Sometimes you just write,write and write some more.

If by now you deem me as a hopeless idealist and fantasist, I would not judge you. God knows you are right; but so are we all. We are all forlorn dreamers who are scared of the future. We are scared of leaving our lousy girlfriends because we are hopeless romantics who think they will change or maybe we are too scared someone else won’t come along. We are afraid of trusting people because we have been hurt in the past. We somehow forget that that is the thing with life, people will always disappoint you, and that’s just about it, pain and hurting are inevitable. If you are a writer like me, you are hell terrified of writing another blog post because you still cling to your previous success. Crap! We are more petrified of death than we are of giving meaning and worth to the life we are living. My list goes on, so let’s get this settled; your rightful description; a frightened dreamer.

When this blog started, I had an anomalous feeling about it, almost shifty. First, I wasn’t given options ati would you like to write or not… I was just told, “We will be writing,” and that was it. That word ‘we’ was simply forced rationalization and not even close to romantic coercion. Secondly, who even calls a blog ‘Voice of an African Child’? What exactly is there to be voiced, land grabbing, women’s rights, corruption or are we just a Ghafla News sub-outlet?

Then, there was the whole combination of the writers, the guy who wrote to you about looking like praying mantis (which I totally concur with btw), when you read his work you just start laughing and then you read it again and just can’t stop. Then there was the other guy, no one understands him, today he writes an article on politics and you are seriously thinking he should be president and the next day he is talking about lying to his crush and your feminist side just does a whoosh. Interesting enough, there was also this girl, you read her poems and you just get daunted and the depth of her words just intrigues you for days. Finally, there was me, and I did not know where exactly I lay.

You see the thing is you can’t place me as a writer. I neither write creative fiction nor nonfiction. It’s just something, a set of words pulled together and sought of makes meaning. Even worse, my writing is imprudent, I can only write when my hands get the hold of writing, and those days just never come. I just felt like everyone else had a niche; they had a carte blanche to be called writers, poets, comics and I didn’t fit. In fact, I have had my hand in poetry for five years now and I blogged the poems religiously for four of those years. But truth be told, I have felt like a poetry fraud for those five years. Whenever I have written them, I have felt like I have swindled rhythm of its right and quintessence. Consequently, when the blog came, I felt not worthy of writing, I contemplated of quitting on days on end and before you judge me again, please be sure you did not give up hunting that girl you’ve had a crush on for months.

The truth is most of the times I have stared at my computer screen for hours, even days and I have had nothing to deliver. The truth is you have struggled reading for your exams and you just don’t follow through. The truth is that you have tried business ventures and nothing seems to work out. The truth is you have been hurt in all your relationships. The truth is that you have every right in this world to give up and quit. The truth also though; is that this is life. This is adulthood, and nothing comes easy, nothing happens spontaneously. You work and work and then when you become a perfection of the practice people naively call you an overnight success.

Fairly, it’s us who make the choice to fear things in life, it’s us who give the ultimatum on quitting. The fear to succeed and the momentum to succeed is simply self-made. Thus, however way you pull yourself, you are just a frightened dreaming soul.

When Harvard did not come.

When you fail once in your life, it destroys you. Doubt slowly sidles into your life, sluggishly, more like slithering, then nippily, thoughts race through your brain. You start questioning your whole life. You wonder if you are what you are or what people claim you to be. You suddenly have misgivings about whether you were smart, clever, beautiful, intelligent. You doubt whether your gait is right while walking or maybe it has a slight limp that no one ever told you about. You wonder whether your voice has the right cadence to make you sound like an archetypal of excellence. You question whether reading more books will make you sound brainier; then you sink deeper into questioning if Chimamanda Ngozi’s ideologies will help you live a more substantial life or perhaps, you should just stick to Daniel Steel or Grisham’s popular thrillers.

Then you suddenly start reading Harry Porter; because everyone who gets an Ivy League school has read Harry Porter and has watched Grey’s Anatomy and at one point imagined themselves as Shonda Rhimes. Then when you ultimately get down the path of self-validation, you affirm to yourself that you can actually beat all the odds and become the best, you gain confidence in yourself. That hope feels great; it feels like a tiny flickering candlelight in a dingy basement. It feels like the same joy you had when maybe five years ago you were the best in the country or you wrote the best composition in your class. It reminds you of the day your dad told you he believed in you. Words that he will probably never say again especially if he is African. So you clutch that little ray, of maybe I could do this. Then you start reading Allen Cheng’s blog prep scholar on hope to raise your SAT score by 240 points and for hours, days, weeks, you craft up a plan, you feel energized, pumped up and ready to face life.

And then there is always this by Ernest Henley,
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods’ maybe,
For my unconquerable soul,

In the clutch fell of circumstance,
I have not winced or cried aloud,
Under the bludgeoning of chance?
My head is bloody but not unbowed,

Beyond this place of wrath and tears,
Looms the horror of shade,
And yet the menace of the years,
Finds me and shall find me unafraid,

It matters not how straight the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.

Then you fail again. You lose that poetry competition you had viciously prepare for, you fail yet another exam, you get rejected by a small community college, it simply is not a big failure. So what you do next is you pick up your pieces, one by one, and trying putting them back together. Fortunate enough, this time around you have more strength. This time around your connections are more solid, you have Person A at Harvard who can throw in a peer recommendation, you have a Boss X who can throw in a good word for you. In fact, you believe you are 6 people away from the president. Unfortunate enough and also true, is that you put back the pieces of your broken heart together with super glue and forget that your heart is just a fist-sized muscular organ.

Probably, if this second failure happens you will be just fine. But the third, fourth, fifth…the tenth time, you are a mess, a wreck, who can’t cry because you are immune to pain. You don’t need people anymore because when you were a gang, hanging out with friends who shared a dream, you thought you were a team; but their lives seem to be going on perfectly and yours is not.

So when I opened my last rejection letter to Harvard University last Thursday, I had no tears in my eyes, I actually laughed and I was like, “Ooh okay, crap!” and then I walked out of the room and sat at the balcony, with a blank stare for fifteen minutes, not knowing what to think and I actually fell asleep. I in fact only woke up when a friend texted, “Should I call you a Crimsonite yet?”
I chuckled actually, and slid the phone right back into my pocket…and then I walked back to my room thinking, how do you forget a good dream? How do you whitewash or brainwash it? What do you call yourself again, a fighter or just a persistent fool who should settle down to what they have? Do you give up just yet? But you keep thinking of the eleventh failure that will come along or maybe the hundredth and you just do not have any more strength; only the will. At that moment, you realize that this Thomas Edison quote,” I have not failed, I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work,” is just mere cliché or by perchance a race that is really grim to run. You figure out that other people, your parents, your peers who were a step ahead gave up at this same point where you are at or probably earlier.

Essentially, you do not have another plan…and you gather your next move; is yours, devoid of influence, previous data or any hullabaloo quote you have ever read. You finally realize, that you are perpetually hitting a brick wall and you have two options, to either keep hitting that brick wall till one day it topples or to turn around and walk away. While at it, I think that is the hardest of decisions in life. But only you can make it for yourself.