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<h4 class="wp-block-heading has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-0c5701aaead475c805629d2599bab2a1">Nana Sule is a writer, journalist, and communications strategist. She curates literary events and co-owns The Third Space, a bookstore and workstation in Kano. Her works have been published in Agbowo, Isele, SEVHAGE, Arts-Muse Fair, and elsewhere. She won the Eugenia Abu/SEVHAGE International Prize for Creative Non-Fiction (2024) with her exceptional piece, ‘We Bought an Album in June.’ She was also the first runner-up for the ALitfest Prize for Fiction (2022) and was longlisted for the 2023 SEVHAGE Prize for Fiction for her short story, ‘Owanyi.’ Her essay, ‘Birthing the Mother’, was a notable essay in the Abebi Award in Afro-Non-Fiction (2023) and was published by Isele Magazine. Nana is the author of the collection, Not So Terrible People, which was published by Masobe Books in 2025 to great acclaim. Nana aims to craft stories that feel familiar yet imbued with the unexpected. She also indulges in a love for chocolate. In this interview, Nana shares insights on her writing journey—from origins and accolades to publications, alongside perspectives on the Nigerian society, motherhood, and the use of AI in the creative process..</h4>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-132329f30d94b30c776086289676b341"><strong><em>SVA: Nana, let’s start with something personal. You are many things: writer, editor, strategist, gender advocate… I once asked you what drives you in all of this, but I think a key question I would want to know now is, beyond the labels, who are you at your quietest? And who are you when the world isn’t watching?</em></strong></p>



<p><strong>NS:</strong> That’s an interesting question. When the world isn’t watching, I’m a baby. That’s really the best way I can describe it.</p>



<p>My life is often filled with movement: to-do lists, deadlines, holding space for others, and showing up. But when things finally slow down (and they rarely do), I just want softness. I want to be fed. I want someone to wash my hair. I want to take long walks with people I love, to marvel at the world as though it’s brand new. To pretend I’m seeing colours for the first time. To pause.</p>



<p>I think that’s it. I want to be cared for. To not be strong or so put together all the time, and for that to be enough.</p>



<p><strong><em>SVA: You’ve written about trauma, loss, and longing with remarkable emotional precision. But what were your own childhood years like? Were there moments or people from that time who lit your first spark for storytelling or general creativity that you would like to talk about?</em></strong></p>



<p><strong>NS:</strong> You know, I was once in therapy. Did a session or two, and because the therapist turned me into an onion and started peeling away my layers, I ran. Or maybe because he believed something happened, and that I’ve been running ever since. He may be right.</p>



<p>The truth is, I don’t remember a lot from my childhood. I don’t remember much before the age of five, and I suppose that’s normal. But I’ve also “blocked out” most memories up until I was about ten, or so the therapist said. I don’t quite agree with him. I just know I don’t remember much.</p>



<p>What I do remember, and I’ve said this often, is that my mum taught me to read. I know I could read and write quite early. My dad made me interested in stories because he was big on movies and books, and newspapers. And since there was a large age gap between me and my immediate older brother, and my mum was doing a postgrad and working at the time, it was mostly just my dad and I. We’d watch movies, read books and newspapers together. I remember us watching Filipino and Mexican soaps, and Indian movies. If he missed an episode, it was my job to write out a summary for him.</p>



<p>We’d take long drives to buy suya or turkey, and he’d tell me stories, folktales in Ebira. Sometimes, we’d lie on mats, stare at the sky as he sang Ebira songs. There’s one I still remember, about pigeons. They’re called <em>Arekuku</em>—something about how they are the kings of birds, because you’d never find them in the dump. And if you did, something must be terribly wrong.</p>



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<p>He’d build stories around myths and superstitions too, like how if the rain is falling while the sun is shining, then somewhere, an elephant is giving birth. Haha.</p>



<p>I miss him. He passed last year. August 7th. He didn’t get to hold my book.</p>



