When Mofiyinfoluwa O. was diagnosed with endometriosis in October of 2021, she pulled through the severe confusion and loneliness by scouring for essays by someone who looked like her and was fighting the same battle. She found one titled “If a Bird Wishes to Fly,” by the Nigerian writer Adaeze M. Nwadike, and it felt like a warm, redemptive embrace. Mofiyinfoluwa is a nonfiction writer, and she began to tone her work to serve as witness and balm to other women, something they could draw strength from.
The following year, she launched the Abebi Award in Afro-Nonfiction, named after her grandmother. “In a culture where women are asked to be quiet about fibroids, to feel shame for anything going awry in their bodies, the Award hopes to embolden women to abandon the shackles of silence, to get comfortable with the discomfort that accompanies these kinds of revelations,” she said.
The inaugural edition, in 2023, received 89 submissions. In 2024, the Award received 250 submissions — a near-300% increase with all geo-political zones in the country represented. The 2024 Award went to Mariam Oyewunmi Tijani, for “My Grandmother’s Memory Box”: “a tender and moving tribute” to “the redemptive power of photographs, even in the face of the terrors of aging and life.” The runner-up was Ifeoluwa Ajike Williams’ “Genesis: Notes on Body Dysmorphia,” which the Award called “an earnest exploration of beauty in adolescence and the conflation of perfection with beauty, and the harm this causes in the female psyche.” As part of a partnership, the winning, runner-up, and selected essays are published by Isele Magazine.
The Abebi Award, set for its third edition this year, is part of the Abebi AfroNonfiction Institute, which also runs a residency and masterclasses. “I hope the prize and the Institute engender conversations that usher in a boldness that allows us to shake off cycles of shame and silence that are prevalent in our cultures,” Mofiyinfoluwa said.
This year, she graduated from the Nonfiction Writing Program at the University of Iowa. She is working on a memoir about beauty, desire, and food in a Nigeria that is colourist and hypersexualized but treats sex as taboo.
Last year, Open Country Mag spoke to her and the 2024 Award winner Mariam Tijani and the runner-up Ifeoluwa Ajike Williams. We are publishing it now, ahead of the announcement of the 2025 Award submissions window.
The Abebi Award in Afro-Nonfiction celebrates the courage to share personal and intimate stories, especially those that challenge cultural norms. Your writing often centres around the body — its vulnerabilities, trauma, and healing. How do body-centred narratives relate to the spirit of this prize, and how do you hope the prize contributes to the wider conversation about women’s autonomy, self-expression, and the power of personal stories, especially in the context of Nigeria?
Although we are souls and spirits traveling this earth, our bodies are witnesses to everything we experience. Therein lies my dedication to the body as a tool of record keeping and remembrance. A writer I admire, Margo Steins, taught a masterclass I attended where she told us that “our bodies are the truest parts of ourselves”; the parts we cannot hide from or lie about. Our bodies thrust us into a world of honesty and a compulsion to face the self squarely. A woman’s body is a site of great victories, defeats, upheavals, cycles, patterns, and occurrences. It is no ordinary thing.
Yet globally, and especially in Nigeria, there are so many cultural instructions that tell us to hide our bodies, to contort them to fit a standard and to speak about the happenings of our bodies in hushed tones. I believe that nonfiction, the kind of work the Abebi Award is set up to celebrate, can shatter that silence and fill it with truth.
What stood out to you in the submissions for the first edition, and do you believe they reflect the broader experiences of Nigerian women? Do they differ from this year’s submissions?
I am always on the lookout for essays that show authenticity, close observation, and a rigorous interrogation of the self — and/or society.
From reading the 2023 entries, we see that women living in Nigeria have more in common than we think regardless of tribe, class, education, or religion. Many of the essays are about the inner workings of our bodies: periods, menstrual health and the shame and stigma around it. Many of them are about romance (because who loves more than Nigerian women, ahah!). Many are about beauty: hair, skin, clothes, and the complicated ways our appearance impacts how we live. And many tackle death, loss, mother-daughter relationships, and, in many instances, sexual assault and violence.
