In the eyes of future - past by O.J Uche (Jnr)
Now, I write every day; on the many blank pages of my journal. And for my grand daughter- in the future , who would glean through the pages of my past failures; in her present and be lost in its maze, its intricate and occasionally, nonsensical patterns. She would perhaps -should I have become successful upon my death - wonder what it must have felt like; to have been a struggling writer in the 21st century , in a semi-military regime with the over glorified and celebrated inelegant, false federalism that was purported to be in practice. She would wonder - as she flips the pages of my tale - at the many submissions that were rejected by reputable journals, foreign and local, and the gladness I would express years later for sometimes all disappointments indeed turn out as blessings in the end. She would feel, in ways words can't express, the bitterness I felt when I wrote my first novel and my first hint at prophecy when the message passed surprisingly manifested; true. She would relish with me in spirit , the joy of rhetorics and the mastery of word that deliberately puts one - in whose shoes the pen had fallen - at the fore front of expressions. An assumed superiority over peers in writing, publishing, proof reading and editing related matters and the awards that crown efforts in the dusk of years to come.
As I write , I wonder at her smile - visualized only and succinctly in the recesses of my mind's rivers - and the surprise she would express at the many adventures I would write to catch her attention and the pervading element of raw truth in them all. I see now, what I know she would see, a lonely man with many words, speaking intermittently into the void that appears to listen.
I see and I believe. It is for her present -my past - that I write and I must write one hell of a story to captivate her to the end.
My little one.
My little one.