osanyinro

Creative Essays, Essays

Full and Overflowing | Osanyiro Oluwaseun

/

  I had become weary with hurt as my eyes watered my bed and were consumed with much pain. My hurt heart wished I had never gotten admitted into my school as I picked up my pen to write what I felt an ideal school should be. I imagined a school free from punishments from wicked seniors and full of great friends. I cried as I wrote. They say every man is born with a book in him. They say it takes a moment of extreme emotions to release the creativity, of which mine was released after serving a punishment meted out by Senior Sonia. A full book was born from that punishment. I penned down my thoughts and gradually they became a High school story my friends could not put down. My storybook was passed from one classmate to another. Senior Sonia must have been the midwife aiding the birth of a writer, for I can never begin my writing biography without reference to her. For that, I forgave her of all the unnecessary punishments and till this moment, my best comes when I am overwhelmed with emotions. My name is Oluwaseun Osanyinro, and this is my writing journey. Like a full tank, I poured out my thoughts into books at every slight opportunity and began titling my short stories. From a nameless story to ‘My life at 360’ to ‘Switched’, where I reunited lost twins, I had become a writer from the cradle. Yet, a full tank never refilled would finally run empty and mine ran dry in two years. I settled for writing the best stories in exercise books and emerging as the best in essays. Oh! How I remember those euphoric days! Days my English teacher would read my essays over and over again and wonder what I was doing in science class, my friends would argue over what they believed the next chapter should be and days I realized I am a lover of creative writing, particularly fiction. I remember being called out and applauded for writing heartfelt essays or analyzing literature books. I am sure this is how great authors like Wole Soyinka, Chimamanda Adiche and others began their lives. I basked in the euphoria of the little celebration but that was all. My tank was running out slowly but steadily. The only drop of water was my consistency. I wrote. On any little exercise book I found, and on pieces of paper. I may not have had a tank full of water but I did not abandon my tank. I, however, left my tank empty for years. The dark ages, I would call them. I always wondered where I would have been if I was trained from that very age. Maybe a Nobel Laureate or a World class author. Do not be amazed, I am a writer. I dream big. Maybe my dark age was also my fault as I viewed writing as a major distraction when I moved to attain a University degree. I was a Science student after all and we dealt more with numbers, names of body parts, animals and invisible microorganisms. No one wrote stories around me, no one read stories around me. Our focus was to achieve A’s, the first class and jobs in prospects. Then, writing was a pastime and an art student’s task. Fiction writing was not for serious students. As with a hand that is left forgotten, I soon forgot what writing was all about, save the snippets I wrote in a book somewhere. Yet a hand left forgotten for a while jerks back to function if taught its use again. Slow and steady. “You can start writing online”, my friend said to me one day. “I have seen so many people write on Facebook and get a lot of followers”, she continued. My life had moved from the naïve 13-year-old writing on any exercise book to a young woman about to test the waters of online writing. Life had moved digital. I must have laughed to cover my fear yet she persisted. “I am not sure about this”, I replied out of fear. “Who would read it?” I also asked. “People. You just write.” She not only convinced me to begin, but she also made sure I took the first step to train my forgotten hands to function once more. My life as a writer leapt for the first time in years as I opened my Facebook page and posted in 2019. My tank was about to be full again and has remained full because of friends who love to see me succeed. Every writer needs a friend who gives the external push towards greatness. One of the pillars of lasting long as a writer is to actually begin because of your passion for writing and not the benefits attached. The benefits might dance as fluctuating waves yet passion will keep one consistent. Write because you love to write, because you have stories to tell, because you want to impact lives and because you want posterity to remember you walked on earth. I had written despite the dancing waves of followers, likes and comments before I realized one could get a monetary benefit from writing. By the year 2020, I had planted, and my writing tree was already sprouting. I opened a blog on WordPress during the pandemic and it became my electronic paper. That was where I first launched my e-book called SMS (Save My Soul), a short story on the power of intercession and help. At this time, I gradually started gaining friends and followers that liked my genre and supported my work. My tank was getting full. As the cliché says “Garbage in, Garbage out”, I realized that I needed much more than training my hands to write. A full tank without knowledge creates a gaping hole that would drain all its contents. For me to be a great fiction writer which has always been my passion, I had to

Essays, Writers

Ripples by Oluwaseun Osanyinro.