The essays that stood out to me were inventive and engaging; those that challenge the readily digestible structures and tenets our society rests on or shine a different light on a much-written-about topic. I especially loved an essay written in the form of unsent messages to the queer protagonist’s mother, combined with lines of poetry. When mother-daughter relationships are explored with depth and candor, I am moved. The essays reflect the highs and lows of Nigerian women dealing with mortality, reproductive health, romance, and identity. These are all things that touch all our lives one way or another.
In a similar way, the 2024 submissions delve into universal triumphs and woes, although I found that they veer a bit from the communal and into individual, a generally closer brush with the self, and that gave me a deeper dive through interiority, which I enjoyed. They inched closer to the line of desire, both internal and external.
What do you hope the winning essays will accomplish, both for the writers and for their readers?
I hope they cause readers to look deep within themselves and to examine what makes the scaffolding of their lives — what matters most to them, what they want to value and honor more in their lives, how to show up more fiercely for themselves, how to live more freely in their bodies, and how to be more in touch with themselves. For me, one of the greatest effects of writing, and especially creative nonfiction, is the self-introspection it engenders in readers.
I want the winning essayists to bask in the knowledge that their stories are important and that their voices are capable of becoming art, of becoming instruments of change and beacons of light. I want that knowledge to galvanize them into greater literary endeavors, into the expansion of these essays into full-blown bodies of work. I want the writers to break into a confidence that spurs them to the page again and again and again.
What impact do you hope the Abebi Award has on the literary scene, in terms of visibility for nonfiction women writers in Nigeria, and how do you envision this effecting broader social and cultural change?
On the continent right now, fiction has its champion in the Caine Prize and poetry has its champion in the Evaristo Prize (formerly the Brunel Prize), but there are less institutions committed to creative nonfiction. This is not anomalous, as the “fourth” genre — which it is often called — is the “youngest” and remains an afterthought in literary conversations. I want to change that through the Institute and position creative nonfiction from African women as a foremost kind of literature deserving of a spotlight and strong presence of mind in the hearts of readers. I hope that the Abebi Award grows in scope and reaches the level of institutions like the Caine Prize, as the breeding ground of the freshest voices in creative nonfiction.
Additionally, the Institute has goals of increasing female literacy in Nigeria through cluster community outreaches that will begin later this year, where we will go to girls-only government secondary schools to coach students of WASSCE-writing age for their English and Literature exams. It will empower women to become more confident of their skills and voices, equipping them for a better quality of life, and to in turn enrich their communities.
This is not just about beautiful sentences and essays for me; I want a world where girls and women are equipped and empowered, confident in themselves and in their capabilities, conquering the world in every way they know to.
Tell us about the Place & Emotion Masterclass.
It gives me great pleasure that three writers of the 2024 Abebi Award cohort attended the Place & Emotion Masterclass hosted by the Abebi Institute at Alliance Franciase Library last August. (All submissions from participants were read blind). I was pleased to hear how the masterclass strengthened their use of imagery and language to depict a place. I feel fulfilled as a facilitator, to know that the Abebi Award has a hand in the development and flourishing of their gifts. We’re doing something right!
Why is the role of the Abebi Award Residency?
In 2022, I had the privilege of attending a residency at the Library of Africa and the African Diaspora (LOATAD) in Adenta, Ghana, and it was one of the most transformative, enriching, and generative experiences I have had as a writer. There is something about having time carved out to do nothing but write that I think every single writer deserves. It creates a channel where your work and your rest are top of mind, away from the noise that accompanies our daily living. At LOATAD, I would wake up in the morning and read poetry under the trees and write nonstop in the quiet that permeated the entire building. Since then, residencies have become part and parcel of my writing life.
So when I was envisioning the Institute, I knew that I wanted to provide writers with a space like that. I was proven right with how the residency masterclasses and workshops helped writers open up, bond, and share ideas and tips that helped their writing. The residency also provide a much-needed safe space for the kind of unburdening and vulnerability that is crucial to creative nonfiction. It is my hope that the residency becomes even longer and can one day accommodate all shortlisted writers, moving us into the realm of conferences and large-scale craft development opportunities, combined with wellness and health offerings to ensure the holistic enrichment of our women writers. I also hope that, even as they grow larger, they become more intimate spaces where writers can be fully recharged and inspired to do even more beautiful work.
