phrases could possibly blow my mind. I am curious to see, excited as well, as I think of them, kicking my feet inconsiderately at the hour of day. Perhaps it is a necessary excitement for the pieces I am yet to  imagine. 

So, Dear Chimamanda 

You may, or may not be aware of how far your books travel, or how much depth has been reached as we read, but it is good you know, that your words wiggle and jump into our chest, setting us free, urging us and changing us. We are suddenly becoming aware of an audacity inside us, to have the courage to imaginatively thrust into the future and grasp at an opportunity well deserved. A serenity of unbelief I thought, that someone could write like this, It makes me forget and  doubt that the people in the books are real. What was worshipping has now become an intense Admiration.