Nigerian poet and author of ‘The Last Time I Saw My Father’, Chinua Ezenwa-Ohaeto, believes many African stories are underappreciated: ‘The literary landscape is vast, and countless voices and stories have yet to receive the attention they truly deserve. It is not always about a single book but rather the collective body of work from diverse regions, cultures, and languages.’
First Draft is our interview column, featuring authors and other prominent figures on books, reading, and writing.
Our questions are italicized.
What books or kinds of books did you read growing up?
Growing up, I was drawn to various books; for some reason, I began with foreign novels and comics. I read writers like Leslie Charteris, Edgar Rice Burroughs, and others. But it was my mum who ensured that my literary world was not one-dimensional. She went out of her way to make sure I read African works, emphasizing that knowing where I come from is just as important as exploring where I could go. So, from my father’s shelves, I discovered Chinua Achebe, Elechi Amadi, Amos Tutuola, Fernando Oyono, and Ayi Kwei Armah. I also read Cyprian Ekwensi, Buchi Emecheta, Wole Soyinka and so many others. These African writers became more than just storytellers to me; they were guides to my understanding of the dynamics of our past, where I come from, the kind of questions I should ask and imagining possible futures.
What’s the last thing you read and disagreed with?
As for the last thing I read and disagreed with, it has to be about the state of affairs in Nigeria—the pervasive challenges that seem insurmountable, particularly the staggering cost of living. I constantly find myself asking: Why are things allowed to become so expensive? Why is it that basic commodities, things as essential as food and housing, are priced beyond the reach of the average Nigerian? I disagree with the systemic inefficiencies and poor governance that have led to this situation.
What’s the last thing you read that changed your mind about something?
The last thing I read that truly changed my mind about something was The Fire Next Time by James Baldwin. Although I had encountered Baldwin’s work before, revisiting this masterpiece gave me a fresh perspective on the intersections of identity, faith, and social justice. What struck me most this time was his nuanced critique of religion and its role in the African-American struggle for liberation. This nuanced critique allowed me to also critique myself, Nigeria and what is going on regarding its beliefs and religions. This shift in perspective has influenced not only how I think about activism, religion, and societal change, but also how I approach storytelling and writing. It is a reminder that narratives, like Baldwin’s, have the power to provoke thought and inspire both personal and collective transformation.
It was my mum who ensured that my literary world was not one-dimensional. She went out of her way to make sure I read African works, emphasizing that knowing where I come from is just as important as exploring where I could go.
What is your writing process: edit as you write or draft first, then edit?
My writing process has a balance between spontaneity and meticulous revision. I always start with drafting. The initial draft is raw, messy, and often incomplete, but it holds the essence of what I want to say. Once I have drafted, I step away from the work for a while. This distance helps me return to it with fresh eyes and a critical perspective. The editing phase is where I become more deliberate. I see editing as a conversation with myself. Sometimes, I discover new layers to the story or poem that were not immediately apparent during the drafting stage. While I draft first and then edit, I would not say the two are entirely separate. Even as I draft, I sometimes pause to adjust a line or rework a phrase if it feels glaringly off. But I try not to let perfectionism interrupt the flow of creation too much in the beginning. Sometimes, however, I don’t follow the aforementioned steps.
What was your process for writing your essay, ‘The Coming-Of-Age Novel as a Portrait of Nigeria’?
Writing this essay was an intensely reflective process. It began with an emotional and intellectual reckoning with the reality of growing up in Nigeria—both the beauty and the contradictions of that experience. My process began with research, which felt more like a conversation with the texts I love. I revisited novels, essays, and even historical documents that highlight the intersections between personal growth and national identity. I paid attention to how characters’ transitions to adulthood often mirrored Nigeria’s struggle for betterment, its postcolonial realities, and its enduring complexities. For instance, I examined how authors situate themes like identity, education, tradition, and the effects of political instability within the lives of their protagonists. I worked to balance academic rigor with personal insight, ensuring that my voice as a writer came through while staying faithful to the texts I analysed. I also sought feedback from friends like Chimezie Chika, who understood both my cultural context and the literary landscape I was navigating. Their input sharpened my arguments and brought new perspectives to light.
