You know that suspended breath you take before your teeth sinks into the succulent flesh of an àgbálùmọ̀? The tension before the juice spurts, when you have no idea whether it will be sweet or sour? Whether you will end up regretting your decision to purchase the fruit just because it is in season and it brings up nostalgic childhood memories? Being a writer isexactly like that.

Every time a new story unspools from my consciousness, it exposes me to unique, multi-layered levels of torture.

First is the fervent nail chewing as I wait for feedback on the story that has lived with me for months, even years, hoping all the eyes that see it will understand the world inside my head. Then the increased heart rate as I check my email several times a day to review offers from publishers who may want to acquire the book from Susan. This stage is brutal. It feels like standing on a podium in my best dress waiting to be picked for a date. When the anxiety is unbearable, I turn to food. There’s nothing on earth more soothing than a steaming hot bowl of fisherman soup and cold eko.

Hence all the running that I do, but I digress.

The over thinking in the first level of torture gives way to excitement when publishers make offers to take on my manuscript, but weariness swiftly follows when the work to make it better begins. Ask any writer alive. Even when we know editing is inevitable, the process can feel like listening to other people call your child ugly and being forced to agree.

The American editor usually starts with praises before sending three pages of notes, with an addendum that says, ‘these are just suggestions,’ as if the choice to disregard them exists. The UK editor always appears excited by how well written the book is, in her words—it needs no edits really—but will send two pages of notes at the last minute with a gentle reminder of the deadline. Nigerian editors are the most understanding of the language and nuance, but they often require multiple zoom meetings to discuss the direction of the edits.

Then the final level of hell. Pub Day.

For weeks after the release, I have to pretend I am not losing my mind when the book is being dissected with the precision of a surgeon by some and ripped apart with the viciousness of a bird of prey by others.

Here we go again. This girl is an attention whore! Writing is an art! All she does is aim for cash with her books!

Our mother is here again, and we are SAT! Ara Ikoyi can take all my savings!

Oh dear, why is this girl still a thing? I long for the days when African fiction was elusive. This babe has made reading too simple!

Finally!!! Been waiting on this for a year! Ara Ikoyi is back with another banger!

I hope you guys are happy. You have made this girl a big deal. Apparently, anyone can become a writer!

But God, I prayed to you to make this girl go away, why is she still here?! Can she just die?

​Yes Queen! She is back! Ordering for my entire community!

As much as I dislike Ara, this her new book is really exceptional and well written, better than the previous ones. I still can’t stand her ass. Silly b****!

Ara Ikoyi announcing a new book has made this summer somewhat bearable. I still hate my job though!

Chinua Achebe is rolling in his grave! Wole Soyinka has gone greyer! After all the work, they have done… How is this babe the face of modern African literature? Howwwwwww??????

Please you people should stop mentioning this commoner amongst literary minds! Bestselling author doesn’t mean s*** to me!

​And these poisonous opinions, dear heart, are just some of the demons sending me running up and down stairs, starving me of words and scenarios, wrapping like a python around my imagination.

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Excerpt from WOMEN RENT MEN AND SECRETS HERE published by TBLNG Press. Copyright © by Damilare Kuku, 2025.

Preorder here.