My writing may not be all that but am grateful that at least I can express myself. I have never written for any news paper or magazine except a campus magazine which never got published. My frustrations as a writer remains untold though thoroughly inscribed in the pages of my note book as my meditations. Soon I realized that this were not even meditations they qualified to be poetry.
Like every writer would do, I spent countless of hours between the pages of my notebook trying to grill my writings. I was my own critic…”that doesn’t make sense I told myself.” My room had become my closet where I hide and kept to myself trying to look for apt expressions. I would at times spend time late in the night scribbling in my Kasuku notebook with frustrations from unexpressed ideas and thoughts. I would write all I can and then feel empty and void.My asylum was my own self I drifted from prose and got lost in poetry. I wrote poetry and recited to an imaginary audience. I could hear the audience applaud to my poetic vibe… ladies would go like…aaww and some screamed on top of their voices. At times i would get booed out of the stage and then my world would tumble down on me. It’s not real I would whisper to my conscious. For a moment I thought i was in captivity like St. Paul. And so my only obligation was to write and never let even the slightest idea fade away unwritten.
It was at 1am in my semi-dark room that I pledge my allegiance to my imaginary audience. Into the world of poetry I dug deeper, deeper and deeper I buried my self.
