WHY I WRITE AGAINST OTHER WRITERS Abandoning oneself is a conditioning process is begins the moment we find out that we have a difference that may victimize us, because at times these interpretation giving to our identity as a person were so loud that it blind us to our own presence, the belief of our races, the hostile natives nations, becomes so ingrained in us that our identity soon becomes tied in rejecting them, because they didn't fit our chosen standard as a normal independent individual. Browsing the net everyday, I sees my brothers post, poets and writers in the media talking about Africa a continent they knew only in history books and all the review from paid sources, Yet I most admit that there is a perfectionist in their write up that I cannot deny, but something is missing, the Africa they knew is not the Africa I know, this Africa is not the sinking vessels portrayed by the foreign media. These scenes of pitiful imaginaries from BBC, CNN AND CO, where more often than not staged. Many of us black brotherhood in the media knew this but yet we hid the truth from ourselves, denying that we are not doing what we are doing, when the truth that we knew exactly what we do is shown before us in the way we hid it behind our shame. We are afraid to see what lies beneath the Mississippi River, we put up mask in our faces to hide the scars because we are afraid others would define us or call us names in line with these self-proclaimed savages we watch in CNN during the African civil strife. WHY DO I WRITE ABOUT THE MEDIA REVIEWS ON AFRICA I have a talent with word, it is what I discovered early, and I knew it is something not given to everyone, I don't want to keep it in the bank, like the ungrateful servant the Bible talked about, so I am using it, the gift that made me different, to write about the truth as I alone can see. God wants us to make a difference in the world with our lives and put it to work in the place he has given us, he wants us to make use of the talents he gave to us, so that it will multiply, this world ought to be the celebration of the difference among us people, Great writers are said to write what counts to them, `their differences' and how they make use of it in their lives and on these they associated with, People count on the writers art to tell them about an experience in a world they live in but had not completely understood because the writer as a physical being has the same influences that conditioned us and help to shape us. The joy of reading such art is like seeing through the eye of someone else who have seem in a way you have not seen, admiration of such an individual writer have been focused on their differences and of how they make use of it, the high standard in all that they do, knowing that I decided to do the same, to write about what counts to me, exposing such moral values which also helps the writer stand out against other writers in a typical situation, they wrote what count to them I write what counts to me, they focus on the shame of my nation I focus on their flaws, they pictured my country on a stage I magnified the lies on a slate. YET I TOO WRITE ABOUT OUR SHAME Firstly, I write about the reviews of our shame because if we allow others to defined us from the outside we cannot recognize ourselves from within, papa was right when he said that "t always take one to know one that these who have themselves suffered are these who are best at this because their experience helps them to sense the inner struggle of others I as an individual am separate, my experience is different from yours, just as everyone experience of the world is quiet private and not quite like anyone else, what really count in life is discovering our differences by the experience we had with life, the special meaning something should have when it is your own. These prettifying names give to my heritage are not mine. And secondly, Because there is simply an awareness that my experience of life as an African nomad' is simply not working in line with what other writers profiled, that pictures has ceased to be interesting, most of us Africans no longer lives in the past were we formed the source of "Raw Material " And finally, Knowing that there should be something in my arts that will make sense out of what appears to be the useless senseless suffering that the intellects portrays our way I begin to seek, what is it they long for, I begin to ask, and question myself, After a time in becomes a habit, a principle a practice a way in my writings to see my heritage in lieu with our world As one talks to ones soul and question it, what are we separate from what is it that make us writers project our races as sufferers and slaves and finally we ask ourselves why?, what am I missing when I watch the Negro races on the cable network, what have we lost?, So one begin to look, to question oneself as we move along unfamiliar road, and embank on a journey within oneself, toward the person we really are, what makes a writer the writer he is probably depend on the space he found himself, his wording could give us light into our own existence into a place we have never been but all along were ours, ours alone to claim to hold and to cherish, as we journey into a section of the existence we knew were again our true identity and that of our forefathers can embrace themselves. That Is my passion. My passion for writing followed the urge to express the absolute truth about the way things is in Africa when I study my roots a realization of a dream I have been trying to discover myself within, the passion is a true nomadic feelings, thought wishes and sensation, to write from life, from the endless Afrikaans plains I AM QUITE  DIFFERENT IN ALL MY SUBJECTS I have always wanted to learn about anything from these who are older than I and have a wider experience of the world than I do I have always wanted to follow in the footsteps of these in my past Whether it was history or culture, The lust is still here today I am still learning about things I needed to learn, things in history and study the heritage of the enslaved, to learn about my roots the arts I love in my culture more than anybody else I knew, I am still learning and I guess I might die learning But I knew that as long as we look up to others to give me the key of what rightly belongs to us I will never discover the purpose of my difference, I was fortunate enough to realize that there is a talent within us that could portray our differences and that no one need to give us permission to explore that which belongs to us, because the only person to give us that permission is ourselves' on a personal perspective, Have you ever asked yourself how different you were, in your family how were you different, in your society and chosen profession ,what difference have you done? I have asked myself these questions