In this interview, Nwodo Divine talks to Rigwell Addison Asiedu, a Ghanaian queer writer, about how identity, love, and fear have shaped his work in ways that break boundaries, challenge norms, and reveal the beauty in being unapologetically human.
Rigwell Addison Asiedu is a Ghanaian writer. In 2019, he won the Dei Awuku Writer’s Contest, and was longlisted for the African Writers Awards (poetry category) in 2022. Rigwell’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Lolwe, African Writer Magazine, Kalahari Review, Akowdee Magazine, Akpata Magazine, Musings Anthology, and KepressNG Anthology. He is obsessed with water, black cats, and crows.
Your work often explores themes of identity. Do you believe that one’s sexuality is a fixed part of who they are, or do you see it as something that can evolve over time?
I think a lot about the concept of the self: who we are to others, the parts that others see, the deepest recesses of our soul that we may never explore in this life. Identity has been my preoccupation since childhood, and not just because of sexuality, though that is a major factor. I grew up in a multilingual community. My Ghanaian parents moved around Nigeria frequently with us—they have lived in every geopolitical zone for nearly four decades—and then I began living with different families and groups across borders, exposing me to a wide range of people.
As an outsider in almost every situation I found myself in, I was constantly under pressure to conform and survive. Even as a child, I noticed how the personalities around me would sometimes put on elaborate performances to meet society’s expectations, and how refusing to participate in the theatrical farce resulted in punishment, particularly when it came to sexual expression. It was terrifying to experience as a person—it still is—but it was fascinating to investigate as a writer. That politics of performance and presentation on the grand stage of life, and how it contrasts with who we are at our core, is something I’ve always wanted to capture in my writing.
Sexuality, whether fixed or evolving, is something so unique and personal that it is impossible to generalise, even if you are queer. Desire, to me, is like water in the shape of a vessel. People differ. Some people will never be attracted to another demographic than the one they discovered during their sexual awakening. Others are more fluid and will meet new people who pique their romantic or sexual interests. It’s beautiful either way. Our ability to love and connect as humans is a privilege that I do not take for granted. Perhaps it is also a consolation prize for this epic tragedy known as life, so why would you deny yourself the gift of desire, whether it manifests as a shapeshifter or a constant feature?
In your writing, have you ever felt pressure to portray queer stories in a specific way—either to conform to societal expectations or to challenge them? How do you remain authentic in your representation?
The only pressure I feel when writing queer stories is staying true to myself, my experiences, and observations. For a long time, I avoided including queer people as minor characters in my stories. I didn’t want them to exist in my fictional universe because I was terrified of everything. I am afraid of my own judgement. I was afraid of my loved ones’ reactions—my siblings and friends were my first readers for years. As a result, my earlier stories focused solely on straight characters, which made me complacent and unwilling to improve my craft. For years, I remained in limbo, living and creating lies because confronting the truth was too daunting.
I am now more comfortable writing queer stories, but I continue to write from a place of fear. As I turn a new page, I consider the potential consequences of writing stories about outsiders of all kinds: queer people, people with physical disabilities, and people with mental illnesses.
Marginalised communities do not belong in the margins of the page. We have always been and will continue to be at the centre of society, at the heart of everything. So I’m not interested in conforming to societal expectations. A writer raises difficult questions and challenges society to do better. There are so many things wrong with the world right now, and we will be doomed if writers adopt a conformist mindset.
Being true to oneself is important for everyone, but especially for writers. I don’t want to depict marginalised communities in any way other than how they are in real life: complex, nuanced, and flawed. Queer people are not a monolith. This has been stated numerous times, but there is a burden of identity politics that some queer writers bear when writing these stories because people interpret these characters from marginalised communities as representing everyone in that demographic.
So, just because you read a story about a queer person doing something heinous does not mean that all queer people in real life are bad. I don’t read about straight people engaging in questionable behaviour and assume that’s how everyone acts. Why do I have to bear the responsibility of defending the humanity of queer people? I am not a defence lawyer in a court of law, trying to persuade a jury of my client’s innocence. Queer people simply want to be able to live—truly live—in both reality and fiction. So I don’t give in to the pressure. I do what my writing requires while staying true to myself.
How do you cope with the fear of judgment or rejection, both in your personal life and in your work, when it comes to expressing your sexuality and identity?
