Why And When I Began Writing (A Brief Autobiography)

Author: Ohikhuare Isuku

When I was quite younger, I had this childish belief that those who wrote books were of celestial perfection. They never inhabited this world, or if at all they did, they were as precious as saints. I reverend books because it struck me sometimes how stories were imagined; how characters were moulded and allowed to play definitive roles throughout a book. There was no writer closed by which could neutralize this claim. I was silent too: I sought no one’s consent as regards the thought I had brewed. So, throughout my infant years, this thought led me through, and thus I saw printed books as sacred: things which fell from the sky and those whose names were inscribed on the cover as authors, I saw them as gods of books.

We were not taught Literature throughout primary. Then, the subject – Literature – was not in the state’s educational curriculum. But my mum bought books for me sometimes when she went to the market. So, I was not alien to literature, and in fact, we read comprehension passages in our English texts adapted from such great African classics as Chinua Achebe’s Chike and the River and Things Fall Apart, as well as Kenneth Kauda’s Zambia Must Be Free.

Before entering Secondary, I had read all the children books my mum bought for me, from Ngozi Goes to the Market (a pamphlet with so much picture illustrations) to Sugar Girl (a book which first pulled tears from my eyes). My elder sister was already in Secondary by then and she bought all the recommended literature texts, such as: Rag to Riches, Shattered Dream and Medicine for Money. I read those books when she came back from school during weekends or holidays.

By the time I got into Junior Secondary, I was already well-prepared for literature than any of my mates. The day we travelled down to school – to the apartment my sister and brother were already living – I found Cyprian Ekwesi’s An African Night Entertainment somewhere on the pile of books. It was a novel my brother had read in Class One: about Zainobe and Kumurikiki – a book of love and vengeance. My brother had told me about this book and it had formed a solid thought in my mind even before I travelled to join them in Secondary School. I read that book in one stretch because the language was friendly and the plotting was genuine.

In Class One, we read three novels. In first term, it was Eze Goes to School. Second term was Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare and third term was Treasure Island. Our Literature teacher was the principal of the school. He was an old man with protruded tommy and a spirited walk. He knew me personally, so I had to be attentive whenever he was in class.

His teaching was thorough; full of life, and for the first time in my life, fictions became real. I wanted to be Eze in Eze Goes to School, live in the little hamlet of Ohia under thatched roof, and trek three miles to the village of Ama to attend school. When we began reading Lamb’s Tales, I loved The Tempest, Much Ado About Nothing, A Midsummer Night Dream, Twelfth Night, Merchant of Venice and Macbeth. I wished I existed in the period in which the plays are set. Sometimes, I imagined being in the vividly described settings, dining and chatting with the characters whose pictures have become real in my thought.

In Class Two, apart from Cyprian Ekwesi’s Passport of Mallam Ilia we read, other books we read were plays such as: City of God, The Verdict of the Gods, Yawning Hollow, etc, and then poems such as: Abiku by J.P. Clark, Abiku by Wole Soyinka, The Vultures by David Diop, Piano and Drum by Gabriel Okara. Our Literature teacher was a dedicated woman who taught us these works passionately by going as far as outlining the figure of speeches as well as the themes of these fabulous works. This flared my literary interest and would later have a positive impact on my literary odyssey.

In Class Three, the literary interest fell because we had a new teacher for literature. The new teacher was dedicated of course, but her aim (either intentionally or unintentionally) was to cover the syllabus so we could do well in our forthcoming external exams. But we read novels such as: My Only Son, College days of John Ojo and Ngozi My Daughter. In Class Four, we read the plays: Sons and Daughters and Government Inspector; and in Class Five which was my last Literature year, we read the Novels: Silas Marner and Buchi Emencheta’s The Joys of Motherhood.

But I had started writing earlier on. In Class Two, after reading the Plays: City of God, The Verdict of the Gods and Yawning Hollow, one afternoon I returned from school to begin writing what I intended to be a few-leafed play, but as I wrote, the story expanded and took a different form in my brain. I remember the storyline was about accusations and vindication. After writing many different leaves before sunset, I bound them together using a broomstick. Not long after, I wrote a novella – John Laslie – and began a novel – The Slave Twins – which I later abandoned because the storyline would not wind up into a close.

