Earlier this week, I was watching the latest episode of Mentality With Ebuka, the one dealing with men and consent, and it brought to the surface something I've been quietly ruminating on.

Watching two men pull on actual reported statistics and approach one of the most delicate conversations in public discourse right now with genuine tenderness was refreshing. No provocation. No moment designed to clip well and travel fast. Just genuine exploration of something difficult.

The show is not trying to get you to watch it. And somehow that is exactly why you keep watching it.

We live in a media space that has trained creators to perform rather than think. The algorithm rewards heat, controversy, the kind of takes that make people feel something sharp enough to share. Authenticity exists in this environment but it is usually a costume, something worn strategically because audiences have learned to distrust polish and respond to "realness." What Mentality does is different. It is not performing authenticity. It simply is not performing at all.

But here is the question I could not shake after the episode ended.

Ebuka is one of Nigeria's most recognisable media personalities. Banky W built a career people genuinely respect across music and public life. Neither of them is primarily known for this niche, men sitting down to discuss men's issues with intellectual honesty and care. So this specific audience is not inherited. It is earned.

But what they did inherit is something harder to manufacture than content quality or consistency. They inherited the trust that makes a stranger give you the first listen. The credibility that makes someone think "I do not know what this is yet but I know who these people are so I will stay."

That is the thing nobody talks about when we celebrate authentic media. Authenticity is the product. Trust is the distribution. And trust, at the level that allows you to build something slowly without the algorithm's validation, is not equally available to everyone trying to make something genuine.

So the real question is not whether audiences still have patience for media that refuses to perform. Mentality is proving they do. The question is whether that patience is extended to people who have not yet earned the right to ask for it.

Nobody waits for you to be good. They wait for someone they already believe in to show them something new.

That is the gap. And I do not think we talk about it honestly enough.

Most foreign publications didn't either. The Roger Ebert review called it "dreamlike." They felt the weight of loss without being able to name what caused it. Nigerian viewers I've interacted with knew from the first few scenes. Right from the unnatural wind.

That Reddit commenter said something that stayed with me though. They only fully understood what the father was after going to look it up. Their reaction wasn't frustration. It was "I respect the ambiguity." The emotion had already landed. The cultural context just deepened something that was already open.

That's the mechanism. Authentic storytelling doesn't need to explain itself to travel. It creates two simultaneous experiences inside the same work: the audience that reads every cue, and the audience that feels everything without fully knowing why. Neither is lesser. They're just different entry points into the same truth.

The best African content isn't choosing between authenticity and accessibility. Emotion was always the goal. And emotion, it turns out, doesn't need a translator.

Curiosity does the rest.

I re-read Animal Farm last week. Orwell wrote it in 1945, but it could have been written yesterday. What struck me most wasn't the corruption though. It was the architecture of it. So, I came to this conclusion.

Good is lazy. Evil is proactive.

Hear me out. Good people tend to assume general assent; they move forward expecting the world to meet them in their decency. Evil doesn't wait for assent. It schemes, it positions, it acts first — and it never has to play defence.

Even in film, the most compelling stories almost always originate from the villain's action. Good reacts. Evil initiates.

And then I thought — maybe good people need to be willing to play the same game when it matters. But then again, the moment you wear the other side's cloak, doesn't that make you part of the other side?

Hmm.

02/08/22

Dear August,

Mama is home. You can’t even imagine the happiness I feel right now, watching her come out of the airport, her favorite frilly pink bag- which I loathed, swinging on her arm.

The bag doesn’t look so bad now. I don’t even remember why I hated it. Serayah runs into her arms, Mama hugging her so tight, it’s a miracle Serayah’s ribs are still intact.

Of course, Serayah has always been her favorite, even though she would never admit it. “My baby,” Mama murmurs, stroking her hair tenderly. I look away. I wish I could get a hug too.

On the drive home, Dad wears a fixed smile, as Mama chatters animatedly. I stare at Dad’s smooth face in the rearview mirror- a face that knows so much but betrays so little. If I didn’t know better, I would say everything was perfectly fine.

For months, he had told lie after lie, to protect Mama. Making sure her life-long dream, for which she had sacrificed leaving her family, came to fruition. I watch him continue this brave act in admiration. Brave man.

But soon, she would know the truth. Knowing her, she would never forgive him for not telling her at once. But he meant well.

Staring at her black curls, I wish I could tell her this. She must have felt my gaze, ’cause she turns and looks in the backseat.

“Serayah, what’s the matter??”

I look left and Serayah is crying silently. Dad glances at Serayah through the mirror, giving her a “not now” look.

“Nothing Mama,” Serayah says, wiping her eyes. “It’s just- I missed you so much.” “Aww, baby, I missed the three of you too. I’m back now, okay?’

Even though she smiles at Serayah and squeezes her hand, I can tell she’s getting uneasy. “I can’t believe Kambili didn’t come with you guys, that girl…” Mama says, exasperatedly, a fond smile playing on her lips. Nobody answers her.

