Excerpt:
Every sentence I write feels like an oath — fragile, but necessary.
The griots of Kharis said an oath is not spoken — it is written into being. When I write, I feel that same weight. The responsibility of creating something that remembers.
Every novel, every poem, is an offering — to memory, to ancestry, to the unseen roots that hold us all.
Writing, for me, isn’t a career. It’s communion.
And every time I pick up the pen, the Thorn remembers.
When I began writing As Twisted Like the Tales from the Thorns Beneath the Locust Tree, I thought it was about kings and betrayals. But the real story was never about power — it was about memory.
The griots in my world do not simply tell stories; they carry time itself. Each word spoken is a rebellion against forgetting.
That is why I write — to let the forgotten speak again, through the tongues of trees and the silence of thorns.
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They say a writer’s pain sharpens their ink. But sometimes, it’s the silence between words that cuts deepest.
The Thorn that Whispers is more than a myth in my world — it’s the symbol of every vow that was broken, every memory that refused to fade. It reminds me that even in stillness, something listens.
I write not to escape, but to remember. To trace the scars that made the story, and to turn them into roots for others to hold.
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Excerpt:
Every thorn is a reminder: pain has lineage.
Yet still, from pain, petals return.
The Locust Tree hums — and I write again.
Because the story never ends. It only changes its name.
I write this from the roots — where every story began.
The Locust hums with ancient sorrow, but also renewal. For every oath broken, a seed was planted.
I have seen kingdoms rise, fall, and rise again under different names. Yet every age forgets the last. That is why we write. Not to stop time, but to remind it.
Letters from the thorns are not letters of grief — they are proof that pain can still grow beauty.
And so I write. Again.
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Theme: Resistance, language, and identity.
Excerpt:
They came to erase words — not people.
But words were people.
Each erased syllable was a soul lost to silence.
The last griot whispered: “To forget is to fall twice.”
It began with silence.
Scrolls vanished. Songs thinned into hums. The people of Kharis spoke less each day, until even their dreams lost grammar.
The gods called it justice; the griots called it genocide.
Because when you erase a word, you kill a world.
The last griot, Kaelin, whispered, “To forget is to fall twice.” He fought with stories when swords failed. But even he knew: some memories must burn to be reborn.
This is not just history. It is prophecy — and it has begun again.
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Theme: Sacrifice, legacy, creation.
Excerpt:
When blood touched the earth, the griots called it rhythm.
From grief came melody, from loss came legend.
And that is how we sing of pain — not as ending, but as pulse.
Every war leaves echoes — but not all are screams.
Some become songs.
When the last defenders of Kwaaman fell, their leader’s blood spilled across the drums. The griots, in despair, began to chant. Their sorrow became sound, and that sound became memory.
They say the first note of the war song was a heartbeat, and the last was forgiveness.
Even today, the wind carries that rhythm across the plains. It is a reminder that art and grief are twins — both born of loss, both determined to live.
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Theme: Divine witness, silence, history rewriting itself.
Excerpt:
The Chronicle does not cry.
But once, when the oath broke under the Locust’s roots, it blinked — and history shifted.
Whole names vanished. Whole wars became whispers.
And somewhere, someone began to write again.
Few beings ever see history alive. The Chronicle was not mortal — it was memory given shape, petals woven with shadow. It existed only to witness, never to interfere.
But when the sacred Oath of Kwaaman shattered, the Chronicle flinched. Names vanished from records. Wars were erased. The griots found their verses empty — as if the world itself had forgotten its lines.
That blink was not sorrow. It was warning. When truth is twisted too tightly, the universe rewrites itself.
And somewhere, in that rewrite, new stories begin.
Perhaps that is why I write — to keep the Chronicle awake.
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Excerpt: Every sentence I write feels like an oath — fragile, but necessary. The griots of Kharis said an oath is not spoken — it is writt...
