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The writer brought her pen to paper and willed the words to flow. But they were hesitant, for they were confused, and muddled up in her head. They willed her, just like unsupervised school kids, to control them, and organize them, to tell them in what order they were to arrange themselves on her paper. But she was confused, and upset. She felt they; that is, she and ‘her words’ had come a long way. She felt like they were supposed to understand her better. Like they had gotten to a point where all she had to do was arrange a meeting of pen and paper, and they would intuitively flow. How badly they disappointed her She felt let down by her words, but they absolved themselves of any blame, for how were they expected to come, when they knew not in what order or fashion? Or when their host had created a friction between her head, her heart, and her fingers? It wasn’t their fault, for their hands were tied.

They receded and left her all alone, for they felt she was being immature and wasteful with her talent. They felt she was not innovative enough, for who writes better, and deeper, or in a more soulful manner than she who has a broken heart? But here she was, wasting a good opportunity to bring forth a masterpiece. She was heartbroken, they knew, but to them, she was allowing this period of pain to pass, untapped, unutilized. A broken heart was supposed to lead its owner into the very crevices of her soul, for her to explore the fountain of pain, and turn her wounds to wisdom. Words, of wisdom.

She listened to what her words were saying in her head. She decided to stop numbing her heart from the pain, and allowed it to lead her to that fountain, where the pain flowed. She realized upon getting there, that if she had waited any longer, and locked it in, without letting it flow, it would have burst, and swallowed her up. She felt the liquid pain run through her fingers, and let herself bath in it. She stayed there for a while, until she understood pain, and could make meaning out of it…

When she emerged, she was clean, new, wise… She was ready to coordinate her words and tell the story of what she learnt on her journey. The words were happy. She put her pen to paper, articulated her words, and they began to flow… It was the coming together of heart, brain and soul; and the making of a masterpiece.

Mabel Olujie

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