The First Time I Saw My Name in Print

 

By Nightengale Ben-Onyeukwu

I started writing when I was a little girl. I was very young, but I loved holding a pen and putting words on paper. Sometimes, I would take a piece of paper and write nonsense. There was no story behind it and no particular reason for doing it. I simply wanted to write. I could sit down and put whatever came into my head on paper, even when it did not make sense. Sometimes I would read it again and laugh at what I had written, but that did not stop me from doing it again. I enjoyed the writing itself. I liked seeing words appear on a blank piece of paper. I did not think of myself as a writer then, and I certainly did not know where writing would take me. I was just a little girl with a pen who enjoyed putting her thoughts on paper.

My father, Rev. Prof. Ben Onyeukwu, had a lot to do with my love for writing. He is a writer and journalist, and I loved reading the things he wrote. He wrote articles, tracts, pamphlets and other works, and I enjoyed seeing his words on paper. Having a writer so close to me made writing feel familiar. I could see my father putting his thoughts into words and creating things that other people could read. I would read his works and sometimes go back to them. I did not fully understand what this meant for me at the time, but it became part of my childhood. I was reading, and I was writing too. Even before I knew what it meant to be an author, I knew that I enjoyed reading and putting my own thoughts on paper.

The books I read introduced me to other writers whose works I still remember. I read Chinua Achebe, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and William Shakespeare. They were different from one another, and I enjoyed that. I liked Chinua Achebe's stories and the way he could tell so much through simple words. I enjoyed reading Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's books and following the lives of her characters. Shakespeare was different again, and some of his language was difficult for me, but I still enjoyed reading his works. I was not reading them because I wanted to write exactly like them. I was simply a reader who loved books. But the more I read, the more I wanted to write my own stories. I wanted to create people who existed only in my imagination and give them lives of their own.

In those early days, I did not take writing too seriously. I would start something and leave it. I could have an idea, write a few pages and then move on to another idea. Sometimes I had a story in mind, and sometimes I had nothing at all. Even then, I could still pick up a pen and write. There was no pressure to finish anything. With time, my writing changed. The few pages became longer, and I started creating characters, giving them names and thinking about what might happen to them. I began to understand that an idea could become a story if I gave it enough time. What had started with a child writing nonsense was gradually becoming something I cared about.

My love for writing also influenced the course I chose to study. I decided to study Mass Communication because I wanted to become a journalist. I wanted to work with words and tell stories about people and things that mattered. At a higher institution, I began to see writing from another side. It was not only about creating characters and imaginary situations. There were real people with real experiences, problems, achievements and struggles. Their stories mattered too. Journalism gave me another way to use the thing I had loved since childhood. I could write about people who were actually living the stories instead of only creating stories in my imagination.

Becoming a journalist did not take me away from creative writing. I continued writing novels, especially romance. I have always enjoyed romance because love can change people in many ways. It can make someone happy, confused, hopeful or afraid. It can bring two people together, but it can also leave people hurt. I enjoy creating characters and following their relationships as a story develops. Sometimes I begin a novel knowing exactly where I want it to go. At other times, the characters seem to take the story in another direction. I may start with one idea and end up somewhere I did not expect. I enjoy that part of writing because there is always something to discover along the way.

Writing has also taken me into other areas. I run a blog, Nightengaleben.blogspot.com, where I publish my writing and other stories. I also edit stories written by young writers. I enjoy doing this because I understand what it feels like to have ideas in your head and want to put them into words. A young writer may have a good story but struggle with how to present it. Sometimes all that is needed is someone who will sit down, read the work carefully, point out what needs to be changed and encourage the writer to continue. I have also written a few biographies. Writing about real people is different from writing fiction because there is a responsibility to preserve their lives and experiences as accurately as possible. Both forms of writing have given me different ways to work with words.

My works are on Amazon, Wattpad, Webnovel, Inkitt, Dreame, NovelUp, Medium, Feedcover and other platforms. I also share my writing on social media under the name Nightengale Ben-Onyeukwu. When I think about this now, I remember that none of these things was in my mind when I was a little girl. I did not know anything about publishing platforms or readers waiting for new stories. I only knew that I liked writing. That is why seeing my own name on my work has always meant so much to me. Behind that name are many years of writing, reading, starting stories, abandoning some of them, changing others and learning from my mistakes.

