Tolu' Akinyemi's Blog, page 3

To Paint A Vivid Picture Of A Friend You Can’t Rely Upon

Paper condoms
A damp matchbox
A temperamental shower in harmattan
A flimsy bridge in a strong wind
NEPA
A night journey with a drunken driver
A knife with no hilt
An axe with no head
NEPA
A free meal in a famine
A war garrison made of lego
A backrest on a one-legged stool

University of Ibadan, Nigeria- Alexander Brown Hall Book Club Interview

 

1. Can you walk us through your regular writing process?

I write about life and mundane everyday experiences of people. I believe while it is important to write about the weighty issues, they don’t tell a complete story; the simple, seemingly unimportant everyday experiences matter as well.  So my writing process is simple. I pay attention to my environment, experiences and people around me. When I observe something, either by myself or of others when out and about,  I make a note of it on my phone, capturing the context as much as I can.  Regularly  I go  through this idea bank and pick  things to write about.

2. How many hours per day do you write?

There’s always something to put in my idea bank daily, but I don’t write everyday; it’s probably a few times a week and it varies, from 10 minutes to a few hours.

3. How difficult was it to publish your first book? When you did, how did it change you or your writing process?

My first book (like my other books) are self-published. It was challenging as there were so many things to learn. I was determined to make it good, and not be dogged by the typical issues that attend self-published books.

After that first book, I realised the importance of  diligence and due process when writing and  publishing a book; it’s A BOOK, once it’s out there, that’s it. You can’t change it anymore. The experience also humbled me.  I realised how powerful books are; they will go to places you have never been, get into the hands of people you will never meet, and these readers will form opinions and make decisions about what you have written.It’s a great tool of influence.

4. Which of your books is your favourite? Why?

The most recent one ‘ Funny Men Cannot be Trusted’. I’ll like to think my most recent work is my best work.

5. How do you manage to nurture your interest from the beginning of the writing process to the end? Do you not get bored or tired?

There are times you do get tired, and not tired in the sense that you despise what you are doing, but you get impatient and eager to see the end of the project. That is where you must get disciplined and not cut corners.

6. What was the inspiration behind your Poetry of people who hate poetry series?

Poets tend to ‘show off’ with their words, while there’s generally nothing wrong with that, it becomes unproductive when it’s done at the expense of communicating with the audience. Poetry is a language, the flowery words it’s delivered with are useless if the recipients don’t understand, not because they are stupid, but because the poet has been unncessarily obscure. You end up having people who enjoy every other form of writing but  avoid  poetry as they find it difficult and sometimes intimidating. These are the people I write for; hence the phrase poetry for people who hate poetry.

7. Was writing books what you always saw yourself doing?

Not really, but I always knew I would do interesting things with words.

8. Describe your writing space.

Anywhere there is pen and paper or a device with a charge on it.

9. Are your pieces usually personal?

They rarely are.

10. Which African writer or/and poet do you look up to?

I once watched an interview of Ben Okri. I was really fascinated by the consideration he gave to properly  gather his  thoughts before opening his mouth to answer any question. There were lots of what should have been long uncomfortable silences, but they weren’t, they only made the things he said seem more valuable.. That’s something I admired and I’m emulating. (Interview available here:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=orNNO90R-JI&t=15s)

11. What gave you the confidence to own your writing style?

It was effective and it felt like it was mine.

12. Was doodlustration a name you came up with? What motivated expression through that means?

Haha! Yes it was. Asides writing, I doodle a lot. I’m not sure why, but I enjoy it and it seems to stimulate other forms of expression. I could be writing a poem, and while I’m pausing to rephrase ideas, I’d realise the edges of the paper are covered in doodles.

13. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever had to write about outside your published literature?

Haha! If it’s weird and unpublished, maybe it should remain so, and unmentioned. That was a good question though. Perhaps I should give you something; I once wrote about a lady I met on a bus in London. It was a hot day and she had such a thick layer of makeup on her face it seemed like her face was melting.

