AMAZING GRACE: LETTER TO YANMIFE

The greatest gift I have ever received was that gangly link, that day in my doubtful state of development, which finally opened my world to modern writing: the link to Barren magazine. I have found others and read many more, two today already and it not yet nightfall. I have learned writing, in its most aesthetic value. Yet, I know I am not ready, even as I practice my craft on chats with you and a few others. Somehow, I feel like a train at the beginning of its journey; picking up speed with every hour. But the journey is long; a long nostalgic crawl through the heat of the desert, where I would discover secrets from the sand of time; slow jogging through a forest of discovery, the ones I am not sure I would be able to open the window curtains and behold. But I know, this journey I must make, not to become anything beyond who I am, but to truly justify a gift given to me; a gift I have never truly appreciated.

I see the difference myself. I read what I could write then, and compare it to what I write now. You were right; there was the passion, the gift; but the craft was missing. There was the expression, but without life. There was the effort, but missing ease. Everything seemed forced, technical, like the repetitive mathematics of our engineering studies at school. There was the message, but it missed the entertainment. I was the noise from a generator on a cool breezy night, where I should have been that same noise on a summer evening, the heat of the unforgiving sun sending us a reminder of our Africanism; heat, truly, is a second skin.

When they would say that knowledge is refreshing, I would sit wondering; what in the strokes of Mr. Akinwande’s cane could be defined as refreshing? What, in all of Ajayi’s inferno could have meant refreshing; for his was an inferno birthed to torment any desire to learn. Perhaps I was taught in the wrong ways; perhaps I was a difficult kid to train. But I did find that knowledge refreshing; enlightening; invigorating; freeing. To know felt like a sunrise to a cloudy night. It reminds me of the Christians’ song, “I was once lost, but now I am found.”

Perhaps you found me. “Me,” that was a wannabe seeking expression, dancing important-like to the praise-singing from my close friend. My friends; the pillars that held me; before you sauntered in, in all of your nonchalance to consequences and that initially annoying bluntness; and hammered down the very stage of complacency upon which I sat. You; a wrecking ball to the wall I built with proud humility. Yet, all of that is forgiven. Not that they were ever an offense; all thanks to the grace that opened my heart to criticism.

I think about clearing the poems off my blog; starting afresh. What good would that do? Why would I want to hide my story; of how I made it through the years, adding layers upon layers of tough skin; of how I mastered inking, drawing from the oasis of lyrics to please a reader’s heart. I am making a decision now, to leave off all that and let people see that those that listen would always find wisdom. I would let them read my story and maybe, just maybe, there would be one like me who would find the secret to discovering who he truly is. Perhaps it would be a she.

I look into the bottle on my table, its clear water inviting me for a drink as I type, and see something that looks like your face. I should be seeing me. But I see you. Could it be that, finally, there is a bit of you in me? If I have truly known you enough, then you would deny this and write it off as a conscious effort on my part to be better. But this would not be true, nor would it suffice. Still, I would merely smile and let you have the day as always. What was it that the Chinese elders said again? That he who honours his teacher, honours himself. Perhaps you aren’t just my amazing grace; perhaps you are my teacher too; either of which I must always honour.