<p>So to answer your question: my parents. For teaching me to read and write, and for allowing me to see the world through stories.</p>



<p><strong><em>SVA: Growing up, did you see women who looked and lived like you in books? If not, how has that absence influenced the kind of stories you choose to tell now?</em></strong></p>



<p><strong>NS:</strong> The closest I came to seeing a woman like me was in Zainab Alkali’s <em>Virtuous Woman,</em> and that’s mainly because one of the characters had a foul mouth. For a brief moment in my teenage years, I had a bad mouth too. I mean, I still do, but part of adulting is learning when to be civil, right?</p>



<p>But honestly, I’ve never really thought much about how those stories shaped my writing or the stories I choose to tell. It’s hard to say. What I do know is that I now try to write stories that have characters who are familiar in my context.</p>



<p><strong><em>SVA: Tell us a bit about your influences, early books, friends and other experiences that have proved pivotal to your writing and general creativity.</em></strong></p>



<p><strong>NS:</strong> Aha, so secondary school was a game changer.</p>



<p>I remember it vividly—first, because I was flogged more than once for drawing and writing on the pages of my notebooks. I was a truant, not in the sense of skipping school, but because, although my body was in class, my mind was often somewhere far away, conjuring stories. I think I would have been an excellent student if I had just listened and been more present in class. I might have been Einstein, you know?</p>



<p>My classmates would borrow my notebooks to read the stories I’d scribbled in the margins. Mariat, Maria Ejeh, Khadijah Suleiman… these are the names that readily come to mind. They read my writing back when it was just incoherent musings, and I’m grateful.</p>



<p>Then came Mr. Brains Idiamin, our English teacher in JSS3. And this is where the game-changing part truly began. Mr. Idiamin wrote beautiful poems, and at the time, I thought he was the finest man on the surface of the earth. In many ways, I am grateful to him—not just for being a good teacher, but for not taking advantage of that admiration. Because I am very certain I would have followed Mr. Idiamin to the ends of the earth if he had asked. But instead, he gave me his poems to read, and I wrote responses. They were mostly political poems, if I remember correctly. And because I wanted to impress him, I left prose for poetry and ended up succeeding in impressing him.</p>



<p>He submitted one of my poems to a magazine in Peterborough, and it was selected. That moment changed the whole trajectory of my thinking. I had written something that was found worthy of publication overseas! I mean, now I cringe at how colonial that thinking was—getting validation because it was a UK magazine—but at the time, it meant so much. It flipped a switch in my head. It meant that this thing, this gift in my hands, was important. That I was doing something that mattered.</p>



<p>That was the moment everything shifted for me. It no longer mattered whether I was published or applauded. It just mattered that I wrote. I became resolute in the knowledge that my writing was important.</p>



<p>Movies were also a huge influence, and they still are. I write better when I watch Indian movies, especially when I’m writing poems. The songs are so packed with imagery, especially films from the late 1990s to early 2000s. I still consume a lot of movies from all parts of the world. Someday, hopefully soon, I think I’ll make an excellent scriptwriter.</p>



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<p>I also read a lot of suspense fiction in secondary school: Mary Higgins Clark, James Hadley Chase, Sidney Sheldon, Ted Dekker, Richard Patterson. I think that’s where I learned to build suspense and craft a good who-done-it. I hope to write a crime thriller someday.</p>



<p><strong><em>SVA: Nana, your most recent book, </em>Not So Terrible People<em> (published by Masobe), has been met with fair acclaim. It feels like both a culmination and a beginning. What has it been like watching this book find its audience, and what has surprised you most in how people have responded to it?</em></strong></p>



<p><strong>NS:</strong> One word: humbling. It has been humbling. Right from the point it got accepted for publication, to the day the cover was announced… that was a wild, wild day, by the way. I just woke up one morning to my phone going off. And now, to it actually being out in the world, to it flying off the shelves, especially that first week of release… amazing!</p>



