Books and their authors can transport us to different worlds, evoke deep emotions, and spark our imagination. Authors craft stories that entertain, educate, and inspire readers, providing a window into diverse perspectives and experiences that transcend time, borders, and imagination.
In this week’s #MCNWorkLife, Ukamaka Olisakwe, a Nigerian feminist author, short-story writer, and screenwriter, takes us through her childhood, her journey to writing, and the realities of women that form the basis for her writing.
From a different person’s perspective, how would you describe yourself?
Someone else would describe me as a hard worker because I work hard, and in my hard work, I make less time for fun.
Tell us about your childhood and how it translated into your writing career.
My childhood was partly happy and bleak because of an incident that shaped my entire life: who I am today and why I pay keen attention to specific topics.
I grew up in Kano State; I schooled there until after the first part of my tertiary education, after which I moved to south-eastern Nigeria. I was a very playful child who didn’t care much about the politics of her environment until 1991, during the Bonnke riots, a religious uprising in Kano State that started after the German evangelist, Reinhard Bonnke, came to evangelise the region. His visit sparked a very violent uprising that resulted in lots of deaths. This was the first time I would watch a human being beheaded and right in front of me. This was a few days before my ninth birthday, and this experience, I must admit, changed my trajectory. And I never really processed what this meant until much later after I relived the images and began suffering nightmares. I became a little more attentive after that, a little more observant, talking a little less and watching the world more.
I am still trying to understand how quickly people change and why they become violent, and I mean violence on both sides of the religious divide. Now, I am always asking ‘why,’ always trying to understand people’s motivations, and I often do that in my stories. Rather than cast a character as simply violent, I want to know why they do what they do, make certain decisions, react in particular ways, or choose not to react at all. I am still grappling with that incident; it was such a staggering thing for a child to witness.
Wow, I’m very sorry about that. So, how did you get into writing?
I’ve always loved taking on challenges, so back in secondary school, my friends were going to join the sciences because they thought art students were illiterate and science students were intelligent. I loved literature (my dad had this fantastic collection of books), but I wanted to prove a point for some reason, so I joined the sciences. I promise you that I don’t remember anything I studied back then. After I completed my secondary school education, I moved on to a polytechnic and got a Higher National Diploma in Computer Science. Then I tried to get a BSc in Economics but left because it was too boring. Then storytelling came.
I joined the banking industry in 2008. I was working as a customer service officer with one of the Nigerian banks, and a senior colleague from the head office sent me a query. I responded with a long story with scenes and images to evoke sympathy and escape trouble. He replied, “Do you write stories?” Until then, I hadn’t considered storytelling a career path. He encouraged me, and here we are.
I started writing little notes about the people at work, and when I grew bored, I tried to make up stories about their lives—from their postures, their smiles, how enthusiastic they were, and how closed off they were. I began with those little details. I wouldn’t have considered writing ‘officially’ if I hadn’t gotten that email. I resigned from the job in 2014.
Before we get into your books, tell us about your journey to being a professor. What made you decide to take the academic path?
I’m in Utah, United States. I moved here last week to start a job as a tenure-track assistant professor. I’ll be teaching Fiction and Screenwriting; I’m also a screenwriter (I’m currently writing the screenplay for StudioCanal in France). Back in the Midwest, where I moved from, I taught Introduction to Creative Writing, Introduction to Literature, Literary Analysis, composition classes, and special topics.
I taught creative writing across all genres, and for introduction to literature, I taught literary analysis. I got my American undergraduate students to read diverse materials; for example, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Purple Hibiscus, which they found fascinating. I continue to incorporate diverse material in classroom conversations. Now it has all transitioned to this particular phase in my life as an assistant professor, having completed my PhD this May.
Let’s get into your books. Ogadinma touches on issues of postpartum depression and domestic violence; what was the inspiration? And why was it so important to address this?
