In just 10 years, author Akwaeke Emezi has written 10 books — including The Death of Vivek Oji, Dear Senthuran, Freshwater, and their latest, Somadina, published in Nigeria by Masobe Books.
After they signed with the Wylie Agency, Emezi dropped out of Syracuse University’s MFA writing program and published their debut novel, Freshwater. The book is a critically acclaimed exploration of African spirituality. It follows a young girl who grows up to discover she has multiple spirits living within her.
Years later, Emezi hasn’t stopped writing about spirit worlds — sort of. In Somadina, they tell the story of a young girl who ventures into the Sacred Forest and then across unknown lands to find her twin brother, set in a precolonial Igbo village full of magic, myth, and ancestral power.
In this week’s #MadeinNigeria, Emezi opens up about the struggle of writing long books (“ I was so annoyed”), believing in God (“It’s just more efficient to surrender”), and why they’d happily let Freshwater be adapted into a Nollywood film.
This interview has been edited for clarity and length.
What drew you to Somadina?
I started writing Somadina in 2012, before Freshwater. It was the first book I ever wrote. I wanted to draw on the Biafran War, but ground it in a precolonial cultural setting. I call it my “village girl fantasy” — the main character isn’t royalty. She’s just a village girl, and her father is a farmer.
I loved writing a magical world rooted in my culture. I grew up in Aba, and we’d return to our ancestral home in Umuahia often. In most fantasy, magic revolves around royalty. But in Somadina, it’s in a rural world that feels familiar.
I grew up watching Tales by Moonlight — that kind of storytelling shaped me. It’s an indigenous reality where gods and spirits are real, where deities like Ala exist.
But with Christianity, those beliefs are now seen as evil. That’s colonisation — when white people show up and say your culture is backward. A big part of my work is about re-centring our indigenous cultures — not just as folklore, but as valid ways of understanding reality.
When did you decide to become a writer?
When I was five, in Primary One, at a private school in Aba, as soon as I could write, I started writing stories. My principal gave me blank jotters — if I filled one, she’d give me another. I still have a bio I wrote at seven: “I am a writer. My hobby is writing. My goal is to be a world-famous artist and writer.”
But life took detours. I studied veterinary medicine, then got a Master’s from NYU and worked at a nonprofit. I had writer friends in Brooklyn, was blogging on Tumblr, and people told me to pursue writing seriously.
I applied to about 60 residencies a year. Most rejected me. Eventually, I got into an MFA. Teju Cole told me, “It’s fully funded — they’re going to pay you to write.” So I quit my job and joined the program.
I ended up dropping out — I had already written Freshwater in the first year, which caused tension. They wanted me to wait till the final year. Faculty discouraged me. The program stopped supporting me.
But by then, I had agents. Binyavanga Wainaina passed my manuscript to the Wylie Agency. Before I even signed, they told me, “We don’t make authors, we make careers.” Now we’re on book ten. They weren’t lying.
Why did you leave the MFA program?
Two reasons: why I left, and how I was able to.
I had a green card through my mom, who moved to the U.S. for work. That’s class privilege. I didn’t need the MFA for immigration status — I had the freedom to leave.
Spiritually, I was called to write Freshwater. I didn’t want to — I was still Christian — but the call was clear: if I was obedient, I wouldn’t fail.
I wrote the book early, went to residencies, and signed with Wylie. When the MFA faculty discouraged me from publishing, a friend explained, “If you publish now, it proves the institution didn’t make you.” I didn’t want the degree or to teach — I just wanted to make money writing books.
When I quit my nonprofit job, I tattooed my hands so a corporate job wouldn’t hire me again. I eliminated Plan B. I was broke, couch surfing. Friends said, “Get a job.” I said, “Never.”
I got the Miles Morland Scholarship and used it to write The Death of Vivek Oji. Freshwater hadn’t even come out yet. I said, “Let me write book two now.”
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That’s a very permissionless move. Where does it come from?
Partly from being Nigerian — we’re raised to take up space. But I’ve always been like this. As a child in Aba, I’d talk to strangers: “My name is Akwaeke. My daddy is a doctor…”
I’ve always known I was a writer. My school principal encouraged me. My parents bought me books. When I ran out, we’d go to the secondhand market to swap more.
At nine, I published silly poems in the school magazine. Seeing my writing in print made it real. So later, when I said I was quitting everything to write, my family wasn’t surprised.