<p>I honestly have to thank everyone, especially my friends, for always, always believing in my capabilities, even when I struggle to see myself and my talent. And my readers… the ones who tag me, send DMs, tell me how mad or sad or happy they are about a character… It’s been beautiful. And even the kindness of other authors, the women… I remember Edify Yakusak, for example, paying for copies and just saying, “You can do whatever you want, just let people read.” Fatima Bala is sharing and resharing posts. My Flame Tree fellows surprised me with a mini pub day hangout—ah, that was so thoughtful. My cousin Hadiza bought copies for a book club. The reviews, the honest feedback… all of it has just been so humbling. I’m truly grateful.</p>



<p>What’s surprised me the most? People aren’t crazy about the character Sunday. Why?! Like… like Sunday, please!</p>



<p><strong><em>SVA: Before Not So Terrible People, you had a much quieter debut: </em>What Would Be Would Be<em>. We didn’t hear as much about that one. What happened to that book? Looking back now, how do you feel about it, and who were you then as a writer?</em></strong></p>



<p><strong>NS:</strong> Wow! You sure know how to investigate.</p>



<p>So yes, I went to Minna, Niger State, in 2012 to study at the Federal University of Technology. I was still writing and trying to settle into school life. One of my lecturers, Mr. Jonathan Adama, in a class on professional ethics (I think), asked us a question: <em>“What is that thing you’re good at, and where do you think it can lead you in a year?” </em>I will never forget that question. I remember going to his office after the lecture to tell him how much I loved writing and how I hoped to one day get published. He asked me, “Do you have something to publish if the opportunity came now? You have to be prepared. You have to invite opportunity by being ready.”</p>



<p>So I spent three weeks putting together a lame, lame story rooted in patriarchy. It was about a long-suffering woman who endured everything, including physical abuse, blamed it on witchcraft, and got a happily-ever-after ending. I shudder at the thought of that rubbish now, but I also acknowledge how much I’ve grown, as a person and in my politics.</p>



<p>Anyway, back to the story. I had the thing, but where was the opportunity? I started scouting for a printer. I was ready to self-publish if I couldn’t find a publisher. I found a printer in Mobil who could do a hundred copies for fifty thousand naira. How much was my allowance then? I’ve forgotten… but it was nowhere close.</p>



<p>I was talking to my best friend then, my mosquito, <em>how I wish I had money to print that!</em> One of our coursemates, Mr. Aliyu, who was older and worked at MTN, overheard and was impressed that I had put a book together. I think they had a CSR thing they were doing, so he included me, and I got the funds for the printing.</p>



<p>The next phase was proofreading. I was in a science and technology school, I didn’t know who to ask, and Mr. Idiamin was in faraway Zaria. Then it occurred to me to approach the Dean of the School of Environmental Management, Prof. Morenikeji. He was always friendly and smiling, so I summoned my courage, knocked on his door, and he agreed to proofread. And that’s how it got published.</p>



<p>I became <em>popular</em> in school! I mean, what were the odds that a science student in a science and technology school published a book while school was in session?</p>



<p>When I returned to Prof. Morenikeji with the books, he told me about ANA Niger and sent me to the then Chairman, Nma Hassan. And you know how that story goes… from there, I met so many people who have inspired and continue to influence my journey. It was also because of that book and being in Minna that I met my friends TJ Benson, David Ishaya Osu, and Shammah Godoz. I really love these three people.</p>



<p>To answer your question: the book sold out. The original plan was to do a reprint, but by the time it sold out, I was beginning to see how problematic the story was. I had a different view of the world. I couldn’t, in good conscience, allow any girl or woman to read it… or anyone, really, and think there was an excuse for domestic violence and neglect. So I just didn’t reprint it.</p>



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<p>I didn’t even have a copy until last year, when I saw two copies among my father’s things. We were going through his stuff after he died and found things we had forgotten about. He had two copies of that book. They’re on my shelf now.</p>



