Where do I begin this story about my love-hate relationship with the pen and paper?🤔
I guess a good place to start would be the 10th of November 2008. A beautiful ☀️ Monday afternoon. I'd just been dropped off at school by Moi parents, a state sponsored boarding school on the outskirts of Lagos.
When I say "outskirts," I mean it in the truest sense of the word—the school was so far removed from the city center(and I mean Badagry's center) that, according to some students, one could theoretically walk to the border between Nigeria and Benin Republic from there (although I didn't attempt it myself-though it crossed my mind to run home once or twice😫).
Well, I had been aware that I would be attending a boarding school for months prior to it. I mean, I'd have been foolish to not, given that I was preparing for entrance examinations for a number of boarding institutions, and boy was I excited (to think that I danced🕺, well if you could call it that, when I found out I was going to one).
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Being a young boy with a keen interest in literature🤓 (not so much in studying😒), I had stumbled upon a few books📘 that delved into life at boarding schools and the experiences of being away from one's parents. The idea of the "always feared blue-father," seniors, and other mythical hostel spirits always intrigued me, and I found myself drawn to these stories. I especially loved how the main character always emerged victorious, and it only fueled my fascination with boarding schools(😩).
However, I must admit that none of those delightful books I read had fully prepared me for the overwhelming emotions😫 I experienced on said Monday afternoon. I found myself standing in the courtyard of a hostel that was not really a hostel (you see, they had admitted far more students than they could accommodate that year, so we had to make do with a hall as a hostel).
As I watched the sight of naked boys running frantically at the sound of the bell, screaming "the senior boarding house master is coming," I was suddenly hit by a massive wave of emotions. I felt a sense of fear😨 towards this supposedly wicked man(He was not by the way, or at least I thought he wasn't), a longing for my parents, and a general feeling of being lost and scared😨 and in no way excited with the notion of boarding school.
This is beginning to feel more like a story of six years in K-town rather than a story of how I developed a love for writing. While I'm pretty sure I could write volumes about the horrors and thrills of Kankon, I would prefer to stay focused on the intended purpose of this piece.
I had only lost the Love of my life at the time(yes, I had one; abuela😇) a couple months back, and all attempts to get my parents to come rescue me failed, I was stuck in boarding school. To cope with my situation, I took to writing. I was filled with a lot of anger at the time, as anyone would be considering what the so-called seniors were constantly up to. So, I started writing (when i was tired of crying) - at first, just daily entries about my day-to-day activities at school. Eventually, I progressed to writing short stories. My book became my constant companion, my anti-tears agent - almost like an extension of my thoughts and feelings.
In any case, my cousin - who also happened to be my best friend - joined me in the school a few months later. So my entries stopped being day to day activities (I had a compatriot in pain now you see), so I started writing short stories and jotting significant events). The point is my book was now my second best friend.
Our parents did something where they rotated visiting days, so this particular visiting day, my aunt came (my cousin/best friend's mum). For some reason, I wasn't with them when she decided to look through my books to assess my academic progress. Unfortunately, she stumbled upon my journal and began flipping through it - or, I should say, more than just flipping through it, as I wasn't present at the time.
Until that moment, the thought of anyone else reading my writing had not even crossed my mind. I wasn't particularly concerned with proper grammar or studying English - after all, as far as I was concerned, as long as we could communicate, that was all that mattered. Unfortunately, my cousin's behavior didn't help matters - he was always laughing, making me worry even more about what my aunt might have found in my journal. The thought of someone else reading my private thoughts and writing was truly terrifying.
After my aunt stumbled upon my journal, I lost trust in any book to keep my private thoughts safe. The following week, I burnt it in a dung hill (I mean now we're more aware of climate change, but at the time those who were in charge of us couldn't really care less), wanting to ensure that no one else would ever read it again. Despite several attempts to start writing again, I always managed to find an excuse not to do so.
Fast-forward a decade, I found myself with a writer friend and she happened to be quite good at it. I learnt a decent deal from her(like she's always trying to scream when she teaches you stuff😏) and I guess seeing her in love with what she did helped me to love writing again or at the very least remember how much I loved it.
It's taken a minute, but I'm hoping these steps I'm taking on this platform(credits to 
Thanks for listening to my story.
Till next time, Adios.
