I'm Annie Otedoh — a creative writer working mostly in poetry and short fiction. My writing tends to start where most people stop talking: loneliness, guilt, faith, the quiet years nobody asks about.
Five short pieces, written across different seasons — some about being overlooked, some about faith, one about finally being enough.
Character-driven scenes and one unfinished letter — proof I can build a voice fast and get out of a scene before it overstays.
I watched in disbelief as Darla, tears enough to flood nations, laid down her presidency for the fourth time this month. She swore she was never coming back — we didn't deserve her, and she was better off without the burden.
A week later, the fiasco still echoed. Our beloved debate society was in shambles.
"Should we beg her?" I asked at the lunch table.
"My dear goodness, no. That's what she wants," Dami said, annoyance sharp on his tongue.
Orla, fresh from holiday, walked in.
"What's going on?"
With a tired sigh, I said, "Nothing — just the wrath of the president."
"Anyone caught as an offender will be…" oh brother, I think to myself as I lean further into my chair. This school only has two ways of communicating: threats and punishments. This is going to be a long assembly.
I'm about to turn back to our principal when I feel a pair of eyes boring into my soul. I dart my eyes across the room slowly, moving from my friend's frizzy hair to the LED screen, till I finally land on Reuben, flipping pancakes — my crush is staring at me.
I snap my head back to the speaker, and after about four minutes, I start the procession of head movements again. And this time, our eyes lock.
Dear Itohan,
If you are reading this letter then I failed. A few days ago I gave birth to the most beautiful baby girl — she is perfect in every way. In the days after, she changed the way I love. If this letter is somehow in your hands right now, then I have failed.
Every day I wake up in Notterdam, the guilt of what I had to do yesterday for survival eats me alive. It nibs at my flesh bit by bit, until I am wholly overrun by regret. It has been four years since I came to this blasted town, and all peace has forsaken me ever since. I came here hopeful, happy to escape my modern-day reality of abuse by my parents. I came with nothing but love and joy in my heart. Four years later, I see what a fool I was to think that — because running from your current problems only leads you into bigger ones.
I remember my second year in Kemish Hall. I had no money for anywhere nicer — in fact, no money for food. I was squatting with a friend; the deal was simple: she gave me a place to stay, I cooked and cleaned in her house. I left the house that particular day feeling very sorry for myself. It marked my two-year anniversary in that place, and I had achieved nothing. So I set out with one goal in mind — get a job, so I would no longer—
— manuscript continues. Full chapter available on request.
I write to make sense of what's hard to say out loud — grief, faith, self-worth, the version of yourself you outgrew. My poetry leans confessional; my fiction leans toward small, specific moments that say more than they explain. I'm looking for creative writing, editorial, or storytelling work where voice is the whole point.