When I write I’m trying to convey meaning the most – it’s more of an egocentric endeavour, me distilling my truths.
When I speak, I concern myself with the other in a more intimate sense, it’s not necessarily about what I’m saying but how the words will be received.
I am my kindest self when I speak, my most honest self when I write. Writer me seeks to elucidate, speaker me primarily to connect. With my new obsession with the personal essay, I think conversational me is finally bleeding into writerly me – I look forward to the amalgamated voice that will emerge

I’m not too big on self promotion. I used to be convinced this was a self esteem issue but upon closer inspection I’ve come to realize that I’ve always been pretty confident in my skill and capability – almost to the point of maniacal egotism. I tend to keep that confidence to either myself or the select few privy to my complete honesty.

This may be as a result of a fundamentally spilt identity. There’s the double trouble pull from the West; the semi-assimilation of individualistic culture coupled with a reaction to the West’s homogenization of African identity have led to the development of a somewhat strong “I”, one that wants or needs perhaps to set itself apart. This influence works against the strong communal sensibilities of the African continent resulting in two co-occurring self constructs: the self that feels as an individual apart and the self that is an inextricable part of a whole. How do I reconcile the “I” with the “one/we”? More importantly can I and should I?

 I’ve also managed to pin point another gnawing sensation, a sense that no matter how much I learn I will still be gloriously ignorant (that is, relative to the infinite knowledge to be gained on this our little blue dot, let alone the universe). What some may confuse for humility is simply caution. I want to be sure of what I am and what I say – to a certain extent anyway – before I share it. That’s hard when you consider yours to be a position of perpetual ignorance, thesis constantly crashing against antithesis, forever synthesizing. I can’t sit long enough on any thought without questioning it. This isn’t necessarily doubt in the traditional sense, just me fine-combing my truths in a world that I have come to see as contingent.

 Right now I can only learn what is framed by the English and French language, framed by human understanding and perception and by the limitations of the forces in our corner of the universe. This doesn’t make me sad, but I wish I would get over the mental block because if I wish – and I do – to be relatively self sufficient, I better learn to blow my own horn every now and then.

Continuously learning all I can is my way of doing penance for the mistakes I’ve made. I want to make sure I never repeat them again and to do that I must ensure that all my choices and actions are well thought out and allow me to be in equilibrium with whatever environment that I’m in. This requires a lot of time and effort.

One could say it’s almost sado-masochistic. Intellectual self-flagellation. I go wherever my learning takes me, no matter what it makes me question. I am not afraid to be wrong – In fact I hope there never comes a time where there is nothing that can challenge my beliefs; that would mean there would be nothing left to learn, and what would be the point of living after that?

So I keep learning, keep sharpening myself, not for any gain necessarily but so that all the space I occupy be it physically, in terms of power, et cetera et cetera is not wasted.