Where to Begin - a Short Story by Abraham Atawodi

 
I’m not trying to be poetic There really isn’t much to say I’ve been touched by love It’s in my heart to stay It seems incredibly lame so I tear the sheet of paper and crumple it into a small ball, one of the many I have made today; snippets of creativity aborted ere they had a chance to breathe. I won’t relent. There is no harm in trying again.
Half an hour later, I still have made no headway.  It feels better to not admit that I feel dry and dead, like plantain fried twice. I am the light of the world, a diamond in the rough just waiting to be discovered, cut, and polished. I convince myself to take another shot at it, even as my rotund stomach heaves from laboured breathing. The smell of morning dew Sunlight lighting up the view Green, the colour of life Another day devoid of strife I was told lyric-writing is like a flower ready to bloom. Force it and it dies. However, I haven’t experienced the outburst of inspiration the workshop teacher with bulging eyes had so melodiously described Thursday last week, as I sat in his class, depressed and sleepy-eyed. I can still hear his painfully soft voice relating so convincingly how, after the workshop, I would find myself effortlessly floating down the stream of song-writing on flowery beds of ease. His announcement had roused me from my stupor; it had made me believe. But in vain. Another go at it, I tell myself for the umpteenth time, with more gusto than when I first said it three hours ago, though I do not think it will be any different and I fear that I might have to quit. I am not ready to admit the truth yet. It will hurt too much. Like the morning lark with its song to sing Or the butterfly with brightly coloured wings I know I can change the world and leave my mark. I would shine brightly, blazing fiery trails across a starless sky, if I only knew where to begin.