My mum often reminds me of those early childhood days (clad in my pink frocks) when I bought dozens upon dozens of exercise books with my pocket money so that I could write my stories and novels...which my parents were always thrilled to read...like any good parent would be.
Now you may be thinking yawn big deal...but as an eight year old, I took my writing very seriously...and I enjoyed it immensely even as a young child. I could disappear for hours working on a story whilst the other children were busy playing "fish fish" or eating mahabhurosi (mulberries) from the neighbour's tree.
It was then that this dream of being a writer was birthed...aaahhh only to be cruelly abandoned for what us African people would call "more sensible and realistic careers."
But it never died, this dream, no ... infact it only grew as it lay dormant within my very being. And years later it has resurfaced again and this time its here to stay.
This my friends...is just the beginning of a journey to something bigger than myself...all I can say to you is stay tuned....
