I was a reading machine. It started from the age of 10 when I discovered my mum’s novels. For as long as I had known he r she had her head buried in a book and it used to annoy me. One day, I sat down to scan one of the books to see what it was all about. And I was hooked!
I read everything. Comics, Romance, Horror, Sci-fi, Literary, Crime. I had favourite books – Pride and Prejudice, Emma, The Little women. I loved Agatha Christie – she became a staple – long dead in faraway in cold England while I followed her exotic characters under the scorching Nigerian sun.
I continued through my teens till university. It pleased Dad – no boys. Not that he had anything to worry about. Unlike my curvy friends, I was tall, flat chested with bottle thick lenses that made the eyes water. Dad was a practical man and picked glasses that suited his pocket. Looks were not that important.
After university I continued my literary geek journey. I read Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis and cried. Putting me in a library was like giving birthday and Christmas in one.
I was ethereal in a land of practical reality where it was more important to eat 3 square meals, have electricity, water and a good roof over your head.
Transition to writing
But it was all for a reason.
My brother recently recalled that period of when I was between 10 and 16 years. “You were manic. You read everything.” It did not surprise him when I announced that I wanted to be a writer.
I am still a reading machine. But, guess what. I am no longer alone – having kindred spirits all over the world who have their own stories. I listen to many on podcast – 88 cups of tea, Books & Rhymes, Not Another Book Podcast.
We link up on twitter, Facebook, Instagram. We bond in book fairs and festivals.
I am content. No money can buy that.