I’ve been reflecting on a brilliant 2019 article in Another Gaze, “The Making of a Millennial Woman” by Rebecca Liu. Particularly regarding whose voices are prioritized — it seems young women are encouraged to emphasize the personal and elevate feelings in our art to meet expectations. However, I’m wary of the trap where men’s writing is viewed as universal while women’s writing is seen as niche or exclusive. Where do you see the balance in this? How can we avoid retreating into a sphere of inward-looking art while still resisting the idea that male art is inherently more valuable?
Thank you for sending me towards that stunning essay, especially since I have read Sally Rooney’s Normal People and watched Fleabag and loved them both. This kind of socio-political literary criticism is invigorating. Another writer whose work comes to mind when I think of a response to this question is Melissa Febos, who is on the faculty in my MFA program and who is committed to “the personal and prioritizing feeling.” She taught a masterclass I attended, titled “In Honor of Navel Gazing,” where she defended the often-denigrated art of the memoir, which faces inward.
Memoir and personal writing are looked down upon in the literary sphere mainly because they are predominantly written by women. (However, when you step into the nonfiction section of a bookstore, especially in the US, you will mostly find the biographies of, or self-help books by, white men.) But Mellissa taught me that personal stories (yes, even those about our breakups, our periods) are useful and powerful because they provide outlets and spaces of healing. To quote her: “We must always tell stories so that their specificity reveals some universal truth.”
When I explained my debut memoir to my program director, he gave me an invaluable piece of advice; he said that we strengthen our personal stories by connecting them with the larger world, by showing how what ails us has a greater significance than us. This for me is how we strike the balance. When women write about periods and heartbreak, we are also writing about the dynamics and politics of embodiment and the nature of desire. My memoir is about celibacy, sex, beauty, desire, and food; all things that are personal to me. However, I write about them against the backdrop of a Nigerian society that considers sex taboo even in our hyper-sexualized times, where lighter-skinned women are treated better and more sought-after romantically. There is a sliver of universalism that unites us all while opening our eyes to truths we could never see with our own eyes.
Mariam Tijani, Winner of the 2024 Abebi Award, and Ifeoluwa Ajike Williams, Runner-up, on the Experience of Creative Nonfiction
Can you share a moment from your writing process where you felt the most connected to your own story, and how that moment shaped the piece you submitted?
Mariam Tijani
The drafting stage was where I felt the deepest connection. [It’s where] I decide which experiences and details to highlight and why they’re crucial to the essay’s message. Writing “My Grandmother’s Memory Box,” the dialogue about a photo man was a standout moment as it sparked significant personal reflection. The process can largely be a contemplative exploration, permitting my story to reveal itself in its own unique voice.
Ifeoluwa Ajike Williams
Several moments from writing “Genesis: Notes on Body Dysmorphia” are dear to my heart. I read an excerpt from a bell hooks piece titled “Appearance Obsession,” which appeared in a 1995 issue of Essence, which I include at the beginning of my essay. Her words encapsulate what I was going through as someone who has battled with the skin insecurities and complex notions that Nigerians have about beauty. Although I found it almost midway into writing, it shaped how I narrated my experiences, emotional state, and reflections. From my hospital visits to conversations with peers while in secondary school, I was able to draw strength from a matriarch whose words have helped mould a generation of women who dare to mindfully interrogate a society that interrogates them without care.
Writing about personal and sometimes painful experiences can be an act of both catharsis and courage. What role do you see your writing playing in the ongoing conversation about women’s experiences in Nigeria, and how do you hope it resonates with other women who may share similar stories?
Mariam Tijani
My essay is a tribute to the enduring power of memory, and the significance of honoring our roots and matrilineal legacy. I hope the women who read my work are reminded of the incredible strength that resides within every woman as they navigate their paths of becoming. I hope they find the courage to relentingly claim what belongs to them, in a world that tells us to shrink. I hope that these women are inspired to tell their own stories.
