BE A MAN!

"Be a man! My brother, and endure it!..."

"Why can't you be a man?..."

"You are a man, you shouldn't show any form of weaknesses..."

"Be a man, Men don't cry out. They endure..."

"Be a man, men are not vulnerables, they are strong people. They don't cry..."

The Be-A-Man Syndrome has in one way or the other rendered many men useless in our society today. They no longer behave like men. They have learned how to bottle up so much things in their hearts because the society forbids them from expressing themselves as they want to as men, because their wives told them that they are men and being a man entails that they don't have to express themselves as they should. Because their mothers said they are men. So therefore, they have learnt to bottle up so many things in their hearts. They don't talk but look. They don't react in most cases but look.They walk away many times. They stay silent or cried within without acting. They have learnt the language of leaving, leaving the house to find a more secured place to wallow in self pity and pains against themselves. You see why we have many men in the Beer Parlors today. Some of them are running away from the troubles at home.

Some men don't know how to express themselves anymore. They keep to themselves those things they should have shared with their wives, sisters, mothers or friends. Do you know why? They are afraid of what those people may say to them in the process, they are afraid that these people would call them weak men — Or they will assume they don't know how real men behave or what makes up a man. Our society has made us believe that real men don't express themselves in some certain way. They made us believe that men are muted actors and they must play the roles society has assigned to them without asking questions of how, what, why and where they should start acting.

Some men have learnt the act of counting their wives offenses in the heart. They don't tell their wives how they have offended them until it has gotten to their nerves and that is when they react. And when they react to that, society blame them asking why they were not man enough to condon their wives' behaviors. You must be a man even when the whole world is against you. You must be a man even when your wife tries to strangle you alive. You must be a man even when your neighbor grabs your manhood to the street. You must be a man even when some women gang rape you and you run to the police station to complain but the police men on duty laugh at you and describe to you how you enjoy it. You just have to be a man. You must be a man in a gullable country like ours. you must be a man when a woman slaps you in the public. You must not react even when you are innocent. You are only allowed to wallow in pains or better still walk away from the scene. Nobody cares how subjective and objective your reaction might be but they all expect you to endure as a man from some abusive situations. You must be a man to be able to satisfy your woman on bed. Yes, you must be a man to make her cum and scream out loud in the bed. Even when you are not satisfied, you have to be a man to endure your pains of not being satisfied because nobody cares about you as long as it is sex between you and your wife or girl friend.

Sometimes, society still complain about your performance in bed, how you have suddenly become a one minute man. Why must you complain about a mere sex experience? Are you not a man? A man don't need to get satisfied often. They suddenly forgot that Sex is an embodiment of two parties, it shouldn’t be objectified, Sex is whole, it is a union,
It takes more than the man and the woman coming together and the man penetrating into the woman. Orgasm that comes through sex is excitement and excitement only. But the love between the man and the woman is deeper. The two should be satisfied during their sex experince and Shouldn't be one party thing.

Besides, you must learn to be a man when you are cheated by anyone by swallowing the pains. You must not let out your bitterness to anyone, even your mother or sisters must not hear of it because if they do, they would still tell you to be a man and endure whatsoever that is troubling you. Although some of these people are still considerate, they still Understand the pains men harbour within. An enabling environment is another factor after your mindset. But this Environment becomes intoxicated when everything around you is teaching you how to be a man. You find it difficult to positively change your mindset, couple that with an enabling environment.

However, this expression has made some men to loss their communication skils at home. They find it difficult to have a five minutes conservation with their wife. They have so many things in their heart hurting them but the will power to express these things, they lack. We can't overemphasize the fact that many men of this generation can't wait to get of the marriage they are right now because they don't see any future in it. They don't see why they should be in that relationship or marriage because they have lost the ability to communicate their demands to their wives, so, they bottle up many things because they don't want to be tag as weak men who can't be like other men out there. A few of them have the guts but majority of men have lost the guts to express the way they feel to their wives. They have learnt the act of keeping quiet for something they should have contributed because they must behave like men the society expected them to be.

Finally, men suffer alot in the society because they are not expressive like the women. Women can talk as much as they can, they can fight, argue and nag but men have silenced their emotions and feelings because of the expression: BE A MAN. In the nearest future, when we will start asking what has become of our husbands, sons and fathers, we should be able to remember that it started when we made them muted actors that must act the role we assigned to them.

©John Chizoba Vincents
#LiquidWords.

DEAR UCHE NJIE, FROM MY LIFE I WRITE TO YOU THE MEMORIES OF A LONGING LIFE.

Like the spider spinning her web and knowing which threads were safe for her to tread on and which were the sticky ones meant to trap her meals, I am quite a stammerer blaming the work of my maker whenever I lift up my face to look the sun in the face. It doesn't matter the kind of smile it wears, I have made this voice of mine to come in a monotonous way to overcome anything. It could be from the beginning where we began the dance of the spirit that I learnt to hold my heart and watch the moon peeped from the corner of the market. I wrote this listening to Maroon 5' Memories — As a matter of Fact, music has not only become the weapon of my warfare, it has become more or less the must-have weapon of everybody around the world. To the left, a little child is being driven to sleep by a lullaby from a doll; to the right, a depressed man is being taught how to smile again by the lyrics of a soulful or RNB music; downtown, a hustler’s dream is being fuelled by the lyrics from fast-track music. And in the Ivory towers, the beauty of wealth is celebrated with royalty music. Music is not just only a weapon to different people but it has now become a culture to drive different purposes. I have chosen to be called the wizard of Aba as people have chosen my kind of voice —

My voice from the other side echoed picking debris of burnt souls in the streets of Ohafia. You don't need much colour to this voice. Any colour — black — yellow or Green may work. Any child who claims that he knows as many proverbs as his father should be prepared to pay as much tax as his father does and he may have the same grey hair like his father to equal his wisdom. My mother once said that how we enter the house does not matter sometimes but what matters is the way we leave the house. I hate the fact that I have to believe that boys like us are still reaching out to fight for things with certain kind of silence— damaged —broken and gullably twisted in between. What if all we fight for are facade? What if?

I have come because of the memories our ancestors left behind, those whose passing I did not want to watch. I have come because of my longings to hold a soul as holy as ours. I wanted to come back many times, just to ask you what you think of life and breath. I have not come to tell of the story of two brothers wearing the same shoes. I have come to tell of this adage told by our forgotten identities in the same entity where we have been mockingly stacked into what we can not finish before the night arrives. I have been standing here for a long time. I have been holding a Sceptre and the Ofor. I have been telling a story to some boys in my street. I have been telling them how to be boys. I have been holding one with me. As I allowed the other sit on my laps. I am going to ask them of their names but I will be willing to tell them about myself and boys like you, too. I have told them of their fathers as grotesque shards of lost hope. I am not going to make them cry, I promise.

I am going to be honest with my tale. On the tree opposite me are two birds looking at us. They look like those you see in Nkwo Ngwa market. One boy chased them away before but they didn't go. I asked him to leave the birds alone when they returned but he reluctantly left for his mother's house. I don't know why he left but some boys here said he has trouble looking at the eyes of others. By the right side of my house, Some people are celebrating Birthday. I can see the celebrant in a red rosy gown. She is wearing black shoes. She paints her lips red to match the Red gown she's wearing. Her boyfriend is around her. He looks like those kind of boys that didn't suck their mother's breasts for nine months. He looks shy and calm. He looks at us seated. His eyes are inviting but this party isn't my call.i am telling these boys of mine how this country has failed us. I am telling them how our mistakes have made us who we are. From my life, I write you the memories of today holding what is left of what is good. We can say goodbye because we've met in rickety vehicles of chaos transporting dreams to different places. I am standing here digging a shallow grave, a dog had died last night in our compound. The boys dug a fatal grave last night but I covered it this morning before we gathered. I am standing here right now, praying and hoping the weather comes with a different kind of free rain to wash down these tears of ours. These tears that have forever be ceremonial to culture — I am here doing many things at the same time. I am half way to doom.

You know what the Ancestors once said about spirits? They said spirits arrived in great numbers, with great personalities, in honour and nobilities with contradictory notions; and they treat us with many potions of faith and trust, subject us to diverse incantations, sacrifices, thoughts, massages, and libation. Our Ancestors said spirits are nightwalkers that in the midnight, they expose us to special spirits evoked in the sacred forest of life, but nothing they do ever help us get better as humans. They are fond of holding us into their incantations and prayers but don't know how to send forth goodness to us. Even the herbalists that stand between us and the gods and the spirits, they don't find their ways into our dreams anymore. They dont attempt to do battle with the shadow forms that lurked in our mind; but all they have succeeded in doing was making our nightmares worse and exaggerating, and exacerbating our illness, till it became so bad that we longer speak or even try to long for each other.

No one gets a mouthful of food by picking in between another person’s teeth. I have not come to wish our morning to keep wallowing in engulfing darkness. I have come for this longings and memories of our own. After a decade, I stopped planning those trips of coming with this longing of self worth and for five years I did not pack a weekend bag or tell my mind to prepare for a trip down south. I was always frozen in place, unable to get out of bed, certain that any movement would shatter me into a million tiny pieces. You know I have not come to wrestle with fate with my fists of faith but to keep this longing in the soul of tomorrow for the perfection of the boys in the streets of Nigeria and Africa.

©John Chizoba Vincents
#LiquidSoul.

WIDOWS ARE NOT BEGGARS




I have been studying my mother's life after the death of my father in 2003. She has been strong woman, brave and a fighter. She doesn't give up easily when it comes to her goals. She doesn't complain no matter what's at stake. Sometimes, I wonder how she manages to put on a smiling face every day, how she manages to put on a bold face everyday no matter the circumstances that come on her way; how she has been able to train us to this moment. I wonder how she reacts whenever she misses my father. She must have missed her husband of many years many times but who would she complain to? Her children? God? I don't really know how she overcomes all these things but I believe that widows are strong people and in whatever way we think we can help them, we should. We should try to sustain those smiles on their faces and give them hope of tomorrow. They say, a husband is a cover for her wife and when a woman loses her husband, she loses part of herself and that is true. Mother has been my number one fans and a role model.


