The One Who Wrote My Life
My fight against a clueless creator
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I’ve always felt my life follows an unusual rhythm — like a collection of disjointed orchestras producing moments almost perfect, despite the chaotic performance. The choir’s rendition is as flat as a drawing board.
I have heard about people who got their first kisses at eight, but receiving my first slap at eight was the weirdest plot twist.
Why was mine different?
But it isn’t until I find an old tablet in my living room. I had just finished bathing. I dried my hair with a towel while my semi-torn underwear exposed my butt. Its cover was still warm, my name scrawled across the last page — that I began to suspect the truth. Or maybe the truth was fishy. I just knew I smelled something. This person was writing on MS Word 1.0. What the hell…
“Adenmosun Oluwatobiloba, chapter 10.”
It’s giving Leo Messi. He’s the greatest of all time.
Wait, what? Someone is writing my story, and they’ve just decided what happens next in my life. But where are they? I need to speak with them because I don’t understand my current situation anymore, and they’re already working on chapter 10.
Somebody save me.
I need to read through the previous chapters, while I wait for this mysterious person.
Chapter 1
Oh my. What a handsome young boy. My first cry was one nobody had experienced before. But on a serious note, the grammar in this chapter is hurting my brain. Haha. I knew it; I always say no child loves water as I do. I remember having a meal with my relatives and almost finishing the water.
I wasn’t selfish. I didn’t fancy choking on spicy food.
I don’t understand how they eat so quickly without letting the food cool down. Some people avoid drinking water during meals because they believe it makes them feel too full.
Are you one of them?
Chapter 2
Bro or sis, I don’t even know, but these chapters have a masculine undertone. I could be wrong. And why is it taking forever for this person to reach here? They have explanations to give because you can’t enter someone’s house without knocking, talk more about tapping away in chapter 10.
Hey…you could have helped me here. I can’t forget this day. Poor punctuation, I guess. I didn’t like cows while growing up, even though I enjoyed the idea of eating them. Who doesn’t?
A party was happening nearby, and the celebrants decided to tie their cow in front of my dad’s gate. Isn’t that annoying?
I was the clingy boy who followed his mum everywhere. And that day, she wasn’t having it; looking for me after her choir practice was an ultimate search. I didn’t listen, and while I ran after her when she told me, “Go and get your slippers,” I jittered at the sight of the cow sitting by the gate.
The next thing I perceived was a horrible smell. Guess who fell like a mango tree inside a gutter?
My mum beat the living out of me, and I had to wash my clothes myself. Imagine rubbing my hands against urea, dung, and different tones of saliva, eww.
Chapter 3
At this point, I blame the writer for messing things up. Probably they’re an overworked freelancer or a clumsy beginner novelist, because why are there many commas in the story? A clueless writer maybe.
You can call me a goat in this chapter. My grandpa beat me because I blew knockouts in the compound, and my grandmother’s, a sad twist.
I was playing football in the living room when a voice told me to practice Ronaldo’s power shot. I couldn’t resist, so I obliged like a girl who was promised chocolate candy.
Don’t tell me you don’t know where the ball landed.
It landed on my grandmother’s back. I would have been a barbecue if the meal she was preparing had fallen off the stove.
It was so damn close, but I was beaten blue-black.
Chapter 4
My crush left me for a random guy. What do I mean by left? She was never mine. I was delusional. I showed that I cared, but she never took those signs seriously. I was running a charity organization. And I blame myself for pioneering materialistic love. Love? You can never finish paying for it. The only time I stood my ground against this girl who played me like an Adidas Finale, she stopped talking to me.
“Oh, look who we have here,” a voice said calmly behind me.
With a reflex sharper than Oliver Kahn’s, I turned to see who spoke with an angelic voice.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said with a smile.
“And you’re not supposed to make me fall in love with who doesn’t like me!” I shouted.
She stared at me, and moved closer to her tablet, trying to close it.
“You should be my kid sister’s mate, aren’t you too young to write about my life?”
She shrugged, “You’re welcome to the jungle of character development, brother.”
