Tell all writers, those who care to listen that the darkness sometimes is saved in a shelf of rightful solitude in a tattered pages of red & black ink. Let them know that their worth is not validated by the judge’s opinion none by vain praises. Tell them that rejection is normal to writers. Tell them that writers don’t give up immediately, they dont give up the quest for 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 writer’s. Tell them that those broken letters carved yesterday could be a milestone to climb up there. Giving up is letting yourself down, you worth much more than giving up. You are a star, the mirror through which the world see and behold civilization. You are a prophet, a teacher, a mentor, a doctor, a lawyer, a child, a mother, a father. You wear everyone’s shoe to know how and where it hurt 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 write time to pick up your broken self. 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 thought. 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 writer’s 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 this ancestry ancient historical pains? The contextual content of this 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. Nigeria is sick and needs our ink like never before. Point your accusation finger north ward 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 it resonating 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, I remember everything, But writing is like sweetened gall, an alloy of pain & pleasure, and a reminder that poisons are not always bitter but sweet sometimes!
All writer’s come out let’s re-write Nigeria. Tell all writer’s to come out and write. This is not the right time to start seeking for awards and all. Don’t go looking for awards while our problems 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 pains, write about hunger, write about the BOYCHILD, write about the Girlchild, 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 & grey, but my thoughts would not let it die. My anger won’t let it snow down and slide into 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 biro. 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 oases 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 us behind. We must look go for good that would stand between our craveness now and tomorrow. All writer’s come out.
My fellow writers, I have seen the branch from which the words of birds fall and break in pieces and I am not afraid that this will still repeat itself over and over again. And now the sole of my feet are sore from trekking and walking down to this boredom called freedom and 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 palms. Tell all writer’s 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’ve written. Tell all writers to come out from their comfort zone and let’s write for tomorrow. All writer’s come out!
©John Chizoba Vincent
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