Am I a writer or do I just happen to write?
‘Create Dangerously, for people who read dangerously...’
‘…This is what I’ve always thought it meant to be a writer. Writing knowing in part that no matter how trivial your words may seem, someday, somewhere, someone may risk his or her life to read them.’ - Edwidge Danticat in Create Dangerously, the immigrant artist at work.
I am scared to call myself a writer.
At the start of my gap year, I had deemed my portfolio too meagre to compete with those who adorned the label. I was in my first gig. I hadn’t started college yet. My only publications were in self-launched blogs. I was spontaneous, writing typically in response to crisis, rarely habitually. So I dubbed myself a ‘budding writer.’ I plastered the label across all my social pages – almost saying, ‘Please forgive me if you don’t find my writing sufficient.’ A pitiful disclaimer.
Since then, three things have happened, which either consolidated or weakened my alignment to the cause.
1.
The first was this. After gaining some momentum with my Manchester United analysis in late 2022, one writer, whose work I had been in awe off since I committed to this path in 2020, privately beseeched me, ’Take the budding out of your bio. You’re a writer. Claim it.’ This fueled me with the necessary motivation I needed for my next set of deliverables. I wrote and published thirteen articles on the Qatar World Cup for the paper I worked at. A few weeks later, I published my first sports column for another leading, UK-based paper. At this point, I quite liked the idea of ‘Journalist.’ Joel, the Journo. I was a step closer the cause.
2.
Now, this period of my life coincided with my first real spell of autonomy after 8 years of boarding school. I was entirely responsible for what went into my stomach, how I spent my day, where I drove to, what I ate. Did I already mention that I could also drive around? I loved it.
If you speak to a Nigerian living in Lagos, you’ll likely hear tales of the busy, chaotic roads they ploughed every morning. Driving in Abuja, however, was a relatively smoother affair. In Kubuwa, just off the city central, the roads are narrow, shared with commercial bikers or tricycles, who ride as though they were smaller or larger than they really were – depending on the time of the day. Closer to the Central Business District (Maitama, Asokoro, Wuse), you were more concerned about the Police or Vehicle Inspection Officers (VIO) or Federal Road Safety Corp (FRSC) or unidentifiable, but armed, para-military on the road than you were of being stuck in traffic.
It was this latter group that caused me the most trouble during my spell at home. I had just cajoled my hair into locs so, predictably, I was stopped at almost every checkpoint. Asked for identification. Car particulars. What I did. What school I attended. And if the sun had set, where I was headed to. I needed to find a more robust alias and the look to match too.
So, from that moment, I became ‘Joel.’ ‘Writer.’ And flashed the cufflinks on the wrist of the long-sleeve, corporate-esque kaftan, which had now become my staple outfit to leave the house. While this didn’t reduce how frequently I got stopped, it certainly made the encounters less frightful.
Once more, I was another step closer to the cause. Even if my social media bio said otherwise, I claimed the title more often than I published titles.
3.
When I visited Casablanca, Morocco on the cusp of 2023, I maintained the same call-card.
Navigating this space was easier. My mates were kind. My French was timid. The glances were less intimidating. And, although I bore a silent sore in my mind, I found plenty reasons to smile.
I also began flexing my writing muscles and preparing my folks, who until this point were oblivious to my harrowing year, for my impending release. Specifically, to Dinan, whose newsletter, Letters from Dinan, is consistently the most profound piece of writing I read each month, I wrote:
Casablanca’s chilling winter winds have deepened my appreciation for even the faintest glimmer of sunlight; your letter was my first dose of warmth this morning. Thank you.
In what is, perhaps, the most decisive month of my early adulthood, I have found myself dangerously reminiscing the moments that led me here. Let me offer some context:
A year ago this week, I received the best news of my life – that I'd spend the next four years at one of the west’s famed institutions and coalition. This, with the multiple other offers I had, potentially opened a pool of opportunities for me. So who would have guessed that, a few months later, I’d find myself plunged into that sea of uncertainty. Again.
Coincidentally, this was around the same time I stumbled upon your letters. One of my dearest mates from my time in Johannesburg, [omitted], shared an excerpt of your work on Instagram, and I couldn’t help but indulge.
[omitted]
Yet, even though the smell of redemption flirts with my senses, I can't help but [reflect] on my experiences from the past year. Will I carry a permanent veil of caution around my future endeavours, or will I use the experiences to redefine what matters most?
"This fear of mistakes burdened me in the worst way. It was the kind of chronic caution that allocates itself a chunk of your brain space and limits your ability to do almost anything else.”
Over the past few weeks, I’ve garnered the courage to share my story with a few of closest mates, attempting to reconcile their rather flowery perception of my recent achievements with [the] burning realities.
With Grace,
Joel A. A. - 22.3.24
This is a good moment to add that I absolutely love writing letters. The opportunity to carve and map your words for just one reader is liberating in a manner I can’t yet explain.
The responses to my eventual publication were multi-pronged. There were shared, virtual cries and shared sighs. Festering wounds, attended to. Archived conversations, re-opened. Pity and pitiful looks flashed at me. Awe. Gratitude. And, from those whose part in the tale I spared, fear.
Like Edwidge, I had committed to creating dangerously. For people who read dangerously.
Here’s where things get dicey. From this point, the writer tag, which I had previously picked up or dropped by necessity, was foisted on me.
Among folks who first knew me by my words, I became ‘Joel. The writer.’ And just that. With them, my attempts to manifest beyond the that tag are occasionally greeted with an air of apprehension: this-conversation-might-end-up-in-his-next-piece. It won’t.
To folks who knew me before, I became ‘Joel. Crazy. And he writes.’ This, I have managed to contend with.
To folks yet to meet me or my words, which one will it be? Can I choose?
Hence why I ask: am I a writer or do I just happen to write?
I would love to hear your thoughts, suggestions, and questions on this piece! Do write back.
You are a writer Joel. Regardless of the numbers: the World Cup articles, the Abuja journalism gig, and that monumental piece last year, the fact that you have this blog should be the answer. Writing is a conscious and continuous thing. Because it is a professional degree, you cannot call yourself a writer if you just write one essay and call it a day. Just as you can’t call yourself an actor if you acted in one play in high school and you’re working in Banking now. The point is, over the years I’ve known you, since working on the Roar with you, you have been consistent —piece after piece. I was shocked reading about the why you put “budding writer” in your bio because I had never interpreted it in the way you did in this essay. Still, it’s absurd that you felt that way, considering your contribution to investigative journalism EVEN BEFORE U HAD BEGUN UNI. I’ll say it again, writing is conscious and continuous. You’ve nailed that over the years, producing some of the most insightful things I’ve read about Nigeria’s sports field (and European soccer too but I’m not deep in that world). You’re a writer and the question shouldn’t even be considered.
To me, I've never really liked tags because what they do is box you in. Do you like what you're doing and feel you can consistently put in effort to learn, improve, and publish? If so who cares about anything else?