Why do you write?

 Why Do You Write?

“I’m sorry. Your story isn’t what we are looking for.”

Chidinma rubbed her hand under the table. The cafe felt stifling, even though there were four AC units at each corner. She never liked cafes. Why pay $12.30 for a cup of coffee when you could make your own at home? It bothered her that Lindsay's coffee was still untouched. Chidinma felt out of place here—this wasn't her country, so why did she feel like she was begging them to recognize her?

“Not what you are looking for?” she stammered—a bad habit. Nesara was a small but growing traditional publishing company in New York, representing diverse authors.

Nesara was Chidinma’s last hope.

“We are targeting more Black American women authors,” Lindsay explained. Chidinma was African. Nigerian.  

“Your stories are mostly centered on your country rather than your stay in the US, so it would be hard to sell your books. While your writing is good, it would be hard to sell your ideas to the market.”

Chidinma's gaze drifted past Lindsay Woods, Nesara's top agent, to the cafe counter. It was wide and open, with enough space for the two baristas to work comfortably. A colorful blackboard behind them featured a cartoonish Mickey Mouse design that felt oddly out of place in the otherwise sleek and classy cafe. Probably something the girl with the ponytail and pink hairband had drawn. Chidinma often found herself analyzing people, a skill she'd honed over the years.

“If you could incorporate more Black American style into your writing—”

What was she going to tell her dad?

She scoffed.

She was immigrating in twenty days. Where would she find a job in twenty days?

“Chi, CHI!”

Chidinma glared at Lindsay. She blinked twice, grounding herself in reality. Suddenly, she disliked the woman in front of her. Why invite her here? An email would have sufficed. This felt like a cruel way to play with her hopes.

“It’s Chidinma. CHI-DIN-MA, not Chi.”

If Lindsay felt offended, she didn't show it.

“I was saying, if you have any social media presence, that would help.”  

Chidinma leaned back in her chair, her hands tucked into her hoodie. She glanced around.  

“No,” she whispered.  

“Sorry, you said—?”  

“No!” she shouted, not realizing how loud she was.

Eyes turned their way. The three girls sitting nearby began whispering to each other. Chidinma sank back into her seat.

Lindsay picked up her bag.  

“I’m only trying to help you, but you have other problems of your own.”  

Chidinma raised her head. The ceiling lights hung like Christmas candy sticks, but all she saw was darkness. She had $200 left for the rest of the month, and it was only the second week. She might as well live lavishly; she'd be out of the state by the end of the month.

The cab ride was slow. Just how she wanted it. Her chest tightened, but she preferred worrying about the fare to the future.

Growing up, Chidinma idolized America. She watched every movie, drowning herself in novels that sold the dream. No one was more thrilled than her when she got the scholarship, except maybe her dad. Accounting was a far cry from creative writing. What was the word? Black excellence. Now she had neither.

Master’s degree, no job.

Story, no offers.

Single and broke.

Her dream was only a dream. A teardrop slid down her cheek.

Chidinma saw the taxi driver glance at her in the rearview mirror. If there was anything she'd learned, it was that people were the same, just different shades. She turned her head to the window, watching the city that never sleeps pass her by.

“Fuck,” Chidinma swore when she saw the 34 steps to her room.

“Shit,” she swore again, after promising herself she’d never swear again. ‘The power of life and death lies in your tongue.’

She dangled her bag on her arm, muttering the words over and over as she climbed each step. Halfway up, her mother called.

“How is the job hunt going?”

“Good evening, Mommy.”

“Your uncle Nonso said he has a job at NNPC.” Chidinma bit her lip and kept climbing.

“It’s going well.”

“If it was, you would have called me by now, saying you have a job.” Yes, that was true if she’d applied early.

Chidinma opened her door. Her roommates were glued to the couch and the TV, but they noticed when she walked in.

“Yo—” “He—” Chidinma held up her hand, killing their excitement.

“Mummy, I am just waiting for their response.” Sasha and Lisa sank back on the couch.

“Just come home.” Should she?

Chidinma saw Love Island UK on the TV screen. Sasha and Lisa were wearing oversized polo shirts. Sasha dipped her spoon into the ice cream can, taking a big scoop while Lisa was distracted.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Okay.”

Chidinma snuggled between Sasha and Lisa.

“Who did Khloe pick?” her roommate blinked. Sasha licked her spoon.

“That was your mama, right? Is she still on the line?” Chidinma showed Lisa and Sasha her phone lock screen: a cute wallpaper of an anime character.

“How did your interview go?” Lisa asked, adjusting herself, waiting for an answer. Chidinma tried to grab the ice cream bowl from Sasha.

“No, not till you spill the tea, girl!” Sasha raised the bowl and waved the spoon in Chidinma’s face.

“I wasn’t… I wasn’t what they were looking for: ‘Your story isn’t what we are looking for.’”

“Oh, so sorry, Chi.” Lisa rubbed her shoulder and linked her arm with Chidinma’s, her long, thick brunette hair brushing against Chidinma’s lap.

