The summer I finished my first novel Ghana Must Go, I drove across west Africa: from Accra to Lomé to Cotonou to the deliciously named Ouagadougou.

The writer presents himself to the blank page not with an open passport but an open heart.

The thing that comes most frequently to me on yoga retreats is excruciating pain in my hips.

How can I come from a nation? How can a human being come from a concept?

I wouldn't mind my book being called an African novel if it didn't invite lazy readings.

I was four when I announced my ambition to write, eight when I began publishing such claims.

When writing screenplays, it's a matter of remembering to leave off the page anything and everything that doesn't appear on the screen.