Ready.

It is a cold Friday night, and I have just finished reading for the second time, Caleb Azumah Nelson's Small Worlds. I am staring at the ceiling, thinking of my life in poetic detail. Before now, I had downed a tin of sardines and bread that only truly delightful hands could have made. To go with it was a hot cup of sugary cocoa powder that I am certain is bereft of the nutrients it claims to have. This meal, and the 400 pages of incredible paper in my hands, have reminded me that life is funny and weird and cruel and confusing. But it is also nice. I am in awe. I am also pleased.

This second reading has somehow done to me even more, than it did when I first read it. I have sighed, I have smiled and I have shed a tear or two, on it. But I want more of this story, more of this experience, more of what I am feeling. For reasons I am not sure of, I am convinced that they are in the Acknowledgement part of the book.

It is not something that I remember doing for other reads, but I slowly and intentionally take this one in. I read out the names of everyone who is mentioned and smile. The notes to these names are an average of two sentences, maybe ten words long. For some, it's just the phrase, 'thank you'. Trite, yet so true. You can just tell. All these people with whom he has varying levels of intimacy with, are announced as necessary ingredients to this treasure that I love. These people, whole, busy, involved-in-other parts of their own lives, yet contributing to the wonder that it is Nelson, and by extension, his output, this book. In my dainty hands on this cold Friday night, is a testimony that every endeavor is collective, never singular. That we indeed belong to each other, and not to ourselves.

In all of this, I began to wonder; if my entire week, were a published book, who would I acknowledge? Apart from the obvious, what other mentions would I deem necessary? The answers flush through and so I start to list them;

"To the delightful police officer who waves at me on my drive to work. Your brimming excitement brightens my otherwise gloomy day. If there is any brilliance I give my employer, you are a contributor. They thank you, I thank you."

"To my new suya vendor, who greeted me in my true language; Hausa. You saw me and saw the truth that others refuse to admit; that I am truly your sibling, A Hausa girl stuck in a Yoruba girl's body. Thank you for seeing (the real) me."

"To the lady who catcalled me in the meanest way, to warn me about my ripping nylon bag holding my market loot, I appreciate you. You may have interrupted my lovely daydream of dealing with an honest mechanic, but you saved my precious oranges from running all over the street, and me, from wailing in helpless defeat. I am scarred by your yelling, but I am truly grateful."

“And to David; musician, warrior, poet, shepherd boy and king. You did and proved it could all be done in one lifetime. Times and seasons, humility and honour. Thank you for instructing then, thank you for still instructing now.”

I pause with the list and think to how these people probably would never recognise me in a crowd. They probably would, say hello to me without much affection and then continue with their own busy lives. Yet, they have contributed in no small way to mine, to my endeavour. What a wonder, this life we live. This funny and weird and cruel and confusing, yet good life that we live.

My list is endless, but for now, my acknowledgements are done. If this is the only criteria to be met-having my Acknowledgement page set-then I'm definitely ready to be published. Just like Nelson and every other person whose works have floored me, to have my own endeavour in another person’s hands-dainty or chunky- I’m ready.

Penguin Random House, call me, will you?