Thank you so much for this question. I love discussing postpartum experiences. My next project will be something I call Postpartum Interiorities. Ogadinma was a preface to this larger project about motherhood, especially experiences pertaining to pregnancy, childbirth, and postpartum interiorities—this could be an easy childbirth, as in the case of my friend who walked into the theatre, gave birth to her child, and came out five minutes later bouncing, her skin is glowing; or it could in the case of someone like me who enjoyed relatively good trimesters but then suffered postpartum complications, especially with the birth of my last child in 2007; etc.
I had wanted to talk about what happened to my body, but I didn’t really know how to discuss that vulnerable subject. I wasn’t comfortable because our idea of motherhood was the Sweet Mother trope. I tried sharing my story with relatives, and they said, “It’s just a normal thing. Just get over it and pay attention to your child.” But what happened to me was too heavy to be swept away. Finally, many years later, I wrote an essay about suffering mild uterine prolapse.
With Ogadinma, her postpartum experience, compounded by the fact that she suffered domestic violence, ultimately worsened her case. And so she became a prelude to that larger conversation about postpartum interiorities. I felt it was essential to include this as part of her story, mainly about how marriage and relationships affect a woman post-childbirth. Also, one could be in a happy marriage and still suffer postpartum depression. One could have the privilege of Omugwo (wherein the mother or female relatives help with childcare and activities) and, despite the support system, still suffer postpartum depression. I searched all over the internet for people who had similar experiences. I searched for essays where women talked about these experiences. I couldn’t find much. So I thought, why not include this in Ogadinma?
I have since moved from Ogadinma to an extensive work. I’ve also written a lot about my experience with motherhood and postpartum complications. The next phase of my project will probably be a documentary in which I go to the streets of Aba and have conversations with women about this topic. I think these stories belong in our archives. Something in line with the fantastic work Nana Darkoa Sekyiamah did with her book, The Sex Lives of African Women (one of the best books I’ve read yet). She’s a huge inspiration.
I also dwelled on this topic in my introduction to our Woman Issue for Isele Magazine, published in 2021; I reached out to a few professors and writers and asked each to share their postpartum experiences. Many did. I look forward to doing much more, perhaps too an extensive book, so that we can have more reference materials that respond to these questions that center on the woman’s experiences with pregnancy, her complicated relationship with her body post-childbirth, and not just how sweet motherhood is—which we already exalt that in our music. I think that would be amazing.
Moving to Don’t Answer When They Call Your Name (DAWTCYN), you addressed very important themes from the point of view of a teenager. Was this intentional, and why did you need to take this approach?
It was important because big things also happen to teenagers; she’s 13 years old in the book. I thought it would be interesting to translate those big events through the eyes of a child. For instance, in 1991, I was nine years old in Kano and didn’t understand the big politics underpinning the riot. I had even thought that the uprising was fun because it meant that school had been cancelled and I could play in the street with my friends. For our parents, they were dealing with that event in shocking ways that we didn’t yet grasp. And then that terrible thing happened and coloured my world.
For DAWTCYN, I wanted to demonstrate how children see, interpret, and handle big ideas and big themes. How that child interprets and interacts with those ideas really matters. We see that with Adanne, who felt her calling was to protect her mom and to make her mom happy, considering the loss they had endured, and the class issues they’ve suffered, the simple way she was able to translate such class stratification in her society. It would have been different had I written it from an adult’s perspective. Also, she believed her dog was her brother, who came back to life. I was trying to show how children and teenagers interpret bigger issues without the language an adult would employ. I hope it was successful.
Feminism is a constant theme in your books. Why is this so important to you?
Because it is. The challenge I used to have with some of works written in the past was the way women were sometimes left on the periphery. Yes, we have instances where women contribute meaningfully, but they are almost always from the periphery, with the men at the centre. Then I read Buchi Emecheta, who centred motherhood and womanhood at the heart of her stories and thought, that’s how it should be.
