Dear Africana Woman,

How are you? I am kinda in the middle. So many amazing things are happening and yet there is also a lot of muddy stuff going on. In my constant reiteration of discovering myself and manifesting the life that I want to live, I know for sure that I call myself a writer. Now writing comes in many forms. Could be a blog, a book, a script, a columnist etc. I am not sure where I actually fall, but the undeniable truth is that if I say I am a writer then I should write. That goes with anything you think you were called to do. DO IT.

I am using you as my accountability partner. I have decided to challenge myself to write every day on the blog for 30 days. Hopefully the habit will continue. I don’t know what I will write about. I will most likely experiment a bit more and see what comes out. To be honest this is not really about you liking the content that I produce. It more about me building the muscle of consistently writing. The other thing that is true is that if you want to be a legend, a master at whatever you do you have to put in the hours. There is no running away from that fact. Do the research, practice, repeat until you get muscle memory, train your body to push past pain and not give up. That all happens when you dedicate yourself to mastering a craft.

My love for stories began at a very young age. My favourite childhood memories are going to the library during break time to read a book. All the other kids would be making a beeline for the swings and slides and there I was running in the opposite direction ready to jump into the world of the story I was reading. As I read my imagination grew bigger. I could see things and imagine them and traverse across oceans or even dimensions simply by opening a book. I learned new words which people around me don’t normally use and dreamed of a place that I could use them without sounding weird.

Then came high school and the library was not as engaging or accessible for some reason. Therefore, I turned to my own imagination to create stories. I went to an all girls boarding school. Every Friday night we were given an extra hour to tell stories in our dorm before bedtime. Now our dorms were one long room filled with bunkbeds and lockers. Everyone had to be on their bed during story time and the lights were turned off. Anyone could volunteer to tell a story. I remember one time telling a story about a beach in Zambia, and everyone laughed at me saying Zambia is landlocked,