Some years back, I stormed into her room to see mother watching the photographs of father in between smile and tears — her fears increased the tempo of her heart beats and the atmosphere was tensed. She was not aware that someone was inside the room. I stood there in tears, too. I tried not to break into her thought as I made for the door and left. I’d once been told that if a woman wanted something she did not have, no matter how elusive that thing was, if her feet do not restrain her from chasing it, she would eventually grab it but not when the love of their life is gone to return no more.




Some of these women maybe in their thirties or late forties but refused to remarry after the death of their husbands. Some of them did this not because they were strong enough to be alone but because they were afraid that the new husband might not accept their children. He might not like or love them just like her or see them as his own children. Even if he does, his family members may not want them and so, they decide to remain single for their children's interest and some, may decide not to remarry because of the love they have for their children. They have to stay and train up their children. Give them a better life and future as they desire. Some may not because of the love for their dead husbands. Widows are strong people so as widowers who never remarried.


However, these women should not been seen as beggars when they come to you for help. Help them in the little way you can. Put a smile on their faces. They are not beggars but victims of circumstances. Who fate seized their entities in way to deny them of love and affection. Show them some love if you come across them. Give them gifts no matter how little it is, they will appreciate it. I'm always happy to see churches set aside one Sunday to celebrate widows and widowers. They present gifts to them and pray for them. This, in some ways, lifts their spirits and help them realise that some people still care about them and their well being.




If your mother is a widow or your father is a widower, please, don't provoke him or her. Don't make her think about your father and dont make him think about your mother. Help them in a little way you can. It does not matter how small it may look but just help. There is this woman in my street, her husband was a soldier. She was living happily with him and their three children; one boy, two girls, until Boko Haram came. Until bombing started. Until Nigeria started taking much interest in Boko Haram than her Army. Her husband was among the people sent to Sambisa. He went and never returned. Nobody knows anything about him again till now. We don't know if he was killed or wounded. Nobody knows if he's alive or not but we have all concluded that he's dead because he has been missing for long.


Now, the woman is a widow catering for three wonderful children, a job she once shared with her husband. Some weeks ago before she packed out of our street, some people came and offered her presents. They prayed for her and promised to come back again. Later, a friend of her told me how happy she was when those people presented those gifts to her. According to her, she had nothing to cook for her children in the past Christmas before those people came. She had planned that she would take them to their father's sister place for the Christmas since nothing was at home. But miracle happened and those people brought those items for her. Imagine how happy she would have been after they left.


On 23 of December, 2019, we planned on visiting few of them I know around my house to give them some gifts but we failed because the money we were expecting didn't arrive. And some of our plans failed us, too. They failed us in many ways which I may not likely go into details for now. But my take here is that, always try as much as possible to leave on the faces of these widows and widowers because they need it from you. Help them in any way you can.




© John Chizoba Vincent
#Abalist.

CHRONICLES OF DISJOINTED BOYS: SOLITUDE.

The last time I wrote a story listening to Enya's Flora secret, I cut my fingers and allowed the gushing blood tell a story of how I was once told to always keep shut even if I was passing through pains. I didn't understand the idea behind leaving myself in a dark room and let out a loud scream in search of myself and my shadow and my gut and my emotions until I heard Demons screamed for help for their neighbors. I looked at the broken windows always in the night, I allowed myself to listen to the tickling of the clock after the stories told by Flora. I understood what it means to be a lonely boy, caged, I understood that the glory of the sky is blue but in the aura season of what we become trying to infuse the amount of energy we have into what we strive to get, the more we try, the more mean we are to getting burn into freedom and the thought of the truth hurts us into believing that we are living. Boys like me burn too quickly.

My door has written down rules: one, I must not walk pass it with tears. Two, I must not allow my feet get quake while passing through and, three, I must not let my lips smile or let my mouth speak vanity else, it will punish me; that was what mother said. I don't want to remember being a boy again, I don't want to remember my childhood anymore. I don't want to remember having to walk in all the streets in Aba hawking what I can't remember their names. I don't want to remember being molested by a boy of my age. I don't want to remember painting some one like me in the evening of my father's death. I painted him in the glory of the sky in that house on the other side of the street. I allowed him to wait for his burning mother to scream out loud. I allowed him to look at his sister get raped. I allowed him swallow hard the sad song in his throat, I allowed him masturbate, and make love to himself. I allowed him see his fate as it gradually fade into darkness. I allowed him to search for his shadow in the dark. I was never taught how to sing a good song so, I allowed him to remember only the dirge written in a country yard. He only sang "faded" by Alan Walker and Whiz Khalifa's "see you again". I guided him to the path of the song he must listen to because songs define us more than food. I painted a monster like me, I painted a walking ghost like me and allowed him to roam the street of nothingness.

When you allow yourself recite Jo Nketiah' poem and listen to the rhythm of your heartbeat, remember to name the streets in your body like the streets in your town. It was where I began to hold my names to the burning grasses that I remembered there is someone called God. Someone that has a name better than us but Africanism taught me how to hold my mouth into different places and make clothes for my naked soul. Boys like us burn angrily.

You see, I won't go back to that song again, I won't cut my self again with scissors or blade. Every darkness counts, every loneliness is numbered, every demon counts my middle words like they count the stars. I won't burn again but be the fire, I won't say those things I can't remember as a boy learning his first word. Patriarchy told us that boys don't let out their weaknesses, the society in her folds of understanding declared boys as heroes whose eyes must not shade tears no matter the circumstances.

I won't tell you how I survived pains and depression. I won't tell you how I survived locking myself inside my dark room. I won't tell you how many demons I communed with. I won't tell you how they became voyagers In my body. You will get mad at me for allowing them in but sin tastes differently, yes, some sin taste like coffee and some, like menses' blood, and some feel like a finger in a woman's vagina; Warm and calculative and sensional. I won't tell you how I survived heart break and how it feels to stand aloof like a boy and look the sun in the face and it shies away. I am a boy birthed in sadness, groomed in sadness and lived in sadness. A lost boy looking for who would find him. I don't know what happiness tastes like, no, maybe you will tell me when next we meet. I won't teach you how to make love to yourself not now that the angels are home from their Pilgrimage. Till I find out how to love myself again, you won't know that boys are flames of fire in search of freedom.

Tell mother that standing on a long distant road between her and my fate is the easiest way to learn the act of endurance. I'm not afraid to die but I won't die now until I'm a hundred and twenty. Tell her that if tomorrow meet her in the kitchen and i was not there to make her feel like a mother that I tried to come home but failed myself. She should know which way to follow, she should know which way to paint more of the rainbows than the others. After this, I will honestly let my kind follow these paths perfectly. Boys like me are rare to come by, boys like me are full of agony but the world said we must not cry out even if we are dying because we are boys and not girls.

A friend said it is not good to watch horror films alone in the dark. So each time I want to watch this horror movie in my dark room, I invite my sister, my little sister to watch with me. I'll make her sit down opposite the television perched on the wall of my room. I'll open the red and black curtains and lock up every where that light could penetrate from. Once I start the film, I'll stuff her mouth with clothes and let her do the screaming for me. I usually leave the terror and fear in her eyes not in my very eyes. This is how I remain sane for some minutes until I return back to myself. Mother still hasn't found out about this and her calmed spirit followed us almost every day. The day she wanted to see what happened to her daughter, I hid my little sister in the wardrobe before she came in. I told her that she had gone to the toilet. I lied to her even when Father Mbanu told us during Sunday school that all liars shall burn in HellFire. She could not wait for her daughter because she knew my little sister spend time in the toilet. I was happy that she left in seconds and never came back. The drama ended after that day...

These days, I'm always on the look out for miracle. In case you see any, my door is always open to welcome you. The truth of the matter is, I don't really understand how all these started but I know the ashes that seek for freedom are not far from the bodies of men like those that got burnt searching for what genocide mean. We're boys, we're here.

©John Chizoba Vincent
#LiquidWords.

CHRONICLES OF A DISJOINTED BOY: FOR THOSE SOULS THAT WON’T BE STONES

I started naming the cities in my body when I was ten. Some I named grief, sorrow, agony, and mental disorder. Some I named brokenness, injustice, and infirmity. There was nothing named joy and happiness where I grew up though, so, I didn’t bother to ask why neither did I bother to name any the same name. I named these cities so that I could remember how I spent my childhood craving for those things that never come. Childhood was a bitter experience, a mess; there were nights we begged death to come and rescue us from the universe but it vanished immediately without a second thought. It was afraid of taking us as captives because our problems were bigger than his. We went for nearby demons but they smiled mischievously and drew maps on our bodies; maps showing us how not to die but live. I won’t tell you how I survived this, when we see tomorrow, look into my eyes there are hidden stories of such experiences you would see because I have not totally deleted all. Isn’t it too obvious that living is as scary as dying itself?

Tomorrow when you see me walking on these streets talking to myself, have it in mind that Aba started this madness in me; joining emptiness with fullness of the heart, enfolding dusty verities of emotions into somehow understanding of humanity. Aba started this madness for Boys like me who were struggling not to be seen as stones. Aba wrapped her hands around our necks trying to strangle us into believing what we could not see or behold. They said the wind has mouth and nose, it has taken more breathe than men; they said the sun is as mischievous as a child, even if you climb on the ladder of understanding before seeking for our help, you’ll die to freedom. This is not a story you hear them tell in the market; this is sadness from the hearts of boys like me roaming the street; Roamers, they call us.

