I had never really heard about LOATAD, the Library of Africa and the African Diaspora, before. I had seen it mentioned a couple of times in writers’ bios, but it never really stayed with me. It was Abu Bakr Sadiq, the 2023 Sillerman First Book Prize winner, who sent me the link one afternoon. When I first checked it out, I didn’t intend to apply because I thought they had age restrictions. But something kept pulling me back; a gentle nudge I couldn’t shake off. I returned to the site, read the requirements again, and realized all I needed that was supposed to be difficult was an international passport — and I had one. Soooo joy!! That small discovery made my heart fill with light. I had never really used my passport for anything. I, from time to time, sit and admire how beautiful it is though, and fantasize how using it someday will be a dream come true. And now it felt like it might finally carry me somewhere. So I applied.
The application process itself was exciting. At the time, I felt like I had found the direction my writing needed to take. I felt like I had finally found my voice in writing. Although the theme of the residency, “Black Atlantic”, did not directly match the project I was working on, I found a way to actually dot them together, and it was working for me. I wrote freely, with honesty and hope, explaining why I felt my work belonged there and why I would love to be there. The funniest part was having to prove that I had my passport. It seemed like such a small thing, but it made the whole process feel more real, more personal, like I was holding the ticket to something bigger than I could imagine. I have slow processing for big things. Even when they’re real, it takes me a lot to finally believe it’s happening or it’s before me. Sometimes, this realization comes after it’s all over.
When it came to my chances, I stayed neutral because over time, I have taught myself to send out applications and simply move on. I do not pin my hopes on any one thing. By the time decisions roll around, I sometimes barely even remember what I applied for. I was not overly confident, but I was not anxious either. Deep down, though, something had shifted. The fact that even if LOATAD rejected me, I knew I would try again. Especially when I just learned about the library and what it stood for — there was no way I was letting go of that dream. Especially this new inspired dream to read all their books.
The day I received the acceptance email is sewn into my memory like a small rainbow on a princess dress. I was at the Abuja Literary Festival (ALITFEST) Grand Slam, just minutes before the poetry slam was set to begin. My nerves were already stretched thin. I was trying to calm myself and also reassuring Yusrah, who was just as anxious. Then suddenly, a notification lit up my phone — “Confidential update on your LOATAD Black Atlantic Residency application.” My heart stopped. I clicked on it and there it was: “Congratulations.”
I kept rereading the email, half-expecting it to change into something else. The moment felt unreal, like a dream you do not want to wake from. I closed my phone, trying to steady myself. Immediately I got that email, I told myself this might be a sign that I’m going to lose this slam because I’ve gotten my miracle of the night already. But nahhh, God can fund big dreams!!! That night, I ended up as the first runner-up at the slam. This is the closest I’ve come to winning the Grand Slam. All my previous years of slamming there, I was always eliminated at the second round. Everything about that evening shimmered with a kind of quiet magic. I was reassured that really, I was raised by the kindness of the world and touched by the miracles of God.
Once the excitement settled, the practicalities came into focus. Since I was already doing my Industrial Training program, I checked the residency dates ASAP, and they fell perfectly outside the regular school period. I only had to defer a month of my IT program and make up for it later. That decision came easily. Leaving Nigeria for the first time, getting on a plane for the first time, stepping into a prolly twin country — all of it was happening at once. All of it was happening so fast, so beautifully, so crazy!!!!
Booking my flight worried me for a while. I kept wondering if I would get it right. But after a Zoom call with Seth, our host and residency manager, and the other residents, Seth offered to handle our flight bookings. That small act of kindness lifted a huge weight off my shoulders. My supervisors at IT were equally supportive. They understood and encouraged me to go. My family, friends, my sister — everyone was rooting for me. It felt like my dream had become something we all carried together. It was a communal dream. Everybody around me was living it. It was beautiful!
As the travel date approached, the nerves returned. A particular sadness crept in when I realized I would be spending Ramadan away from home. No akara and pap after iftar, no familiar rush to wake up for sahoor, no gathering for prayers with my siblings. I tried to brace myself, telling myself it was part of growing up, part of stepping into new spaces. But the ache stayed. It was a mixed feeling. I wanted to experience it all, but I also wanted to just be close to my mum. But well, growth starts as a lump in the throat, then goes to become a morsel in the stomach.