Sasha’s reaction was different. She jumped off the couch.

“Hold up a minute. They invited you to an interview just to tell you that bullshit, and you’re just gonna take it?”

Was she going to take it? What could she do about it?

“I don’t know.”

“You could write another story,” Lisa suggested hesitantly. Another story. The last one had taken her two months to write after her master’s graduation. For two months, she’d put off job hunting to invest in her writing. She’d lied to herself that there weren’t any accounting jobs available.

Her friends wouldn’t understand. Sasha came from a long line of Black American blood, and Lisa was a small-town white girl. Neither understood what it meant to face deportation—to go back home with nothing to show for it, facing the judgement of her aunts and uncles, settling for a low-paying 9-to-5 job. The economy was bad, and accountants weren't valued highly in Nigeria. Writing had been a mistake.

“I bet if you write smut, you’d get readers faster than Pete Davidson gets chicks.”

“Sasha!” Lisa threw the comforter at Sasha.

“Girl, it’s sweet that you don’t wanna write porn, but I swear it sells. When I go to Barnes and Noble, I ain’t lookin' for the sweet cuddling romances. I’m goin' for the hardcore, ‘pounced her ass’ shit!”

They chuckled at Sasha's hand gestures. Her jokes eased Chidinma a little. They were her support system—ever since she got a part-time job at Ricky's restaurant downtown, and they decided to rent an apartment together. But deep down, Chidinma knew what she had to do. She was going to quit this stupid dream of hers. Hopefully, she’d find a job in the next 20 days before they deported her.

“The type that makes you wonder if I’m craze-craze,” Sasha continued. Chidinma pressed her hand to her chest to stop laughing.

“Do you want to write smut?” Lisa asked. Chidinma shook her head.

“You’re going to get deported. De-port-ed,” they cracked up at Sasha's attempt at a Trevor Noah accent.

Lisa stretched over Chidinma to collect the bowl of ice cream.  

“SashA!!”  

Chidinma used their argument over who finished the last ice cream to escape her roommates. She locked the door behind her. Without removing her clothes, she checked her email.

Chidinma was rejected by the only job she applied for.

Fourteen query letters rejected.

She opened her Google Docs. A blank screen stared back at her for what felt like hours. She began deleting every piece of work, one by one, until she reached the last one. She ran her hands through her thick, long braids. She browsed the current bestsellers; most of them had sexually explicit content. Maybe she could write that. Opening a new page, she began to type.

He touched her skin, softly with each caress.  

Beg me, beg me to make you scream.  

When I call you princess, it would mean you are my slut and no one else.

What was she thinking? She slammed her laptop shut. This wasn’t who she was. It went against her beliefs, her religion, her principles. She wanted a piece of work she could be proud of—standing on a stage accepting a Nobel Prize, saying, this was her work.

Why did she write?

She slid down, her back resting against the bed stand. She wasn’t going to cry.

I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me, she whispered, opening TikTok to watch funny videos.

“I just got ten offers, ahhh!”

“Let me show you how to attract any agent of your choice.”

“Guys… you are so awesome, I just sold 100,000 copies!”

Chidinma swiped to her profile. Her views stared back at her:

120 views.  

200 views.  

50 views.  

500 views and 3 likes.

She tried.

She tried.

God, she swore she tried.

Maybe—maybe she wasn’t supposed to be a writer.

Why was she even writing in the first place?

One drop.  

Two drops.  

A rainfall.

She bit her lips to keep any sound from escaping them. A silent rain.

What is a writer without an audience? Like a musician on an empty stage. This was her art, her vulnerabilities. She searched for her work in her bag. It was gone. She turned her bag upside down—her hardcopy manuscript was gone. For a brief moment, Chidinma let everything envelop her. All her work was gone.

Maybe it was better this way.

Seconds passed, then minutes and hours.

She sprinted out of her room, ignoring the fact that her roommates would see her swollen eyes and puffed cheeks.

“Have you seen my manuscript?”

They stared at her, puzzled. She raked her hands through her braids again. They shook their heads. She searched around the couch, in between the cushions, flipping the couch upside down. Did she leave it at the cafe? With a growing sense of dread, Chidinma knew she needed to go back and check. Carrying her bag, she was ready to step out when Lisa called her softly.

“Chi…” It wasn't a pity look.  

“No matter what, you’re my favourite author.” It was an acknowledgment. One reader was all that mattered, Chidinma thought.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Lisa’s quiet comfort was enough for her.

Six dollars for the taxi back to the cafe. This time, she looked at the city in its allure, praying to God that her manuscript was still there. She still couldn’t remember why she started writing or why she continued, but she knew she didn’t want to stop. The streetlights shone brighter than the moon. The noise was punk music; she watched young girls bump into strangers, friends laughing and chasing each other, not a care in the world. Their lives did not intertwine with the strangers that passed them by. Life was beautiful, and New York was a dream for her—maybe for others, a nightmare.

