THE FIDELITY EXPERIENCE: Memories of the past
(For my friends, the "privileged twenty")
The 2010 Fidelity Bank Creative Writing Workshop
has come and gone. Our expectations were not cut off. “You made it to this workshop not because
your stories are in themselves artistically perfect and flawless but because we
find great potential in them,” Helon Habila, moderator of the event told us. I
do not say we were lucky. No, we were privileged - the privileged twenty. Today,
I am like a farmer; the ground is fresh and soft. I sow my seeds. They will germinate. They will grow and
blossom, because the soil is rich.
Invitation to the workshop was a big
surprise and indeed my first literary outing. Even after I printed the invitation,
I was still like a man that dreamed, and so it was, until the cab pulled up in
front of Grace Point Hotel, venue of the workshop.
“Check the hall downstairs for
your registration.” The silky voice of the receptionist fell on me.
I am inside Ajanwachukwu Hall, a
theater of dream for me, and for many of us whose literary dreams, aspirations
and appetite would in a short while be whetted. There is a near tendency that I
develop some sort of eerie feeling or emotions. I hold firm. There are few strange
and plain faces. I can only measure the anticipation in them. I made for
acquaintance with each of them: Stanley, Esther, Ebele, Seun…. We shook hands
and managed a faint smile.
At Brick Land Residence (our new
home for one week) we met the gentle man called James. He congratulated us and
unveiled the program schedule to us, telling us what to expect. But I already
had great expectations. I watched him speak with utmost prudence and clarity,
producing his words with little effort. His broad chest divided into two halves
by an orange tie, exactly the way an opening divided his upper teeth. His address
was simple and precise, like a news lead. This is the beginning of the journey,
I said to myself when everyone dispersed. I have a room to myself. Tomorrow the
workshop begins. God is kind.
April 16th, 2010.
Today we return
to the theater of dreams, to be tried, burned and beaten, like
gold; to be molded and straightened, to be formed and informed. I longed for this
day. I pined for it. I am full of hope. My state - I suppose - is appropriate
for the occasion.
I recall these days with sheer
reminiscence. Remarkable memories of
friends and events, of places and people I do not want to forget. I write this,
that if you love it, like I do, you keep and guard it with joyous abandon. This
memory of meeting with great mind and busy hands; we started as individual
participants and facilitators and ended up as friends. Now I remember them with
a huge sense of pride.
I know I had met Helon Habila
before, but that was on the pages of a book and over the cyber wavelength. This
morning, I am the privileged one. The hall is quite simple and modest,
befitting a conference room. Helon is already seated at the far side of the
table, patiently waiting as we arrive periodically. He is not overdressed -
simple and plain in that green collar T-shirt and black jeans, I still remember.
I walk up to him, bold and proud. “Christian is my name.” He pulls a charming
smile and extends a handshake. There is something about this moment of handshake.
You do not understand. I am sure. It is a
special occasion when I surrendered my head and hand and say:
Take, master, I submit to you
Like a piece of clay in the hands of a potter
I avail myself
Like paint and brush in the hands of a painter
I obey
Like a piece of gold
I offer myself to be burnt
I belong to you, oh master
I surrender.
It is a landmark. Perhaps because
it reminds me of my literary dream and ambitions to be like him. Now my hope is
coming alive, the night is giving way to the day. I see the sun rising in its
beauty and splendour. The radiance is breathtaking and the world is wrapped in
great hope and anticipation. I follow the sun, like the wise men followed the
stars, stardom my destination. Holding my breath I gaze at his hand, his busy hand;
this hand that write so beautifully and creatively, as if with no effort. I
pause and ponder. I want to run off with it. But no, I should have my own
hands, my busy hands. Now the trick is here – to listen to my master, to obey,
and learn.
So it was that Fidelity Bank did
not let us down, not with such moments when Helon would stand before us, our
heads tilted towards him like curious children listening to moonlit tales. He
made us think like him. Hunched over our
computers, we listened to him. We believed him. We obeyed him. Sometimes we
forgot our real selves – as starters, and felt as though we had arrived, like
him. But that’s just him; always creeping subtly into your subconscious and
making you see and be what you dream. This is what we have become: our dream selves
or at least on a sure path to our dream selves.