The first time I saw my name in print, I looked at it differently from the way I had looked at the names of other writers. For years, I had opened books and seen someone else's name before reading the words inside. I had read my father's works. I had read Chinua Achebe, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and William Shakespeare. Their names were attached to the stories I was reading. Then I saw my own name attached to something I had written. It was a simple thing to see a name on a page, but I knew what was behind mine. I remembered the little girl who used to write nonsense without caring whether anyone would read it. I remembered the many stories I had written since then. I remembered the times I had wondered whether my writing was good enough. Looking at my name in print made all those memories come back to me.

There was happiness in that moment, but there was also a new feeling. Once your work is in front of other people, you cannot decide how they will receive it. Someone may enjoy your story while another person may not like it at all. Someone may understand what you were trying to say, while another reader may see something completely different. I have had to learn not to let that fear stop me. A writer cannot please everybody. If I kept every story to myself because I was worried about what people might say, many of the things I have written would still be sitting somewhere unseen.

I have also learnt through my mistakes. I have written stories that I later changed because I was not happy with them. There are chapters I have read again and wondered what I was thinking when I wrote them. I have started stories and stopped because I could not find the right way to continue. There are also days when writing comes easily and I can keep going without thinking too much about every sentence. Then there are days when I have an idea but cannot seem to get it down properly. I have learnt to live with both sides of writing. Even now, I can pick up a pen without knowing exactly what I want to say. I may write a few lines and leave them for another day. Sometimes those lines grow into something. Sometimes they remain just a few lines. I am no longer worried about that.

Writing has become part of my daily meal. It is something I have become used to having in my life. I write as a journalist, and I write novels and other stories. I edit stories for young writers, write biographies and run my blog, Nightengaleben.blogspot.com. There are days when an idea will stay in my head until I put it on paper. There are other days when I simply want to write because writing still gives me the same satisfaction it gave me as a child. The little girl who used to write nonsense has not completely gone away. I still have that part of me that can sit with a blank page and wonder what might come from it.

My love for writing has also made me want to create opportunities for other people who love words. I am the founder of Nightengale Awards, where I give awards to recognise people and their work. Under Nightengale Awards, I also run the Nightengale Literary Awards, a live writing competition where writers come together to write and compete, after which prizes are given to the winners. This is something I am proud of because writing is not only about the person holding the pen. Writers also need places where their work can be seen and appreciated. When I think about the little girl who used to sit with a piece of paper and write nonsense, it is interesting to know that I now help create opportunities for other writers to write, compete and be recognised.

When I look at my journey, I can see how one thing led to another. Reading my father's works helped deepen my interest in writing. The books of Chinua Achebe, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and William Shakespeare gave me more reasons to read. My love for writing influenced my decision to study Mass Communication and become a journalist. Journalism gave me a way to tell real people's stories, while writing novels gave me a place to create stories of my own. Along the way, I started my blog, wrote biographies, edited stories for young writers and created Nightengale Awards. My writing has reached readers through Amazon, Wattpad, Webnovel, Inkitt, Dreame, NovelUp, Medium, Feedcover and other platforms, as well as through social media. None of these things happened at once. They came one step at a time.

I did not begin writing with a plan. I had no idea that the simple habit of putting words on paper would stay with me for so long. I certainly did not imagine that writing would take me into journalism, novels, biographies, editing and eventually creating opportunities for other writers. In the beginning, there was only a pen and a piece of paper. I wrote because I enjoyed writing.

Today, when I see the name Nightengale Ben-Onyeukwu on my work, I still think about where it began. I think about the little girl who could write nonsense on a piece of paper and be perfectly happy with it. She was not thinking about readers, publishing platforms, journalism or awards. She was only enjoying the words in front of her. The writing has changed since then. The stories are longer, the purpose is clearer and there are now people who read what I write. But something important has remained the same. I still love putting words on paper.

And perhaps that is the best part of the journey. I started with a pen because I wanted to write, and after all these years, I still do.

