Hell of a Writer

I am a writer.

In practical terms, this means I haven’t got an iota of what Huey Freeman would describe as got-damn sense. (I find the universe’s refusal to use God’s name in that phrase funny, as we all know what we’re talking about. Also I mean Huey fromThe Boondocks, not Huey P. I have no idea what he’d say.)

Logic would dictate that with a 4 point CGPA from a, well, decent enough university (now don’t get all excited – Nigerian schools use a 5 point system) I’d go in for a master’s degree in something suitably tech-y, or become a rogue programmer, and come up with some amazing app or device or thingamajig that will bring about world peace and finally explain explicitly what intersectional feminism is (it basically means that women have more problems to deal with than whether to refuse your polite offer to open the door – they could be black, and gay, and Muslim). Or hold down a steady, well-paying but ultimately unsatisfying job.

I have an intersectional problem of my own. I write music, which I’d like to sing and perform internationally, hopefully with critical and commercial success. I write stories – short erotic pieces, and long, sweeping science fiction – and I’d like to earn money and near-universal acclaim for that as well. I have multiple ideas for comics, which I think could spawn multi-billion dollar franchises in the right hands. Plus, my last job made me something of a designer – I practically rebranded a business for free since I had no idea that I was supposed to be earning money for what I thought of as fun.What I am, to pare a pear to the approximate dimensions of a grape, is a dreamer.

Some would call my predicament a great problem to have. Well, fuck you. have it first, then come back and we can discuss the constant confusion, the absolute impossibility of finding a single direction to move in (notice how I cleverly avoided mentioning that quinially accursed boy-band [that’s not even a real word]), and the depression that comes when you’re overwhelmed by the sheer mass of ideas you doubt you’ll ever be able to bring to fruition.

It’s not all doom and gloom though. There’s also the utter awesomeness of performing a song to a receptive crowd, where you forget a line but you keep going anyway because in that moment you feel epic. There’s the feeling of finishing a story and knowing that you’ve absolutely nailed the idea you had in mind, and not even Douglas Adams or Harry Harrison could have written it any better. There’s the oddly gratifying look of awe and surprise on a client’s face when they see how fucking amazing the logo you banged up for them looks.

There is all that.

I’m rambling. I needed to ramble. You see, I haven’t written anything good in a hot minute, and this is my attempt to get back into some type of groove.

It’s working, kinda. I can feel the thoughts piling on top of one another, fighting for prominence, urging me to lay them down first. It’s a beautiful kind of excruciating agony. And, if you’re one of those who thinks my problem is a good problem to have, in many ways you’re right.



Olumide is one of the laziest and most talented writers I know. We’re happy that Stories is such a welcome home for him. Thank you for this Tomboxe!!


I love music, and chocolate, and wine, and feminine parts, and maybe you.


  • Ekwe says:

    Famzing time!!

    Olumide and I were roommates at the University. Before his intellectual might, we lesser mortals surrender our fate . Awesome somebody. Plus he likes woman -_- Oya quickly become famous so we can be riding at the back of your Mercedes-Benz while strippers writhe over us.

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