Azuoma Obikudu
Bio
An avid writer. Check out my thoughts.
Stories (6/0)
The Marigold Theatre
Sat in the middle seat of the middle row, his arm across the back of the two seats on either side of him, looking wistfully at the stage was Aaron Benson. He had been in the exact same position for the past two hours. He was the only one in the very small theatre. The silence sang a sweet melancholy song. A familiar melody; a low-whisper that entered his head and pulled memories down from the top shelf. Today makes 10 years since he had been trying to put his play on stage. He looked around – to the far right, just before the 3 black steps that lead onto the stage, was a green emergency door that opens to an alley just off a mildly busy London street. The door seemed to have a beckoning glisten around it. Tempting. If ever he felt like giving up and running away, it was today.
By Azuoma Obikudu3 years ago in Fiction
My dream, or our dream
Sat in the middle seat of the middle row, looking up at the stage was Aaron Benson. He was the only one in the very small theatre. The silence sang a beautiful song. A familiar low-whisper melody that entered his head and pulled memories down from the top shelf. It had been a long time since he had been on stage. He looked around – to the far right, just before the 3 black steps that lead onto the stage, was a green emergency door that opens to an alley just off a mildly busy London street. The door seemed to have a beckoning glisten around it. Tempting. If ever he felt like running away, it was today.
By Azuoma Obikudu3 years ago in Fiction
Goldilocks and The Locket
Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Goldilocks. She lived with her mother and her maternal grandfather in a big blue and white cottage named ‘The Locks Manor’. Goldilocks knew her father to have been a wealthy sailor who one day sailed out to sea and never came back. 2 weeks after the day he was due to return, on the 23rd of August, Goldilocks received a letter addressed to her that said simply “The other half is somewhere in the wind…” Inside the envelope was a half-heart locket that opened up to reveal an inscribed ‘G’ inside it. Since then, every year on the 23rd of August, Goldilocks would go searching the entire town to see if she would find the other half of the locket. Or maybe even, her father.
By Azuoma Obikudu3 years ago in Fiction
A Keeper and Giver of Moments
Life is procedural. So are films. So is filmmaking. Life is growth. The addition of time and chance and action and lessons. Life is small. And big. Fleeting and monumental. Fast and slow. Life is yesterday. Life is today. Life is tomorrow. Life is many things. Most of all, to me, life is all about the picture at the end. Moments and circumstances are pixels and puzzle pieces; only beautiful as a complete ensemble. That’s why we watch films. We get to see totality. A complete circle. In my creative journey, I am seeing a circle about to complete – my passion for storytelling through filmmaking is becoming a possibility. I first fell in love with films. Then I learned how to write thoughts. Then I learned how to write poems. Then I learned how to write songs. Then I learned how to tell stories. Then I learned how to take photographs. Then I learned how to communicate and work with a creative team. Then I learned how to paint. Then I learned how to write scripts. Then I realised that in all of this – I had learned how to make films. Life is procedural. So are films. So is the creation of a filmmaker.
By Azuoma Obikudu3 years ago in Fiction
Littles Pieces Make The Big Picture
From the age of 12 I began to spend time in my father’s office/makeshift studio in the basement of our home. It was a three-story greek-style house with white walls and blue windows. Most of the homes in my neighbourhood in Tunis, Tunisia were built that way. A stark contrast to the earth-coloured brick-built London home I live in today. My father was a diplomat by day and an artist by night. His heroes were the likes of Rex Lawson and B.B King. His studio was in the same space as the children’s living/play area; tucked in the back corner, adjacent to the small but loud laundry room and opposite the door that leads into the garage. Whenever I was home from boarding school, my days stated early and finished late. I would watch copious amounts of television and spend hours in his studio playing his guitars and writing songs. Every evening, after the sun had died, I would be jolted back to reality by the sound of his Mercedes CLK320 shouting at the gate. I’d quickly rearrange everything as I had found it and plant myself in front of the TV again. My younger brother reminded me of this recently. Somehow I had forgotten those years. Memories leave when you don’t give them attention. Especially the foundational ones – that era is the backbone to my entire life. When I left home for good, I took that basement studio with me. Till today the walls of my mind always have words written in white chalk and black ink – crossed out, underlined; stanzas, paragraphs, poems – finished and unfinished. All those hours and years I had given to that basement had given me something in return, love and power. I had fallen in love with words. But it took 16 years to learn how to manage her power.
By Azuoma Obikudu3 years ago in Families