How did your approach change in writing your award-winning personal essay, ‘The Last Time I Saw My Father’?
Writing ‘The Last Time I Saw My Father’ was an emotionally intense and deeply personal journey. It differed from my usual writing approaches because the subject matter—my father, whom I lost to cancer—required me to confront profound grief and vulnerability. As someone who often writes about cultural or literary themes, this essay demanded that I move inward. The process began with an overwhelming desire to preserve the memory of my father, not just for myself, but for anyone who might find resonance in the story of love, loss, and connection. I knew I had to write this essay with absolute honesty. My father’s influence in my life was immense and losing him at 13 was not easy. I wanted to capture not just who he was but how his absence shaped me. Unlike analytical or academic writing, where I could rely on structure and evidence, this essay required me to trust my feelings and memories. I started by jotting down fragmented moments—specific conversations, his laughter, the smell of his cologne, his demeanour when he was unwell. These fragments eventually coalesced into a narrative. One of the most challenging aspects was deciding how much to reveal. Writing about someone so close to me, I felt a responsibility to honour his memory while also staying true to my personal experience. I had to balance the joy of remembering his wisdom, humour, and care with the anguish of recalling his battle with cancer and the pain of losing him.
Why did you decide to write and share this personal story?
I decided to write and share ‘The Last Time I Saw My Father’ because I felt an urgent need to preserve my father’s memory, both for myself and for others who might find solace or understanding in the story. For so long, I had heard about my father from people, and it was always from the perspective of work, formality, and friendship. I wanted to share that he was a father too. By telling my story, I hoped to give voice to feelings that others might struggle to articulate. I wanted readers to know they are not alone in their grief, that their pain is valid, and that remembering the ones we have lost is an act of love and resistance against forgetting.
What’s the most interesting reaction/feedback you’ve had about your writing?
The most interesting reaction I have had about my writing is one that I carry with me as both a motivation and a guiding principle—it was something my father said to me when I was a kid. He told me, ‘Chinua, just put your feelings down.’ At the time, it sounded so simple, almost like a casual piece of advice. But as I grew older and began to take writing seriously, I realized the depth of what he meant. His words were not just encouragement but also an invitation to be vulnerable, honest, and unafraid of emotions. He was telling me that writing was not just about crafting perfect sentences, imitation, or finding the right words—it was about truth. It was about transferring what’s in your heart and mind onto the page, without overthinking or hiding behind layers of pretension. This feedback—if I can even call it that—has been the foundation of my approach to writing. Whether it is poetry, essays, or fiction, I always strive to write from a place of authenticity. My father’s words taught me that readers connect most deeply when they sense the writer is being genuine, and I have tried to honour that in everything I write.
Writing about someone so close to me, I felt a responsibility to honour his memory while also staying true to my personal experience. I had to balance the joy of remembering his wisdom, humour, and care with the anguish of recalling his battle with cancer and the pain of losing him.
Your debut book of poetry, The Naming, will be released on 01 December 2025. What was your process for writing this book?
The process of writing The Naming was one of deep introspection, memory, and a deliberate effort to connect my personal truths to a larger, timeless lineage. From the start, I wanted this collection to carry the weight of my experiences as a postmodern individual while remaining rooted in my familial ancestry and the culture of my Igbo heritage. Writing this book felt like tracing identity, history, and possibility—naming and renaming the fragments of who I am and where I come from. At its core, The Naming explores the movements, excesses, and extremes of existing in this modern, fractured world while tethering those experiences to ancestral memory. The poems examine the myriad ways one remains tied to their ancestors—through reimagining memories, history, homesteads, migration, and the fluid intersections of the past, present, and possible futures. This exploration was not just about recording reality but about rebuilding a world that reinvents, enshrines, and re-stories it.