I won’t forget to tell you how boys were raped in Ngwa road. I won’t forget to tell you how we had waited patiently in Ohanku road just to paint the gory miseries that some boys pass through daily. I won’t forget to tell you about those boys shot dead in Ariaria market, those slaughtered in Shopping Centre. What about those who were arrested in Asa road and were called Yahoo boys? What about those who had no bed to lay their heads even when the absence of many bed haunt those that have them? Aba clothed these memories in me and I always beg her to take it easy in tormenting me for I’m just a sad song that people have forgotten its lyrics. Don’t let me tell you how we were said to be handkerchief drenched in isolation yet, we held our souls trying to infuse joy in them but we died at the first page of trying. We don’t write stories of ourselves, every part of our lives die at the first letter even though the book runs in hundred of pages or even thousands.

… For those boys that won’t be stones after painting your first misery, for those souls that won’t be stones after reading this and breaking up in every ellipsis, don’t swallow the last song in your throat; sing it out and allow it to flow effortlessly into the air. The birds would join you not as singers but as companions because they have their own solidarity songs to give to the universe. Sometimes, learn how to close your mouth and allow the words in your throat revive those lost ghost. Make your tongue a secret you keep away from the world. If looking at the sky can make you realize the colour of your mind, learn how to drop your ego in the hands of little children painting their words into bodies.

You won’t be stone again; you won’t be another stone under the sun. I have much laughter stored in many souls though they are not visible yet, but, be of good cheer you have overcome the many daggers life planted on your chest. You won’t remember to say my names to the wind and forget to tell your stories to the earth. I have decided to keep donating a bandage of sanity to the boys in the street and those in the asylum. If the new wave of sanity has to beckon on the redemption of our ego, let it be told that there were thousands of pages to be written even before the universe would be masked. I’m switching places: as a saint and as a miscreant.

I've been intentional about creating memories that would last, I have been intentional about holding to the dreams yet to come, I’ll always be the dreams you thought you had years back, I'll always be the laughter you thought you let out years back, and I'll always around you to hold unto your fears. Like switching places for the universe to welcome you and your kind.

Two days ago, a woman had buried her son in a grave near a vegetable blotch in their ancestral birthplace of Nkporo, surrounded by sympathizers. she did not remember now and would not remember tomorrow if called upon. The day before, she had driven the said boy in the boot of their Honda to the home of a friend, who tried to smuggle him out of the country. They said he was on dreadlocks and he looked like a gay and gay boys are not needed in a country like ours. They shot him dead to cleanse the land of its insanity. And the day before that, she hadn’t needed to take a look at how her son looks like and the kind of songs he liked to sing. Few days from now, she would no longer recognize her life and that of her son; she would have laughed and cried at the same time hoping to live the kind of life she was used to. Such is the way memories are built and forgotten. Such is life and how it was made to suit us all.

In case you remember this, tell those wayfarers that home is not home again because our boys are losing their senses trying to be normal. We will sit back here tomorrow and wait for the coming rain to wash away these tears, maybe the cloud will savor our plead or maybe, we will be rejected but in all, there is glory in waiting for those souls that won't be stones.

©John Chizoba Vincent
#LiquidWords.

THERE ARE NO BLACK PEOPLE IN HEAVEN

White is the cozy colour of heaven,
there are no black people in heaven;
They have a sting strength of eel dirt
which haven heaven can not accept.
their black skins read of corruption
& hearts, think of greed & selfishness.
Black against white, heaven quakes,
I fear no weep of their misfortunes;
dislodge their noble grits with fair
speed, I do not intend to bestir their sleep.

Heaven has no street for rotten bins
neither are there places in heaven
where men stop to urine in every pole
or homes in heaven, where children are
left to die of hunger & pains & behold
blood as water.There are no such places
in heaven. I only passed & was never
allowed to enter 'cause I'm black.
Beneath this glazing memory, find no
solace like a dot of empty bassets.

Black tear-afflicted eyes are uncertain,
never look an African in the eyes even God
lost words watching them glean with smile.
He could not pass a judgement immensely,
brilliant gold beams His face as clouds
part their burnt spirits into tensed of gazing
men of deadly deception; black is beautiful,
Of a truth, Satan knew his people in heart.
He peeped from grey curtains for his forlong
& Michael firmament awoke weakness.

The roads to heaven are beautifully built,
Africans won't be there cos theirs're broken.
The walls of heaven are coated with gold,
Africans won't be there, their hands grew
green into orchard of blood & dragon's breath.
With all the gospel psalming in this land,
no single soul sing of Africa over there,
Sin over the soul of humanism, they seek.
Until light over shadows darkness over here,
spittle of warm blood won't cease in heaven.
If a black is allowed in the arms of heaven,
won't they bribe God also for more power?

©John Chizoba Vincent
#TheSage.

#TheYouthAndTheCountry
#HelpAYouth
#BuildNigeria.

THE YOUTH AND THE COUNTRY: BETTING HOUSES

What has become of Nigerian Youths? What has become of our pride and honour and drives? What has become of our future? Is there really any future for the youths of this country? What has become of our attempt and try to be better Nigerians? What happens to education? What happens to hard work and hope? What happens to dreams and vision? What has become of our own drives? What has become of Nigerian Youths? These questions keep me awake every night. What shall we do to redeem our youths from this madness of spending their whole day in betting houses all over the country? What step has the commissioners for Youths development in Nigeria done to remedy these situations? Are they just sitting down watching the youths perish in their own misery?
Betting houses are becoming too many in the street of Nigeria and the Nigerian youths are perishing each day in there. Every street in Nigeria has at least one or two of these shops in it. I know there are taxes and revenues coming from this angle but what will happen tomorrow if the vital part of who we are is destroyed?. Are we going to have youths that know nothing of their country or uneducated youths littered here and there in the street of Nigeria? Even those that are educated don’t have a job to show for those years they spent and the money spent in the tertiary institutions. Perhaps that is the main reason why they find comfort in the betting houses in the street just to live up to their responsibilities; from Baba Ijebu to Bet9ja, 360Bet, Betking, Naijabet and the list goes on and on in the street of our beloved country. This is now the new trend!
The most interesting part of this is that most celebrities are ambassadors to these bet merchandises. Those people that the youths look up to as role models and cheerleaders, it will interest you to know that they encourage the youths to engage in these activities through their multi-million naira advertisement showing on television stations. If these people could falsely endorse and advise the youths on the importance of betting and spending the whole of their 24 hours in these places, then, we don’t have role models

out there. You know the youths are the future of Nigeria and leaving them to perish is a disaster in our own part. A man whose house is on fire does not go chasing the rodents. Perhaps, more consideration should be tailored towards the youths to educate them on how to live for tomorrow. They can be educated on how to be successful without following the easiest ways or all these shortcuts.

The last time I visited one of these Bet9ja shops around my area, I was ashamed and astounded on the crowd of youths I saw there. I was afraid because if we allow things to go like this in the next twenty to thirty years, we will end up having Youths that we don’t really know, we will end up having no control over our youths, We'll end up selling the future of our country to ignorant, uneducated and unwise people that we made to be so. Some youths out there know nothing about this country than European league and how to generate odds and the teams that are winning. They know nothing about politics, the economy, their rights, their future and what they stand for. There are many unemployed youths out there and this is one of the causes of this nightmare that has befallen our humble country.

Some of them out there are not ready to work rather they want quick money and short cuts to make it big in life. This has in many ways introduced many things to the young minds. The Logo Benz saga, the use of female pants for money ritual and the deadly of them all; drug trafficking and fraud; and these have really created another name and another face to our beloved country.

Some of these youths are best seen every morning on the newspaper stand to argue about the previous match between Barcelona and Chelsea and later, you’ll see them in the bet houses picking some odds and faithfully clamouring for the unseen money. Some minds are cut when one match spoilt the whole game. I have stayed with a friend who spent two thousand

naira to play a game which he later loses. Another day, I accompanied him to book another game. That particular day he spent up-to eight thousand naira and he didn’t win. Before then, he was complaining of hunger to me. He told me how hungry he was and I was surprised when he said I should accompany him to play a game someone predicted and sent to him. I had no option than to follow him. Do you know why, mostly, some of those things I don’t do, I follow people that does it to learn how it is been done. But there is no how you could lure me into it. I’ll always stand afar observing and watching what is going on. I am not saying it bad to play, but play these games but play with your right senses; Don't spend the whole day there.
However, it is very bad to see a full-grown man spends his everyday life in a betting house, arguing and constituting nuisance in the street. It is very bad to watch them argue about what they shouldn’t argue about, it is so bad to see them fight each over who is richest between C. Ronaldo and Messi when they have their own problems to talk about. It is so bad to watch them live a fake life while their real identity is out there wasting; hidden, untapped. I know things are hard here but shortcuts to success are not always the right way. I know the economy is not favourable to me and you but we have to work it out. We will only build Nigeria by ourselves.

Your youthful age is the right time to plan for tomorrow and you can’t do that in the Betting House. Why don’t you sit down one day and plan your life? Why don’t you think about tomorrow? Are you going to provide for your family through betting? Are you going to live up to that dream you’ve in your eyes with betting and picking odds? I guess it is not possible. Meanwhile considering the fact you win some money sometimes from this does not guarantee you a successful life.

We see nothing wrong with a fresh graduate who spend his whole day in the game center or bet house predicting and picking odds which will later

become his misery. Some parents appreciate the fact they are there. I’ve heard a woman once told a fellow woman that she preferred her son staying in the Bet house than him stealing. But there is no day that passes by without you seeing her fight her son for taking her money. Each time I watch these young ones argue or fight over the richest between Messi and Ronaldo, I become ashamed of them. These guys hardly think about their lives and destiny. Each time I watch them fight over who is the world best between Messi and Ronaldo, I become disturbed. We cannot deny the fact that they have provided employment to many Nigerians out there but our youths should be productive to them instead of killing their productiveness in the Betting Houses.
One of my friends once mocked me for always typing nothing he knows about. In his own stupidity, he had called me one day and said he wanted to come over to my place and teach me how to do ‘Yahoo ‘. He said since I know how to handle the system that I will make a good yahoo boy. Some of them said poetry won’t take me anywhere that I should come and join them but the choice is mine to join or to cut them off. The most interesting part of what I do is that I pass message across to people when I discover what I don’t think is very right to the society.