14. Do you consider yourself born with a silver ink pen or did you have to do a lot of work to get to where you are?

I’m often tempted to believe talent doesn’t really exist. What we call talent is interest that was worked hard upon, I once heard a phrase “hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard” . When you say someone is talented, the chances are high that there was something they were interested in, and they worked hard at mastering it, till they became good at it.

15. What do you think success as an author means?

Influence. Inpact.

16. What are your favourite literary journals?

I find myself returning to the New Yorker Poetry Magazine a lot.

17. If you had to do something different as a child or a teenager, to become a better writer as an adult, what would it be?

Read more and more widely. Every great writer must first be a great reader.

18. A lot of young upcoming writers will be reading this, hoping to find some tips they can use. Do you have any writing advice you feel would have helped you out if you had known sooner?

Network more. Submit to competitions and prizes, it’s a good way to build confidence, improve and get noticed.  Attend events. Learn and learn and learn as much as you can. Read as much as you can. Put yourself out there more,  (Don’t be afraid to) ask for help. Establish relationships with people ahead of you on the same journey. Work harder; ‘talentless’ harworker trumps a ‘talent-full’ sloth.

19. Are the titles of your books your favourite pieces from them?

Haha! No they are not. It will be hard to choose a favourite from any of my collections.

Personal

1. How do you spend your free time?

Write, explore nature, travel, cycle, play tennis (and more recently since the Covid-19 lockdown), play video games (FIFA 20)

2. Do you ever Google yourself?

Haha! Anybody who has an online presence should. It’s  a part of managing your brand.

3. What book(s) are you currently reading?

Homo Deus; A brief history of tomorrow by Yuval Noah Harari

4. What does your family think about your writing?

I don’t know for sure. They probably think it’s brilliant.

5. Do you ever consider work related to architecture and design?

I have worked in an Architecture firm and I currently work in a design agency

6. Can we be expecting any new book(s) from you soon?

Two books in the works. At least one slated for this year.

Funny Men Cannot Be Trusted

People who sleep naked

cannot be trusted

It’s hard to decipher

if they escape the heat

or are laying down bait

for a chosen victim.

People who love shoes

are really not people

in another life

they are millipedes

and when in public

they’ll embarrass you

looking down and around

smirking and sneering

judging your feet.

People who eat food

cannot be trusted;

the ones who dine

behind locked doors

what would they do

for gold coins

If they guard amala

with scowls and locks?

Women who wear makeup

should be respected

for their skills

of guerrilla disguise

they wear warpaint

men see makeup

till it’s too late

and arrows have been shot

and victims have been struck.

These ‘harmless’ Poets

cannot be trusted

with their dangerous weapons

of flowery words

that creep through fences

and suck through walls

attacking knees

and planting seeds

pretending the harvest

was not foreseen.

Funny men cannot be trusted

the ones that joke and joke

and so you laugh and laugh

till you fall very hard

on their already-made bed.

The Pervert

It was a few days to Valentine’s Day. On my way home from the post office, I stopped at the bank but almost turned away in shock. The hall was unusually crowded for a Thursday afternoon. I joined a long queue that was cordoned into several parallel aisles by barriers to maximize the crowded space.

On the aisle beside me was a conspicuously pretty lady, who must have been in her late twenties. She wore a yellow flower-patterned sundress, that seemed to illuminate the space around her like a filament lamp. On her body were protrusions, that could provide a partial canopy for a small child on a sunny day.

I could see a few men in the banking hall casting sweeping glances her way.  I did as well; I am a man. Some women joined us, but from their piercing eyes, the wrinkled noses, and the mouths twisted into knots, you could tell our purposes were dissimilar.

The lady had her purse clutched under one arm, while intently looking down into her phone, held with both hands. It was hard to be sure if she was genuinely engrossed, or pretending to be unaware of the silent commotion she was brewing in the crowded hall.

