In my short quest for knowledge i have read few writers. Men and women of substance who have never ceased to oil my reading skin. People who write with plausible wit, precision and proficiency. Writers who drive you on a journey so unanticipated, so wild, so snappy you can easily break on the verge of their narration.
Stories are just that; stories. But when an adroit writer spews his ink on it and invokes the spirits of his writing godfathers, it becomes a facile exploration into a world full of pleasing twists and turns. A transformation will work miracles on its face that the promises by Nairobi rogue pastors will never have the gut to ask believers to panda mbegu for. It does receive a papal pat of blessing on the forehead.
These are writers who have shown me something in someway that i never imagined in my wildest of imaginations. Their sentences have left me groaning like a man who have been hit in the balls by a woman. Through them i have seen persons with a vast vocabulary grasp that subdues that sight of an hungry lion scanning the Savanna. In their work i read impeccable scenes, enchanting intros and totally unexpected, ingenious endings that leave me with an ache for more.
Praise is one thing, sincerity is another. Here, I am about sincerity and a little bit of praise. How would I not accord a pinch of praise to a human being who does things in an interestingly extraordinary manner? How would I justify myself if I made a mistake of speaking little of evidently big men of my world?
I know of novelists who are so brutal in their narrations Recce squad could be assigned on their case. I know of bloggers whose blog posts are awaiting Nobel prizes, grand entrance into Guinness book of records and what not. I know of columnists whose pieces have a voice of their own. And I know of essayists and Poets who write with zeal.
Exploration is ongoing, the quest still rife and more intriguing discoveries are yet to be stumbled upon.
I stash my ovation to these geniuses who live each day interacting with words and their bizarre patterns. All those who have respect for any blank space and thus they ever have the itch to fill it. Those who never rest until they scratch the itch. I respect the astute minds that reserve their ink for that one more story humming in their head.
Most times I have wishes; progressive and ambitious wishes. I wish could identify with these masterminds, I wish I could display their maturity of this fanciful game of words and I wish I could transcribe this buzz in my head.
A prolific piece wrings tears from your stone dry eyes. It shines light in the darkness of your world. It fixes laughter (not Ruto) in the gloom of your days. It highlights a voice of reason amidst voices of turbulence. A good piece brings peace in the tease of bitter exchanges.
I will be failing in my pursuit if i don’t drop names. Likewise, I will be shortening my tentacles if I drop even a million of them. You know what you fancy right the moment you see it. So, hold on to it, clink to it like our renowned political sycophants who defend their political gods even when the wrong doing is a matter of sight. Lick it until it becomes tasteless and then move on.