Another Writer’s Diary: June 27

TITLE: Another Writer’s Diary: June 27
WRITTEN BY: Okiki Adeduyite
PRODUCED BY: Kester Kanayo
DESCRIPTION: So a break from all the entertainment talk. Giving you a rare insight into a writer’s mind. Basically tore a page outta my diary. Which of’em you feeling???


You know it’s saddening. As writers we never get to be happy. We are bogged down with thoughts of how to break new grounds and stand out from the rest. “It’s okay for you to be depressed, you’re a writer,” they will say. “You can’t have too much fun and still be efficient.”

It’s not fair. Even the little moment of happiness(which comes from success) we have gets intertwined with thoughts of the future and how to beat that success because the moment you try to live on past glory, you’re on your way to the land of depression.
Endlessly trying to not give away too much, hold back too much, celebrate too much, brood too much, pour out too much till you become empty.
And there are thoughts of death too: If your recent piece might be your last – “how would the world assess me?”; If that untyped story never get to the world because no one will be there to put it out. If you should just put it all out now because “life is too short.”

Then we think about other writers too. How you are comfortable with your style but can’t seem to get the thoughts of their success out of your head.
If you can ever top your last accolade.
Some of us have it worst. We deny ourselves a lot just to focus on that part of the sky we’re heading towards. You can never eradicate the thought of “What if I never get there?” 
“What if I’ve denied myself love and friendship for nothing and at the end I’m just a Facebook dweeb?”

“What if they don’t like what i put out next?”
“What if it doesn’t get me where and what i want?”

And the humans, sometimes we wish their obliteration: their death… their end. If only the world was filled with just writers, then there will be nothing to write about. 
The stupid humans live their primitive lives palpably every second which ultimately means we never get the rest we deserve. “What if i quit writing and become human?” At least I’ll be stupid, not depressed.
But then again you see how worthless and valueless they ride through existence and you know that’s worse than any criticism.
Speaking of criticism, the valueless humans do that with pride because “what else can they do?”

You see yourself above them but they see you as a product of their opinions. Stupid Humans.

But who are we without them? To survive, we have to figure out what they want(when in actual fact, they don’t even know what they want.)
And you don’t know if calling them “stupid” is what they want… or need, to look for value and worth. But I prefer them stupid. Makes it easy to win even if they say you failed.



Dear Opposite Sex,
I love you. Yes. You. You that I’ve bruised and let my ego overcome. You that I’ve silenced and stuck in my recycle bin. You that I’ve insulted just to keep you away. You that I’ve utterly shunned because I wanted to. ILY.

I have spent the night with you – virtually and traditionally. We’ve looked at the stars together – the real ones & emoticons. I’ve teased my feelings for you. I’ve blurted out my deepest blackest secrets. I’ve stayed when I should have left. I have turned down the opportunity to walk with someone else.

Apparently, I made you love me. But I ran. I ran like the “coward” i was… and still am.

I don’t regret it. Running is an exercise – my heart is jumping to my mouth and I’m breathing inwards but i still run. I stop occasionally to catch my breath – ain’t that big on energy.
Did i hurt you when I ran? Accept this chapter from my book of lamentations as an apology. I know I make your heart skip a beat sometimes but if it’s any consolation, your name disrupts that dum-dum sound in my chest.

I’m a coward. But before I was a coward, i was a regular guy. A regular guy who could talk to any girl – not because he’s funny but who wouldn’t wanna talk to the weird looking kid?
I’m a nerd. But before i was a nerd, i was a regular guy. A regular guy who had all the pick up lines there could ever be… but erased them because nerds don’t get the girls. At least not the good ones.

Don’t misconstrue that… you are good. All of you. Good enough to make me write in paragraphs (and stanzas on my notepad – i been singing about you).
But I’m fully aware: “Knowledge is a rumour until it lives in the body.”

I Know. I Fear. I know that I’m not the one for you because the saying that there’s someone for everyone is a big lie to me.

I Know. I Fear. I fear that one day you’ll snap out of that reverie and toss the unfashionable lad away.

I Know. I Fear. I know that fear is the greatest weakness but I’ve been weak all my life, what’s a few decades?

I Know. I Fear. I fear heartbreak.
The only fear i refuse to conquer because heartbreak sends one… sends me into an abyss.
So please, let me run.
I’m sorry i made myself matter to you – that human skin that seeks affection has bodied me like “Venom.” I tear it off every time I blink but it snaps right back and sends the pain sirens to my thalamus.

I’m not shifting blames. I’m actually truly sorry. I’ve boldly refused to face my fear. That’s my fault. And if I’ve hurt your sweet pretty feelings or made you doubt your worth  or made you blame yourself, Know, Don’t Fear: Cos it wasn’t you.
Have a wonderful life without me. I’m a mess and I’ll surely find peace, but for now, let me run.



Blood. I know there was blood. A lot of blood. My hands still feel heavy. So does my shoulders. Weight man, weight. I love the idea of pen on paper.
Like flashes, they come back now. I don’t feel bothered about them like i was a few minutes ago.
Keji was so heavy. I carried her on my arms up that hill while i still struggle to see with the stars and stop dashing my foot on things half-buried on the ground.
Whenever it happens, I just flow. Walk to wherever feels perfect. To places i only later see on the news.
Knocked her out pretty good. She moaned.
She moaned like someone having sex but she wasn’t conscious… or aware that a boy half her size is carrying her up a hill. Mehn, that strength.
I dropped her on the stone that “grasses ran away from.” Screw the blood, i was looking for the kidney. Everything i read described it as slippery and bean-shaped but everything in there was slippery and shaped like a protein food.
She stopped making any sound after the first stab. My right hand rummaged her human body for minutes – the other angrily clearing its path with the bread knife. I found them. Pointless kidneys. No more than the size of my palm.
I had five more to go so i ran. 
“Who’s that?” Tayo wanted to know.
I knocked meekly and managed to give my ‘weird neighbourhood boy’ voice to say Na me abeg.”
He opened slightly. But it was large enough to bury the already blooded bread knife in his eye. His scream of anguish couldn’t overcome the sound of DJ Khaled’s ‘I’m The One‘ that i hit a play on when i heard the door unlocking.
I did it all inside his room. But still carried him to the mountain – up that hill again. I laid him beside Keji. The Press need real puzzles.
I used Tayo’s intestines to strangle Bola till her broom leg stopped wrestling the sheets. I had been planning that for weeks. We always told her to lock her door.
Her room is next to mine so i snuck in. It had completed six already and I was so tired. The vigilante men – both of them – are missing their tongues. They were sleeping and snoring fervently. Although i couldn’t get my bread knife out of the first vigilante’s forehead(it went in with the handle), i tore the second one’s tongue out with my hands… the strength.
I wanted a girl for last. This one is (haha, was) five or six years old. Removed the tongue for distorted screaming cos i wanted to actually hear that shout. Up the mountain we went – up that hill again. I did it there. Cut out her toes and pushed them down her throat. I didn’t realize when she stopped motioning.
And hers was too easy – no, not the weight. The Fulanis two streets from mine don’t mind sleeping outside. This one slept on the bench outside-the-outside. She must have slept angry or sth.
It troubled me for hours. I knew it would take a long while to stop thinking and mourning the lost souls or spirit or whatever. Mentor always said writing about it helps. I’m so relieved.

Okiki Adeduyite

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