I think the youth should not let betting define them. They should defined themselves and their future. We should not allow sixty to seventy percent of our youths to be wasted in the betting houses. If this happens, who is going to be the next thinker of our generation? Who is going to be the next Wole, Achebe, Goodluck Jonathan, Peter Obi, Gabriel Okara, Habila Helon, Chimamanda Adichie, Fela Anikulapo, Adenuga, Dangote, and Victor Moses of the next Generation?
Just remember you are your own sailor, your future is you and no one can achieve your future for you except you and defining who you are as a youth is by knowing who you are meant to be. Your youthful age should be a wonderful time of life. It is something like the spring season of the year. It is that time you get to know yourself better and what you have to offer to

your country as a youth. Meanwhile, what you have as a youth is what you take into adulthood and into marriage. So live your life for today and tomorrow. This land belongs to us all and to those generations that are to come. As a youth, do you know how this country is ruled? When last did you take your take to study the political zones of this country? Do you know how the bills of this country are passed? How much is our country owing to other countries? We don’t even know how much we are worth as a country and the standard of our economy as youths. I bet you some of us don’t know about these.

We should try to gather almost all the experiences from these old men on seat and plan ourselves for tomorrow and not today. Your mind is the store house of your treasure and should not in any way belittled. Getting the best out of your youthful age is very paramount and important because, your mind is still vibrate and ready to exploit, you are the future in decision making in education, in the legislature and in the judiciary. Do not be tamed in the house of Nairabet. Perhaps, you should stop looking for shortcuts to make it big, making money is a process. Most importantly create paths through which you can generate income, create paths to sustain you and your family in the nearest future. The truth is that you can’t feed yourself and your family with Bets. Even if you make millions of naira, if you don’t invest properly, it would not last you.

Dear youths, plan your life and your future now, be the pride of Nigeria out there. Make legit money and make your mind productive. Be your father’s pride, be proud of yourself. Don’t be deceived there is no profit in the money you did not work for.

©John Chizoba Vincent
#LiquidWords

WRITER’S MISERIES AND NIGHTMARES: FINANCE

Finance is one of the nightmares of every writer out there. Every writer encounters the problem of finance whenever he or she tries pushing his or her book out there for publication. It is a major thing in every writer’s life especially these days when we no longer have traditional publishers or rather this era where traditional publishers are going into extinction; some writers have to finance their own book by themselves, they have to work hard to make sure that they gather money to push their books to print. There is nothing as joyful as a writer holding a published copy of his or her book in his or her hand and show it to his/her people.

It gives great joy and accomplishment on the side of the writer. He/she now sees him/herself as a writer, fulfilled. But in a situation where the writer has no financial back up, he/ she is doomed. This may even make some of all these writers to give up on their quest to become a published Author. Meanwhile, the dream of every writer out there is to get published someday by a publishing house but if this dream is not achieved, he / she become restless and frustrated. All praise to the internet, internet has made some of these things easy, and some of us can be heard in one way or the other without necessarily being published on a hard copy or paperback.

In 2011, when I was roaming the street of Lagos looking for publishers who could accept my work for publication, I had no money; there was no phone as much as we have them now, so I used my legs to do the walking from Mushin to Onipanu, from Onipanu to Ikeja, from Ikeja to Palmgroove. I just finished secondary school about two years ago then. What I was doing was that I would go to the market and buy some books written by Nigerians. I would pick up the phone numbers of the management or the publishing house. Sometimes they would book an appointment with me and getting to meet them, the whole story would revolved around money. I was told by many of them that I have to pay for them to publish my book. They were afraid of running into losses. They were afraid that the book would not sell at all and they would be at loss but I had no money then.

I was just restless. I was just a restless new boy in the street trying to change his narrative. From these quests, I was able to meet and know the likes of Learnrites publishers, Oceanic books, Human Change Communication Company (H3C), Evans books, university Press, Mainstream, Lantern Books, Rasmed Publishers, Shalom Publishers, Atlantic and many others. None of them accepted my book back then in 2011 and 2012. Some said I was not as good as they want, some of them never returned my email or my calls. Some said my book was weak and could not be published. Towards the end of 2012, that was when I saw a book from one publisher and I read the book and wrote down his numbers and called him the next day. He answered me and we fixed appointment. I was naïve, I was nervous; I had it in mind that he would reject my book just like others did. That day, I presented two manuscripts written with Biro and inside a hard cover booklet. He glanced through the manuscripts and told me frankly that he won’t be able to publish the books. He said I should write a shorter story which I later did.

I wrote the book within a week and took it to him the following week. He read it and said that I have to finance the book myself. He practically told me that he would not invest into the book because he could not tell if the book will sell or not. I was helpless but I gathered courage and asked him how much it would cost me for the book to be published. He said I have to pay one hundred and twenty thousand. I had to finance for the publication of my first book; Good Mama. I paid the money and the book was published later in April, 2013. I was very happy the first day I held that piece of book in my hand glancing through it.

I was happy to tell all my neighbours that I have now become an Author. I was happy that day to call my mother and brothers and sisters to tell them that my book had been published in as much as they did not understand the science behind book publishing and the stress I had to pass through to see that the book was published. It was a dream, I had it in my mind for days, weeks, months and years; it doesn’t matter to me if they don’t really understood what it means to get a book published especially in Nigeria.

None of them asked of the book or how It was fairing in the market but the truth of the matter is that I have a book published and it was been sold in schools in Lagos, Ogun, Imo, Port Harcourt and so many other places in Nigeria.
My second book Hard Times was also financed by me in 2015 and the third book; For Boys of Tomorrow was also single handedly sponsored and financed by me in 2018. Perhaps I am saying all these things so that you would understand that to publish your book, you need a financial back up from anywhere. It could either be from your parents or someone else; you need a sponsorer, you can’t do it alone on your own. Although we still have some traditional publishers who still sign writers and sponsor or publish their books themselves in Nigeria but they are not much. They are not many like we have in the USA, Canada and some European countries.

I always advice writers to look for another source of income, something that will give them money to sponsor and push their writings; something that will put food on their tables, something tangible and lucrative. You need this money as a writer, you need to live above poverty level. You need make your family smile also and make them appreciate what you choose to do.

Lack of money would frustrate you in this field and if care is not taking, you may quit before you start. I could remember that I sold many of my manuscripts just to make sure that I get one published. Writing is indeed not a child’s play.

©John Chizoba Vincent
#LiquidWords

WRITER’S MISERIES AND NIGHTMARES: EMOTIONAL BREAKDOWN

The most electrifying and interesting part of a writer's life is to hold his or her hardcopy published book on his or her hand, to read or to show some friends and family members and relations. This means a lot to many writers out there. Some have not gotten to this level while some have. Some dream day and night to make sure that their works are published; in a situation where a write has gone far and wide to make sure his or her work is published but to no avail, he or she is broken and emotionally disturbed. Emotional breakdown is not a good thing for any writer of any such. We all fight to make money through what we do, we strive and thrive to be better than who we were yesterday and when all these things are not forth coming or when they are not paying off, it makes a writer weary of writing, it breaks him or her. They become discouraged; they become disturbed, broken and dejected. Emotional breakdown is real, it is not a myth; writers encounter it.

Works rejected by magazines can break down a writer. He has in one way or the other put more efforts and time to make sure that the work comes out fine but at the end of the day, it is rejected by magazines, publishers and many others who cannot in one way or the other encourage them as writers. You see, your poems and stories, even articles all have a source. They come from somewhere; somewhere that you don’t really know. Your muse directly knows how to make you feel. Nothing you write or comes out from your head is entirely fictitious. The characters and subject of your story might be out of the blue, you might wake up to ideas in your head but they are being aided by your life experiences: Situations you have been through, places you have been to, people you have met, books you have read, the lyrical content of the songs you listen to every day, movies you have watched, the kind of things you observe while walking down the road and so on. These things work together to formulate and create new ideas inside you. And that is what, after completion, you regard to as fiction. However, after spending much of your time creating all these things, someone somewhere would reject it but the truth of the matter is that, it is not their fault; they have their lay down standard, their rules and regulation guiding them.

We’ve all heard stories of authors who arrive at writing conferences in their personal helicopters, who own multiple vacation homes, and who get million-dollar book deals; who made it big through their writing career, who are world changers. But realistically, what are the chances that you as a creative writer will join the ranks of writers who are making a ton of money? What are the chances that you stand to make money from what you write or from the book you sell? This is the one of those things that breaks a writer as he dreams and hopes that one day, he would stand to become something in life through what he writes.

Some critics break a writer also. They make him or her feels like a worthless being; they critique unconstructively leaving writers or their work at the mercy of their own. It is not really easy to write. Although these writers’ critics make writers but someway somehow, some of these critics should be frank with what they do. They should be tender with their words. They have made some writers and destroyed some. In Africa, We know most writers don’t become zillionaires. Some are able to make a comfortable living as a writer, but others are not. Today we’re to take a hard look at not just how much money a creative writer can expect to make over the course of his or her career but what messages he or she is able to pass down to his or her readers and how he can be able to change the narrative through what he or she writes.

Writers do break down too. They are emotional too. They feel pains and lose control over some things. They are not strong all the times. They are weak people with emotional instability. Sometimes not all they write is what they represent. There are some distinguish characteristics between what they write and their personalities; they are humans just like you. Their brokenness is as real as HIV and AIDS. And of course it’s a disease too, to
them. The only difference is that it’s unpreventable and unprintable. At some points in your career as a writer, you will feel empty, blank and uninterested about a lot of things. This is probably a proof that you haven’t kept the balance of your input and output system.

