My Pencil - Roast Corn & Ube
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My Pencil

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My pencil guffawed.

It was a loud, harsh, grating sound.

It reminded me of the spirits, in the story, ‘ The Flute‘, by Chinua Achebe.

” You can’t write?’, he spat at me. “You can’t write and it’s all my fault???

Well, whose fault was it then?

I haven’t been able to put pen to paper…in this case, pencil. Surely it must be pencil’s fault.

I didn’t articulate my thoughts but he read them all the same. Were we not one?

I conceived my thoughts; he brought them to life. So it followed that if I couldn’t write, he wasn’t playing his part.

He spat at me again. This time, lead flew all over the page leaving thick, black marks.

“Write, you fool! Write until you can write no more! Write until your fingers cramp up and your eyes bleed but don’t sit there holding all those seeds of thought and blame me for not birthing them.

Why should I not blame him? I needed to blame someone! If not him, then who?

“Blame yourself!”, He spat again. This time, large chunks of my journal were gouged out by his lead missiles; he was taking no prisoners.

“Blame your foolish fears! Your foolish excuses! “…I have to sleep early”…”I’m working tomorrow”…”I’m not in the mood”…”My mind is blank, blah, blah, blah”, he finished off in a perfect imitation of my ‘whiny’ voice.

And yet he wasn’t quite finished.

“You think writing is a joke? A task for the faint of heart?” He snorted and shook his rear at me. The eraser looked redder than it normally did; like the baboon at our local zoo.

“If you don’t use me, someone else will…to measure planks of wood or to add up rows of digits… and then when there’s nothing  left of me but a stump, I wonder how you’ll bring your thoughts to bear.”

A horrifying darkness descended upon me…how can I not write?

My head will burst open like an over-ripe paw-paw if I didn’t use pencil to birth my thoughts.

I rummaged furiously through my black, leather bag: the one with gold-plated buckles. There was a fish-shaped sharpener at the bottom.

I shoved pencil into fish-shaped sharpener’s mouth, twisted him until his mouth was a sharp point, then I wrote and wrote and wrote…

10 Comments
  • Peace
    Posted at 23:03h, 15 September Reply

    Great read!
    The pencil really doesnt care anymore.
    Loooooiil
    ?

    • Obisco1
      Posted at 05:51h, 16 September Reply

      Naaa…it doesn’t and it’s on my case big time!
      Thanks for stopping by.

  • Ego
    Posted at 02:39h, 16 September Reply

    …… and wrote and wrote. Keep writing.

    • Obisco1
      Posted at 05:51h, 16 September Reply

      I will, as the pencil will leave me no choice!

  • Eseohe Kanu
    Posted at 06:03h, 16 September Reply

    Lovely piece…we need a publisher oooo.

    • Obisco1
      Posted at 15:42h, 16 September Reply

      Thanks, nwanne!
      Make una begin dey find o!

  • Adaeze
    Posted at 22:31h, 16 September Reply

    Writing… definitely not for the faint of heart. This post strikes me in many places; heart, mind, liver 😉

    • Obisco1
      Posted at 22:51h, 16 September Reply

      Nwanne,

      Sometimes my stomach just ties up in knots, my head pounds but I know that if I don’t write, I will be worse off!

      • Adaeze
        Posted at 14:04h, 17 September Reply

        And you keep writing… and sharing your enormous talent with the world

        • Obisco1
          Posted at 18:24h, 17 September Reply

          Daalu nwanne.
          Your encouragement is tea to my bread☺

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