I’ve had insecurities, but never about my work. That came from being affirmed early — and from privilege. I was in the “fast class” and treated differently because I was mixed. Teachers touched my hair, helped me cheat in Igbo because “their mother is oyibo.”
I didn’t think I was pretty — my best friend looked white — but I knew I was gifted. Not in an arrogant way. Just fact. Many people are, but not everyone gets support.
By 27, I was independent and could write full-time. When I left the MFA, I had no job, no backup plan — but I had committed to Freshwater. Spiritually, the agreement was clear: if I followed instructions, I’d be fine.
That’s faith. Not Christian faith — I’m not Christian. But faith in something divine. The church and God are not the same.
And when you don’t obey spiritually, you get dragged. For me, it’s more efficient to surrender.
What kind of research did you do for Freshwater?
Freshwater is completely autobiographical. It’s all true. We published it as fiction because no one would’ve bought it as nonfiction.
I interviewed my parents. My mom told me, “You used to crawl like a snake.” She put a pottu on my forehead to protect me, because she said people acted too hungry around me, like they wanted to consume me.
The research started spiritually. I read Malidoma Somé’s Of Water and the Spirit, which said colonisation didn’t just affect our language and cultures — it colonised reality. That changed everything.
I was suicidal for most of my life. I made art, self-portraits as an ogbanje. I didn’t know what it meant then. I kept saying, “I want to go home.” I didn’t realise “home” meant the spirit world.
When I researched my name, my father said it meant “precious.” It actually means “python’s egg” — and the python is Ala’s avatar. That changed how I saw myself.
I started asking: what if an Igbo man prays to a white God, and an Igbo deity answers?
Some critics said I misrepresented Igbo spirituality. But I’ve been to the shrine and I’ve spoken to Ala. So when people say I’m selling culture, that’s their business. I did the work. The deity and I understand each other.
While writing, spiritual revelations came and were later confirmed by research. It felt like madness, but that’s what happens when you shift from colonised thinking to reindigenization.
According to the scholar Ann Daramola, in the West, truth comes from verification. In indigenous systems, truth comes from revelation. God told you — and that’s enough.
I went to Lagos and consulted traditionalists. They said, “If the deity calls and you don’t obey, you’ll suffer.” I was already suffering, so I obeyed.
Writing the book was brutal, but I finished it in eight months. Freshwater saved me.
What does it mean that the ogbanje was shut out of the spirit world in Freshwater?
Freshwater isn’t just a novel — it poses an ontological question in Igbo cosmology: If I’m an ogbanje, why can’t I die? I want to go home. You want me home. Why isn’t it working?
The answer, which I didn’t realise until after the book came out, is that for the deity Ala, suicide is taboo. So what happens when a spirit meant to die is claimed by a deity who won’t let them go?
In Freshwater, the deity wins.
Even now, when I reach out to my spirit cohort, they say: You’re not leaving until someone else releases you. A higher force said: This one stays. They have work to do.
I didn’t like that. I said, Did I ask for this? Let me go back.
In 2019, I attempted suicide. It was a tantrum — me throwing hands at God. Even during it, my cohort said: You’re going to die anyway. Be obedient.
That word stayed with me. I tattooed it on the last bare knuckles of my hand: obedient. A reminder: You’re here. Stop fighting it.
The gates are closed. God shut them. I have to stay and finish what I came to do. But the peace is in knowing: the gates always reopen.
How did you write 10 books in 10 years?
The MFA gave me space to write Freshwater, and then the Miles Morland Scholarship gave me time to write Vivek. I had Pet and Vivek ready before Freshwater even came out.
I wrote Pet because I was broke. A YA offer came and I said no, but then I ran out of money and asked if it was still open. I wrote it in two months while couch-surfing. I had practised finishing. Writing isn’t hard — finishing is.
The sale of Vivek changed everything. Riverhead bought it and Little Rot for half a million dollars.
People say Freshwater is about mental illness. It’s not. It’s about a spirit who also has depression. Spirits get depressed, too. I use terms like DID because they help me access care. But as a friend once told me: “You don’t have DID. You just have multiple spirits inside you.”
There’s a spirit in Freshwater who causes a split — and wasn’t named. Years later, a friend said: “That’s the spirit who wrote Freshwater.”
That’s the secret to my writing. The spirit mutes fear, hunger, sadness — and just writes. Great under capitalism, terrible for the body.
Eventually, I developed a neurological disorder. I couldn’t hold a pen. I dictated Bitter edits over Zoom. That was the turning point. Just because I can write a book in two months doesn’t mean I should.
