By Amatesiro Dore
16 July 2013
Tesiro crashed his car while working on an essay about the Lagos State Traffic Law, then Lastma towed his pretty ride away; his runaway cook moved his laptop while he was plotting a short story about theft; he had to explain himself at the Maroko Police Station after writing about a falsely accused friend. Tesiro stopped writing: because bad stories were the best and they were infiltrating his life. A good story was no story, creative fiction requires conflict and resolution: “there must be something at stake”.
So Tesiro sat at home trying to write a good bad story, learning how to earn from the writing dream, and hoping that the dream doesn’t kill him before publishing. He counted the months his car had spent at the mechanic’s, and he wrote different ways God was going to kill the mechanic for manipulating his pocket. He continued to write his debut novel and other short stories, but he became paranoid about leaving the house, scared that his art would invade his life and knock him dead on the road.
He complained to an Elder Writer about his art-into-reality dilemma. He was advised to write about dating Jennifer Lawrence, earning billions more than J.K Rowling, and reading his novels in fan filled stadiums (moderated by Oprah). But who would publish such a piece of happiness? Who would buy such a boring fulfilment? Who was awarded for writing portions of heaven? How can one write a good story?
Days after my November birthday, I received a call from a masculine voice of Scandinavian descent.
“Am I speaking to Amatesiro Dore,” he said.
“Yes, this is Tesiro,” I answered.
“My name is Aslak Sira. I’m a member of the Swedish Royal Academy of Arts. Congratulations, you’ve been awarded the Dynamite Prize for Literature.”
I rose from the bed and tiptoed out of our room without waking Jennifer. I went into my Eko Atlantic City library and added another sentence to my good story:
“And Amatesiro Dore was read for eternity, he remained in print forever, and the language of his works lived happily ever after.”
I went back to bed and asked Jennifer if she wanted to sleep with a Dynamite Laureate.
“Is he also my husband and Forbes’ Richest Man?” she said, and I nodded a yes.
We had exhausted many rounds of Dynamite lovemaking when I got a call I couldn’t ignore.
“Hello Oprah,” I answered.