On Self-critiquing And Artistry

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   It was a usual, casual  meeting when she was called to sing.  Her demeanour was that of an absolute shocker. Half-way into the song, she paused and said ” I am sorry”.  I did  not know the song but she made me know she messed up. The story would have been different if she had continued. Well, she kind of reminded me of myself.

           Many years ago, writing was an art to me. I made use of a natural feel, intuition to express the inner man’s craving. It was a world that I hid myself in. I did not have to look over my shoulders to see who was watching. I made use of what just came straight from the heart. I did not have to think about what any editor, publisher or critic would say.  I was that boy who did run around elated because somehow, he felt he brought meaning to alphabets.  I built a structure that was my thing and my way.  It was purely kiddy  stuff but those are the ones I am  proud of.

      I still feel that is the real me.

     Time has changed. Everything I do now is a direct contradiction of what used to be. I now study  literary theories. I scout for themes to write on just to fit in. I lost my art . . . my heart.  Life now is about the head.  But it is just the case of demand and supply, the lifeline of economics which publishing rightly is. There have times that I have walked away.

   I look at myself and I see a scientist struggling to make something out of words.  I know I live for big moments but those kill me many times before they happen. Growth is logical exit to  learning but in the face of artistry, it is the loss of self that matters to me. I do not know if I am proud of what I do. What I know for sure is that I am glad I do this.

I Want To Write Before I Die , A Memoir

Credit: http://www.kuonatrustblog.wordpress.com

They would sit across the road and laugh heartily at my screams. They called me The Announcer. That  pitch darkness that formed between the end of the road and the house in which my mother waited for me was indeed a stage. I would stand there and scream my lungs out as if I was the only one who existed on earth.  I do not remember what I said but what I remember is that I was intrigued by the echo.  Paying close attention, I discovered that that voice was almost mine. Somehow, I came to believe that somebody, maybe in the skies recorded me and played it back instantly. I would later spend time to think about whom that might be. I was eight or nine years.

That happened when my two friends, Dwomoh and Kwadwo were not around. To put it correctly, they were my partners in crime. We roamed the whole Asante Mampong Township. We were The Three Musketeers. We sometimes fell into trouble. And we did, it was time for me to think of how we would escape. We called it plan. The truth was, that was our code name for lies. We were successful few of the times. Failure meant a period of wailing for us. The one I clearly remember is when we went to steal mangoes from Teacher Effah’s house. I had laid down that plan with assigned roles. It worked until the time someone blew our cover. Kwadwo was not with us that day. Then we had to run away. Dwomoh and I made it safely home. The others did not make it. Minutes after I arrived home, a group of people brought the others. Dwomoh’s mother pleaded for us and so they left. But there was one more thing. We received the best beatings of our lives. Our skins looked like those of  zebras after that episode.

I was ten and I was enjoying my role as the master planner. My role had extended to other circles of friends. My older cousin, Miriam even allowed me to come up with plots for what we called play (our term for drama). Gradually, I spent more time developing such plots and I found it more fulfilling.

Reading from The Mirror one fine Saturday afternoon, I stumbled on the winners of Burt Award For African Literature.  I felt I could be a writer upon seeing that. Such was the ego that set me on this journey. That was 2003 and I was elven. So I began to write . . .

 I would make sketches of concepts on papers that I kept. Many of them turned out to be an attempt at fiction writing. On a few occasions, I collected sketches from friends and I made poetry out of them. Of course, I should say that it was a pleasure doing that for Matilda, a girl I had a crush on from primary school to secondary school (She’s engaged now . . .smh). Unfortunately, I could not complete my novel titled The Hill because it was stolen in boarding school. I began writing poetry after that. I was able to create  thoughts in a concise genre and still  kept the dramatic techniques. Above all, I was able to keep my works.

Fast forward to 2009.

I felt the world owed me a favour. I wanted to write a book. When I found an online publishing house which was willing to accept my manuscript, I thought wow. But I was wrong. The world went damn silent on …Songs Of My Heart. It awesomely failed and I was completely dejected.

…Songs Of My Heart

I would stop writing for the next two years.

Somewhere in 2012, I had a Facebook message from Daniel Kojo Appiah. Apparently, he had gone through my old notes on Facebook and he thought I could be a good writer. I would spend the next few months under the mentorship of Adjei-Agyei Baah, a man I had encountered before in The Mirror years earlier. I was so moved by his piece that I wanted to write under the name Kwabena Adjare-Agyare.

4^th, February, 2014. Shalom Hostel. Room P 50. Ayeduase- KNUST.

Sometimes, I feel my heart will stop working. I sometimes I feel my weary legs will give up carrying my huge upper frame. But before my trembling fear steps out of that silent prayer, I would want to feel this moment. On this day, my twenty second birthday, I want to renew the vow I made a decade ago to writing. ‘’Till death do us part’’, I say.

It does not matter I if I get stuck here or not. I have dared to be opinionated even under personal discomfort. I have lived, owning perspectives. One day, I will die with nothing left on me. That will be my worth. Until that day, man will   soldier on.