Marching forward with my creativities!

All my life, I have struggled to call myself a writer. Sometimes I claim the title, then I snatch it back as quickly as I utter it, because I say to myself what have I ever published? My procrastination and self doubt of my words have pushed me into the pit where I keep on denying my God given talent of writing and creating with my words.Then I get stuck into a vacum, a cycle of inactivity. Then I beat myself up.
Many years ago, I used to belong to a writers/performers group called the Rhythm Writers. We were relatively well known on the Black poetry circuit in London. We'd get invited to places to recite our poetry. We even put on a couple of shows. I went down a storm with my recitals. Ahhhh... the memories! In hindsight, I should've really capitalised on all of this, but my life was going 100 mph whilst I was trying to catch up with life. I was always on the move with my children and trying to create an anchor for them where they could grow and where I could outgrow my awkwardness of knowing who I was and what I was going to become. Now that they have grown I am now snatching the title of 'writer' back. I will only call myself an author when I start believing in my words and start publishing again. I am just being realistic and at the same time, optimistic.
I've had this amazing idea for a non-fiction book (click on the title of this blog post and it will take you to a site I created for this idea), that has been kicking around for about five years. I'm not going to beat myself up about the lack of attention or the inactivity that I have had with this genesis of an idea, because to me, that is being self defeating. However, I've decided (especially living here in Netherlands and just having all the time in the world to create ) to kickstart the idea and revitalise this book and see where it takes me. I've already reached out to my perceived target, so again, I will see where it takes me. I have linked it, so if anybody is reading these words, go check it out!
Anyway, back to my marching forward with my creativities. I have had so many books over the years about tapping into my creativity, my writing. But, to be honest, they were, just, well, books. Self help books to help me kickstart, however, in hindsight, I was not ready - emotionally, spiritually, mentally and physically. Now, I am. I feel that I need to rely on my inner power... the Spirit/Goddess within me and just keep on marching to my rhythmic beat of my words. I came across this mantra, which I have adopted for my own mantra in context for my writing:

I am going to write a novel and get it published. I'm going to do it because writing a novel is worthwhile and because I have the talent to do it. I am going to do it because I have something to say to the world. I refuse to let anything get in my way.

I will say this to myself everyday. I have signed and dated it which gives me further credibility to own it.
Lastly,in context with my writing, I have to take heed and realise that humility is one thing, but FALSE HUMILITY can keep you from doing the things you want to get done. Yes, this makes a whole lot of sense to me, not only with the abandonment of my creative talents but also, my life.

Nollywood movies/Memories of my mama

Nollywood movies/Memories of my mama

I've officially become a stan/addict of Nollywood movies. I just can't get enough of them!
For folks who are familiar with this genre, you've all seen the atrocious acting, the awful story lines, the sudden drop of audio et al. Nonetheless, I am totally addicted, as is my husband! In fact, I've started watching these movies online, as there is no Nollywood channel in Holland.

When I watch these movies, particularly the older women characters, I think about my mama; the drama, the joy, the emotions espoused within them. I then try to understand what she want through, living in an alien environment and trying to make good for her children in the belly of the beast.

Then it got me thinking... Let me rewind for a moment.

Last year, a really good friend of mine did some filming of me - it's part of her course for her Masters in documentary film. She filmed me in my neighbourhood and asked me about my childhood memories. I recited the below piece of poetry; I then started to write a piece about my mama - still unfinished. I will be finishing it off, but it's going to be long.

Motherless Child?

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child

seekin' that cord

to reattach

so that memories could solidly be matched

of eating:


Egusi soup and pounded yam on wintery weekday nights

fighting for that precious piece of chicken in red palm stew delight

eating black eyed beans religiously on Saturdays before visiting Ridley Road market,

where my mama preached to Oshun daughters, being embarrassed as their Yoruba accented timbres were raised higher, higher,

bartering for bargain prices to be pushed lower,lower...


Getting ready for church/Sunday school, and hearing the dulcet tones of Jim Reeves on the living room's gramophone,

sitting crouched over on the kitchen floor,

whilst the pale icon of Jesus Christ watched on in pitied bemusement, squeezed between my mama's thighs like a slice of lemon,

whilst ears pushed forward as I waited for the onslaught of the hot comb on my nappy crown


to become acceptable in the tabernacle of hallelujah/praise the Lord!


too many memories that I have digested,

but why do I feel like a motherless child, far away from home?


Taiwo Ogunnaike
© 2008

Excerpt 'Memories Recalled: HerStory'

This is just a short excerpt on the story that I am still writing and developing.

She hated Sundays with a passion. Hated being paraded in front of the audience who always whispered behind large paper fans that her voice was angelic and heavenly, but was a pity that her father consistently played the field, kicking many home goals with some of the women parishioners.