<p><strong><em>SVA: That’s a good story, Nana, and helps with part of your writer’s origin tale. Now, you also wrote a children’s book, </em>A New Name<em>. That feels like a different genre entirely. What inspired that shift, and how did writing for children challenge or refresh you?</em></strong></p>



<p><strong>NS:</strong> Haha, <em>A New Name</em> was meant to be part of a collection of short stories—I’ve been working on this collection for ages! Haha. I wrote it in 2018, right after returning from the Ebedi Writers Residency, where I finished the story. At the time, I was an editor and also managing the book club for Amab Books. When the owner read <em>A New Name</em>, he said it was too long for a short story and felt it was more suited for children than adults. So, he suggested turning it into a children’s book. Writing for children was new for me, and it challenged me to think differently about storytelling: simplifying without losing depth. So, you see, I didn’t set out to write a children’s book; it just happened.</p>



<p><strong><em>SVA: And that brings us nicely to your current book, </em>Not So Terrible People. <em>All three of your books have been traditionally published in Nigeria—something that’s increasingly rare and difficult, especially with the number of manuscripts that never leave inboxes. What has your publishing journey been like, and how have you managed to find consistent visibility in such a saturated space?</em></strong></p>



<p><strong>NS:</strong> Actually, only the last was fully traditionally published. I’ve told you about the first. The second was hybrid publishing, I made a part payment and Amab covered the rest. <em>Not So Terrible People </em>is my first fully traditionally published book.</p>



<p><strong><em>SVA: That is well noted, and assumptions corrected. Aside from your fiction, you are also known for your Creative Nonfiction pieces, which have also won awards. There is something raw, unpretentious and powerful about them. You’ve written about trauma, loss, and longing with remarkable emotional precision. What draws you to repeatedly write true stories and explore these themes? Is it a form of preservation, protest, healing, or something else entirely?</em></strong></p>



<p><strong>NS:</strong> Maybe a mix of all those things, and also documenting. I often write about reproductive health because I feel it’s important to tell the good, the bad, and the ugly about things that are often considered taboo. It’s important not just for myself, but for women in general.</p>



<p>I’ve experienced loss and grief. I suffered a pregnancy loss and had to confront the turbulence it brought into my life. And what better way to make sense of that than to write?</p>



<p>But something that struck me deeply was how older women around me shared their own experiences of miscarriages, stillbirths, and terrible complications. I remember thinking, <em>“Then why do they make it seem all rosy? Why did no one talk about the pain, heartache, and grief that come when things don’t go as planned?</em>” Even when things do go well, birthing a healthy child isn’t a walk in the park.</p>



<p>So yes, writing has been a way to heal and preserve my sanity, but it’s also a way to offer information to women around me, sort of saying, <em>“Hey, here’s what could go wrong or right, and what it really takes to bring life into this world. Know this, so you can be sure you want to do this.”</em></p>



<p>Be informed. Be sure.</p>


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<p><strong><em>SVA: </em></strong><em>Y<strong>ou’ve won and been nominated for several literary awards now, including the Eugenia Abu/SEVHAGE International Prize and the Abebi Afro-Nonfiction honour for the two essays we just spoke about. What do these forms of recognition mean to you, not just as a writer, but as a woman navigating visibility, vulnerability, and power? In essence, what do these awards mean to you, beyond the plaques and the applause? How do you hold them inwardly?</strong></em></p>



<p><strong>NS:</strong> First, awards are validating. They tell me that my work matters. But for me, awards are also a call to action, to continue writing what feels genuine and natural to me. Most recently, awards have also given me the audacity to teach without feeling like an impostor. I currently mentor four young women in fiction through the Northern Narratives Initiative. I’ve taken short classes, both virtual and in person, on writing, and even in my professional work, on strategic communication. I enjoy that. You know, I wanted to be a lecturer for a long time, but it didn’t happen. Many times I’ve wondered, “What do I even know?” But these awards have given me the confidence to pursue teaching more, moving from “What do I know?” to “I know a little about this, and I can share that, and learn from the people I share with.” So yeah, that’s what they mean to me.</p>



