The writer’s journey home.

I’m sorry, dear self, for abandoning the one thing that brought me solace, for neglecting the fire that once burned within me, for chasing the wrong dreams and prioritizing the opinions of others over the whispers of my own heart.

As I spoke these words aloud, my voice trembled with regret. I slumped against the wall, surrounded by the shadows of my past. The dimly lit room seemed to be closing in on me, suffocating me with the weight of my mistakes and wrong choices over the years.

I thought back to the child I once was, full of life and passion. I remembered the countless hours I spent experimenting with varieties of handwriting, eager to show them to my ever-supportive Dad, whom I sadly, deeply miss.

His validation meant the world to me, and he was a constant source of inspiration and a great guide, a man who saw my abilities and gave all the support even when I wasn’t aware of them.

I recall the day he gifted me a kerosene lamp for my studies after previously watching me sit by the fireplace late at night alone after the usual busy day’s schedule, struggling to read and write with the dim and optically unhealthy light. The gift, a beacon of hope in a world where steady power supply as a Nigerian was a luxury reserved for the privileged few who could afford petrol for their private power generators.

He believed so much in my writing prowess, why did I stop?

Everyday, I searched for the perfect script to tell my stories, to bring my imagination to life.

All the time, as I poured my soul onto the pages, writing imaginary stories and helping the illiterate elderly in my community, I felt a sense of purpose. They would often gather at my house, queuing up for me to read or write letters to their loved ones who lived in the city. Before the advent of mobile phones, I was their connection to the world beyond our community, a suburb of Orlu metropolis.

With all the readiness in my young heart and my pen in my ever ready hand, I remember keenly listening to them speak their minds in Igbo, my first language, as I transcribed their words into English, injecting all the emotions as expressed and felt, or sometimes read the letters they received, to them, translating them into our local dialect.

Reading the responses they received from the letters I wrote to their respective recipients showed how accurately their expressions were conveyed and how clearly my writings were understood, which was a beautiful indication that I did what was expected. Those moments sparked a fire within me, a passion for writing and storytelling that I couldn't ignore.

My love for the art of writing and storytelling also fueled my participation in my secondary school debate and drama clubs and events. I was always eager to express myself, to bring my imagination to life, and to connect with others through the power of words. I found solace in the written word, and I mastered the art of written communication over verbal communication. Writing gave me the ability to express myself in all depths and details, to convey my thoughts and emotions with precision and clarity.

But life had other plans. The cruel hand of fate snatched away my passion, leaving me lost and alone. I tried to fill the void with fleeting pleasures and a borrowed aspiration, but they only left me emptier.

I glared at the old, dusty notebook lying on my desk, its pages yellowed with age. It was a reminder of my betrayal, a symbol of the dreams I had abandoned. I felt a wave of anger wash over me, and I slammed my fist onto the desk, making the notebook jump.

"Why did I give up?" I screamed, my voice echoing off the walls. "Why did I let the fire die?"

Tears streamed down my face as I realized the truth. I had been running from my own fears, afraid to take the leap and pursue my true passion. But now, I was faced with the consequences of my actions.

I took a deep breath, and slowly opened the notebook. The pages were blank, except for a single phrase, written in my own handwriting: "Chapter 1." Oh, another abandoned story.

A glimmer of hope sparked within me. I knew that I had the power to continue my story, to rekindle the flame that once burned within me. With a newfound determination, I reached out for my pen and began to write, the words flowing like a river.

Then i realized the writer in me never died, only neglected and starved.

As I wrote, the shadows in the room seemed to recede, and the darkness began to lift. I felt the weight of my regrets slowly lifting, replaced by a sense of purpose.

I was taking back control of my story, and I was determined to make it worthwhile.

Hours passed, and the words continued to flow. I wrote of my childhood dreams, of my passion for writing and storytelling, and of my desire to eat at the great writers’ table and a deserved heartfelt apology to my writing energy.

As the night wore on, the room grew quieter, and the only sound was the scratching of my “Bic” ballpoint pen against the paper. I was lost in my own world, a world of words and imagination. A powerful connection was between my mind and my hand fueled by passion.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the flow of words stopped. I looked up, feeling a sense of emptiness, as if I had poured out my soul onto the page.

But as I read back over what I had written, I felt a sense of pride and accomplishment. I had taken the first step towards reclaiming my passion, towards rediscovering the writer within.

I closed the notebook, feeling a sense of closure, but also a sense of excitement for what was to come. I knew that I still had a long way to go, but I was ready for the journey.

As I stood up, stretching my tired muscles, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked different, somehow. My eyes seemed brighter, my smile more genuine.

I realized, in that moment, that I had been given a second chance. A chance to rediscover myself, to rekindle my passion, and to tell the story that had been waiting to be told.

And with that thought, I knew I was ready to reconnect with and reintroduce the writer in me, to light up my dad’s face with a smile as he watches his inspired writer from where he rests in peace, to take back control of my story for the sake of purpose and fulfillment, and, most importantly, to make it inspirational.