I do not forget other busy hands
as well. They were co-facilitators with Helon. I find it extremely difficult to
talk about Tsi Tsi Dangaremgba, the one whom I love so much to call her name
even though it made my tongue twist in my mouth. It is hard not because she is
not worth to be spoken of but because her personality, as I perceived, in that
one-second-week is so unique that I am
at war finding words fit for her description. But there are remarkable things
that I cannot forget about her: she took me to Zimbabwe. I saw it in her
appearance – calm, true and original. She was always different; her hair,
intricately plaited in long, fairly brown ropes, grazing her backside. I love
this originality in her person, I do not lie.
In front of us she stood, African,
traditional. Now I miss her subtle smile. When she talked about the middle of
stories and the mid-point reversal she opened up the dormant part of our heads.
Tsi Tsi had her ways, though a little fast, she always made her point. At other
times we sat close to her as if in heart to heart talk, and like a mother she
attended to our individual literary difficulties. She could tell a story with a
chat. “Your story should have this…; you must be able to show when the
beginning of a story ends and when the middle begins…”
There are just no memories
without those of the memorable Maddie. Over here, the night is cold. I bow my
head, my lips kiss the table. I close my eyes in prayer – God please keep
Maddie; a friend so simple, graceful and true, a rare gem. Madeleine Thien, was (and still is) to us -
and perhaps more particularly to me – a great friend and companion. So doting, she
made us feel like little children.
Her face ever without smile, she stood in our
front, confident, and read in that tiny voice that permeated our hearts. She
was patient with us. Elias, can bear me witness and Stanley wouldn’t disagree.
When the time for an exercise elapsed and we were yet unfinished, she asked us
in that filtering tone, “Does anybody need more time please?” Then we chuckled.
Oh, Maddie.
There are just no memories without
that of my friends, great friends. Twenty is not a small number to mention, but
I will talk about Elias Chukwuemeka, the one I call “Emmy Hills”. I have this
sentimental attachment towards him, maybe because we hail from the same place
and perhaps more because we share the same surname. My brother from a different
mother; I love his eloquence and activism. His visual imagery and originality
in ‘The pot of life’ amazes me. I also
love to think about High Chief’s gratified
grammar pattern and how we laughed our heart out during his presentations. Good
as his works were, he had a comic touch to his presentations, and it was fun.
Beautiful moments. Stanley Azuakola got
himself stock on my heart, like a piece of metal on a magnetic object. Please
don’t ask me how; I don’t even have an answer, a friend whose departure that
hazy morning left me broken. Cold and forlorn, I gathered myself, dried my
tears and counted my steps down the street, the rain behind my back.
There are more stories about us –
memories. Although I am constrained by strength and capacity, I have been able
to make out one simple and unbeatable truth: that we are all wonderful people;
the privileged twenty, my people, and my friends.
There are other moments of
pleasure and of course pain and sometimes mixed feelings. These are memories of
time, now our past – one whole week gone in a second. One week that made us one
people and gave us a common identity. In hours we measured our length and
breath, our strength and weaknesses. Then, gradually we learned to live and
accommodate ourselves. We had begun to live like a family, hatching the egg of
our dreams, so often gathering to talk in groups, sometimes round the table,
talking and chatting over clattering spoons.
I think about the tours. I close
my eyes. I hold my head, calling memories back: the beautiful art pieces at the
craft villages; the serene lush green park. I still have pictures of them.
Swept by the fun and undeniable
emotions of hope, we thought less of an end coming, creeping slowly but steady
and sure. It did. Now, like pages of a blank book, everything is bare. We have
walked away, so sure of where we are headed but unwilling. We have set off,
everyone to his way. I saw tears. The back of our hands did the job– wiping
rolling-salt-water off our heavy faces; faces once wreathed in smiles and
glorious laughter, now trails with wrinkles from the root of the emptiness that
has befallen us. Such was the pain inflicted on us by time and widening
distance.
Together as friends, we dread the
swiftness of time, this time that we prayed and pined for when we received our
invitation to the grand occasion. It has come and gone, leaving us pale and
frail, like orphaned children. This is the scar. I can show you if you can
touch my heart, the scars of friendship and love.
There are more pictures that I
can paint of those moments with Fidelity. But like I said, I am constrained. I
will write again if you need to refresh your memory of this fabulous
experience.
One big hug to the literary family.
Yours, always.
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