The Writer’s Silence

By Alimat Taiwo

THEY say the world is listening…
But to what?
To bass beats, to shekpe shouts,
To three-word hooks that cost more than a writer’s life work.

We, the children of the pen,
We write.
We bleed ink while others sip champagne.
We create nations in our minds
While the world dances to two lines and a chorus.

The musician says,
“Baby, I dey for you.”
And gets signed to a brand deal.
The writer pens
“A million suns could not dry the tears of a broken land,”
And gets…,
A pat on the back. Maybe.

Tell me, where are the writers on the billboards?
Where are the authors in your child’s lunchbox?
Pick up a cereal pack, it is a singer’s smile that beams at you.
An actor.
A comedian.
But never, never a writer.

No child wants to become a novelist now,
Because what they see is that
The fate of a writer is like that of a teacher,
Honorable, respected… and broke.

And yet,
We birth the ideas that give the world meaning.
We are the griots, the guardians,
The silent minds behind the noise.

Wole Soyinka once walked into the world with thunder in his voice
But even he was first ignored.
Achebe told the story of the centre not holding

But still, the centre funds musicians.

Maybe it is easier to dance than to think.
Maybe it is sweeter to sing than to read.
But when the lights go out,
It is not the beat you will remember.
It is the words.
The words.
The words.

So call us the forgotten ones,
But know
That our silence echoes longer than your echoes scream.
We write not for the now,
But for forever.