continuously on the purpose of my difference and the answers teaches me how best to make use it When I was in high school, the school would teach about American history and the colonist but not my roots my heritage or about my own ancestry and yet the school exist in an African society, I knew nothing about my heritage accept in my mind and on what I hear under the cocoa tree during the moonlight tales, I would do a comparison between the histories of my race and where my grandparents came from and what they had done. What my forefathers had done in the revolution and how they had suffered and how people had died and about how she had come to be sold a slave I think that the more years that pass, the more years I wondered about my roots. There were times I was ashamed of my kinsmen because they didn't know how to speak English or read, I saw so many faults in them. The many faults I have studied at school. I now realize how stupid I was, And yet I knew, the knowledge grew as I grew, that the best way to make a difference and put up my own little efforts with the talent I have will be to focus on the study of our past and find one answers to the present and ultimately the future, to write about us, people who haven't seen civilization and yet are the happiest people I knew on earth ON THE RAW MATERIAL By telling the truth as we see it, by writing more about our past, and with our reasoning to find answers that we seek, such as answers to why our own races sold us of to the slave merchant in the past Where could that lead us? In the past it was easy for the slave merchants to manipulate us, to exploit our brothers to sell us off as their slaves, because we were ignorant and we were illiterate, well that was then but this is now we are no longer illiterate as it was then but accept this, accept the truth that we are still being manipulated today, Africa has the largest importation of human materials we need to accept that truth, and by so doing we will care more about our background, through our writings. It could lead us to study more about our roots, and the answer we shall see will give a name to our shame, and who knows it may unite us in time. CAN AN IMPAIRED POET IN A MINOR AFRICAN SOCIETY LIVE BY WRITING ALONE ? As I write I am far away, In the field the pencils were out, through the grass into every sheet writing is work for me, real work mind straining, it is a pleasure, it is a triumph behind all activities when I study my roots, by the river by the creek the wave give me secrets, pages and pages of skeleton in the deep, the plains give me secrets page and pages of the bondage of men. In a passion of husbandmen while I work with the fellow sharecroppers My own pen inflicting sores upon my wordings doing the selfsame chores in a heritage of enslavement, here the thought of my ancestors is somehow comforting and adds a sweetness to my life as nothing else ever could Our roots whether we remembered them much often or not they have always been in our line of sight, just the thought and sight of their presence inspired the poetic privilege in me as I write about Africa. There is a fulfilment in me trying to live by writing alone, though am not there yet the light is at the end of the tunnel, my trial is part of the history of our enslavement, our struggles our pain that the foreign media has been writing about, but they have never been a part of us projecting our chosen entity as a killing field, And that I understand they cannot know us the way we knew our selves maybe If they go into our skin and that they will never do. Its authenticity and usefulness in describing the lineage of history here in my reviews I found a balance as I listened to the growing grass smelling the burning fields the stench of manure and compost heaps pictures seeking out definition Over the flat straw grass calling me home as I write about home, And when I sleep and my every waking moment have words for me words cut long ago from more year than men could count from past I hardly knew but yet all my own, My studies tell me thing and conjure up a world for me to see myself within times that passes away existing only in ones mind of thing in my root Centuries older than me of the Negro tribes before me, Living with my written, I have come to see the greatness in the unexplored, I have learned thing not in the history of books I wish no end to the quest I wish nothing but to share the art and learn more from these who critiques me In conjugation with my heritage melodies of old came back to me, Past buried deep in me yet never abandoned From years upon years ago, learning how these times have been when men knew the secrets of gods which we lost. I am not shall what I pretended or what I intended to accomplish as I focused on written Africa alone in all my review yet I trove to seize the innermost form searching past what we see and hear to make me the art toward the eternal Zulu dream .. To strike the readers a note equal to ones mind and fill the modern mind with native dirge, I needed to carry my text deep in all regions to recreate the rhythms of our ancient pact…. Writings on a slate over the gulf of dreams, a story of our shamelessness the critics spits on, to let my rawness hit like an actor without a script in a nuance with my past creeping over the Internet... Nativity of a kind is what I am after to make the poems I write easy to understand I don't mind breaking grammar as long as I can break chains and give my brothers back a home they didn't know they lost. Hut and Skins I have non but hut and skins and the usual junks my people have yet I am a king in my own realm again within the endless plains' in my poetry lies my profiles contentment in gutter education carving out my manuscript and claim my own kind tribes of men, men fitted with strong sinew bones larger harder like stumps conditioned by years of conquered illness heat from the field and dry winds' mild wandering fashion of savage old to eat what only the rain and sun could give clothed here in my manuscript as I study the African literature 11 Afield the echo screams Deep within the alluvial of the African soul Squat and croaking in my consciousnesses Things about arts found only in dreams Trying to access my share of the brotherhood questions That pain has sought to kill The black man curriculum's Teaching me about thyself... Nourished anew along the Niger plains Under the skin of a native beat As I study the African literature And suddenly crawling groping graping Arms reaching to strangle the words out of me Unguarded utterance that may lead me to trouble keeping watch over my lips The roaring pathos Shrill loud and trembling Pictured the bleak interior of a prison Stealing into my heart Taking notes of all that I do In poetry form Seeking reason for my fear WRITTEN BY OMOSUN SYLVESTER NURUDEEN NIGERIA