Now I write like a human. Two hours a day. The rest is life.
Most of the writing happens in my mind — like when I was a child, daydreaming. I close my eyes, watch the characters move, and let them tell me the story.
I still follow the spirits. But I don’t let them break me anymore.
What was it like writing Somadina, which is very long?
Nobody talks about how annoying writing can be.
I used to say, “I write short books.” I loved that. But now I’m writing fantasy. And you can’t write short fantasy. You’re building worlds — you have to explain everything.
Son of the Morning was supposed to be 70,000 words. It ended up at 100,000. The last book? I aimed for 80k. It became 165k.
The world writes back. That’s why fantasy books are huge. Not because we’re showing off — the story demands it.
Still. Very annoying.
When is the Freshwater series coming?
Freshwater was optioned by FX but didn’t get a green light. The rights came back to me around 2021. I wasn’t surprised. The market wasn’t ready for spiritual West African storytelling.
None of my Nigerian-set books have been adapted. I’d love to see Vivek as a Nollywood film. But it won’t happen because everyone is too gay in that book.
“As I write this, the world is burning at the hands of the greedy and the cruel. It is an old, old story made painfully new by the way it is live-streamed through our phones now.” Tell me about that line in Somadina.
With the genocide in Palestine, many people woke up. That surge of “I need to do something” — I felt it myself at first. But when I asked what I could do, the answer was: I’m already doing it.
Since Pet was published in 2019, I’ve said the same thing: the world is violent, and we must build something better.
Each of my books is part of that liberation. Even when they upset people, they serve a purpose. I’m grateful to God for that clarity, that assignment.
What does a literary agent do?
Agents sell your book, pitch to editors, negotiate contracts, and advocate for your interests.
Some agents edit. Mine don’t for me — my books are usually submission-ready. But they do more than sell.
When Freshwater came out, it overwhelmed me. We cancelled three book tours because I was suicidal. I was drowning in emails and press. Everyone saw the success, but I couldn’t feel any of it.
One day, my agent sat me down as I was crying. She said, “We can take care of all your correspondence.” I said, “Please. Take it.” They did.
Now they handle everything. They schedule interviews. They shield me.
No one gets direct access unless it’s time to talk. Some people think I’m difficult. I say: “You weren’t there when I was in the hospital. My agents were. My family was. That’s it.”
They’re not just agents. They’re my buffer. In a world like this, you need protection. Some people think I’m a bitch — just because I don’t talk to them directly.
You say, “Please speak to my reps” — and suddenly it’s, “Oh, you think you’re too big now?”
Here’s the truth: the publishing industry nearly killed me.
When I was in London during the Freshwater tour, I was in chronic pain and deeply depressed. I was supposed to attend the Caine Prize dinner and sit at the Miles Morland Foundation table. I couldn’t make it for health reasons.
The next day, I received an email accusing me of lying about being injured. The tone was nasty, sarcastic. It came from Miles Morland himself. He’d seen a video of me dancing on Instagram — not knowing I was popping muscle relaxants to get through the day — and weaponised that moment against me.
I posted it (anonymously) on Twitter. Some well-known African literary people in the UK emailed me privately in support — until they found out it was Miles Morland. Then they vanished.
It was a classic act of ableism and entitlement. Because I was a young, African writer, they thought I owed them my presence — that my pain could be questioned or mocked and dismissed.
For context: the Miles Morland scholarship has a clause demanding 20% of all your future earnings from that book — including adaptations, forever. It’s not legally enforceable. They call it a donation “on honour.” Why? Because they don’t want to pay taxes on it. So they pressure you into giving them a cut of your success, forever.
When Morland’s foundation kept trying to email me directly — insisting “we prefer to deal directly with authors” — I just forwarded the emails to Wylie.
Where do you see yourself in five years?
So, for me, I already knew that. My tarot reader predicted that my career hasn’t peaked yet, and probably won’t for another… at the time, she said six years. So, like, five years now.
So I think in five years, I’ll hopefully be out of debt, have paid off my student loans. These are the dreams we have under capitalism now — pay off my student loans.
To have built a good community around myself. To have healed — to not be in chronic pain. Everything I’m doing is healing. I’ve been on this big healing journey for the last six years. So to have reached a certain point and met some of my healing goals, and also to be more spiritually protected.
I’m not worried about it. I’ll be telling stories. I’ll be doing the same thing I’m doing now — hanging out with the people I love, telling stories in the middle of a world that is on fire. Because the world will probably still be on fire.