Now the more you exhaust this brokenness as a writer, the more your mind becomes disordered, and the weaker the signal strength of your creative imaginations. You can’t produce anything reasonable if you are empty.

So it is better to find a way or an outline of means to overcome these brokenness- Make a useful outline when you are inspired that you cannot be broken no matter what comes on your way, not even money or comments on your work by novice or Elite writers would break you or mare you. Just ignore and move on with your style. Keep your mind afresh always, never allow things which don’t worth a thing to break you- you need your mind for your work, you don’t need to be broken always.

Basically, there are things you just have to ignore or let go. As a beginner or as professional writer; I recommend you keep your mind void of any weird and unnecessary words. Focus mostly on the area that you continually concentrate on, those areas you need to improve and those you need to maintain. This way you can recycle old posts with a new spin that will keep you alive until you get back in the saddle of who you are. Don’t allow anything break you for too long.

© John Chizoba Vincent
#LiquidWords

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WRITER’S MISERIES AND NIGHTMARES: DESTRUCTIVE CRITICS.

There are many devils who called themselves critics but they critique to kill. They deliberately kill young and blossoming talents with words. They destructively say those words that would make you think you are not ripe enough to write. Sometimes you end up discovering that they don’t really know what they are saying. These set of people are everywhere, some of them can’t even pick up their pen to write or construct a good story or article/essay but they are always there, waiting and observing you; whenever you post or write, they would pounce on it and tear your write up into two like hungry lions.

Some of them make writers feel miserable and unwanted. They make writers devastated and weak. I am not saying that it is not good to critique a work of art; in fact, critiquing a work of art helps a writer to know his or her weaknesses and common holes. It makes him or her to know and understand where to adjust and where to leave. If you really want to critique a work of art, it should be done constructively, critique constructively without leaving the writer in confusion and misery; critique constructively to help the writer realize his or her mistakes and how to work on them to better his or her art.

Some writers out there have been killed because of unnecessary pressure that critics mounted on them. Some no longer write because of what you told them about their works. Not every writer has the mind and courage to withstand some comments on their works. Not every writer can see some bad comments on their works and take it just like that. Some writers are emotional, some are fragile, some are broken, some are weak, some find comforts in their lines, and some are strong and brave while some are not. However, you can kill some of these weak writers with your words. You can easily make them lose concentration and focus on what you say or write to them.

In 2015, I once acted on stage with some Actors in Muson Centre, Lagos. Prior to the date, I rehearsed my lines and blockings. In fact, I went to the market and bought a standing mirror. I placed it on the wall of the room. Every time I wanted to rehearse, I would always go to the mirror to watch my expressions and my movements and gestures because that was what they taught us to do while rehearsing. The day came. All the Actors gathered, we were meant to come out one by one to introduce ourselves and say few lines. After the play, one popular filmmaker whom I will not mention his name here called me off stage and said to me:

“Vincent, don’t force it, acting is not in you, and you can’t make it in acting; quit and look for another thing to do with your life…”

That was the exact words he used. I was devastated. After that minute, I ran out from that spot and headed to a nearby balcony. I paced from one spot to another pondering on what he just said to me. When I got home, I could not sleep at all. I was rolling on the bed thinking about what he told me. i showed some of my friends the videos of my previous jobs and they said I was good to go that I shouldn’t quit. But this man had already spoilt everything I stood for then. And to be honest with you, that was the end of my acting career. I stopped acting because each time I went out there for Audition, his words always came to me. it happened to me at Tinsel Audition of 2015, 2016 and 2017. The worst was in 2017, I was in front of the panels and I could not alter a word to them. I was just looking at them until the woman asked me to go. It was that man’s words that were playing in my mind until I left there to my house. These are what unbiblical critics can turn you into. Some make your life miserable while others elevate you, help you find a solid ground to build on your craft.

In 2016, I wrote a poem and posted it somewhere. I think it should be on a what’sapp group and someone sent me a message immediately and said that I should stop writing. According to him, he said I wasn’t good enough
to be a poet. He said my lines are not strong enough to make up a poem. Although I was somehow discouraged because that poem took me two days to write, I can’t remember how many lines I cancelled and how many times I deleted the poem and still went back to it. After that, someone somewhere that doesn’t know how to create a line said I should stop writing because writing is not in me. Those words made me not to write for a whole week until I picked up courage again to write. The bitter truth here is that the said poem was accepted for an Anthology in India that same month.

The point here is that not everything that every critic out there says about your work is truly what your work is. Sometimes when these words come, read them, accept those you want to accept and leave others. Some other times, when these words come, take all to your heart but don’t allow it to break you. Don’t allow it to destroy your creative ability and capacity. Writers exist to be criticized; critics exist to find writers to criticize. Critics are everywhere, in every work you do, in every profession, in everything you do in life. I have worked in a film set we spent six months and some weeks in pre-production, production and post-production and when the film was previewed by critics we were surprised on what some critics said about the film. Some of them where there when we were preparing to shoot and they brought some of the ideas we used and at the end of the day, they kicked against the same idea they brought in.

Meanwhile, in other for you to grow; you need them in everything you write, you need them as a creative person, you need them in your profession. Allow them to see from a critical angle different from the one you saw. Allow them the grace to dig deeper into your craft. Whatsoever they say about your craft, take it in good faith and work more to improve, no one does it better in the world of creativity.

Writers exist to be critiqued, Critics exist because there are works of art to be critiqued.

©John Chizoba Vincent
#LiquidWords

WRITER’S MISERIES AND NIGHTMARES: BOOK PUBLISHING

Lord of the Flies by Williams Golding was once rejected 20 times before it was published, the Legendary: John Le Carre’s book; The Spy Who Came In From The Cold was rejected because the publishing house said his book “Hasn’t got any future”. Gone with the wind by Margaret Mitchel was rejected 38 times by publishers before it was finally published. Sanctuary by William Faulkner was called “Unpublishable” but later was published by Segnet Books.

Gertrude Stein submitted poems for 22 years having one published. Anne Frank the Author of The Diary Of A Young Girl was rejected 15 times before it was published. Beatrix Potter had to do her own publishing of The Tale of Peter Rabbit herself after many rejections from publishers. What of Carrie by Stephen King which was rejected 30 times before it was published? What about Louisa May Alcott, the Author of Little Women whom Publishers told to stick to teaching? What of Marcel Proust who had to pay for his own publication after much rejection of his book “Remembering of Things Past”? I hope we won’t forget Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance by Robert M. Pirsig that was rejected 121times before it was published? What of E.E Cumming’s No Thanks? What of Rudyard Kipling who was told he didn’t know how to use the English Language properly?

Furthermore, J.K. Rowling’s book “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s stone” was rejected 12 times by publishers. Dubliners by James Joyce was rejected 22 times before it was published. Agatha Christie’s book ‘And Then there were none’ had to wait for years before it was published. Dune by Frank Herbert was rejected 23 times by publishers before it was finally published and George Orwell’s book Animal Farm was rejected. They told him that: “There is no market for animal stories in the USA”. I wish you know what that means to you as a writer. It will definitely break you and leave you hopeless but the question is: will you give up as a writer because of what they say about your work?

In all these, we can not fault the publishers or blame them in anyway because they know the market too well and they are also looking for their own market and how to sell the book when it is published.

Book publishing is one of those things writers find very difficult in their career. It is not really easy to become a published Author now we no longer have the formal traditional publishing outfit. These days, a writer has to be financially buoyant to be a published Author. Once he is not financially buoyant, he finds it difficult to publish his work. And sometimes, some of these publishing outfits don’t really have a strong market or channels through which an author can sell his book after publication. Hence, the writer or the author is left at the mercy of himself. He sells the book himself, he does the advertisement of his book and promotes it himself. Sometimes he ends up not meeting up with the money he used to publish his book and he would end up giving those books away freely. This is one of the reasons why most writers you see out there not published; not that they don’t have it in mind to publish but the finance is not there to back them up. And some of them that are published independantly don’t have the market to sell their books. It is frustrating after spending a huge sum of money as a writer to publish a book and you end up giving it out freely because if you don’t, no one will buy it especially when you don’t have the name out there.

The first man I met in 2011 to help me publish my book in Shomolu area of Lagos told me that he could have loved to invest his money in my book but he was afraid that the book would end up not selling. Then I wanted to be published by all means. I was in so many publishing houses in Lagos. I was in Lantern House, I was in Oceanic Books, I was in Evans in Jericho, Ibadan. I went to University Press, Macmillan, Learnrites, Apex Books, Start-Right Books and so many other publishing houses here in Lagos and outside Lagos just to make sure one of my books was published but it did not happened. I became more frustrated and devastated. The more I walked around Lagos looking for publisher, the more experience I get from one editor to the other. The more terms and conditions I had to learn from them. It was fun but miserable. Then I would go to the market, buy books, those I like and those I don’t like, those I would read and those I would not; they were books written by Nigerians. I would call their lines after writing them down on my jolter. We would fix appointment and later I would be disappointed by them.

It was a horrible experience but I didn’t give up because what I was looking at was also looking at me eyeball to eyeball. I knew I could be published one day. I could remember one editor who threw my manuscript on my face. He said I was disturbing his peace. I submitted the manuscript to him after I called him and he said I should come to Shalom Street in Shomolu/Palmgroove, Lagos, to meet him. As I got there, he said I should submit the manuscript and come back in a month time after he must have finished reading it. I called him after two months and he said he was not in Lagos that I should call back in three days’ time and that was exactly what I did. I called and called and called but he wasn’t picking until the next day when I called him again, he said I should come to his office and I went there. I can’t really tell who annoyed him that morning, he was barking at everybody in his office, from the secretary to his graphic Designer and Assistant Editor, when I entered. Next thing I saw was that he lifted my manuscript and hurled it on my face and walked me out of his office.

I swallowed hard, and made my way to the bus stop and board a bus to my house. That night I dreamed about the man also. I had a dream that he chased me out from his office again. But in that dream, I fought him. I told myself that he can’t frustrate me physically and still keep me in a miserable state spiritually.