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<p><strong><em>SVA: You’re a Middle Belt woman, a Muslim, and you also identify as a Northerner, daughter, feminist and environmental advocate. All of this while being what is generally termed as ‘young’, which comes with its own expectations and issues. Now, these are all layered, sometimes tense spaces to hold in Nigeria’s complex sociopolitical landscape. How do your identities shape your writing, and how do you navigate the expectations (and assumptions) that come with them? And now, this is in terms of your personal and communal space.</em></strong></p>



<p><strong>NS:</strong> So, the Middle Belt isn’t the North?</p>



<p>And just reading that question made me feel tired.</p>



<p>Nigeria is that lover who keeps breaking your heart but you can’t leave. And now you’re stuck in a vicious circle: hate to love it, love to hate it. It’s complex to navigate.</p>



<p>I was born in Okene, Kogi State, grew up in Northwestern Zaria, Kaduna, and spent considerable time moving between the Northwest and North Central. Because of that, I often feel lost. When I go home to Okene, I don’t quite feel at home. My mother tongue curves, but it does not unfurl with ease. Yet even here, my borrowed tongue reveals to the discerning that I am not marinated in the soil. I am the product of two worlds but claimed by none.</p>



<p>In <em>Not So Terrible People</em>, I drew on this feeling to write the character Bala. I also tried to honour most of the places that influenced me in that book.</p>



<p>When the book came out, something interesting made me laugh. Paul Liam posted something about Minna being where I was soaked in creative fluids, and Slamatu Sule reminded him I was from Kogi State. Then I attended Zabafest and said it was a homecoming. It’s a lot to consider, and I’m sure I’m just rambling at this point, but it mirrors how I feel about Nigeria. Now I am moving as though I am a survivor of all these identities, and at the same time, moving with only hope as expectation.</p>



<p>I’m also trying to be less diplomatic. I hold friends and people with varying interests and understandings of the world close, but I am learning to be firmer in the values I truly hold dear and to express them more openly.</p>



<p>As for how these layered identities shape my writing, I think they give me a unique vantage point—an insider-outsider view that allows me to tell stories that straddle boundaries, that explore the tensions and contradictions within Nigerian life. My background makes me attentive to nuance, to voices that are often overlooked or misunderstood. It pushes me to write with empathy but also with clarity and courage.</p>



<p>Navigating expectations and assumptions is tricky. In my personal space, I balance between honouring cultural norms and asserting my own values, especially as someone who believes in the power of storytelling to challenge the status quo. In communal spaces, I sometimes have to mediate between different worlds, managing how I am seen and how I present myself, all while trying to remain authentic. It’s a constant negotiation, but one that fuels my writing and my sense of purpose.</p>



<p><strong><em>SVA: Well said then. Alright. Now, turning to one of the burning and recurring issues of the moment in our dear country. There have been recent killings in Benue, which have been trending, which is a minute representation of the several other killings happening in the state, and elsewhere in the country by herdsmen, bandits and more. There are other happenings like the train attack by bandits some years back, which is featured in your work, </em>Not So Terrible People<em>. You have written around and through some of these tragedies. What has your experience been in weaving them into your works, and what are your thoughts on the role of creatives amid all of these?</em></strong></p>



<p><strong>NS:</strong> Like I’ve always said, the most important role of a creative is to document, especially now. But even that is becoming harder. I was scarred by the train attack. I was. And to this day, I’ve been unable to take a train ride. I plan to face that fear this year. I even registered on the app and everything, but I still feel like my feet are stuck in hardening concrete when it comes to this. Even more than that, I’m terrified of the violence humans can muster… the hate, the division.</p>



<p>Nigeria is heartbreaking. Sometimes, Nigerians make you question your sanity. And I do believe we are all insane on some level, because you can’t live in a country like this and be completely normal.</p>



<p>When that train attack happened, a doctor on the train posted on Twitter (or X, as it is now called) that she had been shot. Someone wished her death. And she died. Whether that person thought she was lying or not, why wish someone else death?</p>



