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By K.P.M.
Why does a person choose one art form when their heart once belonged to another? In Why I Write, K.P.M. looks back at his childhood love of drawing, the joy he found in pencils and paper, and the dream of becoming an artist. As expectations of education, money and adulthood pushed that dream aside, drawing gradually disappeared from his life. Yet creativity did not. It simply found another way out. What begins as a reflection on drawing eventually becomes an intimate explanation of why he writes today.
Writing’s hard.
Drawing’s much more therapeutic.
I wanted to write about God,
my Dad, my Mom,
my brothers, my friends,
my foes,
the sun and the moon,
the clouds and the stars,
the birds and the bees,
the beasts and the trees,
the sand and the seas,
and everything in between.
But I’d rather draw.
Not because I can’t write about them.
Okay, not entirely.
But because some things
are so much more beautiful
that way.
Even God knew it.
Yes, He spoke,
but He created.
Our poems feed your ears and mind,
but our drawings feed your eyes and heart.
Not just yours,
but mine.
My mates tease that
I draw well and write bad.
Boys, have you seen my Dad?
But I think that’s what makes it incredible.
Not my handwriting,
but the fact that God—
irony of ironies—
makes our greatest fault
our greatest strength.
Many moons ago,
I’d scribble and shade,
focusing more on “art”
than pulling up my grade.
I told myself,
“I’m an artist.
I’m an artist!
Don’t chat to me about education.
I’m gonna be an artist.”
I was told
that I was beyond my years,
that I really had a future.
How I wished
it would come sooner.
I was good at only a few things
as a kid:
my hands
and my mouth…
Oye, pause!
Don’t let your mind run south.
What I mean is
I could shout, sing and speak
for more than was needed.
But I could also
create, craft and colour.
Oh, how I loved drawing.
I’d draw people,
animals,
places,
objects,
nature.
Not for a good report.
But after being the loudest
in every room
and having others hear me,
only pencil and paper
could really see
what I couldn’t sort.
You know,
it’s one of those things
where the outcome
isn’t the most amazing part.
It’s the process…
The thinking.
The searching.
The sharpening.
The erasing.
The eurekas.
The “oh shits.”
The torn paper.
The scent of ink and graphite.
The makeshift art supplies
we made from watching YouTube.
I think I miss that the most,
more than any drawing
I’d ever post.
Now, I can’t even remember
the last time I drew.
I look at my Instagram,
which used to be decorated
with pictures I drew
in excitement and anticipation.
I look at the dreams I had
of going to schools
that taught art.
At the hope that one day
I could use the gift
God gave me
to not only honour Him,
but all of His creation
around me.
But alas,
that door shut years ago.
I was told to focus
on real things.
Things that can actually
put food on the table.
I was asked,
“Which Ugandan is rich off art?
And can you even emulate
half of that?
You think you’re
in the Renaissance?
Where, long after you’re gone,
people will still cherish you,
make edits about your work,
write songs and poems
about said art?”
My son, no.
Young man, no.
Big boss, no.
“You’ve seen your feed.
Who gets more attention?
The artists,
or a random shortie
on her latest trip to Dubai?
Why should you even try?”
Even my school
didn’t offer art.
So why should I hold on
to this childish phase
that somehow spilled
into my teenage years?
So I stopped…
for a while.
I’d scribble
at the back of my books,
on tables,
on myself,
on anything…
Reopening that wound.
Having flashbacks
of what could’ve been
and of what I could be.
Till, like graphite,
it all faded away.
I guess this is why I write.
Not because I’m good at it.
Not because I’m gifted,
inspired,
a prodigy,
or even because
I did it at A-Level.
But because this—
this is the only form of art
that can make me feel
like that little boy
who believed
his hands could create
something so beautiful,
just like his Father’s did.
— K.P.M.
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