The Writer

 

I don't talk to strangers. What I mean is, I don't have unnecessary conversations with service people. If I have an appointment with a doctor, I don't need his bedside manner. I don't need enquiries about my welfare from the market woman at the stall where I always buy my semo or idle chit chat with my barber as he cuts my hair. Even on a bus, I don't join in on the familiar chorus of how bad this country is getting.

I don't think I'm better than people. I'm just not good at verbal communication, so I write instead. I'm better at it. I eavesdrop on the conversations of people around me and reinvent them as fiction. That's how I became an international best-selling author. 

A year has passed since I last published a novel. That's why I decided to go out to find fresh ideas. Public transportation is usually ripe with stories to transform into captivating tales. 

As I waited on a street in my city, I spotted a keke. It was empty except for the driver. This was not what I wanted but the sun was especially hot. So I waved it down with the hope that more passengers would join us. 

Barely ten minutes into the ride, the driver said to me, 'I know you.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'I know you,' he repeated, turning slightly to look at me, 'You're that guy who wrote Segun's Bane.'

I was surprised. The driver didn't look like someone who read my books or someone who even read novels at all.

He looked like he was in his late sixties. He had a proud back that was beginning to slump, with grey hairs sprouting evenly on his head. His hands, which gripped the steering handles, were decorated with recent scars. 

'Oh, yeah.' I replied with as much apathy as I could muster. Meeting fans was the one part of my job I hated. I had to answer silly questions like where I got my ideas. 

I enjoyed the silence for another five minutes until he spoke up again.

'I enjoy reading your books. They remind me of the type of stories I wrote when I was younger. I used to be a writer, you know.' He laughed bitterly, as he said this.

'Oh God!' I said to myself, 'A used-to-be. Next thing, he'll ask for my opinion on something he wrote.'

Taking my silence for encouragement, he continued.

'Yes. I used to write about fantastic things happening to ordinary people. Then all of a sudden, I lost the ability to be creative with words.'

He seemed to want some sort of reply from me. What I wanted then was for him to pick up another passenger so I wouldn't have to talk back only listen. 

He spoke up again. 'You see, my life has been a fantastic story itself. It's a story I'd like to share if you don't mind.'

I needed new ideas for my next novel. Maybe something from his story could be a catalyst for my own story.

'Sure. Why not?' I replied.

He turned to grin at me, revealing spotless white teeth.

'So, I'll drive around while I talk. When I'm done, I'll drop you off wherever you please.'

I nodded in agreement. He began.

My name is Festus. I was the only child of my working parents. My father was a driver and my mother was a full-time nurse. This meant I spent a lot of time alone. They were loving parents, don't get me wrong. It's just that they had to do what they had to do to make ends meet. I, on the other hand, was the model child. I didn't cry a lot as a baby, and I didn't crave attention as a young child.

You see, back then, TVs weren't as common as they are today. We didn't have one, but I had seen some on the rare occasions I visited my mother's relatives. On such occasions, children watched whatever was showing on TV while the adults gathered to discuss whoever was currently disgracing the family name. It wasn't always possible to finish what was showing on TV either due to NEPA power cuts or our departure, so I had to make up the endings in my head.

I got so good at it that I didn't even need tv anymore. I would create an entire cast of people and have them act out a series of soap operas. Basically, I lived in a world of my own with the people I created.

But nothing good results from being alone and growing up unsupervised. In secondary school, I was the president of the Drama Club and the editor of the school magazine which I contributed to. On the surface, I was doing great. On the inside, I was acquiring my own portfolio of vices. By the time I was in university, I was smoking cigarettes, drinking alcohol, and gambling regularly.

I was great at compartmentalising these two halves of myself. Eventually, I graduated from university. My parents died; my mother went first, and my father followed. They left me a house, which was great since I wasn't employed.

It was during this period that I started writing fiction. You see, I didn't have great prospects. The labour market was saturated, and I didn't study a professional course at the university. My imagination, although dulled a little by alcohol, was still there.

At this point in his story, he turned back to me and asked, 'How do you answer the question of where you get your ideas?' He didn't wait for an answer, but went on with his story.

The stories I wrote usually centred around a main character. I'd take a part of myself and give it to this character. I'd then make up a lot of other qualities to distance myself from this character. 

Let me give you an instance. I wrote a novel about an alcoholic who loses his parents in a fire. He is drunk one night and carelessly leaves the gas cooker on. They die, he survives. He goes on for the rest of the story seeking redemption until he eventually finds it as a pastor. I named him Paul. 

Funny fact: I haven't touched a drop of alcohol since I wrote that novel.

I used this method over and over again. Create characters based on my personality. Sometimes they found redemption and other times, I left the stories without a conclusive ending. And with each vice I gave my characters, I lost them myself. I stopped drinking, smoking and gambling. It was like magic.

But the real magic happened when I saw Paul in real life. Exactly the way I wrote about him. The same height, bushy eyebrows, and even the burn on his right hand from the night his parents died. He was a pastor too! At first, I thought it was purely a coincidence until I started seeing other characters I created around the city. Exactly the way I wrote them. Exactly the way I left them when their story ended. 

I began feeling powerful. Then I realised something. That while I gave my characters my personality, I also gave them my future. When Paul found redemption in God, I became an atheist. When one of my characters married the love of his life, I could never enter a relationship that led to marriage. 

So I tried to fix it. The last story I wrote was about a best-selling author whose stories were about others, not himself. That was how I lost my ability to write novels. 

It was at this point where it seemed he had ended his story that I paid attention to where we were. It has a lonely road walled on both sides by untamed bushes. He stopped the keke and came down. I became apprehensive, but I came down too. After all, he was just an old man. I noticed a gun in his hand and that was when I became afraid.

He started talking.

'The thing is, I've started taking back my future from those I gave it to. You see, your success as a writer is mine.' He started walking towards me. 'I made you. I created you.'

This man is crazy, I thought. My heart beating wildly.

'Hey hey hey. Calm down. I'm not whoever you think I am.' I pleaded.

'Oh you are. Did I tell you the name of the last character I wrote? I named him Precious.'

A cold heat settled on my heart at the sound of my name.