We Should All Be Writers
We must continue to document the present.
My favourite writer, Toni Morrison, is popularly quoted to have said she wrote her debut novel, Bluest Eye, because she wanted to read it. For context, Bluest eye, set in 1941, tells the story of Pecola, a black girl who grew up after the Great Depression. Because she's dark-skinned, Pecola is regarded as ugly and as a result, she develops an inferiority complex. This fuels her desire for blue eyes which she equates with 'whiteness’ and beauty.
Toni Morrison began the book as a 35-year-old in 1964. This was ten years after the civil rights movement began, after Rosa Parks, an African-American woman, was arrested for refusing to move to the back of the bus.
Bluest Eye is close to me and several black people in America and across the world. It tells us of how internalised racism manifests itself in the seemingly mundane. The novel documents and portrays themes that were relevant in the times in which the novel is set. Writing gives us this power to trap and transform a moment into a tangible form before it's gone forever and only exists in memory.
In a feverish moment of anxiety two years ago, I asked myself a question most writers ask throughout their writing careers: Why do I still write? Writing is cute, but who wants to read when they can watch a Netflix movie or Tiktok video? A few days ago, I had to think about this question again in response to interview questions a publication sent me: If your work would never be published, would you still write? And I thought: [What does it mean when we say that we write?]
About a week ago, the Nigerian government banned Twitter, claiming the platform threatened Nigeria’s 'corporate existence' by allowing 'misinformation and fake news to spread.' This amounts to censorship -- a violation of our constitutional right to freedom of expression. In thinking about my response to the question 'What does it mean when we say that we write?' I imagined a world where writing was impossible and because writing didn’t exist, there was no reader. A world where people relied on word of mouth, and there was no way to record events or report them to large groups simultaneously. It was hard to imagine, and it made me realise that writing is fundamental to the world. Its functions (communication, passing ideas, making announcements, reflecting on our experiences, teaching a lesson, telling stories, etc.) are indispensable.
If you've ever written a shopping list, a to-do list or a text, you're probably a writer. You’re not Shakespeare or Chinua Achebe, but you know how words work, and that's why you continue to write. This and the other reasons.
Almost every day, we use our writing to document the present. Our writing isn't just for the future but for transparency purposes and easy access. When we prepare minutes for meetings, we're careful about the details just so they reflect what was discussed, and X, who missed the meeting, can catch up by just reading the minutes. When we journal, we might not be thinking of that future self that would read the entry and cringe. We however document these experiences to reflect on them and as a way of preserving a memory.
During the End SARS protests, we saw in real-time how valuable transparent documentation is through tweets that reported the situation in 280 characters or less. A microscopic story. There are theories about the effects of the ban. Some people are already experiencing it. If VPN didn't exist to help users circumvent the ban, loss of jobs and businesses, fewer opportunities to raise funds would be at an all-time high.
The long term effect is the gaps in the stories that reflect June 2021 -- an unfinished picture. The newspapers can try their best, but they don't have as much soul as the random Twitter user talking about how Buhari's journey disrupted her day or what they were doing the moment Abacha died. These human perspectives that we tell in our own words on Twitter create a more vivid picture of the present. No one can tell your story as you do; your story adds to many others in picturing this present moment.
Here's what I enjoyed this week:
Dispatches Saving Africa's Witch Children -- won't say ‘enjoyed’. It's an important documentary on the effect of one movie, End On The Wicked, on the widespread belief in evil child witches from the early 2000s and persists even today.
That's all, folks. I wrote this newsletter on a train from London to Norwich and I sent it half asleep! Please share, like, comment! Thank you and see you next week.
Now I'm going to write stories I want to read
Thank you for this, ma'am