Late last year, my uncle passed on at the age of 84. He was a well educated, well spoken man, who had lived his life gathering experiences from different parts of Nigeria and of the world. These experiences he did not hesitate to share with me. He would call me in to his study and ask me to draft a letter for him; he was going blind by this time.

We would spend hours on a letter to his gateman, to his gardener, to his son-in-law who acted as a go-between for him and the aforementioned gentlemen. We would polish those letters as if they were letters of application for a job or for a government contract. We would read, re-read, proofread and edit those letters over and over again until my fingers would become weary and freeze on the pen. In between all this, he would tell stories of time past. I enjoyed the stories but the letters wearied me. Who took so much time, composing a letter in such a manner for "an ordinary" gateman or a gardener? I won’t; most of us won’t. I don’t even have the time to write a letter to those I love.

source

In the period that I spent at his place in Benin City, I came to understand the value of well placed words. Words are like tools but their utility does not fully fulfill the reason for their creation. Words on paper are meant to communicate but most times they are never enough. They leave so many things unsaid; emotions, facial expressions; those little tips that would tell an observant person what the other person is thinking. They say so little and often times lead to miscommunication. So an expert user of this skill would have to know how to manipulate words in such a way that though it does not give everything, it gives hints to the reader of what actually occurred, it paint pictures and show emotion; it becomes art.

Unknown to me, my interaction with this man had affected my writing. I can say that my uncle influenced me as much as Sylvia Plath, James Joyce, Joseph Conrad, Ernest Hemmingway, Margaret Artwood, Isabelle Allende, etc. His attention to detail, to the nuances of a conversation, to atmosphere, to the simplicity of the English language when properly used, helped to restructure my writing in ways that I am yet to fathom.

Have I arrived at the place every writer seeks; the discovery of my voice and style? I do not know. I try to be sincere and I try to make it as simple as I can, then I try to bring pictures to life like a painter. I try to give catharsis like any beautiful music would. Do I achieve this? Sometimes, I think. There are times when I feel like I am close to Eureka, to illumination, to heaven but those times are rare. Those times when a fan drops a line on social media account telling me that I had touched him or her with my words. Is that not what we all seek? To make men pause, think and go back to work changed? Is this not why we write? To change the world, to illuminate, to teach, to leave something of us that is true, that is bare of the different masks we have gathered to protect us from ourselves?

I have not stopped me from experimenting with my thoughts, my senses and language as I am still tossing in the sea of flooding knowledge. I am still sifting through the different parts of writing that come before me. I am still searching for my spot in all of this. But mark me, one day, I will hang my words on a gallery for art enthusiasts to peer, pore and comment upon because one day, I will make art. I must because then I will be home but until then I will stick to writing words in the best ways that I can.

I wrote the poem below in memory of my uncle. I wanted to read it at the grave site but I was far away. Besides who would have let me? I wanted to post it on Facebook but I was not too sure of the family reception. So it sat in my hard drive. I am posting it here today, praying my family does not see it and hoping they do.


source
You used to call me into your office;

Pen and paper in hand, to draft letters,

Then you ended up sharing tales of a time behind now,

And at times, I picked pieces of small pearls from between your lips.

I never did say thank you for the books, borrowed.

They kept a lonely young man company for a time

While his world crumbled or patched up as the fates decreed.

The warm welcome of your home remains

That beautiful gift of family that is rare and that,

In itself is enough to foster bonds too strong to break.

---

We always come around full circle, all of us, to the departing.

But is leaving not returning to the home we left?

Is fading into dust not flying within the wind to the stars

To become signs in the sky to guide sailors home?

Some tears will fall, while some will congeal within chests

That beat drums of mourning behind crack concrete faces,

Blank with pain.

---

You have come only to leave; you have left us

Seeds of your loins filled with life and love.

You have left us parts of you in parts of us that

Cannot be scrubbed away by time’s weary trek.

You have given us your time and it has been beautiful.

Like every well written tale; it is hard to come to the end,

But to the end we must come; if only to make our journey better;

If only to take the best, that was you, home.

---

Adieu.

peace

©@warpedpoetic

Join the discord server