 

The Day I Bought Something I Did Not Need

 

By Nightengale Ben-Onyeukwu

I went out that day to buy one thing. I already knew what I wanted and how much it would cost, so I also knew how much money I would have left after buying it. I was not planning to buy anything else because I did not have much money to spend. I only wanted to get what I needed and go home. I had no idea that I would return with something I never planned to buy.

When I got to the shop, I went straight to the seller and told her what I wanted. She brought it out and I checked it before paying. I was about to bring out my money when I noticed something on one of the shelves. I looked at it and then looked away. I knew I did not need it, so I tried to ignore it and pay for what I had come to buy. But after a few seconds, I looked at it again.

I asked the seller how much it was. She told me the price, and I started thinking about whether I should buy it. It was not very expensive, but it was not part of my plan either. I had enough money for what I came to buy, but if I bought this other thing, I would have less money left. I knew that, but I still kept looking at it. I started telling myself that I could buy it because I liked it and the price was not too high.

I picked it up and looked at it properly. I asked the seller a few questions, and she answered me. I checked it again and kept thinking about it. The funny thing was that I had entered the shop knowing exactly what I wanted, but now I was spending more time looking at something I had never planned to buy. After standing there for some time, I finally decided to buy it.

I paid for both things, collected my bag and left the shop. As I walked away, I was happy with what I had bought. I kept looking at the new thing and telling myself that I would use it. At that moment, I did not feel that I had made a bad decision. I was simply happy that I had seen something I liked and bought it.

After walking for a while, I remembered the money I had left. I brought out my wallet and counted it. I started thinking about what I had spent and what I still needed to pay for later. I still had enough to get home, but I had spent money I had not planned to spend. I looked at the things in my bag and laughed because I knew what had happened. I had gone to the shop for one thing, seen another thing I liked and allowed myself to buy it.

When I got home, I took the things out of the bag and looked at them again. I still liked the thing I had bought, but I also remembered that I had not needed it. I thought about how easy it was for me to change my plan. Before entering the shop, I had already decided what I was going to buy. I had even decided how much money I was going to spend. But seeing something I liked was enough to make me change my mind.

The next day, I passed the same shop again. I looked at the shelf and saw that the same item was still there. I remembered how I had stood in the shop the day before, looking at it and trying to decide whether to buy it. This time, I did not stop. I did not even go into the shop. I just looked at it and continued walking.

Since then, I have tried to be more careful when I go out to buy things. If I see something I like, I first ask myself if I really need it. If it was not part of my plan and I do not have extra money, I try to leave it. I do not always succeed, but I now think about it before spending the money.

I went to that shop that day knowing exactly what I wanted. I came back with what I needed and something I did not need. The funny part is that I was the one who made the decision to buy it, and I was also the one who later wondered why I had bought it in the first place.

 

The Day I Entered the Wrong Bus

 

By Nightengale Ben-Onyeukwu

I was in a hurry that morning. I had somewhere to be and I was already thinking about the time because I did not want to arrive late. When I got to the bus stop, it was busy as usual. Buses were coming and going, conductors were calling out the names of different places, passengers were getting down while others were trying to get in, and people were standing by the roadside waiting for the bus going to their different destinations. I was also looking around for one going my way. I had already started feeling that I was wasting time, so when I heard a conductor call the name of the place I was going to, I quickly moved towards the bus and entered.

I did not ask the conductor to repeat the name, and I did not even look properly at the writing on the bus. I simply heard the name, assumed it was my destination and got in. I found a seat by the window and sat down. The bus started moving almost immediately, and I felt relieved that I had finally got one. I looked outside as we moved along the road, but I was not really paying attention to where we were going. My mind was already on where I was headed and what I needed to do when I arrived. I was thinking more about getting there on time than anything else.

For the first few minutes, everything seemed fine. The bus stopped at a few places to pick up passengers and then continued. I was still looking outside, but most of the places did not mean anything to me because I was not familiar with that particular route. After some time, however, I started noticing that something was different. The road was not looking the way I expected it to look. I told myself that maybe the driver had taken another route because of traffic, so I did not worry about it immediately. I continued sitting quietly and looking outside, hoping that I would soon recognise somewhere.