/

No one really wants to die. No one really has the courage to intentionally look at death in the face and welcome it with open hands. No one. Suicide is simply the death of a man’s mind, conscience, instinct and heart so that one is living but already dead. Yet this last stage before death never comes till man fully loses hope in life. Suicide denies one of hope. In support of this statement, Lucius Annaeus Seneca once said, “Sometimes, even to live is an act of courage”. There is no perfect life and no life that has it all perfectly planned out. Life from its beginning is a thread of hope. Hope that a mother conceives, hope that a baby is born, hope that a baby takes its first breath, steps, says its first words and lives to introduce another life on earth. Suicide cuts such thread at its early stage, cutting away a generation yet unborn and hope unfulfilled. Suicide is permanent end to a temporary problem. Its thought paints a picture that ending one’s life would end the problems but unfortunately never let’s the victim find out the truth. Strangely, suicidal thoughts can go on over months before the actual perpetration. Months that if one had opened up to someone, might not have led to suicide. The thoughts puts the world against one, the problems like unmovable mountains and the shame as irrevocable. While this may be justifiable to the victim, its repercussions has a ripple effect on the society. According to The World Health Organization (WHO), about 1 million people die due to suicide every year, 79% of them occuring in Low and Middle Income Countries (due to the poor standard of living and harsh life) and most victims ranging between age 15-29 years. These numbers keep increasing as the years go by because suicide births suicide. An example is a young man who is unemployed and tired of life hearing about another commiting suicide and begins to think in that direction. This is a sad but true fact as the younger generation begin to see nothing wrong with throwing the towel quickly once life seems hard. It would then not be a wonder as life expectancy decreases as the years go by. A quote by Ken Norton says that suicide is like a pebble in a pond. The waves ripple outward and their reach is much greater than the size of the pebble. Suicide does nothing but kills both the victim and everyone associated with the victim. The victim dies once but those left behind die a thousand times as they wonder what went wrong and what they did or did not do. Members of the deceased, who the deceased was probably trying to help by commiting suicide, are traumatized for life reliving the last moments. They are forever changed and the society at large is affected. This grievous act against life never takes into consideration the stigma attached to the family. Families have been branded and avoided simply because a member took his own life. Like other taboos in our culture, many families believe that what one member can do, every member can do also. This also applies to suicide as people detest associating or even marrying from families a suicide took place. The victim not only succeeded in traumatizing the family but also stigmatizing the family. A double blow. There is also no benefit of this act to the victim. The victim only ends a life that would have been better off if he or she waited a little longer, talked to someone or treated depression. Suicidal thoughts give victims the lie that taking life would end the pains or troubles but only toss one to another world of uncertainty. A world one still has no control over and can not determine the outcome. No one knows what is after death but at the point of this act, the victims are blinded by ravaging thoughts not true. With the inception of World Suicide Prevention Day held on 10th of September every year, the World Health Organization strives to educate the public especially the vulnerable age of the ripple effects of suicide, the possible causes of suicide which are depression and alcohol use disorders and its impact to the world. Access to means for committing suicide are being limited daily such as guns are bought only with permit, drugs bought only with prescriptions and chemicals not readily available to the public. Families are advised to look out for one another and encourage therapy to members that are depressed or addicted to alcohol. Educators spread the word that nothing good comes out of suicide. It is never an option and never a solution. Osanyinro Oluwaseun, a graduate of Microbiology and currently a master student of Public Health at the University of Ibadan runs a blog on WordPress deejemima.wordpress.com

Essays, Writers

A Stitch In Time Saves Nine by Osanyinro Oluwaseun.

