Thank you for taking the time to speak with us. Growing up in Onitsha, and within Igbo storytelling culture, what are the first images you remember that later became the visual language of your books—were they scenes, rituals, textures, colours, or the way people related to one another?
Thanks for such thoughtful questions. My first visual images that I can remember and later became the visual language of my books were the bright reds, yellows, and greens of the masquerades (masks and costumes) on show at the village square during Christmas time. You can’t have Christmas celebrations without the entire village joining in; children will in their best clothes and teenagers, too. Everyone comes out to watch the drummers and masquerades dancing. It’s like the Notting Hill Carnival.
You’ve said your mother, a former nurse, passed storytelling skills to you. What did she teach you about truth in storytelling—especially when you’re talking about a place that outsiders often misunderstand or romanticise?
Yes, my mother, a former nurse, passed on her storytelling skills to me, and she learnt it from my grandfather, who was a great storyteller. He told so many stories that it was said that people used to walk off from his shop without paying for any items. And when he got home, my grandmother would grumble, “You and your stories will not put food on this table!”
There was also another storyteller in the family; my uncle, Cyprian Ekwensi, a novelist, but we didn’t see him often. So, I’d say that my mother had inspired me more. She learnt from my grandfather how to let a story open up gradually and to hold the audience’s attention till the very end. I hope I’ve mastered that skill.
When you write or refer to the “ Africa you know,” how do you address the contrast between the specificity of your lived experience and the audience’s tendency to treat your work as representative of a whole continent?
My siblings and I spent a good number of years in our village before we moved to a big town. So, I was able to observe a lot of our traditions and culture while growing up.
You were pursuing a career in business management. What did that business management trajectory give you that still shows up in your creative practice—discipline, strategy, negotiation, structure—and what did you have to unlearn to become the writer, artist and educator you are?
That’s right, I was pursuing a career in business management, and I’ve been able to use some of what I’ve learnt in my career now, like the discipline to see things through and negotiating skilfully with a publisher.
Let’s explore the moment photography “connected” for you in Britain. Can you describe the emotional or intellectual “click” that made you leave business management behind—was it freedom, identity, urgency, or the sense that photography could carry what words couldn’t?
The moment photography took over from business management was when I was walking with a friend in a park. It was spring and everywhere was full of beautiful flowers and smells, and I got very excited. And suddenly I said to my friend. “I wish I had a camera.”
And she said, “Buy a camera, then.”
But I said something strange, “No, I’m going to study it.” And off I went to the Photographic Training Centre at Earls Court in London all those years ago.
I still didn’t know why I did a 360-degree turn. I didn’t stop to question myself about what I was doing; I just carried on, and it eventually resulted in becoming a photographer.
You began by taking photos for newspapers and worked at the Caribbean Times. How did that editorial environment shape your eye—did it push you toward documenting reality, toward storytelling, toward community—and how did you later adapt that gaze for children’s publishing?
Yes, I eventually began to work with various newspapers, and at the Caribbean Times I learnt to pay close attention to details and to engage, and also about asking questions. Children ask a lot of questions, don’t they? A very useful tool to have when you’re researching for a book.
When you photograph intimate community moments—family, rituals, daily labour—what rules do you set for yourself about consent, dignity, and power? And have those rules changed since your earliest assignments?
Yes, I set rules for myself, like walking away if someone objects and showing beauty and dignity in every person I photograph; it’s so important, because without people’s cooperation I won’t have any photographs, let alone books. In the early days, I photographed some of my family members and a few people from my village. But several books later, I began to venture out, photographing people I didn’t know at all, and my secret power is to be patient; the right person will come along. Indeed, for the revised copy of A is for Africa, a lot of the people I photographed were those I met on my travels; for example, the guy with the Kora musical instrument in ‘K,’ was in Senegal. He was happy to show how he played the Kora. No, those rules haven’t changed since my earliest assignments, still patient and full of gratitude for the people who trusted me to take their photographs.