She hated shivering in her vest and knickers in front of the parrafin heater after her hair had been preened and meticulously styled for the church audience. She detested the ritual of dressing up and being placed on a stage in front of the church audience, whose virture of attendance was due to their perceived social standing within the community. Religion was just a pause, an afterthought. Whispers on sacred lips on Sabbath and the rest of the week, with obscenities sprouting from the same pursed mouths.

They carried their leather bound Bibles as beacons of respectability and materialism. Discreetly checking for designer labels out of hoodwinked eyes, feigning innocence with their stares. With their Bibles, they turned the pages to quote relevant passages, which they thought integrated into their perfect, comfortable yet stagnant lives. She wasn't aware of the term 'hypocrite' until she became much wiser to it later on in life.

So, her hair became a foundation on how she would look like on Sundays. Slick and shiny like a motorcycle helmet. She often asked herself why she couldn't have straight and flowing hair so that she could bypass this weekly humilation. Why couldn't she voice her own valid opinions on how her hair and clothes were to look. She dreaded the way that her mother expressions quickly switched just like the UK weather, whenever she timidly questioned her overall authority. Surely, she had a voice, didn't she?

Some Sundays, she just wanted to run wild in the street, without hearing the mournful strainings of Jim Reeves. She wanted to run wild in the street with her hair uncombed and play 'house' with the Dermott children who lived two streets away. Her mother always told her that they had a satanical influence over her, in as much that they had no respect for their elders and the constant slip of curse words from their pouty mouths that could be heard in the next street. Each time when her mother came wearily dragging her feet down the street, she would just give her daughter that LOOK. Her expressions was ingrained and programmed into the girl's young mind and that was her signal to go home, where a hot bath waited for her, with home made herbs imported all the way from Nigeria. She hated standing there trembling and naked, whilst her mother poured scalding water - spiked with dettol -from the top of her head to cleanse away all her sins, as she used a rough straw scrubber, speaking in guttural tones that she didn't understand and which ultimately, frightened her. After this ritual, her mother would use this funny smelling black soap telling her that this would keep away the demons that always followed her after her playing with the Dermott children.
Her mother hated her playing with the Dermott children. In fact she wanted her to stay inside where she could study her Bible and recite them in a way which would bring a solitary smile to her tired face. But the girl had no choice. She was a latchkey chid, and her key hang stubbornly around her neck like a talisman. She had to make up her own entertainment, whilst her mother was on her hands and knees cleaning up the mess in corporate offices in the city.

Taiwo Ogunnaike
©2009

Creativity... A State of Mind?

Funny enough, I received an email from a really good friend of mine this morning. As I read it, I laughed out so loud. I mean, genuinely, not the 'LOL' one usually inserts as a means of lazily expressing oneself in emails or online chats. Anyway, as usual, I digress.
My friend Ife, who is an amazing writer - just an overall amazing ball of creativity - told me in this email that she met somebody recently on the train to Manchester. I was guffawing when I read her words, because I KNOW Ife's pained expressions when folks invade her 'space'. Apparently, this brother is a poet from Nigeria and he's published. She then started to rave about me and my writings, informing him that I wrote like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Hmmmm...I love this writer and I am so greatful of Ife's comparison to my own writing, as I find it is a genuine compliment.
Funny enough, as I was through with reading Ife's hilarious words (which are like a life jacket whilst in spartan Arnhem, NL), I read my daily horoscope. The words literally leapt out at me and confronted me in my face. Let me quote the full content of my horoscope:

Hello Taiwo !
Your Sun Sign: Virgo
Date of birth: 11 September 1963
Your daily horoscope for 18 March 2010
You could write well today, whether it be fiction or journalism. There is a great possibility that you have given some thought to a literary line of work. Why do you hesitate to try? It is never too late. Certainly anyone can find the time to grab paper and pen and write a story. What are you waiting for, Taiwo? If you have this attitude in everything you do, how in the world does anything ever get done?


I mean, is the above a coincidence or is it God's way of anonymously telling me something? I think I will opt for the latter. See, I really have to yell it out there to the universe. Being creative is a talent and it is a state of mind. In my opinion, the two cannot co-exist without one another.

I have so many ideas about my words, but to be honest, I have been like a crab under a large pebble on a beach, waiting for the tide to become high so I can be swept away on my current of dreams. Sometimes, I have flowings of ideas and then I just come to large block. That's where my stagnation and procrastination comes in, enveloping me like a toxic cloud.

Why can I not recognise my talent? Is it because I have this life long mantra left over from my mama that being a writer was not tangible enough? Will this always be my mental block where I am left at the starting block, whilst other writers take a lead and run ahead in the race, leaving me behind, once again?

I have to push on with my words and I feel that this blog - regardless if it is read by one solitary person out there in cyberland or is hit on daily - is a vessel and tool of my burgeoning creativity, especially now that I have all the time in the world, between learning Dutch and just, well, being.