The queue shuffled forward, just as a casually-dressed man dangling car keys, walked into the bank. I noticed his eyes rest firmly on the pretty woman. He walked towards her, then past her on the outside of the barrier, but not before briskly squeezing the mound on her rear, the way one checks for the softness of fresh Agege bread. There was no hesitation. He did it and  walked on, with a face as straight as a straw.

I gasped in shock, as his rude assault animated the flower petals on that region of her dress. The vicinity wobbled gently, like a rotund mound of smooth àmàlà on a flat plate.

The lady turned around briskly. There I was, standing squarely in her face, and the look on that face, was not the look on the face of someone who had won the lottery.

‘’Cashier three please!’’

A soft pre-recorded female voice purred out from the speakers above our heads, but what I heard was ‘’you’re in deep shit!’’

All along, my left hand had been resting innocently on the barrier that separated us, but after what happened, I looked down, and it suddenly appeared guiltily too close to the ‘crime scene’.

She shifted her piercing gaze from my face to my baffled hand which was still on the barrier, and whatever doubts she had, about the origin of the disturbance to her flower garden withered away. She looked up into my trying-to-be-expressionless face. I saw the coldest stare I have ever felt. It was tangible, I could dice my fingers on its sharp edge.

Any fool could tell that the situation was about to get ugly.

“She’s going to slap me!” I said to myself, unsure of what defensive demeanour to assume. “She is going to slap me!”

Do I wait for her to accuse me, and then in a calmly measured voice tell her it wasn’t me while slightly exaggerating how offended I am?

Should I make my denial right away, and very indignantly, to validate my innocence?

Should I dismissively tell her off, with gross disgust sprawled across my face at her bizarre accusation, for all to see?

Do I find a witness to attest to my innocence?

Surely, someone else in the banking hall must have seen that pervert when he rocked a complete stranger’s ‘plate of àmàlà’.

What if nobody saw him?

What if I’ll need to point out the culprit myself?

What if he denies it?

What if she does not believe me and starts an embarrassing drama?

Who would the people around readily believe?

These were the questions bouncing back and forth in my head like a ping-pong ball.  I stood there staring at her as she stared at me. It had only been a few seconds, but it seemed a lot longer and the room was definitely hotter.

With her eyes still locked on me, she angled her neck to the right, and poked the side of her head twice with her right index finger.

‘’Are you running mad?’’

I had never heard anyone speak so softly yet sound so incensed.

Someone tapped her shoulder from behind her. She broke the searing gaze off of me and slightly turned around. It was the sick pervert again.

I nearly pointed at him while screaming ‘that’s him! He did it, not me!’

He leaned into her, over her shoulder and whispered. I heard the words ‘airport’, ‘your mum’ and something about an empty house. The lady stiffened as if something pricked her. It was mostly my innocence dawning on her.

She turned in my direction, without answering her husband. The menacing look had disappeared and had been replaced by a guilt that appeared to smear her makeup.

She contorted her mouth into a nervous grin, awfully similar to the kind an erring child would bait her parents with. It was painful to see her writhe in misery, but a part of me wanted to punish her a bit for the embarrassment she had caused me.

“I’m so so so sorry”, she breathed, reaching across the aisle and grabbing my left hand with both of hers, squeezing it gently as she cowered into an adorable ball of apology. It was effusive yet contained.

“It’s alright” I replied (with a casual, dismissive courtesy, as if she merely stepped on my shoe or knocked a pen off my hand) albeit, a wooden smile was scrawled across my relieved face.

“What’s going on here?”  demanded her husband, peering from behind her. He had his hand on her waist, and a sparkle in his eyes. He seemed genuinely unaware of what trouble he had caused.

“Nothing!” She replied, then flinched as he pinched the ‘àmàlà’ again, forcing her to muffle a giggle from infecting her remorseful face.

 “Newlyweds!” I muttered, looking away as if the word leaves a horrible taste in the mouth.

“Cashier eight please!”, purred the lady on the speakers.

The queue shuffled forward lazily, like a car on punctured tyres.

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A Note of Warning

If you make me fall in love with you
Please don’t say you were not warned
For as I fall, I’ll break some bones
Lame in love to rise no more.