“Carry a journal with you and write in it any idea that occurs to you during the day,” our Introduction to English I course lecturer told us. Dr. Patience hiaMensa was her name.
“That’s a great idea,” I thought to myself, suddenly remembering the many times I had written brilliant stories on pieces of papers and lost them to roommates headed towards the washroom in desperate need of tissue to sign off shitty deals.
Right after the lecture, I headed towards Madina market in Accra. It seemed most of the shop assistants there had no idea what a journal looked like – they helped me revise my sign language skills as I was forced to describe and illustrate and elaborate what a journal isn’t and what it might not be used for.
Finally I found one. That journal would be the birthplace of my creative writing skills. Months later when I shall encounter loneliness in good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, that journal would be my companion in whom I shall confide my despair.
Journey with me to the top. I will be narrating my creative writing history since then and will continue doing so till I become an illustrious novelist. I have a hot pot of stories steaming in my head to keep us warm when the road grows cold…
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