Picture books typically use illustrations, but you opted for photographs. What advantages does photography offer for children that illustrations may lack? What risks, such as stereotypes or ‘othering,’ should you be cautious of?
Using photographs to illustrate my books makes the people I photograph more real; it isn’t from an artist’s imagination, but of real people going about their normal business in some cases. I’ve been very lucky, because children relate to the photographs in my books. I avoid stereotypes, because before I set off to do my research for each of my books, I work out what I’d like to photograph. I also do little drawings on a pad of the type of photos I’d like to take, so a lot of thinking goes into the project.
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Turning our attention to the origins of ‘A is for Africa’, what came first—an image, the alphabet structure, a desire to correct a narrative, or a need to create a bridge for children in the UK?
What came first as an idea for A is for Africa, if you can call it that, was a voice that said, “B is for Beads.” It sounded so real that I thought someone was standing next to me. But before I heard the voice, I had been very upset and perhaps angry that most of the books that were set in Africa were about wild animals and nothing about us, the people who came from there. I had borrowed a children’s book from the library to read to my son. It was set in Africa, but I found the book very boring; it was as if it was simplifying the story by doing the obvious, like setting it about the animals. Why? What about the rich culture in Africa? So that was how I started, although I didn’t know it was going to be an alphabet book. When I have ideas, I never know what they will be or what kind of book it will be.
Was there a particular theme or narrative you were trying to address with that first book?
At first, I didn’t have any narrative; I was just trying to work out what I heard- wasn’t it a real voice? Was I going mad? And what was it trying to tell me? So, I rang my mother in Nigeria and told her. She must have recognised its significance, because she said that it would all work out once there, so I made the journey with my son, and it did; everything fell into place.
An A–Z book can easily become a catalogue of “exotic” objects. How did you design A is for Africa so it wouldn’t become a tourist inventory—what did you choose to include (and exclude) to keep the book rooted in relationship, meaning, and everyday humanity?
Yes, it could have been an exotic book for tourists, but I wanted it to be rooted in relationships, warmth, and everyday life. For example, in E is for Embrace, it shows how Africans like to give a warm welcome to their friends and family, or at the end of a dance or in sad times.
There’s a recurring theme of affection and social bonds. Why is care such a central thread in your depictions? Do you see it as cultural truth, personal longing, political statement, or a corrective to the way Africa is often portrayed in Western media?
Yes, weaving in care as something central in my book wasn’t done consciously; it’s very natural to me. As a child, grownups would look after all the children within reach, they didn’t care if they weren’t theirs, I even wrote a book about something similar in One Big Family, sadly out of print. So, I see care as cultural truth. And not mainly as a corrective to the way Africa is often portrayed in Western media.
You’re known for bringing drafts to children to show mistakes and struggle as part of your teaching. What does your own behind-the-scenes process look like—how do you move from contact sheets and notes to a coherent narrative sequence that a child can follow?
That’s right, I usually bring in my drafts, which are full of mistakes and crossed-out words, to workshops to encourage children with their writing, and to let them know that I make mistakes too. I must confess that I don’t find writing easy, and my desk is full of pieces of paper with writing on them. My saving grace is that I usually let my mind wander. I might be doing something boring, and suddenly, a way to get into a story, a starting point, would present itself.
You encourage writing without fear. What do you think children are most afraid of when they write—getting it wrong, being judged, not sounding “smart”? And how do your stories, photos, and games practically dismantle that fear in the room?
I think children are mostly afraid of making mistakes and letting people down when they write. I remember as a child sitting still and hoping that I didn’t do the wrong thing. I suppose some children are afraid too that they will be judged. That’s why I start my workshop with a story, which usually helps them to relax, and by the time I show them my drafts, hopefully, they are no longer afraid.
What projects are you currently working on?
I am working on a book that is slightly different. It will be for 9 +. I don’t think it will have any photographs; it’s about something that happened in my village many years ago.
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