There is a thing around my neck, and no, I will not apologize to Chimamanda Adichie- I have a love-hate relationship with that lady though she doesn’t even know I exist. I mean she is the writer I love to hate or hate to love-whatever suits you…she is totally not nice and definitely not fair to the rest of us wannabes. How does she do it so seemingly effortlessly? How does she take my thoughts and craft it so well that I am left gasping on the dust of I-should-have-been-the-one-to-write-that?
I know how she does it though; it’s all about the background. Her father was smart enough to have worked with the University of Nigeria Nsukka where she lived in the house that used to belong to Chinua Achebe. I mean how could anyone live in that house and not be a great writer? So you see, it was the house; and we should blame it on my father who chose to be an accountant faraway from Nsukka.
What was I saying? Yes, the thing around my neck, I know Chimamanda wrote it first but now I’m writing it second. And the reason I will not apologize is because this thing is on my neck, not hers; she wrote it, but it’s fixed firmly around my neck, alternating between a threat to choke and a threat let my head fall down. This thing around my neck is supposed to hold the neck in place and reduce pain that envelopes me with glee in its evil arms but is it doing a good job? I cannot say. I guess I may have to wait till I see her, to ask how she coped with the thing around her neck, which was not really around her neck at all!