Why We Tell Stories: Writing, Healing, and the Hope We Carry
Who I am. Why I Write. What this Newsletter Offers.
The Healing Power of Storytelling
All my life, my father has told me stories about Nigeria, about his experiences growing up on a cocoa farm.
He told me this one story many times. One day on the farm, in the middle of dinner, he had to capture and release a scorpion inches from a family member. It was coiled, rigid, and waiting.
For a long time, I wondered why he told this same story so often.Â
It wasn’t until my late twenties that earlier scenes from my childhood started to fall into place, creating a coherent mosaic. For as long as I can remember, my father has always been cautious, risk-averse, and deeply deliberative. He needs to scope out the potential danger in every scenario before making a choice. It often takes him months, and at times over a year, to make a major purchase or decide to travel somewhere for reasons other than an academic conference.Â
Throughout all those years, he was sloshing against the tides of trauma.
Storytelling, particularly the stories he repeated, was his way of working through trauma—releasing it.
Now as an adult, I believe my father was trying to do three things:
One, share with me the moments and memories that shaped him, so we could better understand each other.
Two, pass on, through his example, our sacred heritage of storytelling.
Three, to show me how to always find the courage to defend those I care about.
He started telling me this particular story at thirteen. Now I am thirty-five, with my own sons, and his stories still live inside me. Whenever I need to understand him and, by extension, myself, better, I think about that scorpion story.
I turn it over in my head. I move soundlessly through that laterite-stone house. I see the scorpion, a jagged piece of darkest night on a gray concrete floor. It is stock still and partially lit by a nearby lantern. It is coiled inches away from the bare ankle of its unsuspecting victim. I think about how my father never slowed to contemplate self -preservation. In a blur, he had already grabbed a wicker basket and a metal plate to capture the deadly creature.
To this day, I can tell you the story word for word, while seeing his facial expressions and the grin that breaks out over his face, golden and lit from within, when he gets to the story’s hook.
Who I Am: A Brief, Grounded Introduction
Welcome. My name is Olu, and I’m a Boston-based writer and educator, a Nigerian-American wading my way through life with my two curious and joyful young kids—they both live up to their Yoruba middle names Ayotunde and Ayolade, which both mean joy has arrived or joy is here.
Every day, my boys teach me something new about patience, empathy, and curiosity.
As a Boston educator, I help students grapple with the words and ideas that will help them share their own stories.
In my almost decade-long teaching career, I have endeavored to create a unique learning space, where learning comes from authentic connections, listening to others, and being listened to.
In the quieter, much earlier hours, before school, when my boys are still sleeping—I turn to my own writing.
I write reflective poetry and character-driven short stories about complex people, relationships, and the societal and familial contexts that have shaped them. Right now, I am about a third of the way through writing the first draft of a literary thriller that will not leave me alone.
Why I Write
I write to figure out where I come from, and why certain ideas, and certain regrets scratch at me—so I scratch back (on paper).
In Yoruba tradition, storytelling is not merely a pastime or a way of preserving history in a culture that had no written language before British colonization—it’s a life-giving essence in itself. These stories are meant to be lovingly shared with friends and family.
Whether its a West African proverb spoken to answer a thorny question or teach a lesson, or the living room stories I heard from my elders growing up, my act of sharing the words that were shared with me is my way of honoring my ancestors.
Without these stories and storytelling in general, I would not know who I am. That’s the truth.
Writing is how I translate memory, mine, and others. There are the memories I’ve inherited and the ones I create on my own. Writing is where I work out how identity, society, family, friends, and certain lies have shaped me.
As a father, I wonder which stories my sons remember—how the stories I pass on will ground them the way my parent’s stories grounded me.
What this Newsletter Offers
I am extending the famous Yoruba hospitality (It is truly famous—ask around :-) ) to all those looking for a place to connect, reflect, and grow as writers and creatives.
This space—under the shade of the palm tree—is a place to share what it means to live while writing the stories that live in us.
Here is what you’ll find once you take a seat on the proverbial grass:
Reflections on why we write: the journey, the very real struggles, and the epiphanies that make it worth it.
Essays on memory, family, culture, and identity—what and who shapes us as writers, readers, and creatives.
Thoughts on my journey as I wrestle with a literary thriller draft, characters full of secrets who lie to themselves, and the tension of balancing outlining with discovery writing (because—let’s be real—I live for those moments when the story surprises me.)
Private group chats, where we can learn from each other and from external writing resources that I also use to hone my craft. These will also be spaces where we can celebrate, support, and encourage each other.
Here’s my invitation to you: Think of the stories that stay with you, that live inside you—whether they were told in a family kitchen, during the holidays, in books passed from elder to younger, or in moments that were just for you.
Stories are the luminous fibers that hold us together. They remind us we were never alone.
Hit subscribe below if you’d like to join me on this journey.
Next week, I’ll share a piece on the fine line between our memories and the stories we label as fiction, and whether it is possible to take things too far.
In my birthplace, there is a saying:
Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest hearts.
I hope these words serve as a good company—and that we’ll keep exchanging stories that light the way.
Why do you write? What stories live inside you and refuse to leave? Share them in the comments!
In Solidarity,
Olu
This was Writing Under The Palm Tree’s inaugural post. Let’s keep it going! Join as a paid subscriber (for the price of a good cup of coffee) to receive bonus bi-monthly craft essays.
There is so much you could’ve been doing and you chose to read this—I am deeply honored by that. Thank you.
So glad I was introduced to Yoruba hospitality as the first thing I read this morning. Incredible job capturing your father’s love and vigilance in taking care of others.
I'd like to write more because I more than just "like" this post. Thank you for your stories.