I wrote the book,” The boy who heard God speak,” in the year 2020; the year COVID hit the world . Three years later, and by the grace of God, I was able to publish it. This was my first ever published book. The joy I felt in my heart was immeasurable as I held that first copy. It had been a long winding journey.
“Our Shamba.” This was the title of the first composition I ever wrote while I was in standard four. This was the year 1990. Back then, children begun writing compositions when they joined standard four. I wrote the composition in pencil and it was only one page long. I can’t quite recall the contents of the document,. But my English teacher then, Madam Isabel, proudly introduced me to a friend of hers who was visiting. She had no idea how much her validation lay the foundation for my writing journey.
After that, this became the trend and my compositions were read in classrooms during my primary and secondary education. At one point, I took an elementary French class and our teacher required us to write a composition in French. I don’t know how it happened, but that day I got into class late only to find our lecturer, a jovial Congolese man who had a missing front tooth standing in front of the class reading my composition. It had happened again.
By the time I was clearing high school, it was clear to me that I was meant to be an established full time writer. That was twenty plus years ago. “What happened?”, you might ask. According to Terry Prachett, Only in our dreams are we free. The rest of the time we need wages.
Three years after high school, I handed in my hand written novel to a publisher on Kijabe street. After a long wait without any response, I decided to pay a visit to the publisher. I timidly knocked on the door of the editor’s office and waited for him to open the door. When he finally did, he gave me some advice,” When you knock on the door of a public office, you do not wait for the door to be opened, you just get in.” After the meeting, I went home heart broken. The gentlemen had voiced that my book was boring. He might have said more but I did not hear another word after “boring” hit my eardrums.
I must have hung my writing boots then to focus on the wages. However, writing was a love that always drew me back time and again and I kept finding myself scribbling short stories which I shared with a few friends.
“ The boy who heard God speak” was written in the Covid year, a time when I was jobless and living with my mother. As I journeyed through the difficult year, I shared my life through the Story of Jeremy, an albino boy who lived in the slum with his drunk father. As a Sunday school teacher, I used my writing skills to intertwine the love, consistency and goodness of God through every page. By the end of the year, Jeremy had conquered the deplorable slum life, as I moved on to take up a full time job as a Sunday school coordinator in my church. God answers prayers.
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