When Nigerian writer, Jane Kalu was awarded the prestigious 2025 O. Henry Prize for her short story, “Sickled,” she joined the ranks of some of the world’s most celebrated fiction writers. Remarkably, the same story also received a Pushcart Prize, an uncommon feat that signals how deeply the piece resonated across the literary world. Selected from thousands of submissions, “Sickled,” originally published in the acclaimed literary journal, American Short Fiction, stood out for its emotional precision and unflinching portrayal of inherited pain. But these milestones are only two in a growing list of accomplishments for the Enugu-born author, whose work has gained recognition, no doubt, because of its lyrical power and thematic boldness.
In this interview, Kalu reflects on her creative journey, the craft of short fiction and what it means to write from and beyond Nigeria in today’s literary landscape.
Let us start with your recent win, congratulations on receiving the O. Henry Prize. Tell us about the story that earned you this recognition, what inspired it and how was it published?
Thank you. “Sickled” was first published in American Short Fiction. It was one of those stories that sat with me for a long time. Bits of it had been circling in my head for years and even after I finally wrote the first draft, it took another four years to get it to the draft that was finally published. The story follows a young girl navigating silence and pain in a family marked by her younger sister’s illness. I think I was trying to write into the things we don’t talk about, those events where no one in the family knows how to talk about or how to reach each other. I did not expect the story to get the kind of attention it did. But that is just how writing works: you write from a place of honesty and then hope someone’s heart is open enough to receive it.
The O. Henry Prize is widely considered one of the most prestigious awards in short fiction. And “Sickled” also received a Pushcart Prize, another major accolade that many writers spend their careers hoping to win. Some even celebrate just being nominated by their journals. What does this kind of huge recognition mean to you personally and professionally?
Honestly, it is still sinking in. The O. Henry Prize has been around for over a hundred years. Some of the writers I most admire have won it. And then, when I got the news that “Sickled” had also been awarded a Pushcart Prize, it just felt surreal. These are juried prizes, selected independently, so to have two different panels honor the same story was incredibly affirming. So on a professional level, it is a big moment, it puts your work in front of a wider audience and it also signals to the industry that maybe you are someone to watch. Personally, it just made me feel seen. That a quiet, intimate story like “Sickled” could reach people–it means a lot.
You have been writing fiction for a number of years. How would you describe your evolution as a writer? What themes or styles have remained consistent and what has changed?
I have always been drawn to stories about families, girlhood, memory and place. That has not changed. But I think I have become more comfortable with ambiguity. Early on, I felt pressure to explain everything, to make things tidy. Now I am more interested in what stays unresolved. I trust the reader more and the story to do its work without forcing it into a neat shape.
Your fiction often engages with not just family, but community as well. What draws you to these themes? Are there particular writers or traditions that shaped your approach?
Community and family are where the stakes feel highest for me. The betrayals cut deeper, the silences weigh more. I find myself returning to those dynamics because they reveal so much about how we simultaneously carry love and resentment for each other in those spaces. As for writers, definitely Toni Morrison, Edward P. Jones, Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi, Chika Unigwe and Elizabeth Strout. Writers who treat silence with as much care as dialogue. I also owe a lot to the Nigerian literary community. There is fierce clarity in the writing coming out of here.
Tell us a bit about your writing process. Do you begin with a character, an image, a question? Has that process shifted over time?
Usually, it is an image or a strange sentence that won’t leave me alone. Like, “She refused to eat anything yellow.” I will sit with that and wonder: why? Who is she? What happened to her? I used to write fast, like the story had to come out in one go or it would disappear. These days, I take my time. I let the story simmer. I write a lot of notes, snippets, scenes that don’t go anywhere and then one day, something clicks.
You have been part of literary communities in Nigeria and abroad. How have those spaces influenced your writing and thinking?
They have both shaped me in different ways. In Nigeria, there is this hunger, this raw urgency to write even when the resources and opportunities are not always there. But it teaches you resilience and persistence. Abroad, I have had access to workshops and mentorship that helped me grow. But where I learnt to write stories that feel true to me came from being in rooms with other writers from anywhere and talking about literature, survival, the next thing we are working on, the last thing we read that made us cry. You cannot overestimate the importance of a writing community, especially for a growing writer.
I am sure many emerging writers look up to you. What advice would you give to young Nigerian writers hoping to gain recognition for their work?
Keep writing, even when it feels like no one is watching. Submit your work even when the rejections pile up, and they will pile up. Read widely, both within and beyond what is considered ‘literary.’ And don’t be afraid to sound like yourself. There is space for your voice. There is space for all our voices.
Are you working on anything new right now? Besides, what should readers look forward to?
Yes, I am working on a historical novel. It is still in its early stages, so I cannot talk about it yet. I still write short stories when I can, especially after the reception “Sickled” received. It is encouraging to know that work like that can find readers and be recognised in meaningful ways.
What do you think is unique about Nigerian fiction today and how do you see yourself contributing to that evolving landscape?
Nigerian fiction feels like it is in a period of reckoning with history, with genre, with audience, with form. Writers are not just telling stories; they are asking who those stories serve, what they inherit and what they make possible. There is a boldness in that questioning that I find deeply energising. My own work is shaped by that same impulse. I am not interested in representing Nigeria as it is or was, but in imagining what is possible for its people, especially its girls, if we pivot our focus. Whether I am writing contemporary fiction or my new historical work, I try to create narratives that hold complexity without cynicism. Stories that suggest survival is not always loud or triumphant, but it is still worthy of being named.
I see my contribution as using fiction to reimagine the past and expand the emotional vocabulary we use to talk about it.
Where can readers find “Sickled”?
The story will be published in The Best Short Stories 2025: The O. Henry Prize Stories, which comes out on September 9. It will be available internationally in bookstores and online. I am honored to have it included in that collection; it still feels a bit surreal.