Which book/author had the most influence on your approach to writing it?
There is no single book or author that had the most influence on my approach to writing The Naming. Every book I have come across has its door, its own entry point into a world of ideas, emotions, and perspectives. Each one has shaped me in different ways, opening new pathways and possibilities for expression. Rather than drawing influence from one particular work, I find that my writing is an amalgamation of all the books, essays, and poems that have resonated with me over the years. Each text adds a layer to my understanding of what it means to be human, to be part of a history that transcends time, and to write with an awareness of both personal and cultural legacies. In The Naming, I carry with me the echo of all these works, not as direct influences, but as guiding lights that help me chart my own course in capturing and reimagining the truths I seek to name.
What do you hope readers take away from reading your book?
I hope that readers of The Naming, when it is released on 01 December, take away a deeper understanding of the intricate relationships between personal identity, ancestry, and the world we inhabit. At its core, the book is an invitation to reflect on the forces that shape us—the memories, histories, and migrations that inform our existence—and how we, as individuals, navigate the space between the past, present, and future. I want readers to feel connected not only to the specific experiences I share but also to their own ancestral histories and the shared human experience of trying to make sense of our place in the world. The poems are not just a reflection of my journey but a way of exploring how we all carry the past within us, how we reinvent and re-story our lives in ways that both honour and challenge tradition. I hope that The Naming leaves readers with a sense of possibility—of how the act of naming, of reclaiming and reimagining our histories, can empower us to build new worlds, grounded in the wisdom of our ancestors, yet open to the possibilities of what we can become. I want the book to inspire reflection, to challenge, and perhaps even to provide some comfort in knowing that the search for meaning, lineage, and identity is ongoing and shared across generations.
Which Nigerian poets working today are you rooting for?
I root for everyone. There is so much talent, diversity, and richness in Nigerian poetry today, and I believe every poet is contributing something unique and valuable. Whether it is through their exploration of identity, politics, spirituality, or everyday experiences, Nigerian poets are pushing boundaries and redefining the landscape of contemporary poetry. From emerging voices to more established figures, each poet is carving out their own space and offering new perspectives that challenge, inspire, and connect us. I appreciate the wide range of styles, forms, and themes that are being explored, and I truly believe that the strength of Nigerian poetry lies in its collective spirit. Every poet, regardless of their level of visibility or recognition, is part of the broader spheres of storytelling that continue to shape our cultural and literary landscape. So, I root for everyone, knowing that every poet’s contribution is part of something much larger than themselves.
And what’s the worst thing/advice to tell a poet?
The worst thing to tell a poet is that there is no money in writing poetry.
My writing is an amalgamation of all the books, essays, and poems that have resonated with me over the years. Each text adds a layer to my understanding of what it means to be human, to be part of a history that transcends time, and to write with an awareness of both personal and cultural legacies.
What’s the first book you read that made you think you wanted to be a writer?
The first books that made me think I wanted to be a writer were my father’s poetry collections, The Chants of a Minstrel and The Voice of the Night Masquerade. Growing up, I was surrounded by his words, his rhythms, and the ways he expressed complex emotions and thoughts through poetry. Reading his collections was like witnessing the power of language to shape identity, communicate feelings, and capture fleeting moments in time. It opened my eyes to the possibility that writing could be a form of self-discovery, a way of navigating the world and connecting with others.
Do you enjoy rereading books? If so, which book have you reread the most, and why?
Yes, I do enjoy rereading books. There is something about returning to a familiar text that allows you to uncover new layers and insights with each reading. Rereading these books helps me reflect on my writing and offers a space to connect with the nuances of culture, identity, and storytelling that shape my perspective.
What’s a writing goal you have for the new year? Are there specific genres or styles you want to explore in your writing in 2025?
