Writing in Uyo can feel like an isolated pursuit. The city has its unique rhythm. It is slow and comfortable, like the traffic. The only challenge is sometimes that there is no challenge at all.
The truth is, Uyo is a special place. It calms you. Its energy is the opposite of the chaos of the castles and characters a writer builds in their mind. Uyo doesn’t roar or shout back when you step outside; it whispers. Sometimes that’s a gift, but sometimes it’s a weight that keeps you from blossoming.
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When you’re a writer in a city like Uyo, it can sometimes feel like your words are floating around unheard and unseen. You write because you can’t help it, but you can’t help wondering if anyone cares about the stories you’re trying to tell.
I call myself a “struggling writer”. For one, I’m traditionally unpublished. I am still trying to hit a hundred sales on my poetry eBook, I May 33iDestroy You, but because writing here often feels like trying to build a fire in the rain.
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I’m a nonfiction essayist who finds joy in writing about the small and hidden things—everyday stories and private heartbreaks, but also about faith, culture, grief, and how I cope with uncertainty. Sometimes I write about lives I’ve watched unfold quietly around me, or about young people like me who dream of more but feel trapped in rigid routines because trying to be more has become a luxury.
I’m passionate about stories that feel real, even if they’re not loud. I believe the ordinary deserves to be written about too. But stories like mine aren’t very popular or mainstream, especially in a publishing world that often leans toward big dramas or familiar clichés.
So when I say I’m a struggling writer, I mean I’m struggling to find my audience, to convince myself that quiet stories matter, and to keep going when it feels like nobody is reading. Perhaps Uyo is the perfect place to find the calm I need to write my bestseller, but it’s not always a city for dreamers.
That’s why the Boldoz Book & Arts Festival matters so much—not just to me, but to other writers who, like me, are dreamers.
Boldoz Book & Arts Festival
The festival is one of the rare times when Uyo feels like a literary city. Suddenly, books, art, and conversations about culture and identity become the focus. For two days, writers, readers, artists, and curious visitors gather to discuss ideas, tell stories, and share experiences.
This year’s theme, “Breaking Stereotypes,” resonated with me immediately. As a young writer living in Uyo, especially as a young woman from a strict and “orderly” background, I often feel trapped by assumptions—about who I am, where I’m from, and the kinds of stories I’m supposed to tell.
I want my writing to explore more than what we see on the surface: humour, pain, everyday realities. I want to explore both the mundane and the arcane through my stories, and events like this festival make room for those dreams.
At the festival, I attended panels on topics like “Why Men Hate Fiction,” conversations about children’s literature, and discussions on how art and culture shape our identities and how we see the world through literature.
A highlight for me was the conversation about “Traditional Publishing vs Self-Publishing,” featuring Adesuwa Nwokedi, Rosemary Okafor, and Shalom Shaba of Gemspread Publishing.
Like many young writers, I’ve wondered how my work will ever find its way into the world and how it would fit into the boxes already built in the literary space.
Hearing publishing professionals speak honestly about the challenges and possibilities made me feel a little less lost. It showed me there is room for me if only I dare to open the door. It reminded me there isn’t just one path and that sometimes we have to create our own.
But it wasn’t just the programmed sessions that mattered. Between panels and book chats, I found myself talking to strangers who love books as much as I do.
For a struggling writer, community is everything. Even though the festival lasts only two days, it leaves behind connections that will last much longer. It’s comforting to know there are others in this city who believe in the power of stories and who are searching for ways to make their voices heard. Leaving the festival this year, I felt hopeful. I still don’t have all the answers about my writing journey. I still have drafts sitting unfinished, and I still wonder whether anyone will want to read my stories. But the Boldoz Book & Arts Festival reminded me that I’m not alone. It reminded me that being a writer in Uyo is not just about struggling. It’s also about belonging to a community of people who believe words can change how we see ourselves and the world.
That is everything I need to keep writing. I’m still writing essays and poetry that I hope will one day become a published collection—stories about the quiet energy of Uyo and the unseen, complex lives woven into it.
That’s why, for me, the Boldoz Book & Arts Festival isn’t just an event. It’s a proof I’m part of something bigger than myself, even in Uyo.
