Doing without

Quick! What was the thing you most recently complained about? Got your answer? Hold that thought.

Now read this.

“I am only replying now (it’s around 1:36 a.m.) because this is first time in days that we have had power. Add that to the recession and you have a really “beautiful” picture of life from my end.”

Electricity off for days? Recession? And I’m upset because my WiFi isn’t fast enough.

The quote is from an email my Nigerian friend sent me the other day. I’ve been getting reality checks from him for some time now. I look around my house. What would I be forced to do without if there were no electricity? Lights, stove, fridge, microwave, TV, computer, iPad, Paperwhite, phone, humidifier, heat; even the gas fireplace needs its electric starter.

I’ve a book I’d like to send you, I write. It’s not available in ebook format. What’s your address?

“The post office building is vacant and has been for some time. The last time I received a letter was six years ago.”

Okay, I think. I’ll courier the book. I check with various companies to find that no one delivers packages in his area of the country. Scratch that idea.

Each missive from him jolts me. He rarely complains, but I can sense how hard his life is and how difficult it must be to remain optimistic.

We take far too many things for granted in our cozy corner of the world. Does his plight make me want to give up what I have? Of course not. But it does prompt me to stop buying things I don’t need, to be less wasteful, to “use it up, wear it out, make do, do without.” And, knowing him has prompted me to increase my charitable donations to organizations like KIVA. It’s the least I can do.

www.darlenejonesauthor.com

Le me introduce you to Uzo

I don’t remember how we met. Uzo reminds me that he was surfing Wordpress looking for authors, found my blog, and read some of the posts about Mali. He made a comment, I responded and a new friendship was born.

Uzo is a young Nigerian with a blog. He lives in Asaba, Delta State (South-South Nigeria), one of the oil producing states in his country. I’m an older Canadian with a blog. I live a world away (in so many respects) on Vancouver Island, Canada.

Uzo writes novels. I write novels. Uzo writes in English, which is not his first language. As he says, “English is quite a vast language. Every day is a learning process for me.”

We begin by talking about books. We both like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. I’d read Half a Yellow Sun. He told me about Purple Hibiscus. Here’s what he had to say about that book. “Purple Hibiscus is a wonderful story. Adichie did a marvelous job there from the first person pov. Kambili's account is so real and reflects the life of a rich, caged Igbo child-woman during one of the military regimes in Nigeria.”  We’re both anxious to read Americanah.

Uzo says, “I’m a no-good writer. I'm just a wannabe like you guys call it.” On the contrary, Uzo is a powerful writer. Here’s a sample.

Although the Liberian war is now over, I cannot wish away the memories. There are nights in my sleep when I still find myself dressed in army uniform, AK-47 ready. On these nights I hear the voices of parents calling their children; others joking, shouting: “Where’s your bunker?” The air cracks and I hear the sounds of diving jets and stuttering LMGs. Fire, blood, bullets and bodies everywhere. Things soon simmer to normal as danger passes. People fill the streets, young boys and girls going on various errands. Then he appears in a blood-stained enemy uniform. His oily dark face is teased with abandon. He’s about to aim his rifle at me. In my dreams, he dies in different ways. I’m his killer. Something tells me that he is my son. But I’m too afraid to believe it.

I’m not a professional editor, but I’ve offered to help Uzo with his English as he’d be drained if he had to pay an editor, so files are sent back and forth. I’m careful not to tamper with the uniqueness of his voice.

Only the eyes that moved swiftly would see the legs that desperately sprinted across the farms and pathways. Thereafter thoughts would arise if the runner was after something, or rather, was the prey.

Beautiful, right? And yes, my life, as a person and as a writer, is richer for having met him. That’s the beauty of the Internet.