At the moment, I do not have a specific writing goal set for the new year. Sometimes, the best goals come organically, as ideas evolve, or new themes emerge through the year. While I have not pinpointed a particular genre or style to explore yet, I do remain open to new possibilities, knowing that the act of writing will continue to surprise me with the paths it might take. As the year unfolds, I will likely find new areas of interest or creative directions that resonate with my experiences and thoughts. The process itself, with all its twists and turns, is where I find the most growth and discovery.
And which author(s) or book(s) are you excited to read for the first time in 2025?
I am excited about the books, especially poetry by Nigerians, which will be coming out in 2025. There are always new voices and innovative works that capture my attention, and I look forward to exploring the fresh perspectives and themes that will emerge this year. It is an exciting time for literature, and I’m eager to dive into the collections that will broaden my understanding.
What book (from Africa) do you feel has not yet received the attention it deserves?
Many works from Africa remain underappreciated, and honestly, it is hard to pinpoint just one. The literary landscape is vast, and countless voices and stories have yet to receive the attention they truly deserve. It is not always about a single book but rather the collective body of work from diverse regions, cultures, and languages. I believe that much of the magic lies in the multiplicity of narratives, many of which are still waiting for their time to shine. And I must say that one of the reasons why books might be underappreciated is lack of accessibility.
What is your favourite topic to write or read about these days?
These days, my favourite topics to write and read about revolve around identity, ancestry, and the intersection of personal and collective histories. I am particularly drawn to exploring themes like spirituality, cultural traditions, and the role of memory in shaping our understanding of the present and future. The way these elements intertwine in literature, especially in African contexts, continues to captivate me. I am also increasingly interested in the exploration of postmodern individualism and how we navigate our ties to the past. This ongoing dialogue between past and present, and how we reimagine history and ancestral legacies, forms a significant part of my current work.
I am particularly drawn to exploring themes like spirituality, cultural traditions, and the role of memory in shaping our understanding of the present and future.
What are you currently working on?
I am currently working on two poetry manuscripts. The first manuscript delves into the Igbo ontology of dibia afa and existence, which refers to the diviners and spiritual healers in Igbo culture. It explores the depth of knowledge, ancestral wisdom, and the spiritual practices that have been passed down through generations. This manuscript allows me to explore not only the mystical and sacred practices within my heritage, but also how these traditions have evolved and continue to shape our understanding of the world today. The second manuscript is focused on Uriah. This work draws inspiration from biblical and historical narratives, particularly the story of Uriah in the context of betrayal, power, and sacrifice. Uriah’s story holds significant emotional weight. This manuscript allows me to explore not only the personal tragedy of Uriah but also the broader societal structures and forces that influence individual fates. It is a deeply introspective work that raises questions about justice, morality, and the price of loyalty.
Question from Oyindamola Shoola: When or where do you hesitate the most in your writing, and why?
I often hesitate the most in my writing when I am trying to express a deeply personal or culturally significant truth, especially when it involves aspects of my identity, heritage, and ancestral knowledge. There is a delicate balance between sharing what feels intensely personal and ensuring that it is accurate and resonates universally, without losing its authenticity or power. This hesitation is heightened when dealing with themes that I feel have not been adequately represented or understood. For instance, when writing about my Igbo heritage or spiritual practices like dibia afa, I must be cautious about how much I reveal or reinterpret. Similarly, when writing about subjects like fatherhood or loss—topics that are so intertwined with my own personal experiences—I hesitate because I fear that the vulnerability may overshadow the larger message I aim to convey. There is a fine line between emotional truth and storytelling, and sometimes I hesitate in deciding how much of my own life to weave into the narrative versus what might stand as a universal reflection on those themes.
Bonus: Please suggest a question for a future author’s First Draft
What role does silence or absence play in storytelling? How do you incorporate it into your work?
Who should we interview next?
Chisom Okafor and Rasaq Malik Gbolahan⎈
We want to hear what you think about this interview. Submit a letter to the editors by writing to editors@republic.com.ng.