Every human being is judged for something or another. Even when I tried to conform and was the “morality poster child,” I was judged and rejected. I’d rather face vituperation for telling the truth than create a lie and be hated for it. Straight writers face criticism for their works. When the time comes, I won’t get a pass because my stories contain queer characters. Life happens anyway.
As someone who struggles with crippling anxiety, I continue to accept that whatever will be, will be. You can shape the future by taking action rather than worrying. I’ve been in mental health treatment for four years and was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder last year, which includes a severe case of abandonment issues, so this fear of rejection is something I’ve felt viscerally. For a long time, it made me accept living in abusive situations. But I’ve come to accept that, while fear is natural, it is also comforting to know that there are people out there who love and accept you in whatever form you take. You will be rejected, but you will eventually find your clan.
Do you believe that art, including writing, can help create a more inclusive understanding of sexuality and identity? If so, how do you see your own stories, like In The House of Small Silences, contributing to that conversation?
Art has always played a significant role in starting important conversations and helping society understand marginalised communities. I’ve met people who admitted to having misconceptions about queer people until they read a queer writer or two. This happens all the time. You read, and the world reveals itself to you. Your perspective shifts, either gradually or suddenly, but in significant ways.
Writing is a privilege and a gift that I would never take for granted. Sending your work out there is not the same as journaling your personal experiences. You are influencing someone’s thoughts and potentially changing their life in a way that has a ripple effect. In this part of the world, we are extremely resistant to the concept of inclusive communities for queer people, the differently abled, and the mentally ill. I see my work as part of a larger effort to make our society a safe place for all people to thrive.
What has been the most important lesson you’ve learnt about storytelling that has transformed the way you write?
“Write naked.”
I stumbled on that advice when I was reading on refining craft and developing one’s talent. These two words changed the way I approached writing. Prior to that, I was very uncomfortable with vulnerability and opposed the concept of authenticity. I didn’t want any of my characters to reflect my true self, and as a result, my writing suffered. I knew I needed to accept myself before I could even consider writing naked. In this way, art saved my life while also sharpening my creative vision. Getting to the point where I can reach into my deepest parts and wring out something true has been difficult, but I can see how my writing has improved as a result.
Many writers experience moments where they question their talent or ability. How do you push through moments of self-doubt?
Sometimes I laugh at myself and think that it is ironic that someone so ambitious struggles with immense self-doubt. It is always comforting to know that I am not alone in this. Some degree of self-doubt is good for creativity, because hubris makes the mind complacent. I don’t want to be blind to my weaknesses as a writer. I do not dismiss my moments of doubt because they always point me to something I could do better. There is no point of arrival as an artist. You keep evolving as your life changes; you keep getting better, so I use my questioning moments as fuel to hone my craft. There is always room for improvement. I don’t want to be satisfied with mediocrity.
What is your revision process like, and how do you know when a piece is polished enough to share with the world?
The revision process allows me to etch gold and use words to communicate my meaning as clearly as possible. I have this West African poetry anthology chosen and annotated by Donatus I. Nwoga, and this quote strikes me: “And in giving expression to his theme, the poet must make a vigorous search for fresh language and original imagery, must know the values of word sounds and line rhythms.” I always try to apply this to all types of creative writing. I take a masochistic approach to revising my work.
I discard my first drafts and begin writing the second draft from scratch. But this time, it comes from a place of clarity, as I am now familiar with the piece’s rhythm. I then rewrite the drafts. I never feel satisfied with my work. I am envious of writers who write and brag about their accomplishments. And, as a perfectionist, my works are imperfect. I tell myself that I am a work in progress so that I can avoid perfection paralysis and learn from the feedback I receive after sharing my work. You never know what you’re doing wrong until another set of eyes reads your work.
What role does reading play in your development as a writer, and are there any specific books or authors that have significantly influenced your style?
I’ve always been a voracious reader. I gravitated towards books without being encouraged to do so. My father is one of the most passionate cinephiles I know, so I inherited my love of films from him; my mother’s love of music seeped into my soul and taught me to appreciate that art form. But with books, as a child, I had an overwhelming desire to understand the world. That hunger drove me to feed on words, wherever I could find them. Reading about places I’d never been to made me very excited.