When it was finally time to travel, everything about the experience felt strange and beautiful. My first flight was a jumble of terror and wonder. I took pictures of everything — from the boarding gate to the seatbelt. Takeoff felt like my soul briefly left my body, and landing was even worse. Yet I would not have traded it for anything. Touching down in Ghana, I bought a sim card, exchanged some cash, and found the driver Seth had arranged. Riding through Accra, the city felt familiar yet not. Like meeting a distant cousin for the first time and finding you share the same laugh.
Arriving at LOATAD made my heart swell. The library stretched before me, lined with books I had only dreamed of holding. Seth welcomed me warmly and showed me to my room. A portrait of Abdulrazak Gurnah hung on the wall. I took it as a sign. After unpacking, I called my mum, texted my siblings, took a bath, and fell into the deepest sleep I had had in months.
The residency itself was beyond anything I expected. My fellow residents became more than just colleagues. They became family. Lori Tharps, Zainab Floyd, Dr. Edinam Denoo Yaro — each person brought their own energy, and somehow, we all fit together. Seth, Megburna, Sylvia, Fred Hampton Jr., Zenas Ubere, and Dr. Boafo filled our days with encouragement, laughter, and the kind of conversations that stay with you long after you leave.
Working in the library was overwhelming at first. So many books. So many voices. I wandered through the shelves for hours — sometimes reading, sometimes just standing there, taking it all in. Slowly, I found my rhythm. I wrote new poems, attended critique sessions, and listened as people from different corners of the world responded to my work. Their feedback stretched me, softened me, and made me braver.
We visited places that shifted something deep inside me: the University of Ghana, Nketia Archives, Kwame Nkrumah Memorial Park, W.E.B Du Bois Centre, Makola Market, National Museum, Assin Manso, Cape Coast, Elmina Java Museum, Elmina Castle, Coconut Grove Hotel, Aburi Botanical Garden. Each site carried its own lessons. Standing inside Elmina Castle, feeling the weight of its history pressing against my chest, I understood grief in a new way. At Cape Coast, letting the Atlantic Ocean wash over my feet, I wrote my name in the sand and watched it vanish. It felt like a prayer.
One afternoon, after a long day of shopping, Seth, Zainab, and I climbed to the top of Black Star Square. From there, we watched the city breathe below us. Cars moved like small toys. The sun bled orange over the horizon. Everything about that moment felt still and eternal. It is the kind of peace you carry back with you, tucked quietly between your ribs.
Another moment that stayed with me was reading this poem — “THE TENDERNESS MANIFESTO by Mbella Sonne Dipoko” — on LOATAD’s front door with the other residents on our first day. It was a simple ritual, but it felt sacred. A way of saying, “We are here. We see each other.” And we will be here together to experience this magic.
One night, during dinner, our conversation turned to the gaps between generations of writers. We talked about the histories lost, the bridges that needed rebuilding. Something inside me shifted that night. I realized I had found a new calling, a new reason to write — not just to tell my story, but to honor those who came before me, and to leave something richer for those who will come after. It was my moment of realization. It was there I understood how much gap there is between our writing (Gen Z’s) and the writings of the generations before us — and how it will affect other generations to come.
Leaving LOATAD was harder than I thought it would be. I wanted to be home, but I also wanted to stay. I miss the friendships, the laughter, the spontaneous “let’s go” moments. I miss driving through Accra — a city that was not mine but felt like it welcomed me anyway. I miss how one night, Lori, Zainab and I were driving from the market and Lori made us listen to this very low frequency sound which technically turned out only people at certain ages could hear. It was beautiful physics. Those little memories were it for me. Backbone of my nostalgia.
The residency taught me so much. It taught me that writing can be sacred work, but it becomes even more powerful when done alongside others. LOATAD gave me more than just time and space. It gave me clarity. It showed me that there are doors waiting for us to walk through — if only we are brave enough.
Now, I dream bigger. I want to travel more, write more, see the world through different windows. I know the journey will not always be easy. But I am no longer afraid. I am ready.
