Friday, March 30, 2012


When I started writing the novel, I had named it era (prey).There is something mysterious about the word era.
For me era feels softer, susceptible and gentle, yet not so helpless whereas prey is something you see in National geographic programs, in one of those African Savannah's, chased by the bigger stronger animal.

When Yaya read the title, she read it as Era ( like common era) and I had to explain to my bewildered child that I meant something totally different. So obviously I had to find a different name.

I write at night.
Right outside my bedroom window is my favourite Muraya tree. In the last 6 months, the tree has grown totally out of control ( as opposed to before when the previous owner had trimmed it to make it look a work of art).
The tree is 7 feet tall, beautiful glossy dark green leaves and when in bloom produces the most fragrant white flowers. It is a very hardy native plant, doesn't need to be watered  and will not die under my loving neglect.
Though I am (partially) deaf, when all is quiet, I can hear the wind whispering the secrets to the Muraya  and the leaves rustling
Wind carries with her the sighs. The sigh of a mother trying to soothe the crying child all night, The sigh of a woman feeling contended to be in her lover's embrace. It is the sigh of the child dreaming of the castles and Queens in the sky kingdom. The sigh of the mother grieving for dead child, the sigh of a broken heart,
So many sighs the wind carries to the Muraya and whispers at night. As I mentioned yesterday, it is the sighs that became words.
That is why I named the book, Night whisperers.
Is the title good?
Pls let me know.

Please note:All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living, dead or currently living like dead is purely coincidental.
It is highly possible that some resemblance to persons living, dead or currently living like dead might be plainly apparent to them and those who know them. but it is purely coincidental.

Wednesday, March 28, 2012


I remember reading somewhere that everyone has a story to tell. A story hidden beneath layers and layers of lies and broken promises.
If you unravel those ugly layers of lies and broken promises, there in the middle, you will find a little sigh.
This is the story of the little sighs that became words.
I am not a writer.
That begs the question, if I am not a writer, then what am I?
I am a woman, a strong woman, who hates the euphemistic description of strong woman often used by feminists that says, "I am a woman, hear me roar"
I have no voice to roar, for I am filled with sighs.

When the night is all quiet, often you can hear the dogs howling in the distance and if you listen close enough, you can hear a sigh, a soft sigh, a sigh that struggles to find its way out of the deep dark place that inhabits my mind, a sigh that competes with my tears, a sigh that is the beginning of the end.
If those sighs could tell their story,then there is a story to be told and that is the story here.
I am not a writer. I am a strong woman who is overwhelmed by all those soft sighs, those tiny little sussurations that wants their story to be told.