<p>Now, that person might not be a bandit or one of those who massacre villages or burn people alive, as we’ve witnessed recently in Edo, Benue, Jos, but there’s something terrifying about the violent thoughts and tendencies of the average Nigerian. It scares me. It’s unhealthy. And I don’t know what we can do about it except write.</p>



<p>We <em>have</em> to write. History books cannot be trusted. We must write our stories, weave them into art, painting, poems—because at the very least, we have to let it be known that we tried. That we resisted. That we didn’t want this to happen, but it did.</p>



<p>That train attack happened, and lives were lost. Promising lives were lost. People have been butchered in their homes, on the roads. This is our reality. We have to get to work.</p>



<p><strong><em>SVA: What breaks your heart most about Nigeria today? And what still makes you believe in her?</em></strong></p>



<p><strong>NS:</strong> What breaks my heart most about Nigeria today is the dysfunction. Nothing works. Nothing. Honestly, I no longer believe in Nigeria. Maybe the only thing I still appreciate is the food, cause there’s nothing as delicious as Nigerian food. But beyond that, I just don’t believe anymore.</p>



<p><strong><em>SVA: Let’s talk about power, you know, soft power, cultural power, political power. You’ve created space for yourself in a system that often asks women, especially Muslim women, to shrink. Was there ever a moment when you nearly gave it all up? What kept you going? In essence, have you ever felt policed externally or internally? As a follow-up, what has it taken to claim your full voice, without apology?</em></strong></p>



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<p><strong>NS:</strong> Yes. Being postpartum did a lot to me. The lack of sleep nearly took my sanity, and then there was breastfeeding, which I hated. It took away my time. I couldn’t travel, couldn’t move. And if anyone knows me, they know that being stuck in one place, or even just feeling stuck, is a recipe for my disintegration. So, I started to come undone.</p>



<p>When I tried to explain this to family, especially, I was met with what I perceived as faux sympathy at best. I was met with actions and inactions that said, <em>This is what being a woman and mother means—you are to enjoy it or at least stop moaning about it.</em> I was bitter a lot. It also came with guilt because I felt selfish for not putting the obvious nutrition of my child into perspective. I was made to feel like I was complaining about a gift I should be grateful for.</p>



<p>I still hold a grudge from that phase of my life because I expected more empathy. I thought I had put in enough goodwill in my relationships to earn support in the way I needed. But I learned, the hard way, that no matter how progressive people seem, in the end, they expect women to behave like women. It was really sad to realise. So, I had to make a decision: wallow in self-pity, which would have been very justifiable, or pick up the pieces of myself and navigate that phase of my life as best I could, without losing myself.</p>



<p>That moment was also when I knew I had to put my manuscript together properly. I used those sleepless nights to write. I looked for a remote job with more leeway so I could rest and write more. It became a way to reclaim my time and my voice.</p>



<p>It has been a process of learning to value my own needs and boundaries, even when they don’t fit into others’ expectations. It meant accepting that my experience, feelings, and struggles were valid, and that I didn’t have to minimise or justify them to anyone. It meant saying <em>no</em> to what drains me and <em>yes</em> to what nurtures me, even if that made people uncomfortable. It took courage to show up fully as myself, to be vulnerable, to speak out, and to create space for my stories, even when that felt risky. But I realised that this is the only way to be true to my work.</p>


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<p><strong><em>SVA: Obviously, one sees the purpose, and can we say, politics, in your writing. All well calculated and thought out, for a purpose. Do you then, generally, just on some occasion or the other, write for fun? Does it always need to be didactic?</em></strong></p>



<p><strong>NS:</strong> You’re the first to say my writing is didactic, honestly, but I get where you’re coming from. So, for myself, and for fun, I write poetry and letters. To be more specific, I write erotic poems. Recently, someone said to me that even writing that as a Muslim woman is political. But I like to think of poetry as the place where I can unwind, I don’t think I arrive at it with any politics in my arms. I rather think I am very open armed with poetry and just write for the pleasure of it.</p>



