The Bond And Beautiful

 A writer’s Pain and gain. 
(For Jude Dibia and Chika Unigwe...and all who love beautiful stories)

Although I came across the information about The Bold and Beautiful Youth Literary Forum by what seemed like a stroke of chance, yet I do not think that my eventual participation was an accident. April 2011. The event has come and gone and everyone spoke well of it. We searched for words to express how we felt. It was a spectacular experience. We have our reasons to believe this, for it was a matter of impact and everyone felt it. It was indeed bold and beautiful.

 This story is not particularly about The Bold And Beautiful Foundation, my co-participants at the forum or the liberal facilitators. It is about me. But because the event was not and could not have been without them, they are unavoidably part of my story. I can say they make my story. 

 I thank The Bold and Beautiful Foundation for giving me a fabulous experience. I wish to say that her steps were not just bold and beautiful. It was both encouraging and inspiring. We lauded the event, holding our heads high for it made us bold, beautiful and proud.

The first day was an open seminar. It was indeed a date and I looked forward to it with sheer optimism. The team of facilitator seemed unmistakably outstanding considering the personality and literary standing of Jude Dibia, Chika Unigwe, Dike Chukwumerije and a host of others. I had never heard of Tyrone Terrence, Ishaya Bako, M.K Asante, Peter Moutray, Nicola Philips and the young Amy-Rose Townsend. So it was an opportunity and pleasure to meet them. My interest was more on Jude, Chika and Dike. I have heard so much of them. I wanted to meet them, to know them and perhaps shake their busy hands. They have lived in my mind for so long; I have carried them in the secret place of my heart with enduring hope and patience. Now the opportunity is here, to tell Jude how much I loved the ‘Unbridled’. That I cherished most of his stories especially his entry story for the Common Wealth Short Story Competition in 2010, ‘Somewhere’ which was one of the highly commended. I have not gotten my hands around ‘The Black Bird’, but here I can meet the author.  I could hear my heart say, almost in a whisper – Patient! Anwna ngwo na nkwuocha n’abia! I heed.

I wanted to tell Chika that I have only seen the Black sisters Street on the internet and how much I wish to hold and flip the pages. I wanted to see, the poetry magic of Dike Chukwumerije. Today is here. I am waiting.

There are faces: bold, beautiful, black, white moving about, sipping tea or coffee momentarily, shaking hands, talking, laughing, and making acquaintances. Chika is not here today. The workshop starts tomorrow

 Tuesday, April 16^th, 2011. The workshop begins today. Borno room of the Transcorp Hilton is on floor 02. There is an inscription on the left side of the door: Jude Dibia/Chika Unigwe, Narrative Writing. This is where I belong, certainly. I held the handle gently pushed it open. The room is simple and modest, blue chairs lined behind long tables drawn in rectangular form. There are few faces: Reward, Pamshak, Victoria, Blessing, Festus…. For me the workshop had two faces: moments of pleasure and disappointment.  First, the stories that we read was fun and enriching. We laughed and clapped and marveled at the ingenuity of the writers, the facilitators. Their stories generated curiosity and sensation. Chika’s ‘Growing my Hair Again’ blew our minds; the manner and style she weaved her way through the story, painting a most vivid picture and fully developed characters. Bee akwa! Bee akwa! We would say and laugh and laugh. Epic story!  Jude’s ‘The Last Pill’ took words away from our mouths when he asked “how did you find the story?” At first I felt like asking him why he had to take us round and round about. The theme of the story when revealed was a big surprise. It became interesting when it ended and everyone worried why it had to end. But it had to. It did. Awesome!

Now, this is the part I didn’t find funny. The writing exercise was designed to be a mind-sharpener.  Nevertheless, it was the part which I did not enjoy. Maybe because Beti, my partner, gave me a starting line that was hard for me to make anything sensible out of or because I could not just do it. It was saddening. But it was my fault. As a writer I should be able to create a story where none existed. I am the painter. I own the paint and the brush; I could mix the paint, bend the brush and create a desired picture. I guess that was the idea of the exercise. But I failed. Oh, no. It was just a sign - an indication that I needed to do better, not that I failed. And this is the big lesson: that I did not fail, that I cannot fail; that I can be better, bold and even beautiful.

Yes. It should embarrass me, maybe. But I am not. Now, I lay in my bed, calling back on those memories – how I stood in the middle of everyone, just like everyone did in turn, reading out that off-the-cuff, over-rhapsodized and grammatically flawed piece. I laugh. I laugh not because it is funny, but because I remember how the convoluted story made everyone laugh. But that was it. People thought less of me, I know. People who since had become my friends. It deadened my spirit and dissipated the enthusiasm which had earlier enveloped me. It was even more demeaning when Eghosa had to take my story from me to read it out more carefully. He had to do it, maybe because people could not make any sense out of what I read. I know I have this bad way of fast-reading and most of my sentences were grammatically erroneous. These are imperfections, I know, but I am working on myself. I pull my bedcover over my face. I clench my eyes tightly and my hands covered my face, as if to close the doors of my mind. But it is regrettably open to this taunting memory. Water dripped from the openings between my fingers. My pillow is wet.

I remember that day, when Helon held my hand, and said, in a solemn voice, as if to breathe power into me, “…writing is a lonely profession. You need to create time, when you draw from hidden treasures.” I wipe my face and pull a paper and a pen. I began to write. There is always a story to tell, like my experience at The Bold and Beautiful Literary Forum. This time I do not care if the story is bad. “Feel free to write a bad story Chris.” This is what Madeliene Thien, the Asian-Canadian author once told me. I have decided to write, to tell this story, to free my heart and ease my pain.

Yes. This is the idea, the way out. It feels good to tell stories. It helps you loosen up. It makes you let go. Now, I do not remember that forlorn face of mine that I fought hard to conceal. I no longer think humiliating of Eghosa’s action when he read my own story for me; the faces that I saw laughing when they heard “biting off chest” phrase in my piece are now laughing, I can imagine, not to ridicule me but to make me laugh too. It is funny how things turn out. There is a streak of smile on my face. I laugh out. I laugh because I know that I can, at least, dream of telling a beautiful story, like Jude wrote The Last Pill in the stroke of a night; because I know that I can at least dream of outclassing Chinua Achebe, the same way Festus dream of outwitting JK Rawlins. I am happy because I know that this is life, that the trick is never to give up. The journey has just begun!

I have found my voice out of my pain. There are no pains in my heart anymore; it is only gain that remains. There are so many tales from The Bold and Beautiful Foundation Literary Forum. Tomorrow I will write about Festus’ go-getting dream of surpassing JK Rawlins; about Jude’s uniquely cool attitude and of Unigwe’s inspiring personality.