I have always found solace in turning the pages of books

I have always found solace in turning the pages of books. I would curl myself up, a book in my embrace, while my mates and siblings ran around shrieking or tossing objects at each other. Most times, I was found snoring lightly with my head resting in between the pages of a book I had been reading.

Source
At first, my mother would snatch the books from me, tear them up, and say I was consuming information too big for my age.

“Stop reading adult books” she would begin “They have a way of corrupting the minds of children”.

I knew where she got those words though. They were from her stepsister, Aunty Christie, who thought I spoke too intelligently for my age.

“Good morning, Aunty Christie, how are you doing today?” I would ask whenever she came around. That was her cue to ask how old I was. She did that every time I greeted her or answered a question she asked.

“How old is this girl again?”

“I'm seven!” I would reply excitedly. She would then wrinkle her nose and turn to my mother.

“This girl is not a child again. Keep a close eye on her, or else she will become corrupt in no time.”

I didn't know why she said that so often, I wasn't pleased with her, but I couldn't say a word about it. It was at this point I missed my father. He never complained about my reading habit. Instead, he would encourage me.

“You're going to become a professor” he would say, evident pride causing his chest to swell. Every time he returned from a journey; he almost always had a gift for only me.

“I didn't see the toy you asked for” he would say to my older brother who was fond of demanding toys like the characters he saw in cartoons. But my father always saw a book for me. And I never asked him, he just knew.

As I grew, the primary school I attended would send a delegate to my mother to ask if I would be allowed to represent the school in competitions.

“She's just in Primary 4” my mother would say skeptically.

“Yes ma, but she is leading her class. We have given her some preparatory lessons and she has proven to be up to the task.”

Once, my mother asked the teacher who was sent home with me to test me before her. He turned to me,

“Treasure, what is the meaning of the word Serendipity?”

“Permit me to spell this word before I commence with the meaning. S, E, R, E, N, D, I, P, I, T, Y, …” I saw my mom open her mouth in disbelief. “Serendipity is an English word meaning the occurrence and development of events by chance, in a happy or beneficial way.”

“There, you have it ma. I could go on asking her words, and she in turn will keep answering. Your daughter is very qualified to go for this competition.”

My mother asked for some time with me alone then turned to me. “Treasure, I know you don't want to go to this competition, is this man forcing you?”

My mother didn't know half of what I wanted at the time. I had worked hard for this, spending late nights going through the dictionary, scouting for tough words to ace the preparatory test given to me and the other pupils who were mostly three years older than I was.

I was scared to tell her this was what I had been waiting for all term, I didn't want to tell her that I was sure I could do it, that she had not seen me on stage yet so she wouldn't know. But at that moment, words failed me, and I nodded my head. She stormed over to the man and warned him to leave me alone.

The next session, she moved me to another school.

It took two more years for me to muster the courage to tell my mom I wanted to go for an interstate debate. At this time, I had begun writing my novels and sharing them in the house for everyone to read, my mom included.

From the moment she said “Yes” to that first competition, I found myself in almost every English-related competition in town. And I aced them all.

When I stopped going to competitions, the tables turned.

I was no longer found with my head in between other people's books, I was always found sleeping with a pen in my hand, my head on the pages of my books, completing the world I had begun to create on paper in my world of dreams.

I realized later that my journey as a writer began after my journey as a reader.