No writer finds it easy whenever he or she wants to publish a book especially these days even then. Things have changed and you as a writer needs to buckle up and know how to convince wherever or whosoever you want to submit your book to. Don’t get frustrated by the daily rejections from publishers. Keep trying, keep writing. If it is possible, push it with your money and wait for the turn up. Don’t just relax and wait for manner from above. Writing is not a child’s play there are many miseries and horrible nightmares involved.

©John Chizoba Vincent
#LiquidWords

WRITER’S MISERIES AND NIGHTMARES: WRITER’S BLOCK

According to Wikipedia definition, writer’s block as a condition, primarily associated with writing, in which an author loses the ability to produce new work, or experiences a creative slowdown. The condition ranges from difficulty in coming up with original ideas to being unable to produce a work for years. Throughout history, writer's block has been a documented problem. (Wikipedia)

The condition was first described in 1947 by psychoanalyst Edmund Bergler. And it has happened to many professionals in the history of writing. Such writers include Adele, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Sergei Rachmaninoff, Charles M. Schulz, Joseph Mitchell, Herman Melville and many others. It is normal to writers to some extent to open their computer or writing pad to discover that all that they have in mind to write are gone out from their head.

You sit opposite your laptop looking at the black page of the Microsoft word or Notepad; inspiration gone, you are lost in what to write. You end up closing your computer or jolter or writing pad without writing anything down. You stay for weeks, months and years and the inspiration didn't show up. You end up reading five books in a week but you have nothing to write, you are just there. What do you do as a writer? What do you do when you are blank in your head, no new idea coming to your head, no story, no experience to write about? What do you do?

Jeffrey Deaver once said this: “I’ve often said that there’s no such thing as writer’s block; the problem is idea block. When I find myself frozen–whether I’m working on a brief passage in a novel or brainstorming about an entire book–it’s usually because I’m trying to shoehorn an idea into the passage or story where it has no place.”

Maya Angelou recollects: “What I try to do is write. I may write for two weeks ‘the cat sat on the mat, that is that, not a rat.’ And it might be just the most boring and awful stuff. But I try. When I’m writing, I write. And then it’s as if the muse is convinced that I’m serious and says, ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll come.'”

Sometimes when I encounter this, what I do mostly is to take a little break from what I’m writing; it may be days, weeks or months. Sometimes when I need the work urgently, I’ll take a long way walk around the room or in the street, or perhaps, start jumping or dancing rigorously just to get myself on again. I also engage reading new books, see some captivating movies with brilliant story lines just like Game of Thrones, Avengers, Power and many others, I have my playlist of music I listen to when I’m writing so I can’t easily get distracted or get lost of what to write, Prince chike, one of my writers friend called it Juice. But it all depends on the kind of music you listen to. Mine are mostly Enya, Sia, Zayn, Johnny Drille, Allan Walker, Kygo, Gomez, Maroon 5, Ed shareen, Westlife, Boys To men, Backstreet boys, Michael Learns To Rock and many others. I let myself explore into the world the ways I can see it through their lyrics. I envisioned another me in another new world. All these are means of reloading myself when I’m lost or short of what to write. And by the time I’m done, what will push me to writing new stuffs will certainly come calling. I have learnt for so long that I don’t need to force it out from my heart or head, they come freely and effortlessly. I don’t need to force what I write out from my head, it has to come freely from within.

However, the truth of the matter is that every writer has been there. They have seen and looked at the blank white screen of their laptop without writing anything tangible, they watch curiously at the blank white screen and the throbbing cursor trying to find word but could not, it is not their fault. They hold the empty notebook and the pen poised to write but nothing is coming. The tools are there, there’s sufficient time and merriment and activities going on around them but the words to describe all these things refuse to flow. They refused to come to their command. Writer’s block can be a major disappointment for you as a writer of any such, but try using several systems and methods to at least get something

no matter how hard it seems or how little it is. Try as much as possible to work under a schedule- only write for not more than one hour with a 10-20 min break or more as your muse leads you. Some can write as long as two hours without breaking down while some, can’t. it all depends on you, how long you can carry it. Taking a break of 10- 20 min would be/may be enough to break the boredom and give you the freedom to explore on new ideas. Don’t just be intimidated by this block of a thing. Fight it with freedom of expression that might rightly come from within you.

Mark Twain said: “The secret of getting ahead is getting started. The secret of getting started is breaking your complex overwhelming tasks into small manageable tasks, and then starting on the first one.”

Gabriel Garcia Marquez said also that: “One of the most difficult things is the first paragraph. I have spent many months on a first paragraph, and once I get it, the rest just comes out very easily.”

Like I said earlier about what I do whenever I’m locked up in this mood, I think you should also try those few things. Some of them are really few time-tested methods to help you break free from Writer’s block or lack of ideas from any phase of it. I can tell you that from experience, writer’s block can come either through someone critiquing your work. I mean those that critique your work unconstructively. They break you and make you look worthless with your work. These set of people can bring writer’s block to you. And we have the other set of block that comes naturally. When you encounter this, kindly stop what you’re doing and take a break. Go for a walk, a long distance walk where you can sight many things like human activities and the singing of the birds. Some of the environmental ambience helps also, it might not work for everybody but it works for me. You can put down your work for an hour, a day or a week, and then come back to it with a new hope in you. From there, you can start writing whatever comes to your mind, free from any judgment or question. Hold down your inward

critic. You can rework and edit later when you are through with it, write it just as it comes.
Margaret Atwood once said that: “If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word.”
Barbara Kingsolver once said: “Close the door. Write with no one looking over your shoulder. Don’t try to figure out what other people want to hear from you; figure out what you have to say. It’s the one and only thing you have to offer.”

Meanwhile, always try to shake up the dust in your head like ashes. Eventually the elements and fragments will settle back down, but everything will have loosened and shifted, rearranged itself in your head. Finally, those confined and ensnared words will start spilling out itself one by one like someone just open a door for them to come out from their hiding place.

Basically, some people believe that writer’s block is more about our fear and perfectionist tendencies. And some said writer’s Block is a Myth but whichever way, from my experiences as a writer over the years, I know it is not a myth, it exist. In all, try as much as possible to overcome because you have a voice that people are waiting to hear out there. Don’t allow it to hold you down for long, try new things, new experiences and ideas to help you.

“I think writer’s block is simply the dread that you are going to write something horrible. But as a writer, I believe that if you sit down at the keys long enough; sooner or later something will come out.” Roy Blount, Jr.

© John Chizoba Vincent
#LiquidWords

WRITING IS NOT A CHILD’S PLAY

Writing is not for lazy minds, it is not for those who cannot think beyond where they are or what they see. It is not for those who cannot think outside the box neither is it for those who want to do it because others are doing it. It is not for those who have no purpose to which they write. It is for those minds that can think and brainstorm and proffer solutions to some problems, situations, circumstances and, pass a message to the society as well create an ever lasting impression on people’s mind. Our writings mirror the society and serve as the eyes of the masses; it is not a child’s play to be called a writer. You must live up to the task of a writer.

I could remember when I wrote ‘writing is not for little children’ and posted it on facebook and some other sites, I could remember that I was attacked, some asked me why I would say rejection is normal to writers. They asked me if I know the emotional trauma some writers go through each time their works are rejected by magazines or sites they send them to. I was not able to convince majority of them that being a writer does not mean that you cannot be rejected, in fact I can boldly tell you that each month, I receive close to ten rejection emails from different magazines and sometimes, some don't even reply my message or acknowledge that they have seen my work submitted to them. You can be abused anytime especially in this side of the world where we find ourselves. In fact, rejection should be something you shouldn’t be afraid of, you must learn to accept it as it comes, and you must take it as a normal thing without much ado about it. spread your wings and embrace it and never give up on yourself because your works are rejected out there and other people’s works are being accepted, not every magazine fits your works, not every magazine will accept your works just the way they are; not all of them will accept them the way you write them and the way you present them or your style of writing. Every poem or prose or short stories have their own magazine and place. For the fact that this magazine did not accept one of your poems does not mean another won’t accept it. We are not perfect writers and

perfectionism is not part of Art. Art ia not perfect taht is why we have critics who see art from different angles and approach it differently.

If someone like Graciano Enwerem took ten years to write and publish his book, what then are you rushing to do with your manuscript? Give it time and keep working and developing it. if someone like Samson Kukogho was once rejected and later, the same book that was not accepted somewhere won the Guarantee Trust Bank and Okada Books dusty manuscript award elsewhere; then you have hope of getting your book published. If Harry Potter’s author: J.K. Rowling was rejected many times and today, she is among the wealthiest and famous writers in the world, I bet you, you have not really started writing. I have over seven books submitted in different publishing houses here in Lagos and some of them have not really give me hope of publishing my book; but I still hope in them. There will be many rejections that would certainly come on your way if actually you want to choose this career, you can’t escape the heat of rejection from publishers, if actually you want to be a writer, you must buckle up your shoes.

It is not all about posting on facebook and having people clicking on the like button, some of them that click on the like button don’t read the post and some of them don’t read 6% of your write up. Don’t be deceived, you know your flaws when you are being rejected. Although some of these magazines don’t tell you why your works are rejected, they only say it does not meet up with their magazine’s standard. You see, I’m still a child when it comes to writing, I’m still building my craft; building myself to be a better writer to reckon with. I have witnessed many rejections from different publishers. I have over thirty manuscripts in the shelf. Some I wrote five years ago, some eight years ago and some two years ago. Each time I'm to clean the shelf and i look at them, I always have tears stream down from my eyes because they are those books I took my time to write, some of them I spent six months and some one year and some, more than one year.

Sometimes I ask myself when these manuscripts will turn to a book but get no answer to these questions. I have written to many magazines and I wasn’t paid for it, what was I looking for when I wrote those things to them without looking at money? You know I'm only looking for a way to establish that name: John Chizoba Vincent, because, if I don’t establish it, no one will take me serious as a writer. Even this one you are reading will be rejected too by some magazine i may send it to.