Women in my region used to be the owners of the markets; they were essentially the head of commerce. They were called Omu, a title that is almost symbolic today, moreso because of the ways in which colonialism disrupted our traditional systems. Women held powerful positions that shaped communal and national politics. With a current project (which puts the past in conversation with the present), I return to that old idea, back when women held such control. I am deeply interested in the stories behind the 1927 “Aba Women Riot,” when the women of southeastern and south southern Nigeria pushed back against British colonial policies they had found harmful.
I am generally interested in the ways our women navigated colonialism, patriarchy, and all forms of oppression that threatened to banish them to the periphery. I am interested in the ways our indigenous feminism insists on centering these stories, these experiences, and not just the woman’s life as a mother but her role too in communal and national economics, politics, and religion.
Let’s talk about your magazine now. What was the inspiration for starting Isele, and how has the journey been so far?
My maternal grandmother is the spirit behind the magazine. Her alias was Isele. She was a performance poet back in the early 60s and performed in many villages across our vibrant town. She was beautiful, glamorous, and, of course, a graceful dancer. She died in 2000. Isele Magazine combines the glamour of these women I come from with the seriousness of the topics they investigated.
The idea for the magazine came after I took a class with Rob Spillman, the co-founder of Tin House Magazine. He taught a class on publishing, and he gave us excellent resources and support. I told myself I would create a literary magazine because he’d so deeply inspired me, and I did. I completed my masters in May, and Isele Magazine went live on July 30th while I was on my way to my PhD.
The journey has been amazing. We recently published one of the best reviews yet, written by the art critic IfeOluwa Nihinlola (he reviewed Kọ́lá Túbọ̀sún’s Ebrohimie Road, a documentary about Wole Soyinka’s life and time on 8 Ebrohimie Road). We’ve been recognised by the New York Times. When people talk about African magazines, Isele consistently appears in the top three conversations, which makes me happy. Yale University has listed Isele in their archives as one of the go-tos for works by African writers. We have a lot to do.
In the course of being a writer and then owning a magazine, what challenges have you faced? And then, how did you navigate them?
You need money to run a magazine, and honestly, we couldn’t have done this if I was still working from home in Aba, especially considering my low-paying job at the bank. We wouldn’t have known how to handle the cost of running the website, the domain name, hosting, and paying the writers. We don’t pay much because we’ve not been able to secure funding, and we stay afloat because of personal funding from my student stipend and the occasional support from people to whom I am grateful. So, yes, funding is the major challenge. But I think we are in a much better place, thanks to my job, and until we can secure funding, Isele is no longer threatened to be shut down or stultified into dormancy.
We also constantly need people. And I hope we get to a place where we can pay our editors for their incredible work.
What’s a typical day in your life like?
If you asked me this two weeks ago, I would say that my typical day begins from home to school, and then I return home. I write away into the night. I don’t typically set out a period to write. I could write in the morning before school or when I return home.
But here in Utah, my typical day begins with food (I don’t play with food), then school, some work, and in the evening, I’m out with new friends (kind people I met here who’ve become my community), and afterwards, I crash. And in the morning, I repeat that circle. I’ve taken a short break from writing; having spent four years in residence writing, it’s time to take a break.
Looking back at your journey, what would you change if you could?
Honestly, I wouldn’t change a thing. My experience with childbirth and postpartum complications and my childhood shaped me. Those experiences were integral to the kind of writer I am today because if I hadn’t experienced all that, I wouldn’t have been a writer, and I am happy with my type of writer. I’m pleased with the attention I pay to my work and the reception it has gotten. I wouldn’t change it.
That’s great! What advice would you give to women trying to stay sane in a society that doesn’t want to make space for them?
My first piece of advice is to surround yourself with women. There is this saying that annoys the heck out of me and rankles my soul: “Women are their worst enemy.” My best experiences have been with women. They made me who I am. So, please surround yourself with women who contribute to your growth.
This part is also essential: financial independence.
Again, surround yourself with excellent people—like women—people who will show you how to become better at what you do, people who glean opportunities for improvement in your work. People who make you happy.
What tip do you swear by for maintaining a healthy work-life balance?
For me, it’s laughter. Laugh; it helps a lot.
