A writer who
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Lagos. London. The spaces between. My stories live in the contradictions — where tradition collides with tomorrow, where silence speaks louder than words, where home is a question, not a place.
Pull one from the shelf
Three siblings return to Lagos for their father's funeral, each carrying secrets that will reshape their understanding of family, duty, and freedom.
Eleven stories spanning continents, connected by invisible threads of longing, displacement, and the small violences of everyday life.
A debut exploring memory, myth, and a woman's journey to uncover her grandmother's buried history in the Niger Delta.
Not a bio
I don't write every day. I refuse the productivity gospel. Some weeks I fill notebooks. Some months I just listen — to my aunt's voice on WhatsApp, to the market women arguing about tomato prices, to the silence of 3am when the city finally breathes.
A novel takes me four years. A story, sometimes longer. I've abandoned more than I've published. This is not romantic. It's just the work.
I write in fragments first. Scenes arrive out of order, like photographs scattered from an album. The structure reveals itself last, always when I've almost given up.
The question I return to: What does it mean to belong to a place that doesn't belong to you? I have no answer. Only more questions, shaped into story.
Let's talk
For rights, press, or the rare speaking engagement where I might actually have something useful to say—