A STORYTELLER?
I am a storyteller.
New Year comes with its own revelations for people. Like an ancient spell clearing the mist that has always hidden from us our true purpose. Of course, the spell never last. You write down that list. Buy that book. Pay for that subscription. Do people break up with their partners and friends as part of a new year resolution? I wouldn’t know. But you’ll strap on your polished armor and march out to the battlefield as you try fight your way into achieving your goals. And then, just like the year before, you’ll eventually give up on the 21st day of the month – promising yourself life isn’t that bad without them.
But for me, it wasn’t any of those things. My goals have remained constant over the years that they are etched into my memory. They do not need the bell of the New Year for me to remember they exist or to put in the work, but I’d rather stay in bed and finish reading the new John Grisham or Mitch Rapp. For me, it was different. I had an epiphany.
All my years I have wondered what I was meant for. I could have easily accepted the world’s answer. I would have fit into the mold and I will flourish in it. But it felt wrong. It felt … not enough. Many times, I have come into close contact with my purpose. I have felt the Universe teasing me, showing me a glimpse of what I’m meant to become, and yet every time I try to fully grab it (and run away with it a la carte), hold it in my hands, feel its pulse; they closed the curtain and watch me stumble back into the darkness.
It’s either I was just a pawn in their game or it simply wasn’t time. And that’s one thing I can’t accept; that it isn’t time. I am not immortal – at least not yet -- I have no idea how long is left for me to spend here. Give me my dream and let me pursue it relentlessly till I die. Let’s not get off track here and I’ll start talking about how life feels really short to me, no matter how long it is.
I have been writing for 4 years, not consistently of course but still. Not once have I ever felt comfortable calling myself a writer. It just doesn’t feel right. Every time I think of that, I feel fake. Like a con artiste who has successfully convinced everyone he’s the real deal.
Then, towards the end of 2023, I found myself consuming more art than I have in a long time. Watching Wes Anderson, Martin Scorcese, Christopher Nolan, reading Albert Camus, Isaac Asimov, Fortune Akande, and Victor. I was also listening to music more than normal; Kendrick Lamar, Kanye West, Queen, Hozier, Jaden, amongst others. The more I consume, the more it became obvious to me that everything is a story, and the closer that feeling gets, that sense of nearness – I could feel it, my dreams, almost on my fingertips. January 1st, 2024, I finally saw it.
Came out of my mouth while I was going through my WhatsApp; “I want to be a storyteller.” And for the first time, a label felt right to me – I want to scream it into the face of strangers asking me what I am. I want to tell stories. Of myself to myself. Of the world to myself. Of myself to the world. Of the world to itself. I want to write stories about the friends I’ve found and lost. About the love stories that would never be. I want to tell the world about how I have killed my dreams and helped others smother theirs. Yet, I want to talk about how I gave life to others. I want to tell the story of how much the world terrifies me, how I tried to bend it yet it refuses to. Stories of when I question my faith, my greatness. I want to tell the story I started writing today, and will never finish until the day I breath my last. The story of a man, transcending the limits of humanity, becoming a god. How everyday of I live is me telling the story of a masterpiece; my life.
Write, paint, draw, act, sing, everything and anyhow, I don’t care; whatever the medium I will always be telling a story.
So here I am; A Storyteller. A name you could call me outside and I wouldn’t feel the need to explain that I am not yet one. A name that feels right, more than my birth name.