In those days, whenever I wrote, I read and appreciated my works alone. My immediate family had never thought it was sane for someone who had once aspired to be a Mechanical Engineer, to be seen doing what those who would major in the arts should do. But they did not discourage me though, and even if they had tried, my strong-willed soul would have spurned any attempt.

In my home, my brother was a bit close to literature. He had read all the books I had read, but there were some of the books he read that was kept away from me intentionally or otherwise. I was still young when he read Things Fall Apart. Our mother bought it for him, because she too had been obsessed with the character – Unoka – when she read the book in her own days. She spoke to us about Unoka as if she had met the fictitious character once in her life. When she teased me as being lazy, she saw me as Unoka – Okonkwo’s father – who was improvident; a man who while men crossed seven forests and rivers in search of virgin land, pitched his farm in an expired land closed by. I did not read Things Fall Apart because our mother felt I was still too young to comprehend the vocabularies used. But, before then, I had begun to search Michael West Dictionary, for unfamiliar words. Perhaps, the old lady knew little about this progress.

It was after my secondary education I actually began an active literary life. Before now, my novel manuscript which I had dreamt of working on had got missing while packing out of my dormitory, and the damsel I was so obsessed with in secondary had parted ways with me. Due to these occurrences, I reclined to solitude for one year I sought admission into the University.

Our home was a brown bungalow almost on the tail of an isolated street. The compound was a very large one, lined with coconut, pear and mango trees at the edge where it bordered the wide red-earth street. During the dry season, especially afternoons, when the sun took a fierce look at the world from the peak of the bluish sky, it was under the mango tree we camped. Here in this partially isolated home, I stayed for several months, reading and writing poems and plays – those infant works I have since disowned.

It was the poetic trail my brother crossed that led me into the world of poetry. I remember he had written two fascinating poems – Marriage and Matrimony and The Black Gold. Taking up the challenge, I drew out my first poems for him to see. I became engrossed with the art soon afterward, so that when he stopped writing poetry, I continued with the craft. During this period, I bought a phone which could access the internet. It was with the aid of this device, I read over two thousands poems: great works from W.B. Yeast, Edgar Alan Poe, T.S. Elliot, Maya Angelou, Pablo Neruda, William Shakespeare, Andrew Marvell, Rudyard Kipling, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and so many other great poets of the western world. At this same time, my friend – Victor – who was also in love with literature gave me an African Anthology. In that Anthology, I rediscovered wonderful African poets like J.P. Clark, Wole Soyinka, David Diop, Leopold Senghor, MJC Echeruo, Gabriel Okara, Kofi Awoonor, Kwesi Brew, etc. Later, after reading Poems of Black Africa edited by Wole Soyinka, I would discover other younger generation of African poets like Odia Ofeimun, Afam Akeh, etc.

It was the same friend of mine – Victor – who is worthy of my thanks that gave me many of Shakespearean plays to read. Plays such as: A Midsummer Night Dream, Twelfth Night, Julio Caesar, Merchant of Venice, Macbath, Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet. Also from him, I got Wole Soyinka’s The Lion and the Jewel and J.P. Clark’s Three plays: The Songs of Goat, The raft and The Masquerade. These last few books moulded my playwriting life forever. Later on, I would read Soyinka’s The Jero’s Plays, The Strong Breed, Mad and Specialists, A Dance of the Forest, Kongi’s Harvest, Death and the King Horseman, A Play of Giant, The Interpreter, Ake: The Years of my Childhood, as well as Ola Rotimi’s The Gods Are Not To Blame.

Of recent, I read all of Chinua Achebe’s fictions and read and reread Chimamanda Adichie’s wonderful novels. My writing skill has also been nurtured over the years and I am trying to build a very unique voice. I have written many play manuscripts and so many poems. Poema so many hearts have enjoyed. The first draft of my novel is underway. My debut play – The Ballot and the Sanctuary (written with the name: Emmanuel Isuku) – was published in 2014 by University Press PLC Ibadan.

Yet, as I advance in my writing age, I have got to realize that I do not write for people to be happy (they may be). I actually write because it is my life; and if I dare don’t do it, I will fall into depression.