Strange thoughts teased and chased me about the lush green lawns. The lone Frangipani at the centre of a grassy patch, around which the gravelled driveway ended in a circle, waved as I gambolled past it.  Evenings like this always found me, then a six-year-old, outside the two-bedroom colonial-style bungalow I once called my home. Of course, the thoughts would always resolve themselves into coherence and lend themselves to expressions as stories.

Then, I knew: the muse would accept me as one of her acolytes! I progressed from scripting and illustrating childish comics to writing my own version of novels years later. Shunning exact sciences while in high school, I pledged my unalloyed allegiance to the literary arts. Not surprising, therefore, that this love would egg me on through my years as a foreign language student at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka and the University of Grenoble in France. Finally, an MA degree in mass communication from the University of Nigeria, Nsukka would later open the doors to a world where I was expected to earn my living as a writer.

But my actual school was the urge to write. It led me through lush landscapes of good writing until I walked into the embrace of art journalism. Not so long afterwards, I began to appreciate and celebrate good art. Yet, many are those moments when my hackles are raised at fraud posturing as art.