All posts tagged: writing

28.

Published by Osemhen

I turned 28 two months ago. Usually, I’d write a blogpost to commemorate but I wasn’t in the right place mentally at the time.  I am now. What does 28 mean to me? It’s a question I’ve struggled with but also a question that’s very easy. 28 is familiar, like an old sweater. Like I’ve spent all my life waiting to be 28. Like I was born to be 28. I’ve never felt this way about any other age. Does this make sense? Physical identity meant a great deal to me when I was 28 years old. I had almost the same kind of relationship with my mirror that many of my contemporaries had with their analysts. Don DeLillo, Americana 28 is… The age of  “unlearning”.  The age of courage. Of being able to unpack the baggage, the myths, the cliches, the “home training”. They were useful…once. When we were younger and life was easier with a playbook, a rulebook. But life’s so much complicated. And it’s so much work to be likable. And how …

I Did A Life Audit Instead Of Just Making Resolutions…I Think It Worked

Published by Osemhen

I know, I know. In the last post, more readers voted for the Zeus and Amadioha piece. But as I started writing it, I realized that the pictures I wanted to use were in my camera and it’s hundreds of kilometers away. I’ll have it by next week, though. So I promise that piece then. Forgiven? Thanks! 🙂 I stumbled across the idea of a Life Audit on FastCompany. The concept is simple enough. You lock yourself in a room with a pen and a stack of blank Post-it notes and a bottle of water (because the process makes you thirsty, apparently). If you need to, you put a “Do Not Disturb” sign outside.  Then you start to write your goals. Every single one of them, no matter how outlandish or silly. No matter how big. One goal per Post-It. This process can take anywhere from 30 minutes to two hours. I actually did this over a 3-day period; I couldn’t find the time to do it at once. When you’re spent (or you run …

Flight.

Published by Osemhen

K: I’ll pick you from the airport. Me: No, thanks. 10 hours later, I wonder how I’ll find my way from the airport. What if “Something” happens? What if my flight gets delayed and I take a taxi to my destination late at night and I get robbed or Something because I’m this petite, light-skinned woman (read: easy mark)? It’s impossible that I could be strong, you see. No one thinks you can be, not when you’re fair and petite and female. I should have taken K’s offer. Why do women like to be chased? Airport. The boarding announcement comes on and we all shuffle to the tarmac. All of us will be dead in 100 years. And it should evoke some sort of camaraderie, shouldn’t it? But it doesn’t. We are ignoring one another. It’s strange, considering that we could be deathday mates. What if? What if our plane, this plane that Arik has christened “Michael” were to fall out of the sky? We would die together. Approach the pearly gates together. Our families …

Ted-Posts, Lent and Broken Laptops

Published by Osemhen

 Early this year, one of my friends asked me, “If you could give a Ted-Talk on any subject of your choice, what would you talk about?” It took me awhile to answer but I replied, “The importance of singularity, of not taking your cues from the crowd and daring to stand alone.” But his question has haunted me over the past one month and I realize now that I’d actually talk about something else, if I got the chance. I’d talk about the importance of friends. Because no matter how much I want to believe that I have always done my thing, it would be slightly dishonest. I am the sum-total of all the people I have let into my life. And everything good about me, I have because I aped someone else. Ditto everything bad 🙂 (this is a sub to relevant parties. You know yourself). But honestly, I have been privileged to know and count among my friends, some pretty cool people. And I want to share them with you via “Ted-Posts”. If …

On The Farafina Workshop

Published by Osemhen

The first thing I miss is waking  up to memories of last night’s Smirnoffs. Waking up to the thought of breakfast with my literary kindred:  litres of orange juice and mounds of French toast disappearing as we lament the fact that we have been irresponsible and not typed one sentence decent enough to be read in class, much less critiqued. Liars! I miss sitting in the Coaster bus, gossiping about our tutors as we wait for Buchi (perennial latecomer that she is) to prance downstairs so we can go for class. I miss  posing for pictures. I miss how the room brightened when Chimamanda walked in bearing apples and Ferrero Rochers (because we were such great students 😀 ) I miss the laughter during lunch at the Lagos Resource Centre where we held our sessions from 10 am to 5 pm (sometimes 7). The workshop was many things. New friends. Self discovery. Surprises. I would find out that Chimamanda did not read the entry I sent in; someone sent her the link to one of …

A Really, Really, Really Brief Writing Workshop

Published by Osemhen

In a few weeks’ time, two writing workshops will begin. The first is organized by the Farafina Trust and hosted by Chimamanda Adichie. The second is organized by Fidelity Bank and hosted by Helon Habila. Understandably, not a few wannabe authors are anxious about being selected. The hosts are big names in the industry and for many people, yours truly included, the opportunity to interact with them is one to die for. Almost. The truth is that not everyone will get in. Sucks big time. Word on the street is that Farafina Trust received about four hundred applications. Only twenty people will get picked. Daunting odds. My stomach goes all funny at the thought of it. And so, to take my mind off it, I am reviewing everything I’ve learned about creative writing. If I don’t get in for either of the workshops (sigh), I’ll re-read John Gardner’s Art of Fiction and hope I get in next year. 🙂 So here goes. My mini creative writing workshop.  I won’t say I’ve been faithful to them …

I Was Going To Write A Story (Really!)

Published by Osemhen

So I plugged in  my trusty Azure (she’s a solid black HP, not blue like her name says), booted her up and opened a new page in MS Word. My story was quite a simple one. A love story. A heroine. A hero. Boy meets girl. Crisis. Attraction. Love. Marriage. The End. Your typical M&B. Only Nigerian. My heroine was called Edel. Short for Edelokun. Edelokun means The river can’t ever be greater than the sea. A typical Ishan name. Wantonly boastful. I liked the name Edel, still do. It sounds exotic, doesn’t it? I mean, a girl called Edel, what would she look like? You see? Edel, however, did not like her name. “It sounds French, Osemhen. I prefer Elokun. It’s a more appropriate name for a proud, black, African woman.” And just like that she went from being a slightly light-skinned, tall, slim, size 6 chick with a fantastic Brazilian weave to being the colour of burnt sugar, with a size 14 figure and a full head of beaded dreadlocks tied up in …