We’re home. “Kambili?” Mama calls, looking around. Serayah looks at Dad anxiously. It’s time. Dad gently grabs a confused Mama’s hand and leads her into their room. I hear her ask him “What’s going on? Where is Kambili?” her normally soft voice now gravelly with fear.

I hear their bedroom door closing. I sit beside Serayah on the couch, both of us waiting. It soon comes, Mama’s piercing cry, which cuts through me like a knife. I look down at my wrists, the scars now pearly white. It's time to go.

August, I must go on now. What awaits me, I do not know. Thank you so much for bringing Mama with you. Dad and Serayah were having it so hard without her. Now that she’s here, hopefully things would get better.

I wish I had thought to write her a letter like I’m writing you now, telling her it wasn’t her fault- any of their faults. That I was dealing with much more than I could express, to get the help they would have surely given me. That I’m really sorry.

Love,

Kambili

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Audiences don't fall in love with plot. They fall in love with people. Whether you're writing for screen, prose, or stage, one truth remains- characters make the story.

They’re the reason we binge watch entire seasons in one night, cry over fictional deaths, and remember a story years after we’ve forgotten the twists.

A well-crafted character doesn't just move through the plot; they invite us into their world and make us stay, not because of what’s happening, but because of who it’s happening to. In essence, characters don’t just drive action, they anchor it.

So, how do you create characters that aren't just placeholders for plot but actually live rent free in the minds of your audience long after the story ends?

Here's a 7 step guide to creating unforgettable characters in your story.

Step 1: Start with a Pulse, Not a Profile

Forget the robotic character bios. "Height: 5’10”, Likes: Coffee, Pet Peeve: Loud chewers." Nobody remembers that.

Instead, ask: What drives this person? What fear gnaws at them? What do they want so badly that it shapes every decision they make?

Memorable characters don’t begin with surface traits, they begin with emotional truths. Before they even speak, your audience should feel a pulse.

The best characters mirror real people: messy, motivated, layered. Shaped by wounds, longings, secrets, and contradictions. A memorable character isn’t defined by what they do, it’s why they do it.

Pro Tip: Write a monologue from your character at their most vulnerable. Whether under pressure, after a loss, or on the brink of a huge decision. Not an introduction, a confession. You’ll learn more about their voice, values, fears, and desires from that moment than from any bullet-point profile.

Step 2: Give Them Quirks and Behavioural Signatures

This is one of my secret sauces.

Memorable characters have tics, patterns, or habits that become their unofficial signature. They don't have to be wild head ticks or exaggerated eye twitches. Just tiny, specific behaviors that make them feel human, familiar, and alive.

These aren’t just throwaway traits. They subtly reveal how a character thinks, what they fear, or how they try to control their world.

Take Professor from Money Heist. That simple, repeated gesture of him pushing up his glasses? It's more than just a physical tic. It’s a cue. One that makes him familiar, even endearing. It hints at his intellect, his anxiety, and his desire to stay in control…

Want to keep reading?

Read the full guide here → [Shevvy Writes]

"When I die, you'll see!"

The words come home to roost now as I stand over my mother's grave.

She'd said it all my life- since I was a kid, too young to grasp the weight of death. She said it when I hadn't washed the plates. She said it when I asked for more money than she could give at the time. She said it whenever she felt I didn't appreciate her enough. And now, it's finally happened. And I have seen.

I've tried to shed a few tears, but the truth is, I was prepared for this moment. Every time she uttered those words, it reminded me that one day, she wouldn’t be here. I had time.

Honestly, sometimes I wished to go before her- just to be petty, so she’d be the one left behind, seeing. But I guess it wasn’t meant to be.

Thinking about it now, I really don’t blame her. I never understood her. I didn't even know her. Not really. The few times she spoke of her past, she did in fragments, just enough for me to piece together that she'd lived a hard life. We didn't have an easy life either. I understand why she wanted to go so often.

But she has left me here.

She did well though. I guess. She did her best. I mean, she created one of the top storytellers in the film industry.

I still have the books- the second-hand ones she bought me when I was a kid. The first book I ever loved, the one that still gets me through hard times, was a gift from her.

She was a writer too, she once told me. But most of her stories lived in her heart, not on paper. You’d think that would have made her support my dream of being a writer.

I chuckle now, remembering the look of derision on her face when I showed her one of my works. Bless her, she did try to be encouraging. And that would have been enough. But of course, she had to follow it up with:

"So, when are you going to get a real job?"

I just got nominated for an Oscar, Mum. That’s real.

Somehow, I wish you were here to see it. But then again, if I don’t win, I can almost picture the downturn of your mouth. The one that still made me want to get a real job even after I'd achieved some success…

I’m tired. I want to go home. I never really had one. I still don’t, Mum.

Maybe, when I join you, you’ll have made one for me. A better one than we had.

My therapist would balk if she could hear me right now. But I am not suicidal. I just don’t repel or fear death. I am my mother's child.

I mean, who wants to live forever?

Not me.

I need to go. No-- I actually need to go. Like, get back to my car.

"Bye, Mum."

Thanks for leaving me with something that makes life easier to get through.

And thanks for leaving me alone.