<p><strong><em>SVA: You’re one of the co-founders of The Third Space in Kano, and also a voice in several literary platforms like Poetic Wednesdays and Arts Muse Fair. You have also been involved in organisations like the Hilltop Academy in Minna and the Association of Nigerian Authors. What is this interest in serving, and why is creating room for community so central to your work?</em></strong></p>



<p>I don’t really know how to explain it, but I just want us all to have dreams and to bring those dreams to life. I believe it’s easier to realise our dreams when we support each other. I’ve had a lot of support throughout my journey, and I still do. I wouldn’t be where I am without the community that raised me, encouraged me, and believed in me. I’m deeply grateful for that. So, creating space and serving others feels like a natural way to give back, to replicate that support and, hopefully, do even better.</p>



<p><strong><em>SVA: As a bonus, what’s your take on everything AI is doing in the world?</em></strong></p>



<p><strong>NS:</strong> AI feels like a friend, sometimes. I believe we can use AI to source information on funding, courses, or opportunities to apply for—and I sure hope that someday AI can organise my feeding and chores! It frees up space for us to do the actual work of creating. AI is great for many things, but not for the actual creation of art, like the traveling to immerse yourself in scenes you want to adapt, the conversations with real people to learn how normal people talk, and what authentic dialogue feels like. I hope we never replace those essential human experiences.</p>



<p>That said, I’m deeply afraid of how easily AI can facilitate disinformation and reduce critical thinking. There’s a kind of brain sharpening that happens when you go through the grit of finding and discovering information yourself, rather than just feeding off what an AI system provides.</p>



<p>AI in health and tech also scares me. While it offers amazing advancements, the ethical concerns are huge. We need to seriously question what’s reasonable, especially around surveillance and resource extraction. How humane is mining in the Global South, where workers are dehumanised to get minerals for the chips powering our gadgets? What penalties exist for violations and misuse? Especially because our politicians in the Global South are not even thinking about ethics or how much AI can be used to violate us. This lack of foresight is terrifying.</p>



<p><strong><em>SVA: Moving global, in the light of all the wars in the world, and needless pain, what are your thoughts and wishes?</em></strong></p>



<p><strong>NS:</strong> I honestly don’t know what to say about a world that watches children die without turning into a villain myself. If I had a superpower, it might be to wipe us all away. Maybe then, a new set of creations on earth could make it a better place.</p>



<p><strong><em>SVA: Finally, what is your practical advice to writers and creatives in the times we live in, here in Nigeria and everywhere else?</em></strong></p>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-5175a36d927b3a9b61889a85d6ff7188"><strong>NS:</strong> My practical advice is simple: find time to rest, to refill, and to unplug. The creative journey is demanding, and without taking care of yourself, it’s easy to burn out. Remember, you deserve to reclaim some sanity amid the noise and demands of this world. Also, lean on your community, seek support, share your struggles, and celebrate your wins together. Creativity isn’t a solo act; it thrives when nurtured by connection and care. Keep going, but don’t forget to pause and breathe.</p>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-460b74585998eea5c46597e5a82fb02e"><strong>AA: </strong>I have been thinking, more recently, about the science of the liminal—how we can move from space to space, threading through difficulties or uncertainty, searching for answers to the questions the world presents. As Solnit reflects in <em>A Field Guide to Getting Lost</em>, <em>“The things we want are transformative, and we don’t know or only think we know what is on the other side of that transformation.”</em> Starting as a nutritionist provided the basin for critical analysis and enriched my pedagogy. I am not entirely sure when the switch happened or when I decided that this was what I was going to do for the rest of my life, but it didn’t truly sink in until my father, and I arrived in front of Dey House on an August morning.</p>



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“History Books Cannot Be Trusted, So We Must Write Our Own Stories…“ | A CỌ́N-SCÌÒ Magazine Interview with Nana Sule