Then we got to a junction I knew very well. I knew that if I was going to my destination, the driver should turn there. I watched the road, expecting him to turn, but he continued straight. I looked outside again and then looked ahead at the road. For a few seconds, I was not sure what to think. I started remembering what the conductor had called when I entered the bus, and that was when it occurred to me that perhaps I had heard him wrongly.

I turned to the woman sitting beside me and asked, 'Please, where is this bus going?' She told me the name of the place, and as soon as she said it, I knew I had made a mistake. That was not where I was going. I had entered the wrong bus.

I did not know whether to laugh or be annoyed with myself. I had been in such a hurry that I had not listened properly or checked the bus before entering. I had heard a name that sounded like my destination and immediately assumed I was in the right place. Now I was sitting in a bus going in a completely different direction. I told the woman that I wanted to get down, but she told me to wait until the next stop because the bus was already moving. I had no choice, so I stayed in my seat and waited.

As the bus continued, I kept thinking about how easily I could have avoided the whole problem. I only needed to ask the conductor one simple question before getting in. Even if I had spent another few seconds checking the destination, I would have known that I was about to enter the wrong bus. Instead, I had been too focused on leaving quickly because I did not want to waste time. Now I was sitting there knowing that I had already wasted even more time.

When the bus finally stopped, I got down and stood by the roadside for a moment. I looked around, trying to decide what to do next. I knew the general area, but I had not planned to come there that morning, and I was now farther away from my destination than I had been before. I checked the time and shook my head when I realised how late I had become. For a moment, I was annoyed with myself, but then I started laughing because the whole thing was almost funny. There was no point standing there blaming myself. I had made the mistake, and I just needed to find the right bus.

I crossed the road and waited. This time, I was not going to rush into anything. When another bus came, I looked carefully at the destination before getting close to it. I asked the conductor where the bus was going and listened to his answer. I even asked another passenger who was nearby just to make sure I had heard correctly. Only after I was certain that it was the right bus did I enter. I found a seat and sat down, this time paying much more attention to the road.

As the second bus moved, I began recognising the places along the way. I knew I was finally going in the right direction, and I felt more relaxed. I could not help thinking about the first bus and how such a simple mistake had changed my whole morning. I had left home worried about being late, rushed into a bus because I did not want to waste time, and ended up spending even more time going in the wrong direction. It was one of those mistakes that could have been avoided if I had simply slowed down for a few seconds.

By the time I finally got to my destination, I was already late. There was nothing I could do about that anymore. I had spent part of the morning going in the wrong direction and then finding my way back. I just had to accept it and continue with what I had come to do.

Since that day, I have become more careful whenever I am taking a bus, especially when I am in a hurry. I check the destination properly, listen to the conductor and ask questions if I am not sure. I would rather spend a few extra seconds making sure I am entering the right bus than enter quickly and later discover that I am going somewhere completely different.

That morning, I thought I was saving time by rushing into the first bus. In the end, I only rushed myself in the wrong direction.

 

The Woman Who Always Said 'Take Care'

 

By Nightengale Ben-Onyeukwu

There was a woman I used to see often. We were not close friends, and we did not have long conversations. Most of the time, we only exchanged a few words whenever we met. But there was one thing she always said whenever I was leaving. She would look at me and say, 'Take care.' Sometimes she said it while she was busy with something else, and sometimes she looked at me with a smile. It was only two simple words, so I did not think much about them at first.

After some time, I noticed that I had started waiting to hear those words before I left. I do not know when it happened. Maybe I had become used to hearing them. Maybe I simply liked the way she said them. She did not know everything that was happening in my life. She did not know if I was having a good day or a difficult one. She did not know what I was thinking about when I walked away. But she still told me to take care, as if she wanted me to be safe.

It made me think about the simple words we use when we care about people. Sometimes we say, 'I love you.' Sometimes we ask, 'Have you eaten?' We ask, 'How are you?' or 'Are you feeling better?' When someone is going somewhere, we say, 'Take care.' These words may sound ordinary because we hear them so often, but they can carry a lot of love. Sometimes, asking someone if they have eaten is another way of saying, 'I care about you.'

We often remember the big moments in our lives. We remember birthdays, weddings, celebrations, gifts and important events. But there are also small moments that stay in our minds for a long time. We may remember the person who called to check on us. We may remember the friend who asked if we had eaten when we were having a difficult day. We may remember someone who noticed that we were not ourselves and simply asked, 'Are you okay?' These things may look small, but they can mean a lot to the person receiving them.