/

  He sat on the couch and sighed heavily. He was still wondering how the day got this bad. He could still hear her nagging despite the increased volume of the television. It was a marvel that a small woman like her could produce such loud sound.   He had woken up this morning to remember the tap he promised to fix the day before. He knew his wife would complain if he did not fix it when she woke up.  Still he was tempted to procrastinate and get ready for work. He looked at his beautiful wife who was still asleep, and wished she was this gentle when awake also. But he loved her nonetheless. If she was not a goal-getter, he would not be waking up to remember the tap in the kitchen. He had looked at the time and laughed out loud. It was 4 am for goodness sake. This woman had done a number on him.  He rose and walked into the kitchen with a torchlight as he hummed a song. He settled down and began his amateur plumbing work on the tap. At first, he was sure his work would wake the whole house up but as he continued, he concluded everyone must be dead tired. He hummed, worked and nodded at his work. It felt great to work in quietness and in the early hours of the morning. Too bad it was still quite dark but he had his torchlight. He shook his head as his thoughts navigated to the first day the leaking tap was discovered. His wife must have screamed her head off while he ran in milliseconds to her. He was sure he gave Usain Bolt a run for his money that day. His wife could be dramatic at times or all the time. On discovering the source of her dismay, he had quickly put a bucket and solved the great problem. He felt like a hero that day.   While he paused from yet another heroic work and listened for a moment, he had prayed she would still be asleep till he was through with his work. All he had wanted was to surprise his wife. He really loved to surprise his wife. One could not have a doll as a wife and not make surprises the order of the day. It was that or the cries which he felt were uncalled for. She was that fragile. He could vividly remember the day he had come home empty-handed. Having re-stocked the house some days earlier, he felt there was no need to buy anything while coming from work or so he thought. Her cries were shocking to him. She insisted that coming home with a thing or two is a sign of love. Well, he did not agree but he went with the flow.  The light in the kitchen flickered and he smiled. As a Nigerian, one should be used to the electrical company announcing their presence twice or more before making the light stable. He had looked at his almost completed job and tested the function of the tap. While he nodded at his brilliant job, he hurried to tighten the bolts and got up. The electricity had finally become stable as he walked back to the bedroom. His wife stretched a little on the bed making him smile. He could not wait for the hero hug he would receive when he arrived home later in the day.  Work was hectic but he did not mind. He had been tempted twice to call his wife just to hear her praises but decided to be patient. He would be patient to receive the heroic hug at home. Perhaps with his best food and a hot bath. All were worth the headache he was having now while he faced his workload.  Evening came too slow but he never did mind as he walked into his house. Yet what he met stopped him short. He should have been suspicious. His wife was sitting still, facing the television though it was switched off. Before he could utter a word, she had a river flow of words at his heroic job. In her defense, he forgot to fix the tap. His shock suddenly turned to laughter. He was sure he fixed the tap this morning while she was having her beauty sleep. She countered that he touched nothing which was gradually getting on his nerves. He argued back. They had continued back and forth till he noticed a flow in the direction of the sitting room where they were still arguing. Her gasp confirmed his worst thought. His beautiful wife had in anger forgotten to put the bucket under the tap in the bathroom. The little drops were now flowing. Then it occurred to him that he practically wasted his morning. It was not the kitchen tap that had fault but rather the bathroom. With argument dropped, both worked to drain and dry up the corridor and bathroom.  Still ruminating the activities of the day while his wife nagged and cooked, he shook his head. A stitch in time might save nine but in his case, he would prefer it is a right stitch at the right time. If only he had procrastinated his heroic work.    Osanyinro Oluwaseun, a graduate of Microbiology and currently a master student of Public Health at the University of Ibadan runs a blog on WordPress deejemima.wordpress.com

Join our essay competition.

This will close in 13 seconds

Solverwp- WordPress Theme and Plugin

Scroll to Top