There is always a striking difference between what you write and your personality and how you present it and so therefore, becoming a writer, you have to lay down aside many things. You don’t first consider the money, you don’t consider the pains, you don’t consider rejection, yes, it will be very hard for some people to accept your craft but you have to first work with passion and the pleasure in your muse, get recognized before money start coming. You don’t rush it, it is obvious here in Africa, Nigeria precisely that being a writer that has no name is like being a rejected personality. People take you for granted but it all depends on how you present yourself, it all depends on how strong you are to your craft, if a mere word from a critic can weigh you down then you don’t have business here. The first week I posted my work on a what’sapp group, a guy from the group wrote to me in privately that I should stop writing, he said that I was killing the art itself. I was discouraged because it hurt when someone condemn your work without knowing how long it took you to create the work he just condemned without even reading the entire work. I let go of it that day but it took me another one week before I could write another thing.

Meanwhile, we won’t forget how writer’s block frustrates many of us. Sometimes you are completely blank, you don’t even know where to start or where to end. It funny how some of us manage to get out of this, the emptiness and blankness of our thoughts and some critics out there don’t understand this. Some of them just want to make sure they tell you how bad you are, how bad your write up is, how bad your tenses are, how bad your punctuations are; where you miss it. Some of them don’t do anything

than this. They sit in a comforyable place, eyes wide, waiting for you to drop that work of yours on facebook or what’sapp or any site for them to rubbish it and tell you how bad you are as a writer. And these set of people cannot correct you or tell you the right way to do it, they are always ready to wash you down any time. That is why you have to be strong as a writer, you can’t fight them all, and you can’t win them all. They are like lion that lay in wait for its prey.

Even those up there, I mean those people we look up to as mentors and follow up their footsteps don’t even have the time and resources to help you and me. It is a one man race, a one man journey. You have to establish yourself first, your name, and style of writing. No one is here or there to spoon feed you as a writer. Do exactly what you want to do, don’t allow anyone to turn you into their mugu, a follow-follow goat, not every dress of a man will fit you. Create your own future, create your own style. It is not a child’s play to pick up your pen to write. I must commend all writers all over the world. Take it easy, it is not easy to endure that pain, to have that sleepless night; I bet you don’t even know where you’ve being read and where your names have gotten to and where your name have being mentioned. Don’t see yourself as a loser because someone out there wants you to feel like that. It is only you that know you and knows what you want to achieve as a writer. Don’t give up, keep checking and searching for ways you can improve your art, we need new voices, not sagging voices. We need writers with principles and policies who can cast down fire here and look the sun in the face. We need brave personalities who could stand against these vices when everyone else is on the run.

However, don’t let your growing voice be controlled by theirs. Reason with reasons, you must find a purpose why you write because if you don’t, you will be easily pushed to the ground. It is not easy to rise from this side of the world as a writer, anyone that tells you that it is easy; it is a set up. Work more on yourself. I have written sometimes to a woman that works in one Television station. I can’t remember her name now, I was introduced to her by a friend and she called me and I went to Ikeja GRA. I was excited that for the first time I was going to be paid as a writer no matter how small it was going to be. This was around 2015. We booked an appointment to meet by 4 pm. Before 3 pm I was already there. We discussed and she promised to pay me as soon as I finish up the manuscript. I finished up the first draft and sent to her email and that was the end. She never called again even when I called her she would busy my calls. I got tired of her until I stopped calling.

Later, a friend of mine who shot the film told me that my script was shot and the other of my friend who edited the film said the same thing. I was devastated. I could not say anything to anyone in particular. It happened just like that and it made me stopped writing script for film producers. You see what I am saying, i stopped because i was broken. You know it is not even a child’s play for you to start and finish something that people will read and tell you how great it is. Writing is for the brave heart, many people would frustrate you and make you look useless; like you don’t even know what you are doing. It is for those who can stand when the tide is higher than them, it is for those who can look beyond where they are now, those people that can push ahead no matter the rejections and abuse here and there.

Furthermore, when writing, you don’t just write because you want to write, you don’t just write because something comes to your mind even at that, you must settle down to know how to relate what comes to your mind to your readers. First, you must hold your readers captive, they must follow you in your journey, they must reason with you or reason better than you. You mustn’t leave them stranded on the way; you mustn’t leave them in a point of no return. You must find a way to create a balance between you and those that read you. There are some readers that won’t have luxury of time to go through your description of a particular character while some have the time but in all, you have to play safe, balance the equation in a rightful way.

Take your time, study your craft and your audience, build yourself in it; it takes time to blossom, it takes time to stand. It is not something you start today and it grows today. It comes gradually. It starts taking shapes as you spend time with other people’s work, as you spend time studying how others are doing it. It starts to take shapes as soon as you realize who you are, what you can do and you can channel those things to achieve a common goal. Take your time, don’t rush it, keep building and studying to improve in your craft where necessary and hope for the best. The problem that most of us have is that we are in a hurry to be called an author, we are in a hurry to see our book published, it is good but the way you start is how people out there will rate you in years to come. So start in a clean note, start in a brave style and leave a mark they can’t erase. There is no how you will not be remembered after you are gone.

In conclusion, be yourself. Be who you want to be and don’t try to write like Wole Soyinka or Chinua Achebe or Helon Habila. If you are good, you are good and your voice must be heard somewhere and sometimes in history pages, It might be now or tomorrow but keep working because what you engage yourself in is not a child’s play. It needs gut and bravity..

© John Chizoba Vincent
#LiquidWords

WRITERS ARE NOT POOR NOISE MAKERS OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT.

JK Rowling: With a net worth of $1 billion, JK Rowling currently has the accolade of being the richest author in the world and is also the first author to ever achieve this level of financial success from their writing. She is best-known for writing the Harry Potter series of books from which she has made money from book sales, the movies and the wide range of Harry Potter related merchandise that is available. This British author has also written several adults books using the pseudonym Robert Galbraith. She has homes in London, Edinburgh, and Aberfeldy in Scotland.

James Patterson :James Patterson has a net worth of $750 million and earns an estimated $90 million per year. This novelist was born in Newburgh, New Jersey, on March 22, 1947. His best-known work is his books about Alex Cross, a fictional psychologist. His first novel in this series was The Thomas Berryman Number which was published in 1976. In addition to the Alex Cross series of books, he has also written the series Witch and the Wizard, Women’s Murder Club, Maximum Ride and Michael Bennett. Patterson has also written many stand-alone books. He studied for his B.A. in English at Manhattan College and received his M.A. in English from Vanderbilt University, Nashville, Tennessee.

Stephen King: A prolific American author, Stephen King has an estimated net worth of $400 million. He has sold over 350 million copies of his novels around the globe. His books and screenplays usually fall into the genres of horror, fantasy, gothic and suspense. Some of his most popular books have become movies. Some of these include ‘It’, ‘Carrie’, ‘The Shawshank Redemption’, ‘The Shining’, ‘Misery’, and ‘Stand By Me’. Throughout his career, King has received bountiful critical acclaim for his work and has won over 50 literary awards.
Dean Koontz: Dean Koontz has a net worth of $145 million and he is best-known for writing novels in the genre of suspense thrillers. He was born in Everett, Pennsylvania, on July 9, 1945. Most of his novels incorporate elements of satire, horror, mystery, and science-fiction. They are also often based in Orange County. During the early years of his career, Koontz wrote under pen names, including Leigh Nichols, David Axton, and Brian Coffey. To date, he has sold over 450 million copies of his books globally and his work has been published in 38 languages.

Jackie Collins: Jackie Collins is one of the most prolific British authors of all time and this is led to her having a net worth of $180 million. She was born in Hampstead, London, on October 4, 1937 and is the sister of actress Joan Collins. She is not just an author as she has also worked as a screenwriter, an actress, and a film producer. In 1968, she published her first novel, ‘The World is Full of Married Men’. During her career as an author, Jackie Collins has written 32 books and all of these were included on the New York Times’ Best Seller list. A total of eight of her books have been adapted into films, including ‘The Stud’ and ‘The Bitch’. She wrote a series of five novels called the ‘Hollywood Series’. She was married twice and had three children.

Jeffrey Archer:This English author and politician has a net worth of $200 million. He was born in London on April 15, 1940. He has sold over 250 million copies of his books internationally. However, he is most famous for serving a prison sentence for perjury and perverting the court of justice. His time in prison inspired the series of prison diaries. Another famous series of books written by Archer was the ‘Kane and Abel’ series. Most recently, he has written a series of books called the ‘Clifton Chronicles.

John Grisham:Worth $300 million, John Gresham earns approximately $50 million a year. He was born on February 8, 1955 and is an author, screenwriter, film producer, TV producer, and a lawyer. Throughout his career, this American author has sold in excess of 300 million books internationally. He wrote ‘A Time to Kill’, his first novel’ in 1987. Initially, this was rejected by many publishing houses before it was finally published in 1988 by Winwood Press.

Barbara Taylor Bradford: This British-American novelist is worth $300 million. Barbara Taylor-Bradford was born in Leeds, England, on May 10, 1933. Her debut novel was ‘A Woman of Substance’ which was published in 1979 and remains one of her best-known books. It was the first book in the Emma Harte saga and six books followed in this series. In addition to her novels, Bradford-Taylor has also authored a series of children’s books and a series of interior design books.

Nora Roberts: Nora Roberts has a net worth of $370 million and reportedly earns $20 million a year. This American author was born in Silver Spring, Maryland, on October 10, ‘950. She began writing in the late 1970s and her work was initially rejected by Harlequin. However, Silhouette Books accepted her submission and went on to publish 23 of her books between 1982 and 1984. Her first bestseller was ‘Playing the Odds’ which was published in 1985. She has now written a total of 209 novels.

