My name is Chiamaka. I am a writer. I used to work as a business development and marketing executive but I quit my job last week. I primarily write fiction, but occasionally, I’ll do cultural or personal essays. In another life—or hopefully in this one—I would like to get into screenwriting and maybe even playwriting. Honestly, I just want to explore as many facets of writing as I can except copywriting. 

He is in one of my dream career paths.

Because copywriting is for corporations and organizations. I did a bit of it in my old role and I really hated it. It just felt so soulless, even if it was for a corporation I cared about and with a mission and vision I believed in. It’s very PR-driven, very “what’s going to get us into the least amount of trouble?” It just feels like the most dishonest kind of writing, to be honest. No offense to copywriters, though. Shout out to them!

[laughs]

The breakdown for me is: if I want to tell a story about myself or musings I have had, it becomes a personal essay. If I’m being commissioned or writing for a publication—like when they say, “We’re looking for this kind of piece”, that’s when I do cultural essays or commentary. Fiction is usually when I’m processing something that happened to me that’s so intimate and vulnerable that a personal essay would feel too raw. But I still feel like the world needs to know this thing happened, somehow. So, I’ll explore it through fiction. It’s also how I deal with ideas or concepts I’m not quite brave enough to explore in real life. If you read my fiction—which you have, thank you—you’ll notice, for example, I might write about what it would be like to fall in love at university, something I didn’t experience. So, fiction becomes a space for me to explore those feelings and “what ifs.”

It really depends on the kind of experience. If something is happening, I’ll always write it down—either in my journal or as a personal essay. But I won’t publish or share it until months later. For fiction, it’s different. When something happens to me, the way I explore it through fiction is very different from how I would in an essay.

That memory is a sanitizer. I just finished reading Dream Count [by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie] a couple of days ago and I don’t know if either of you read that Vulture article that really tore it apart. One of the things they mentioned was that Kadiatou, one of the characters in the novel, was written like a hagiography. A hagiography is basically when you retell someone’s story as if they’re flawless. Blameless. Almost god-like. In queer communities and honestly in Black communities too—though maybe less so now—we tend to remember our icons in a very sanitized way. They could do no wrong. They were perfect. They fought for us. They were the blueprint. But in reality, these people were probably in messy relationships. They had flaws. There were people at the time who disagreed with them, but those voices were less popular and got washed away in history. And I don’t think it’s the worst thing to hold that kind of memory for someone. I think it’s necessary. It’s like faith. I’m not religious but I think faith is important. If we can’t have faith in a distant, omnipresent God, then having faith in human beings who reflect our identities, even with their imperfections, is worth something. It’s a white lie, but it carries us through. It helps us honor those people and what they stood for. But I don’t think those memories should necessarily be a guide for how we live our lives. Because when memories are tinged with guilt, we tend to make the wrong decisions or draw the wrong conclusions.

Unless I’m looking for money. [laughs] If I’m looking for money, then yes, I’m an immigrant; I’m a woman; I carried baskets on my head for years! But when I’m writing from a genuine place, especially fiction—which I mostly self-publish to avoid the bureaucracy and nonsense of traditional publishing—I don’t feel that pressure. Explaining your identity can sometimes take away from what you’re really trying to do. I feel like I’m loyal first and foremost to Chiamaka Okike. Shoutout to the Black community! Shoutout to the queer community! But I’m wary of generalist movements. When you’re part of a group with millions of people, nuance gets lost. So when it comes to writing, no, I don’t feel that pressure anymore. I just try to be the best version of myself for my characters. My identity definitely influences how I write, but I find it shows up more on the back end, like during publishing or getting reviews, than in the actual writing process. Years ago, it used to sit at the back of my mind more, but now? Not so much. 

When I read or watch heterosexual media, I find it usually sits on two extremes: either it’s very subversive, like A24-coded or it’s extremely hetero, like Love Island or Nora Roberts romance novels. And I enjoy both for different reasons. The former challenges me, and the latter? It’s anthropological. I’m like, “Let’s see what these people are even doing.” It’s like cosplay. As for how I tell stories, I hope I tell very queer stories. And not just because they feature queer characters, but because of the emotional range, the intensity, the drama. Before I fully embraced my identity or found community, my writing was more contained, especially around grief or deep emotion. Now, I let those feelings run. I write about emotions and community. Queerness has made my writing better because there are fewer constraints around what's "acceptable." Once you break one rule, it's easier to break others.

