Descendant of a Deity: an interview with writer Akwaeke Emezi
The night before I met Akwaeke Emezi, they were in my dream. It was the kind of dream I would have sworn had happened in real life, if I didn’t know any better. I don’t particularly remember the details, but I do remember their presence being vast. It could have been the blinding anticipation of knowing I was coming face to face with a prolific writer, or because Akwaeke’s novel Freshwater had left a firm imprint on my mind. To this day, I’m still not entirely sure. But I do know that, on the morning of the interview, I was so anxious to meet them that I kept reciting my interview questions on the train journey there.
We met on an unusually sunny day in London at their publishing house in Bloomsbury. The building was grand and carried the weight of history: there were high ceilings lined with books, thick hardwood floors and giant Georgian windows that welcomed daylight. I got the sense that many great writers had walked through those doors, and conversations that launched meteoric careers had happened between the walls. A polite, chatty lady led me through what seemed like a maze of hallways. Finally we arrived in the room where Akwaeke was waiting. I could tell because the chatty lady went quiet as she opened the white double doors. Akwaeke sat on the end of a large table, their elbows propped on it, their chin resting on the back of their interlocked hands. They smiled – genuine and wide, the kind that exposed pretty pink gums. I relaxed a little.
“You’re Nigerian?” they asked shortly after I introduced myself. Their voice was deep and unflustered, coloured with an accent that’s at once Nigerian, American and that of someone who has lived in many places. I nodded. They seemed to exhale slightly and I suspected we were in for a good conversation.
It didn’t take long for me to realise that speaking to Akwaeke is like speaking to a very funny, very intellectual friend. They easily interweave a sharp sense of humour (the kind that only Nigerians can possess) with an expansive knowledge of metaphysics, literature and horticulture. Their humour and intelligence were in no way opposing though; if anything it only solidified Akwaeke as the epitome of colliding personalities and places existing in one body. On their Instagram, which currently sports nearly 40,000 followers, they refer to themselves as ‘the absent + hyperpresent body’ and ‘the ogbanje embodiment paradox’ (an ogbanje is a spirit that haunts a family by continuously coming in the form of a child who dies early).
Akwaeke was born in Umuahia, a city in southeastern Nigeria, to an Igbo father and Tamil mother. They grew up in Aba in a multicultural community – their mother was a part of Nigerwives, a group of foreign women whose husbands were Nigerian. As a child, Akwaeke was a ferocious writer who filled piles of notebooks with words. But it wasn’t until they were in university in America, and one of their professors suggested they major in creative writing, that they began to consider a career in writing. They recall animatedly: “I was like [to the professor] ‘I’m a Nigerian immigrant; I don’t think you understand that’s not an option for me’. It wasn’t until two grad schools later, and I was living in Brooklyn did I realise I could make a career out of writing. At the time, I had a Tumblr page where I put up a lot of my work, and my friends were like ‘you should do this full-time’. So I got into an MFA program, and I was like ‘Oh writing pays? Now I’ll leave my job’”.
In 2018, Akwaeke’s debut novel Freshwater was published. It was one of those rare books that bursts on the scene, and turns the literary world upside down. It was impossible not to hear Freshwater being talked about. A visceral semi-autobiographical story, it follows the life of Ada, a character who finds herself battling many selves that live inside her mind. Some of the selves are diabolic, others a bit more restrained. As they become more prominent and Ada encounters a traumatic assault, her life descends into one of darkness and self-sabotage. It’s a striking portrait of neurodivergence – one that centres Igbo ontology and non-western ideas around mental illness.
Akwaeke remarks: “The book is probably 99% based on my lived experience. As I was writing it, I was using the lens of Igbo ontology to examine my entire life, and all the things that had happened to me started clicking. I was raised catholic so I’d tried dealing with them through the lens of christianity and it didn’t really work; I didn’t feel at peace. I had been in therapy; I had tried the lens of mental health stuff and that didn’t help either. I was terrified because as Nigerians we’re not raised to think this is something we should dabble in, you know. It’s very much stigmatised. But I went to Lagos and I spoke to a historian, and talked to my friends who practise African-based spirituality. All of them were like, “If you’re feeling the call, you have to obey it, and the reason you’re feeling so stressed out is because you’re fighting it.” Later on in our conversation, Akwaeke mentions matter-of factly, “I don’t think people realise how much the book is just an ogbanje memoir”.
Freshwater was nominated for the Women’s Prize for Fiction, and was titled a New York Times’ Notable Book, among many other accolades (12 others to be exact). It’s been translated into ten languages, and is currently being made into a series for FX which Akwaeke is writing and executive producing.
At the time of meeting them, back in 2018, they hadn’t yet bought ‘shiny, the god house’ – their home in New Orleans, the first they ever purchased, which stands as a firm hallmark of all they’ve achieved. They also hadn’t published Pet, their award-winning debut YA novel that follows Jam, a young trans-girl, as she uncovers the truth about monsters and embarks on a quest to save her town. It’s a daring and genre-bending novel – the exact kind I yearned to read as a teenager.
Akwaeke’s third novel, The Death of Vivek Oji, is set to be released later this year. During my conversation with them a few years ago, they mentioned it, and spoke profusely about its setting and storyline. Akwaeke is a fast writer, and at the time, they had already written the first draft of the story. In a similar vein to Freshwater, their upcoming novel will explore themes of self and disconnection, but will ultimately follow the story of Vivek, an unforgettable character who ‘suffers disorienting blackouts’ and whose friendship with another character Osita ‘gives way to a heart-stopping act of violence in a moment of exhilarating freedom,’ reads Akwaeke’s website. It’s already been named one of the most anticipated books of the year by The New York Times and BuzzFeed.
I ask them about their creative process. “I can’t write around other people. I can’t write with music because it’s distracting. I hate writing in public.” They pause, “To be fair I also hate being in public. I tend to write alone at home. I need to be in one place over a couple of months. I go to sleep thinking about the book; I wake up thinking about the book so there’s a lot of insulation that happens around the creative process. I spend a lot of time running through the story in my head, daydreaming, mapping it out – but not on paper.”
On that afternoon in late August, Akwaeke and I spoke for much longer than intended and went off track more than a few times. Of course we talked about their work and the serious stuff, but we also talked about the reality of living in Nigeria, Afrobeats songs we were into, and what we love to wear. “I appreciate a good thigh high”, they laughed as they wiggled on a pair of black leather boots, getting ready to have their photo taken in the halls of their publishing house.
Akwaeke’s meteoric success has been glorious to watch over the years. To me, as a young Nigerian who hopes to publish her own book some day, their career is a bold affirmation that writers from Africa can be experimental in the most audacious ways. We can abandon the ideas of ‘Africa’ that publishers so love to propagate; and we can tell stories that capture not only our experience as communities, but as individuals.
It’s hard to imagine that anyone would be unchanged by the sturdy fame that comes with having your gift recognised by the world. But if there’s one thing to point out, it’s that Akwaeke has always been sure of who they are: as a person, a writer, an ogbanje. I doubt much of that has changed. If it has, it’s only thickened. It’s that kind of valour and certainty that gives birth to writers like them. Writers we’re blessed to have; writers who bend the game.
Like our content? Order a copy of our latest issue here.