by Atieno Songa
In April 2019, one of my long-time dreams came to life. I launched my first book, Beyond the Crevices, a deeply personal narrative about different facets of my life. As congratulatory messages flew in from all corners, I remained anxious. How would those who knew me receive my story? How would those who were mentioned in the book react? Would they appreciate the fact that I was simply telling my own story, in my own way? Would literary critics and other readers appreciate the unique way in which I wrote the book, blending poetry with deeply personal and intrusive stories? I had dreamed for a long time to put to print the many stories that I had written through the years. Should I have wrapped my narrative as though it were a work of fiction? I was anxious to the minute I was autographing copies for the people who had placed their orders before the book went to print.
I began writing personal stories when I was in high school. Although I knew little about the art of writing, some innate urge pushed me to document my personal experiences. Death and loss had come knocking when I was very young. I lost my mother at the age of eight, barely three months after I had lost my maternal grandfather. In the five years that followed, I lost three aunties and an uncle. It appeared that loss was my only closest relative. I grew up in a society that did not recognise the value of speaking and listening to children faced with such tragedies. No counselling services were available to help me navigate the sea of loss I found myself in. Children were meant to be seen and not heard. During the funerals, I was paraded at the ceremonies, like a beautiful butterfly. Yet I was a damaged soul. People saw me and pitied me, then they moved on with their lives when mourning was over. No one bothered to check on me; no one cared to find out whether I understood the meaning and inevitability of death. Life went on. Everyone moved on. I was also expected to move on with life. Occasionally, my tears would flow freely. Sometimes I would have outbursts, but no one would understand why.
I lived with a lot of masked pain and unanswered questions. When I went to high school, I discovered that writing made me feel better. Writing served as an outlet for pent-up emotions. I had a friend who had gone through a lot of pain herself, and we would often write each other letters. She encouraged me to write about my life and my feelings. I sat down one day and wrote my first story, ‘She Never Said Goodbye.’ It was a story about my mother. I poured my memory of her life on paper, including of the dark Sunday morning she breathed her last. As I wrote, I sobbed and soaked the piece of paper on which I had poured my sad memories. The emotions from all those years came freely flowing. But when I was done, I felt better. Without knowing it, my healing had begun. Within the next few years I began to understand my mother a little more. I began to acknowledge her struggles and to understand that she did not leave on purpose. I began to see myself in her. Each time I read ‘She Never Said Goodbye,’ tears would linger in my eyes. With time, however, I no longer had tears of sadness. I celebrated my mother’s life each time I read the story. I no longer mourned; I simply remembered and celebrated her. I still do.
If there is one thing I learnt during the time I spent putting together Beyond the Crevices, it is that writing about my experiences was a form of exorcism. It was part of the healing that I very much needed. Writing helped me to discover and deal with scars that I had refused to confront. It enabled me to embrace my flaws and celebrate my achievements. Most importantly, writing about my life freed me. No one can ever claim my story. By writing about my life experiences, I have managed to engage with those who only had access to the mirror image of my life. I have shared with the world my life story from my perspective.
I continued writing more and more. I did not write fictional stories. I wrote stories I lived. I wrote stories of my family’s life. Writing felt great. Writing provided me with the opportunity for self-introspection. I had a dream of putting together the stories that I had written through the years. I promised myself to one day fulfil the dream. The stories often reminded me of my life journey. Reading the stories, even years later, brings back surreal memories. By the time my book was published in 2019, my mother had been gone for more than twenty-five years. Reading about her reconnects me to her. It reminds me why it was important to write my autobiography.
In our society, it seems autobiography is a literary genre only associated with the old or the famous. It’s as if most autobiographies are an afterthought of the lives they narrate. Most people seem to say, “Let me live first. I will write about it later.” And yet the one thing that is certain in this world is that we will leave one day. Sadly enough, no one knows when and how he or she will leave. Shouldn’t we then embrace and capture every moment of our lives? Shouldn’t we document the memories of our parents, of our childhood, of our joys, of our heartbreaks? Shouldn’t we write our own stories? There aren’t enough autobiographies by young people. We should write our stories and the stories of our families when our memories are still fresh. When we wait for so long to document our life experiences, we risk forgetting or under-telling significant details, especially with regard to information and narratives passed down to us by our parents and grandparents. For instance, I have been stuck for a while now with my second book. I’m a victim of procrastination. There are events that I’m unable to reconstruct however much I try. I wish I documented certain details about my grandmother’s life. She is no longer here with us; I cannot run to her for clarifications. I am thus left to write only that which I can recollect, losing a lot of details along the way.
Self-doubt clouds our ability to write personal stories, particularly when we are still young or when our life stories include details and memories that we would rather keep to ourselves for ever. We worry so much about what others will say. We’re not sure whether our families and friends will still love us the same way. We’re less prepared for the criticism that might follow the publication of our stories. Often, people will be surprised to read your story. They may not even associate the person they know with the subject of the book. But you will be fulfilled in having told your story. I enjoy writing my lived and witnessed experiences. This kind of writing is emotionally taxing, as I relive past moments of pain, lows, highs and joy. Some days, I find myself shedding tears in the middle of writing. When that happens, I suspend writing for about a month to allow me to compose myself.
My writing experience has opened my eyes to the benefits of telling our own stories. I would encourage more young people to write their life stories. You should not shy away from reminiscing and sharing the most intimate details of your lives. Your life story may educate, inspire or uplift another person. You may also afford a laugh over your childhood experiences when you are old and grey. I do hope that many young people will free themselves from the boulders of blackmail erected by those who seek to claim and distort their personal stories. I do hope that many young people will discover the healing power of telling and owning their life stories.
Songa is a PhD (Mathematics) candidate at the University of KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa. Beyond the Crevices is available on Amazon and in local bookshops.
Write to editor@nairobibookshelf.com.
Leave a Reply