By Dipita Kwa
Sirri was preparing to confront her parents in order to convince them that she wasn’t vulnerable as much as her uncle had made them believe. Then all of a sudden, like a silly dog, her treacherous mind dug up the story Granny told them yesterday about a young author.
This guy thought he had a few international achievements in creative writing after his short stories were published in several online magazines; a published novel, but most of all his being published among the worlds Literary Greats in an anthology of short stories. But not even up to a handful of his countrymen knew he wrote stories even though he lived and worked there.
After he had decided that one didn’t light a lamp and hide it in a bushel, he got out of his vault an old rusty tin of Ovaltine, broke it open and withdrew the remnants of his savings. Unless a seed is planted and dies, it cannot yield fruit with better seeds, he thought. He decided to step out so his community, beginning in the university that had molded him, an environment graced with intellectuals who would certainly understand and appreciate his endeavor.
He printed and distributed over a hundred invitation cards to the university authorities, his beloved lecturers, government dignitaries, and the elites of the region; he invited friends and relatives. He even rented his favorite lecture hall and paid for promotional airtime on the radio.
He cooked food, bought drinks, hired a sound system, and had his favorite hall decorated with banners to welcome his guests and announce the event. Before long, the tin vault was empty. He wasn't perturbed; he turned to his neighbor—a bendskin taxi man, for a loan.
On the day of the launching, he was dressed in his best suit and happy for a job well done. However, every so often, his shoulders sagged whenever he thought of his debt.
Well, five minutes before the event began, the hall was empty. Thirty minutes into the event, still nobody. Two hours later, and he was still standing and listening to the calm voice of a poet, the lone attendee, telling him:
“Trials and betrayals and all forms of disappointments are what make a man—cut your losses and move on my young friend.”
The author retied his shoelace, carried the stack of books and headed back home before the cold fingers of dusk began pocking at his sizzling heart.
On the way, he came across one of the women who had helped him decorate the hall. She looked at him sadly and said, “Do you know why you failed, I mean why they didn't attend?”
“How is that?” The distraught author asked.
“It is because you did not lobby. You may ask that again; well, after giving out those invitations, you had to visit each of them in their houses to convince them, I mean to BEG them to attend your ceremony, launching, or whatever you invited them to...”
“But I-”
“But I nothing! Media publicity is nothing my friend! Lobby, my friend, is the word. Lobby! That is what works out here. You lobby for everything under the sun. You had to make them feel important-- - show them that without their support, you are nothing, a wisp of gray smoke in the wind. Yes, that is how you must see yourself.”
“Thank you for the advice,” the author said, making mental checks on the list of invitees, all those he had met, dined with and talked to about the prospects of the country's literature in the English language and...
He would move on. Wouldn't he? Poor thing!
well said dipita...we know the story. deja vu, cliche...but too tragic not to be retold! i know that writer: u & me!lol!
Posted by: Wirndzerem GB | December 19, 2009 at 05:51 AM