I was so excited when I saw this question. I actually have recommendations! You all need to read Gabrielle Emem Harry—GEH, if you will. I love her work. Love her down! She’s so amusing and her writing? Chef’s kiss. Also, Osahon Ize-Iyamu and  Jesutomisin Ipinmoye. I had to plug them, especially Gabrielle. She’s a queer woman too and reading her short story Across Town, I think it’s my favorite short story ever. It felt like it was written for me. I’ll never speak down on the older queer writers; they paved the way. But what excites me about younger Nigerian queer writers is how unapologetic their work is. It lacks that overly-explaining quality older books sometimes have, like constantly giving context to justify their existence. There’s a defiance in Gen Z writing. It’s not trying to prove anything. It’s not for a Western gaze. It leans into humor, not as relief, but just because that’s how we are. It’s writing that exists alongside deep musings and heavy emotions without having to “earn” that levity. So I finish reading a lot of older books thinking, “This was profound, this was sad, this made me think.” But with young queer Nigerian writers, I think, “Wow, that was cool.” Like, that was a swaggy story. I sound old saying “swaggy,” but it’s true. The writing feels suave, exciting. It’s a joy to read. So yeah, Gabrielle Emem Harry is the truth.

Me too. That’s the word. I’m very optimistic.

I was really excited for this question because a friend of mine runs a book club called the African Lit Book Club. When I did my pop-up, I reached out to a couple of book clubs in London and some publications, wanting to collaborate. They were lovely. Semi-helpful. Our book club is small. Like five of us meet every third Sunday. It’s such a special time. It often devolves from literature into social politics and anyone who’s been to a book club knows how easily conversations can go off the rails. With bigger book clubs, there’s more of a tendency to stay on topic with guided conversations. But there’s something beautiful about authentic, meandering conversation. That’s what a community looks like in person. The landscape of Twitter has changed. That used to be my go-to answer. But I was talking to Osahon, a friend, the other day and he mentioned how dispersed Twitter communities have become. At one point, it was interconnected, but now the app is run down by engagement farming, the “manosphere,” and all sorts of rubbish. It was supposed to be a fun place to talk about writing and find people writing in the same spaces as you. But now those people, because of self-preservation, are less connected. Everyone’s scattered across Bluesky, independent apps, group chats—there’s less of that sense of community. And I don’t like that. It’s painful, actually.

I don’t know if there was a book where I was like, “I’m going to start writing,” because honestly, I always knew I was going to write. I don’t know how else to describe it. There are books significant to me. One is Key of Light [by Nora Roberts]. I felt like reading didn’t become real for me—books didn’t cement themselves—until I read Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe. Shoutout to Benjamin Alire Sáenz; he ate that one.

I have two. The first is from my Chewed Glass series: “Wazila had walked him along her fault lines too.” I love that line because it felt like a good metaphor for showing someone your imperfections. Usually, people love different parts of my writing, but no one seems to care about that line. The second is from my most recent book [Seeri]: “How Kewa makes everything, everything, everything sweet.” I borrowed that from a poem I wrote years ago. I love the repetition and the rule of three. It felt melodramatic, which I like.

I’m hesitant because I’m a Virgo and perfectionism holds me back. Plus, the final product depends on so many people—the director, actors, production—that I’d hate for my story to be watered down. But I’m taking a course on writing short films and scripts. I just want to do it right.

Thanks. I’ve been looking for people in the Nigerian film community.

I don’t borrow lines verbatim or quote people directly. Fiction is for processing my life but I live in perpetual fear that someone I know will think they’re being depicted. Even with small details, I’m careful. If I’m compelled to share something personal, it’s a personal essay. I own it, rather than hide behind fiction. One time, during a really dark and heartbreak-heavy period, I tried writing about it by pulling excerpts from my journal. Then I read what I wrote and thought, this is ass. Not that the quality was bad—it was readable, like a 7 out of 10—but it didn’t feel authentic. I wasn’t writing characters; I was just transcribing inner dialogue. And these characters don’t think or feel real. My characters are not a reflection of me—some might disagree—but no, they’re not.

