The Pen I Carry

The Pen I Carry

When I sit down to write, I feel as if I am borrowing the pens of giants. Not because I claim to write like them, but because their spirits sit beside me, whispering, guiding, challenging me to be honest, to be fearless, to be unapologetically myself.

I write with the pen of Mongo Beti - sharp, unfiltered, and unafraid of troubling the waters. His courage taught me that stories are not decorative ornaments; they are weapons, they are shields, they are mirrors held up to the world. Mongo Beti wrote with the fire of a man who had seen injustice and refused to lower his gaze. In many ways, I carry that same stubbornness.

I write with the pen of V.S. Naipaul, who carried exile and belonging in the same suitcase. His writing reminds me of the complicated truth of being from one place and living in another, the way your heart stretches across continents until it becomes a bridge. I know that feeling well - the African man in America, the immigrant who never fully belongs in any single place but somehow manages to belong everywhere.

I write with the pen of Paulo Coelho, whose simplicity masks spiritual depth. Coelho writes like a man speaking to a friend around a fire - warm, gentle, mystical. His stories made me believe that a simple sentence, born from an honest heart, can move an entire world.

I write with the pen of Chinua Achebe, who gave Africa its voice. Entire generations of Africans discovered themselves through Achebe’s eyes. He showed us that English can be bent, shaped, and flavored until it smells like home. Achebe wrote for the village, for the mother, for the child, for the ancestor. And when I write, I feel his shadow behind me, reminding me that my voice is worthy.

I write with the pen of Cyprian Ekwensi, who painted Lagos with the colors of life - its chaos, its humor, its beauty. His stories feel like conversations overheard in a crowded market, full of rhythm and pulse. Ekwensi taught me that African cities breathe, and if you listen carefully, they will tell you their secrets.

I write with the pen of Bernard Fonlon, the scholar, the gentleman, the custodian of Cameroonian thought. He believed in excellence, dignity, and intellectual honesty. His legacy reminds me that writing is not only art - it is responsibility. It is stewardship. It is giving future generations something solid to stand on.

And then, because life is funny, I also write with the spirits of Minnesota Prince and Bob Dylan resting on my shoulders.

Prince, that unstoppable burst of color and sound, who refused to be ordinary. Prince created worlds inside studio rooms, worlds where rules did not matter. He taught me that creativity is a birthright, not a privilege for the chosen. If a Black boy from Minneapolis could rewrite global music, then a man from Wututu could write his own destiny on a page.

And Bob Dylan, the Iron Ranger himself - who played music on Minnesota streets before anyone cared, before anyone clapped, before anyone believed he would become a legend. He reminds me that greatness never starts with applause. It starts with stubborn persistence. It starts with the courage to create when no one is looking.

So when I write, I carry all these spirits with me - African, American, village, city, immigrant, rebel, poet, philosopher, musician.

My writing is a chorus of many voices, shaped by the places I have lived, the people I have loved, the pain I have carried, the countries I have traveled, and the children and grandchildren I hope will one day read my words and smile.

I write because I have something to say.
I write because these giants taught me that silence is not an option.
I write because the world I have lived through deserves to be documented.
I write because my grandchildren deserve a library with my name on it.
I write because writing is my way of remaining alive - even after I am gone.

And so, with every book, every chapter, every page, I honor those who wrote before me, those who write beside me, and those who will write long after I am gone.