..And then the Writer, He Gets Away And He comes Back With An Abattoir
Part I
Rájí Adé Ọba
The phrase “get away” isn’t the only group of words that’s exclusive to the West. We can and should use it, too. But when we do, we should actually mean it. If there’s the most unbelievable and most life-changing 3-week “holiday” that I have had in a very long time- in the heartland, it is that every now and then, somebody ought to get away from their current operating environment- a setting that I am pretty sure has become so cloy and commonplace you are beginning to feel choked and uncreative. I say you must go on a short vacation. Get a break and go have fun- wherever- in the Caribbean, in Florida, or in fact, in your birthplace, a hamlet or countryside. Go live! In other words, it’s time you traveled more and get inspired on a whole new level of unprecedentedness that’s beyond your own imagination.
Until the end of last month, I hadn’t had a vacation nor had I traveled to even the least distant spot in the last four years when I had moved to the pace setter capital. Two hours of idleness or meaningless break was, for me, considered a suicide mission. It was absolutely impossible to get away from what I had fallen hard in love with- writing, researching and reviewing. My love for learning, exchanging and advancing ideas had reached a threshold where I had begun to become fairly comfortable with an everyday level of success and immense gratification.
But a few days leading up to the commencement of my voyage, I lost it. I fell absolutely out of love for the craft. Thinking it was a momentary writer’s block that every writer has to go through every so often, I endured, consoled myself and hoped it was going to be alright – that I’d start to do what I love to do again.
Alias, many days pass by, it is not coming. I am not feeling it. I am feeling numb each time I resume the PC from its hibernation to begin to push the pen. Lo and behold, like a musician who had sung and sung ceaselessly- even when he took a leak, a dump, or even in sleep mode, and then he’d started hating to hear his own voice, just I began to despise my God-given skills that a lot of people would kill to acquire. I hated to hear my own words read to myself. Recounting my back writings and their peculiar styles, and constructing a beautiful, eloquent sentence had become real chores. I could no longer do it. As I decomposed- unable to find my articulation, and my voice again, I hated to see myself go into depression. I totally stopped thinking creatively and had started to sink into a great depression- my most frequent vulnerability as a writer.
About the Author
Raji Ade Oba is a visionary writer and scholar. Apart from his creation of scholarly works in various disciplines, he also writes liberally on leadership, communications, and personal development strategies. He tells beautiful stories that reach our hearts, that throw us into immediacy and allow us to pause for reflection- as we marvel at our own earthiness, and just how do we fit in the larger scheme. Raji Ade Oba simply challenges our inner person, soul and spirit to reach for the top.