In 2006, I read a story about a boy visiting the United States for the first time. I’d never been there, but I could relate to his wide-eyed wonder as he saw this new place. Despite the fact that my family was in Kaduna at the time, I felt the same excitement as when I first visited Lagos and my home country of Ghana. So that evening, I followed the structure of that story and wrote a passage about a boy visiting Lagos and Ghana. I copied the story into makeshift booklets. My classmates wanted to know what these places I’d visited were like, so I persuaded them to buy the booklets. It was so exciting to receive 5 naira notes for something I had written. After spending a portion of my earnings on my favourite Milkose sweets, I decided I wanted them for life.
A number of writers have influenced my writing. I read Sandra Cisneros’ The House on Mango Street when I was nine. It was the first time I saw someone like myself, a child, in this liminal space between two countries to which they belonged in many ways. As a queer teenager in a conservative environment, Jeanette Winterson’s Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit helped me find my voice. I was also obsessed with Shakespeare, Nabokov, Joyce, Fitzgerald, and Soyinka; I aspired to their level of literary genius. Ama Ata Aidoo, Amma Darko, and Ayi Kwei Armah’s works widened my perspective as a Ghanaian writer. During my formative years, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s works served as my Bible, heavily highlighted and annotated. I told my friends that I wanted to write like her. Toni Morrison, Langston Hughes, Alice Walker, Zora Neale Hurston, Octavia E. Butler, Richard Wright, and James Baldwin are all inspiring writers, and I return to their works every other month. Chinua Achebe’s Anthills of the Savannah and Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale both challenged my worldview.
Poetry has always been my preferred literary genre. It’s a pleasure to read the works of Christopher Okigbo, Gabriel Okara, Tryphena Yeboah, Kwesi Brew, Frank Parkes, Robert Lee Frost, T.S. Eliot, Richard Siken, J.P. Clark, Mbella Sonne Dipoko, George Awoonor-Williams, Kofi Awoonor, and many others.
I’ve also read a lot of genre fiction. Stephen King is my favourite horror writer. I enjoy fantasy novels (I’m looking forward to George R.R. Martin’s The Winds of Winter). As a teenager, I read a lot of YA dystopia (The Hunger Games trilogy, Divergent, Mazerunner, and The 5th Wave series). Recently, I’ve been on a mission to read all of Akwaeke Emezi’s works—their works are so daring and their use of language is masterful. Caleb Azuman Nelson’s prose is another one of my favourites. Reading excites me greatly. I’m excited to discover old and new writers whose works have become my latest obsession. I’ve also found literary magazines, particularly African ones, to be an excellent source for discovering new and exciting works.
In your essay, “Let There Be,” you speak about “militant optimism” and the power of hope, even in the face of despair and societal limitations. What specific practices or mindsets helped you cultivate this resilience, and how do you maintain it today in your life?
I am very grateful for my delusional ambition. Challenges excite me so much that I become concerned when I don’t face an obstacle in an endeavour. I enjoy proving that I have what it takes to do this thing called life. I wrote the essay “Let There Be” in a rare moment of clarity amidst these seemingly overwhelming problems. In the work, I stated that I learnt how to manifest at a young age. I always believe in manifesting and doing the work. I write down exactly what I want to achieve, and then I make multiple plans to get there. When something works, I celebrate. When it doesn’t, I reflect and plan my next steps.
How did your personal experiences influence the themes of trauma and displacement in “A Murmuration of Fallen Angels,” and what message do you hope to convey to readers who may relate to these experiences?
“A Murmuration of Fallen Angels” was born out of anguish. Prior to writing it, I had always dismissed the idea of writing nonfiction on my own. I did not want to be perceived that way. Vulnerability scares me. However, a series of events led to the decision to “write naked.” It was the first time I had come undone on paper, with scars and fresh wounds for strangers to see. Sharing that with the rest of the world is one of the scariest things I’ve ever done.
My personal experiences with the concept of fleeing danger influenced the piece, but I was afraid of being judged for writing “trauma porn.” I am unquestionably more than the sum of my negative experiences in the past. The positive reception was both surprising and validating.
Readers bring their own experiences and perspectives to what they read, so everyone will get something different out of the work. I hope that those who can relate to the experiences find the strength to live fearlessly. In general, I hope we can work together to make the world a safer place for one another because things must improve at some point.