Chidinma halted. From the glass door, she saw a man laughing while reading a book—her book.

She grinned.

“Good evening, sir. Sir, that’s mine.” The old man pulled his glasses down and set them on the table.

“Oh, my apologies. It was on the desk.”

Chidinma nodded.

“My wife would love these kinds of books.”

She giggled. “Thank you, sir.”

“Oh, please, call me Gerhard. Why do you write?” Chidinma hesitated. *Why did she write? Why did anyone write?*

“Chidinma.”

“So why do you write, Chidinma?” He broke her name into defined syllables. She was taken aback by the correct pronunciation of her name.

“Sir, I’ve gotten so many rejection letters. Honestly, I don’t—”

“Take a seat.” He extended his hand toward the chair in front of him. Ironically, she was sitting in this very seat earlier, receiving the worst news of her life.

“You see failure; I see a different perspective. Many spectrums to success.”

She pouted her lips, conflicted. Gerhard noticed her hesitation.

“So, do you want to quit?” Quit? Maybe. Since when was she unsure?

“You can stop, never tell Gabriel’s story. Another person would, in a different way. They might not see it the way you see it.” Her eyes widened with interest. He’d really read her book.

“I—”

A call from Gerhard's phone interrupted their conversation. Watching the elderly man smile like a boy, Chidinma knew it was his wife. The wrinkles on Gerhard's face were as visible as the freckles on his ears. Who was Gerhard when he was 24, like her? She scanned him—from the hands that trembled while holding the phone to his neat polo shirt and trousers.

“Better go home to my wife. She’d throw a fit if she saw me talking to you. Always getting jealous.” He laughed at his own joke. Gerhard picked up the cane resting beside his chair.

“Shame I didn’t finish this book.”

Chidinma picked up her manuscript, offering it to Gerhard.

“You can keep it.”

Gerhard shook his head.  

“I’d rather read it when it’s published.”

“It might never get published.”

Gerhard searched his pocket. “Do I still have those cards?” he mumbled to himself. Finally, he sighed, giving up the search.  

“Come Monday to Timeless. Tell Harriet Gerhard sent you.”

“Timeless?”

“Do you know Timeless? Forget it. Search it on your phone or whatever.” Chidinma watched Gerhard until he left the cafe.

She sighed deeply. Today was exhausting. Coming back from the cafe, Chidinma decided to take the subway. The train halted. In front of the door, a poster of a woman in all white with alluring orange lips caught her attention. But it was the quote that intrigued her:

‘I found my muse on the streets, cafes, libraries—simple places where no one was looking.’

And just before the door opened, at the top of the poster, the word TIMELESS was written.

She entered the subway. Chidinma thought to herself, When I get home, I’ll do proper research. Her heart leaped; there was hope. The clang of the metal, the scrutiny of everyone entering or leaving, Chidinma held tight to the rail. She blinked twice, catching herself falling asleep. The pretty boy beside the old lady hadn’t stopped staring at her since she boarded the train. Every once in a while, he’d look away, but his gaze always returned to her.

Chidinma focused on the signpost, RED BULL, ignoring the young man. But ignoring him was difficult when he decided to sit next to her.

“Go away, white boy, you’re not my type.”

“What, can’t handle a white boy?”

“No, a little white boy can’t handle me.”

She turned to glare at him. Up close, he didn’t look so young. In fact, he seemed older than her. He slid back two seats.

“I wasn’t trying to flirt with you or anything,” he said. She raised an eyebrow.

“I saw the manuscript and I was intrigued.” Chidinma squinted at him. “Okay, maybe I was flirting a little.” He grinned, his dimples showing.

Her shoulders relaxed. He shifted closer, but Chidinma placed the manuscript beside her.

“Noted.” A sheepish smile spread across her face and quickly vanished.

“Can’t you see I need to muster a lot of courage to talk to beautiful, successful Black women like you?”

“Yes to those last two words, but I am not successful. Besides, you’re not my type.”

“You are exactly my type.” Chidinma rolled her eyes at his cheeky line.

“I like my men Black and God-fearing.”

“A woman of faith, I like that. So tell me more about you.”

“There’s not much to tell.”

He smiled with his eyes. She’d never seen that before.

“I find that hard to believe. You look like a woman who is smart and focused.” She twisted her hand away from him. Despite his cheeky lines—lines she was sure she had heard before—Chidinma blushed.

“We might never see each other again. I’m Edward, by the way.”

He stretched out his hand. A moment passed. Chidinma noticed a flicker of light in his eyes. Chartreuse, she would later write in her stories. Not green, not emerald—a shade she would try to find in every green she encountered.

“Chidinma.” She lifted her manuscript from the seat, allowing him to sit closer.

“So why do you write?”

‘Because of the intricate details of people’s lives that are intertwined, like parallel lines—they may never meet, but each story has its own unique milestone. Like us.’

“I just write.”