I stare at my phone, heart pounding as I check the time. It is 8:52 AM, eight minutes until my interview with Mr Abeh, a retired Air Force marshal who wants to tell his life story. My fingers drum against my notebook, my thoughts a chaotic mess. Sighing quietly, I took a glance at the interview questions I had structured for him.
What if I ask the wrong questions? What if he doesn’t open up? Worse, what if he expects me to know things I don’t? Interviews were not my forte, and I fidget every time I have a feeling I will be asked to do it. Somehow, Miss Bukkie, my boss, didn’t seem to mind, and despite my unspoken excuses, she believed I could ace it.
That morning came with the same jittery feeling creeping into my marrow. The restlessness. The quiet panic of stepping into the unknown. I reminded myself that this is the job. A ghostwriter isn’t just a writer; we are part investigator, part therapist, and part storyteller. I take a deep breath, straighten my notepad, and walk into the study where the interview was to take place.
Mr Abeh is an imposing figure, even in his old age. He sits behind a massive desk, flipping through a newspaper. His study smells of old books and rich mahogany, a space that carries the weight of history.
“You’re the writer?” His voice is deep, testing.
“Yes, sir.” I tried to sound confident. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
He nods but doesn’t offer a smile. Not a good start, I thought, taking a deep breath.
I set up my recorder, knowing the battle ahead. Some clients love to talk. They are eager to share every detail of their life, wearing their vulnerability for you to see. Others, like Mr Abeh, are cautious, their words are measured, and their emotions are guarded.
“So,” I begin, “tell me about your early years.”
He folds his hands. “I was born in Otta in 1954.”
And that was it. He stops. I blink, wondering why he stopped. Should I give him time to think, or do I prompt him with another question?
“Can you describe what it was like growing up in Otta?” I asked, opting for a prompt instead.
A slight sigh. “It was good.”
I forced a smile. That same monotonous answer, how do I get this man to talk? I racked my brain.
“Talk about your earliest fondest memory, what made it memorable for you?”
He pauses, as if he’s deciding whether to humour me. “My father once took me to Kaduna when I was six. It was my first time in a big city.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. I leaned in. “What do you remember most about that trip? Share significant things that happened, sir.”
Another pause. “He bought me a pair of black shoes.”
I wait, hoping for more. Nothing. I resist the urge to sigh. This is the hassle of conducting interviews. It’s like prying open a locked box without forcing the lid off. Some clients need time. Others need the right trigger. I decided to take another approach.
“What about your career? Talk about what influenced your choice of career path in the Nigerian Air Force. There was a brief moment of about two seconds, then something shifts in his expression. His eyes hold a flicker of memory. “That’s a long story,” he says with a tone rich with inspiration.
I smile. “I have time, sir.”
The interview stretches on, with moments of silence and outbursts of laughter. The air was thick with storytelling. One minute, I’m trying to pry details from him, the next, he’s narrating his military campaigns. It’s a game of patience, of reading between the lines, of sensing when to push and when to wait. Do I press or pause? Still, my doubts linger at the back of my mind. Am I getting enough? Is his story coming alive? Am I missing something crucial?
Then, just when I think we’re wrapping up, he says, almost casually, “You know, I almost quit the Nigerian Air Force in 1997.”
I freeze.
“Why? Talk about this period, sir,” I said with a measure of unseen delight in my heart.
He hesitates. “Because I fell in love. With someone I couldn’t be with.”
I can feel my heartbeat in my throat. Eureka! This… this is the moment I was waiting for. The piece that will make his story more than just a list of achievements. The emotion. The conflict.
“Tell me more,” I said with a steady voice, my hands were no longer shaky. And just like that, the unknown becomes clear. The story takes shape.
As I left his house later that day, I knew one thing for sure: this is why I ghostwrite. For these hidden gems, untold truths waiting to be unearthed.
Another day, another life captured.
Chisom Esther Udechukwu
Content Writing Genius, TruMemories by BAC