I love this question! Okay, so mentally, I don’t need to be anything specific, but I write best at night when I’m sleepy, near delirious. I can’t write on drugs—not that I do drugs, of course. But when I’m sleepy, I’m less self-conscious, especially in my bed where I’m comfortable. I’m just... writing without overthinking it. I write quickly, like a sentence a second and then when I read it back, I’m surprised it makes sense. I stand by the sleepiness thing. Physically, I can’t write well if I’m depressed. When I’m sad, I can’t even roll over in bed, let alone be creative. Emotionally, I can’t be too happy, because happiness brings excitement that distracts me. But I also can’t be too sad. I need a kind of “happy medium.” On an emotional scale from 1 to 10, with 10 being the highest, I write best around 7 to 7.5. Physically, I’ve only successfully written fiction in my room or wherever I’m resting. I love long train rides for writing. It’s like that’s when literature really flows for me.

You journal before fiction? Interesting.

Makes so much sense.

Oh, I know I believe in writing immediately. My body doesn’t believe in “waiting.” When something happens, I need immediate catharsis. Sometimes that’s texting a friend, sometimes journaling, sometimes writing a personal essay. I even warn my friends when I send a big text, like, “Don’t be scared of this wall of text; I just need to talk.” Speaking of writing immediately,  here’s a funny story. Four years ago, when I first moved to the UK, I followed this musician on TikTok—a Gemini. They were smaller back then, so I just observed quietly. Three years later, I was at a gay bar and they walked in. We locked eyes and they complimented my hair. I was thrilled. Later, an acquaintance who works for [redacted] and a music publication commissioned me to write a piece about musicians. I thought, will I ever get to meet this musician? So I emailed their team to request an interview. To my surprise, they said yes. I was pretending to take notes *during the interview* but wrote a total of ten words. Afterwards, their team gave me free concert tickets for Valentine’s Day. At the concert, the musician came down the stage, held my hand briefly but then I saw them kissing someone else at the end of the show. I cried all the way home and wrote an essay called Desire Has Come to Disrupt My Perfect Life. So yeah, I write immediately. It takes whatever it takes to produce work.

Oh, that’s important. I don’t know if you’ve read Dear Senthuran by Akwaeke Emezi—they’re so transparent about finances. As African publishing houses try to scale globally, I wish we had more honest discussions about what that means in practice. Also, I wish we talked more about what it really means to want to be a writer. I have a few complaints about Nigerian literature. Stop writing weird sex scenes. Like in The Joys of Motherhood [by Buchi Emecheta], where breasts are described as “rotund coconuts.” Stop it! Stop writing romance novels where millennial women turn into desperate, despicable losers. Sorry, but I hate most Nigerian romance—it’s straight and it lacks whimsy, humor or anything interesting. It’s just men being terrible and women begging to marry. Nobody cares! Stop  *over* explaining culture to outsiders. People want to find out about culture through fiction *authentically*. It’s one of the joys of reading.

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The biggest risk in my writing was when I first published Amore e Liberazione in Brittle Paper back in 2022. That was the first time I wrote something where I removed any plausible deniability about my identity. Before that, I’d make little jokes on Twitter like, “Oh my god, I’m gay.” Stuff like that. But this piece was different. I used words like “us” and “we,” and it took away the safety net of ambiguity. It was a move away from complete safety. Thankfully, nothing terrible has happened. I’m not trying to preempt anything bad. But I think it’s a decision without direct consequences in terms of backlash or harm. More than anything, it cost me restful nights. I’ve found myself living a little on the edge because, you know, the truth will set you free but depending on whose hands the truth falls into, things can go sideways very fast. So sometimes, I get jolted out of peace, realizing there’s public evidence,  in a literary publication no less, of who I am. That’s probably been the biggest consequence.

I like that—baby steps. 

