People often imagine writing as a sudden flood of words pouring onto the page. For me, it’s softer, slower. It’s less about waiting for inspiration and more about creating a space where words feel safe to come.

Most midnight/mornings, I make hot tea not because I need the caffeine, but because holding a warm cup gives my hands something to do before they touch the keypads. At the same time, I sit by the LED light by my bedside, letting the light remind me that another day has begun, another chance to tell a story, to say a prayer, to pour something unseen into words.

Sometimes I start with a scripture or a single sentence that whispers at me. Other times, it’s journaling, letting the first messy thoughts clear the way for deeper writing. I don’t rush it. I write in fragments and breaths.

There are days I wrestle with silence, where no words come. And that is also part of the daily writing ritual, learning to honour the quiet as much as the overflow.

My daily writing isn’t glamorous. It’s hot tea, led light, stillness, and trust, but in these small, repeated rhythms, books are born, letters are written, and devotionals find their voice.

Because writing is like faith, it isn't about perfection. It’s about showing up, one soft ritual at a time.

Some stories come to you softly, and others show up like thunder at the door. This one? It arrived over a phone call, and you deserved to hear how it all started and what it’s been doing to me as I write it.

Hit play in your mind and lean in like we’re sharing tea because this is for you.

I wasn’t planning to write a 6-part series. I wasn’t even thinking of fiction that day. I was just on the phone listening to someone I care about deeply talk about something that didn’t feel fair. A tribal wall. A mother’s disapproval. A heart torn in half between love and tradition.

As the conversation ended, I sat in silence. Not just as a writer, but as a woman who understood what it felt like to be caught in the middle of a culture you didn’t create and a love you didn’t plan. That night, I opened my notes app and I typed:

“I stand by the door and eavesdrop...”

And boom… so Abuto was born.

What started as one dramatic paragraph turned into a flood. I didn’t write with outlines or neat character arcs. I wrote with instinct, emotion, and memories I didn’t even know I’d stored.

I gave Abuto a soft kind of rage. Maathai was unsure because strength and uncertainty can co-exist. I let the mother speak her truth, not to justify it, but to show it.

Behind the scenes, I was scared. I didn’t want this to be “just another love story.” I wanted it to feel raw. To ask uncomfortable questions. To hold space for real tensions that many people, especially across Africa, still navigate daily.

Every night, I write a new episode. Some nights, I cried while writing.

Other nights, I laughed mid-sentence because I’d remember something ridiculous someone’s aunt once said in real life.

The process reminded me why I write fiction:
To tell the truth without preaching it.
To let people sit in someone else’s story and see themselves more clearly.

If you’ve read the series, thank you.
If you cried, flinched, smiled, or got angry, that means I did my job.

And if you’ve ever loved someone your family couldn’t accept, or questioned if love was enough to fight tradition, know that you are not alone.

This was for you.

This was for us.

Temitope Olusola