A pen is my friend, I write when am depressed, I write when am happy I write when am angry, I just write as long as I got a pen.
I was good at composition and my stories were often used by the teacher as an example. After school I am still writing. I once met my teacher and gave him a copy of one of my stories. “Lucas I am proud that you continued writing. I loved your compositions and surely I will read this one.” He said. Two days later I met him and asked him if he liked the story. “Am sorry Lucas I have been so busy that I haven’t got enough time to read it but for sure I’ll read it tonight. “
I got a friend who really likes reading my stories, the only problem I got is that he just can’t read my story if he sees a meme. He says he likes my stories but he loves memes more for he spends two hours on memes and hardly remembers to read my story.
The same friend read my story titled hard work. He confessed the story really inspired him and he would try to work hard and smart in order to succeed. So sad that is the same person who wakes up at 12.30 pm and sleeps at 1 am after getting tired of Instagram and Facebook. The message was inspiring but the inspiration has never been portrayed.
Now there I got tired of sending my stories to a certain lady. The first question she asks before reading is who is the author. When I tell her its me she says she only read books of Ngugi wa Thiongo or Chinua Achebe. The local writers write shit and they have no content. Its so sad that she doesn’t notice that international artists began as local artists, its so sad she can’t help where her hand can stretch. She only focuses on established artists.
This is my cry, a cry of a slum writer, a cry that some people don’t see our aim. A cry that motivational stories are also read for fun. A cry that local people don’t support us.
I can write as many stories as I can but they are all useless if you don’t know the worth of the story.