Honestly, when I first saw that description, I was surprised. I didn’t write it consciously with that rhythm in mind. I was just writing day by day. It’s always humbling and amusing to hear how people interpret your work. I think, as a writer, having different interpretations is something you get used to. I was actually trying to write a faster-paced story but I realized that I tend to write in a style that feels most authentic to me, which is deep character exploration. That usually means slower, more deliberate pacing, focusing on emotional interiority.

Yeah, it actually started as a short story, and at one point I hated it. I couldn’t understand why I should care about the characters because it was just moving from point A to B without emotional depth. But I realized the need to explain how characters feel, even if I don’t fully explain who they are. That way, even if readers can’t relate to the character directly, they can relate to their emotions. That’s deliberate, but it slows the pace and scares me because I worry about people’s attention spans. It’s a trade-off. I hope people who read my work know what to expect, so they’re not annoyed by the slower pace.

No, I haven’t.

Yeah, but I get nervous about it. I don’t think book signings are vain, but I worry about turnout. I’m not sure people would show up. If I do something, I’d want it to be about celebrating literature and community,  something enjoyable even if I’m not the focus. Not just a “come praise me” kind of event.

Thank you. I’m scared, like, what if only three people come? But maybe I’m just anxious. Deep down, I believe people could show up.

It’s been in me since forever. I just have roots in it. But there’s a difference between being a writer and pursuing a career as a writer. I like thresholds and guardrails—frameworks for how to do things. It’s funny you ask because I was journaling today, reflecting on how my role models have fallen apart. My life’s path has shifted in a myriad of ways so they can’t be my role models anymore. And with quitting my job and not going to grad school in America, now I feel like I’m finally committing fully to spending my life trying to make this work. It’s daunting and scary. I’m scared of saying it out loud but I want to risk shame in the hope that I’ll look back in a few years, proud that I made this decision.

Yes! That would be great.

They cut funding for it, you know?  Like a $60,000 cut. It’s wild. It makes me realize how precarious even these big institutions are.

I’ve only ever read two Commonwealth short stories—one by Akwaeke [Emezi] and another about a mother rental service. It’s tough reading sometimes. Makes me jealous. Since I was a kid, I’ve wanted to win a prize, and some years I feel close to it. Others, less so. But I’m patient, my time will come.

Definitely. It’s a skill you can learn but there’s a wildness in writing that I appreciate. Like, my favorite MFA book is Cleopatra and Frankenstein [by Coco Mellors]. It’s polished but also rebellious, the author’s stepping out of the margins, doing something strange. I love that.

I don’t reread books much. Maybe a chapter here and there. When I do, it’s Red, White & Royal Blue [by Casey McQuiston]. I have a tattoo of a line [from the book] on my thigh. For a film, Everything Everywhere All At Once. Very typical answer, I know. I’m not niche. Popular things are popular for a reason. That movie feels like it was made after 21 years of surveillance of me personally. For series? Avatar: The Last Airbender. Another tattoo—the four elements—on my stomach. I don’t play about that show. It transcends everything for me. Oddly enough, my comfort show is BoJack Horseman. My misery loves the company of that show. Misery is a soft landing place. I feel held in its terrible, terrible mess. I don’t get the depression people say it [BoJack Horseman] gives them. I just think, “This guy’s crazy.” Sometimes it’s upsetting, but also weirdly uplifting. The only episodes I struggle with are Diane’s. She’s a Virgo Sun, like me. It’s like they read my journal to write her. So that’s... difficult. And for a song, when it came out, I remember exactly where I was: second-year accommodation in Leicester. I was standing between my room and the en suite bathroom. My friend’s ex-boyfriend had posted the song on his story. I listened on my phone speaker, just as I was about to step into the bathroom. There’s a pause before the music starts. That pause gave me my last drop of sanity before I went permanently mad. The song is Omo Ope by Asake and Olamide. I streamed it 365 times that year. That song is a masterclass in music. The choir, violins, trumpets, talking drum—it’s manifestation, it’s answered prayers, it’s a masterpiece. Oh, and I love Kung Fu Panda 2. Especially when I’m stressed at work. I love po, make nothing do my favourite black and white comfort character.