Danielle Steel:Born in New York City on August 14, 1947, Danielle Steel has a net worth of $385 million. Although she wrote her first manuscript at 19, she didn’t publish her first book until nine years later following her divorce from first husband, Claude-Eric Lazard. She then had a short marriage to a man who was later convicted of rape followed by an equally short marriage to a drug addict. Steele married and divorced two further times. She has written over 70 novels, picture books, children’s literature and works of fiction.

However, when we bring it down to African writers, we have the likes of Chimamanda Adichie, Helon Habila, Sefie Attah, Wole Sonyika, Nadine Gordimer, Ayi Kwei Armah, Mariama Ba, Chinelo Okparanta, Kofi Awonoor, Tomi Adeyemi, of African origin; who in their own ways have made Africa very proud. We may not know their net worth now but they are who they are because they write today and they, in their little ways have contributed to the development of the world literary sphere.
They are writers. Writing contributed to 70% of their fame and wealth. I'd always defend what I believe so much in without any atom of fear. I'll always dance to the rhythm of my heart beat and make sure I follow what my heart tells me. You don't sit at the comfort of your room and call all writers nuisances or poor miscreants or something like that. Some journalists are the reason why you know what is happening in the world. They bring news to your door step. They take risk for you, they risk their lives to cover and write those things you read online. Without them, you may be lost in the deceptive hands of the politicians.

Writers also have their lives to live, they are noble people.They are modest to how they live their lives because they know that many people out there look up to them. Have you ever seen them begging for food in the street? Have you heard of any writer who was sick and couldn't be treated because he was poor? If you have heard of him, I will like to know. Have you seen them going against the rules and regulations of the society? They might be controversial in their dealings and other things but they are not noise makers rather they are always in search of what to feed your head and brain with. They are not miscreants or something like that.

Sometimes, they carve ourselves into places they've been to and places they have not been to, leaving their shadows to wander helplessly. Sometimes music becomes their solace in silent places but; they learn to tell themselves how much they love the world and their lives even when they are fighting unseen battles, they are who they are; writers!

Meanwhile, if you still claim that facebook writers are not writers and you can't read them, I won't blame or ask you why because life is made of choices. You can only take a Camel to the stream but you can never force it to drink water. I can point out some writers who have actually gone viral or world wide through facebook and other social media. So, the choice is yours.

So therefore, taking writing as a profession is infamously difficult to achieve success in Nigeria and the whole world generally. Many authors of great repute spend years writing books and sending them to publishers only to receive letters of rejection at the end of the day because their stories about some certain things or people do not meet up with what the publisher needs at that moment. However, having the ability to think of a storyline that will captivate a reader and write it in such a way that publishers are interested to work with you and readers are forced to purchase your books is something that many writers find close to impossible but they have to write no matter what it takes.

Consider this, writers are not poor noise makers as you've seen them to be either on virtual world or other places. They are refined intellectuals. The depth of their intellectualism makes them gods and prophets.

(Authors net worth Source: MoneyInc.com)

©John Chizoba Vincent
#LiquidWords

Being THE BOY in "A Boy's Tears On Earth's Tongue" - A universal review of the book.

The first time I saw the book title: A Boy’s tears on Earth’s tongue, I smiled and grinned. I decided to take a deep breath and think about the subject matter. We have a boy and his tears and Earth and its tongue. Now, to relate with these four things: Tears, Boy, Earth, Tongue. Tears are water and tongue harbours liquid which is water also. When a boy’s tears mix with the Earth’s tongue, his tears become unseen; unnoticed because the water on the earth’s Tongue would definitely over shadow the tears from the eyes of that little lad. It is deeper and mysterious relating with both.

This brings us to what the society thinks about the Boychild. He is covered by what is greater than him, he is covered by many societal principles and policies which at some point in his life he is confused in pursuit of many things unseen, many things to defend, many things to conquer, many things lurking at his dreams; at his own race in life. But this is not to say that it doesn’t apply to the girlchild, we already have millions of voices out there speaking and agitating for them.
Relatively, this can be applicable to the universe as a whole, like a boy and a girl, a man and a woman but there is this aspect of a boy’s life that the society has abandoned for long.

“When we talk about friends and love, some are not sure to join the tale… They have called some names in the dark with the tone of need…” (Tales pg. 38).

This aspect that we shy away from talking about, this part of society where our mouths are puny and weak to talk about and the society fail to understand or see that these set of people are also fragile like their counterpart.

“…they are silhouettes of beggars whose faces you can’t find in the darkness of our own time…” (Boyhood as a feeling pg. 25)

Hence, voices are sprouting day in, day out to speak out about these set of people; The Boychild. Sometimes we term it as weakness from these people; we see it as people trying to glorify their own weaknesses and not their strengths. Even when they try as much as possible to break out from these societal stereotypes and vices, they have depravities and demons fighting them here and there. The society made them muted actors, actors given roles that made them look like super humans that must not feel pains and sorrow, actors that must not show their weaknesses and pains and shortcomings. Actors that must comparatively follow the role the society foisted on them without speaking or talking about it. Actors whose physique reigns of handsomeness of the world but inside of them are tales that are too heavy for their mouth to speak. They could act on this movie you created but not always mute like you have programmed them to be.

“Someone says something is wrong with a man who was a girl in a boy’s skin… easy to crush by bullies’ tongue... he can’t go back to his placenta for redemption…” (Broken Mirror pg. 31)

“…They are the ones you see sitting in solitude to knit strength into their broken tissues of hurts, and wear the fabric of healing… And roll back into their cave after the ovation…” (Tales pg. 38)

The book which has fifteen poems in total and forty-six pages is described as timeless collections and masterfully written by a mind that is aligned with existence and essential value of human experience by Funso Oris, one of Nigerian foremost poet, literary critic and scholar based in Chicago, USA. The book is well received by prominent literary critics around the globe which includes the likes of Jide Badmus, Adedayo Adeyemi Agarau, Micheal Ace, Funso Oris and Aremu Adams Adebisi.

However, the poet, Tukur Loba Ridwan used this work of art to question these societal beliefs. He finds home in heart drifting into a façade of anonymity to deliver a fine poetry collection that are of coming of age. A poetry collection that is defined by long and vast experience of time and future of a stretched home of art and the changes that come with the immediate understanding that man is ruled by the universal law of inequality of the fingers; later we would be sounding these dreams of boys’ voices along the paths of rosy atmosphere and speeding time into lives to become part of us that cry out every day for attention.

“Boys bottle up death inside and call it strength... home must be reached before they turn, torn by the teeth of tale tellers… who don’t know what a boy’s tears taste like on earth’s tongue…"(Boyhood as a feeling Pg.25)

These lines grip like fire on a dry leaves, like a tornado searching for where to perch its horrible hands. We may likely focus on the fantasy that the world made available for us all, wandering into a vacuum daring our strength and prowess but on the wings of those boys crying Abba father in the streets of our hearts are tales to be told in the morning of our testimonies. Boys have pains too; they cry, they are fragile and can be broken like pieces of broken bottle.
Boyhood as a feeling, boyhood as magical timing experiences of holding dreams and conquering self with a larger gut, it brings definition of who they grow up to become.

“Nothing like freedom, nothing like racing back into your lover’s arms… to die in the eyes like constricted pupils, waking up to nothing where all feels…”(Reconciliation, pg.26)

Sometimes we are consumed by what really stand between us and our breakthrough. Sometimes holding our fears in the arms of our lovers are the only means of survival, trying to make ourselves lovers to those who loves us or to ourselves without breaking.

Tukur took a journey into the heart of the Boychild defining the demonstration of total freedom. He defined the taste of tears and how it tastes on the lips of sorrow and agony and on the faces of circumstances bottling us up in our daily life yet, he was able to gather an immense resemblance of home and a faraway recollection of memories for those bodies who are tales on the lips on mother earth. He recreated Ochanya; he created another Christmas in his verses. He then created a spectrum, and saw eternity in two folds. To find god on the screen of his thought, he deliberately held us captive with undiluted lines that spin into separate worlds and graced our mind with love and factual reasoning of what poetry should be or look like. He was deliberate with his lines and verses.

Meanwhile, Tukur was able to relate his experiences of growing up and Boyhood-ness to us through his own experiences as a boy crying on other’s behalf. He created the same ban and restrictions that the society expanded between the two genders- boy and girl, Man and woman. He maintained his stretched opinions playing no sides about these genders but presenting his judgment in a balanced way. He tells where he is coming from and where the society is actually going with some points reflecting on the source of his liberal understanding of what the society has actually unified in it strive to balance itself. Therefore, A Boy’s tears on Earth’s tongue is delivered in such a way that you can dip yourself into it and return back in a full glowing regalia of a new you. Tukur makes it possible that you remain helpless after feasting on this book.

This earth’s tongue clearly shows the different taste of living and existence of humans in the universe; the struggles between different people of different race, the Joy, the hope, the sorrow and agony. It clearly states that all fingers are not equal and cannot be equal because nature has made it to be so. Dramatically, in a relatively environment like ours, one tends to gather ambition and creative drive so rare to wrap himself in words and verses of what the world looks like and that is what prompted Tukur to take his time in this train of thoughts where abnormality seems so real to the eyes of the world.

Later we would see this as an offering to elevate our art in the mainstream. We may not likely hold ourselves into stanzas and metaphor beyond our imaginations but we must end up leaning on the surface of who we are. Tukur strongly tells mutability and fluidity of this universe into an open field of mind breaking thoughts. He dines uncommonly with ambition of serenity and holds mind together for a future so vast and larger than the mind of creativity. Later, we would hold onto his words to create a world of poetry, a world of futuristic determination and life of words collated in one book. He did a marvelous work with this book.

“…how he needs a man to become a man … like his body falling onto his broken mirror to find himself back; to live like a butterfly whose wings are cardboard of rainbows” (Broken Mirror Pg. 31)

©John Chizoba Vincent
#LiquidWords