Ifeoluwa Ajike Williams
I like to think of my contributions as an act of service, even if only one person is marked by it. So when it comes to the experiences that we currently face in a society plagued by inflation, hunger, lovelessness, and misogyny amplified by our current technological landscape, my hope is that people begin to question and rewire their own biases surrounding women’s experiences and their involvement in it, and also that women like me, who feel a type of way about their skin or their essence, feel seen and less alone.
Part of the loneliness I felt was because I barely found forms of art to consume that captured the beautiful mundaneness of textured skin. And when it comes to such struggles, art serves as a soft landing, a healing touch, an oasis to refresh the weary heart. This is why I love Aisha Ife’s work so much; she shoots people in such a way that their humanity blazes through in the most endearing way. Her skin series project moved me and I want women to experience the same when they read my work. It’s a thin tightrope to tread, catharsis and courage; but I intend to keep treading. Life is beautifully complex in that way.
What were your main takeaways from the residency?
Mariam Tijani
If I had to sum up my experience of the residency in one word, it would be “intentionality.” Every detail, no matter how small, proves how much mindfulness was put into creating the residency and providing a supportive environment for thoughtful reflection and growth. I loved listening to the brilliant facilitator, and I am deeply inspired by the resilience of the women and stories shared. It was a truly transformative journey, and I’m excited to emerge as a more polished, passionate, and powerful writer.
Ifeoluwa Ajike Williams
A revelatory thing is the fact that a whole essay can be birthed as a response to a line of poetry or prose. The possibilities are endless when it comes to writing the stories of our lives, our longing, our being. I genuinely couldn’t think of any more stories to tell before the residency, but after my time there, I had a few essay ideas I never considered.
Journaling! Journaling with or without prompts is a helpful aid in my day-to-day, as it is the avenue through which I began writing. Mind-mapping is another activity that has stretched my imagination, by considering how to tell stories expansively whilst connecting dots. My hunger to keep writing and reading has only intensified. I truly want to do this for the rest of my life. I hope I get to for the rest of my life, no matter the hurdles.
What advice would you give to other women writers who may feel hesitant about sharing their personal stories, especially on complex or emotional topics?
Mariam Tijani
We often assume our scars are singularly ours and ours alone, until someone else shares their story and we feel a sense of solidarity. While reading one of the residency workshop essays, I got exposed to the concept of consent and sexuality, which resonated deeply with me. I am convinced that the writer wrote that essay specifically for me. As a woman writer who is unsure of sharing one’s story, we must remember other women who are facing similar challenges, and how sharing our stories could offer them hope and reassurance.
Ifeoluwa Ajike Williams
I’ll say that writing such stories helps them, first and foremost, to understand themselves better. Write the story for yourself and to gain knowledge of where you’re at — to deconstruct, reconstruct, or construct where necessary. Get it out of your system. Then you have the freedom to share if that’s what you choose. But also remember that a major reason why we write is to free ourselves from our own hands and in turn free others. Regret is one thing you don’t want to experience when you choose to remain silent. As Audre Lorde puts it: your silence will not protect you. Words have shifted economies, healed souls, changed minds, and started movements. We all have a part to play in our collective liberation. A shift the size of a mustard seed is a shift nonetheless.
Imagine if I didn’t write about my struggles and chose to keep silent? God knows my indecision would have pierced, even killed, me with regret. I also would not be here giving advice —although I must make it clear that I am still on this journey myself. I’m also reminded of something Mofiyinfoluwa told us during the residency: “No one can fault authenticity.” If fear is the roaring lion whose noises move through your entire being and edges you towards hesitancy, use the jawbone of authenticity to silence it; or it will silence you slowly, then permanently. The present is constant, so whenever the opportunity presents itself today, share freely.
Also, don’t write in isolation. The strength of my belief in self and my abilities in this moment is because of God and the amazing people and writers I have around me, especially the women. The ones whose eyes see my offerings before the rest of the world does. My legs have been shaky these past few years, but my community has held me with a firm gentleness that I can’t help but be grateful for. Find your people and let them find you. I won’t prescribe the numbers you need but starting with even one person can do wonders for your craft. ♦
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