I think many people need these small acts of care more than we realise. There are days when someone may not need advice or a long conversation. They may only need to know that somebody noticed them. A simple 'How are you?' can mean something when it comes from a person who really wants to know. 'Have you eaten?' can make someone feel remembered. 'I love you' can give comfort. And 'Take care' can remind someone that there is a person who wants them to be safe.

As I have grown older, I have started to notice these little things more. Life can be busy. We wake up thinking about work, school, money, family and the many things we need to do. We move from one place to another without paying much attention to the people around us. Sometimes, we are so busy that we forget to ask the people we love how they are doing. We may think the words are too simple to matter, but sometimes simple words are exactly what a person needs to hear.

The woman who always said 'Take care' probably never knew how much I noticed those words. She may have said them to many other people. For her, it may have been nothing more than a normal way of saying goodbye. But for me, those two words became something I remembered. They reminded me that kindness and care do not always have to come in big ways. Sometimes, they come through the smallest words.

Sometimes, love is asking, 'Have you eaten?' Sometimes, it is saying, 'How are you?' when you can see that something is wrong. Sometimes, it is saying, 'I love you' even when you have said it many times before. Sometimes, it is checking on someone when you have not heard from them. And sometimes, it is simply saying, 'Take care,' before someone walks away.

We may not know what a person is going through, and we may never know what our words mean to them. We may forget that we said them, while the other person carries them in their heart for a long time.

That is why I now try to be more careful with the little things I say and do. I do not want to think that a kind word is too small to matter. We may forget the words we said, but the person who heard them may remember them for a long time.

So whenever someone is leaving, I try not to say goodbye carelessly. I say, 'Take care.' And when someone I care about tells me they have not eaten, I ask again, 'Have you eaten?' Maybe these are only simple words, but sometimes simple words are how we tell people that they matter to us.

 

Why I Keep Writing Stories About Ordinary People

 

By Nightengale Ben-Onyeukwu

I have always liked stories about ordinary people. People who wake up every morning and face life as it comes. People who have dreams but may not have enough money, support or opportunity to achieve them easily. I like the mother who wakes up early to prepare food for her children, the student who keeps trying even when school is difficult, the young person who has a dream but does not know how to begin, and the person who goes through a hard day and still finds a reason to smile. These people may not be famous, but their lives are full of stories.

Growing up and living in Nigeria has made me notice many of these stories. You can find them almost everywhere. They are in the streets, schools, markets, buses, offices and homes. Sometimes, all it takes is paying attention. A woman selling food by the roadside may be doing more than just selling food. She may be working hard to take care of her children. A young boy walking home from school may be thinking about the kind of person he wants to become. A father sitting quietly after work may be thinking about how to provide for his family. We may pass these people every day without knowing what they are carrying in their hearts.

That is one reason I write. I want to tell stories that people can recognise. I want my readers to meet characters who feel real and situations that do not seem far from their own lives. I want someone to read one of my stories and remember a person they know, a place they have been or something they have experienced. Sometimes, a story does not have to be about something very big to mean something to someone. A small moment can stay with a person for a long time.

I also believe that every person has a story worth telling. We often celebrate people after they become successful, but we do not always talk about the years when they were struggling, making mistakes and trying to find their way. Those parts of life matter too. I enjoy writing about people who are still becoming who they want to be. They may fall, make wrong choices, lose hope for a while and then try again. To me, there is something beautiful about that kind of story because it is close to real life.

I write because I believe ordinary lives deserve attention too. Not every story needs a famous person, a rich family or a big event. Sometimes, a story about a girl trying to help her mother, a boy chasing a dream, a family facing a difficult time or two people meeting at the right moment can say something important about life. These are the stories that interest me, and they are the stories I want to keep telling.

As a journalist and writer, I am still learning. Every story teaches me something new about people and about myself. I may not have all the answers, and I know I still have a lot to learn, but I know why I write. I write for people whose stories may never appear in the newspaper or on television. I write for people who are trying, hoping, failing and starting again. Most of all, I write because I believe that the story of an ordinary person can touch someone's heart.