An Ode to Terrible Writing: The Things I Dare Not Write In Anger.

One fears for the aptitude for inventiveness and vivid imagination in African literature, and if at all it still is exploitable for our overall cultural and cerebral welfare, what with the rigged literary palates of Africa’s now contaminated audiences.

And I do not shout these words from above a soapbox. Or do I?

Personally, if a story does not draw from a place unventured, if the twists and curvatures of its plot is not salted with fantastic surprises; in other words, if the presence of its words does not improve on the absence of its pages, then for the simplistic sake of novelty let us continue to savor and re-savor the golden tales of old, that till this blessed day send quivers down our ignorant spines, and feed with inspiration our eyes that are yet infantile.

Need I tell you that I have physically abused hardbacks and rained down immense curses on their progenitors.

All being told, tomorrow by commission or omission, I know, another fellow would push down our throats, fantastic tales laced only with luminous words, direct and verbatim, “from the lips of angels” – they would brag. Tomorrow, I’m sure, another bearded fellow, under the special inspiration of nightfall and self-confidence, would conjure anecdotes of strange encounters with otherworldly beings and brilliant encounters just for our amusement; indeed forgetting also, that the only solid purpose for those frozen words of old were to inform and inspire and taunt. Reminding us in ink, of the things we could only smell, but never touch.

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