My mum says I was an angry child, always walking around with a strong frown, tight-lipped for no reason. But growing up in a home where adults were right by default, I knew my anger had many reasons. Writing was, still is, my freedom. The stories I wrote in my childhood featured young female protagonists who overcame obstacles and changed the world they lived in. Once I found my voice through words, my mantra became: when I grow up, I’ll help others find their voice.

One of my favourite authors, James Baldwin, said, <i>“You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read.”</i>

Three years ago, I picked up a book for pleasure. The writing was smooth, the protagonists were lively, three-dimensional characters, the story was set in Lagos, Nigeria, so I was truly transported. Yet, something felt amiss. For me, a book really hits when I can’t stop thinking about it even when I’m away from it for only a brief moment, when my fingers itch to turn the pages, when my brain tries to connect the dots to figure out what happens next, when I think about the characters like people I know or have met. But I push through with the book, and halfway through the story comes a scene where the character goes through a traumatic experience which mirrors one I’d been through. I’d never been able to put that event into words and reading that scene in the book was just the healing I needed. I felt seen and heard.