28/04/2026
There was a time when publishing felt like punishing.
There were days Michael’s greatest dream was simple—to hold just one of his books in his hands and to know that even one person, somewhere, was reading his words. He wrote with hope, clinging to the belief that one day, his voice would matter to someone beyond himself.
But finding a publisher was a mountain he didn’t know how to climb. He had no guide, no map, and no connections. Just passion.
Then one day, at a church seminar, he met a man who introduced himself as a publisher. He showed us his books—neatly printed, impressive at first glance. He spoke with confidence and eloquence, the kind that easily earns trust. Everyone listened. Everyone believed.
He asked us to Google his name—and we did. His presence was everywhere. He looked credible, visible, and successful.
We began to talk about publishing, and he introduced a strange requirement: we had to write about him in online journals as part of his criteria. That should have been the first red flag. Genuine excellence does not demand praise—it earns it. But desperation has a way of silencing caution. I ignored the discomfort and continued.
He outlined three key elements of publishing: book cover, ISBN, and editing. I told him my manuscript had already been edited, but he insisted on re-editing it—for ₦20,000. I had waited too long for an opportunity like this to walk away. So I searched, gathered the money, and paid.
Months passed.
What I received in return were book covers that didn’t reflect my story—designs that were disconnected, unappealing, and careless. I complained. He revised them. But somehow, they became even worse.
Then came another offer—online publishing. He promised visibility. He promised five printed copies. He promised access.
He first charged ₦120,000, then reduced it to ₦80,000. In 2013, that was no small amount. It was a sacrifice. But I made it anyway.
And then—silence.
No proper online publishing.
No access to any account.
No printed copies.
No control.
Just my work floating somewhere I could not reach.
Imagine paying close to ₦100,000 and only being able to see your book online—without access, without ownership, without any revenue, without even knowing if it was making an impact. I was left in limbo—frustrated, disappointed, and questioning everything.
But somehow, things turned around.
Through the intervention of my mentor, Macpaul I. Okolo, and his wife, Yinka Okolo, I found clarity, direction, and a second chance. They didn’t just guide me—they restored my confidence.
Today, I run a publishing outfit. I have control over my work. I can publish any title I choose, in any quantity I desire.
Now, I write under the umbrella of Literal Guide Publishers—and together, we have published over 40 books.
But more importantly, I remember.
I remember the confusion.
I remember the desperation.
I remember how easy it is for a young writer to be misled when all they have is a dream and no direction.
And that memory is the reason the Literal Guide Book Writing Competition was born.
This competition is not just an event—it is a response. A solution. A bridge.
It was created to protect, guide, and empower teenage writers who are full of ideas but lack access, exposure, and structure. Many of them are gifted but unheard. Passionate but unseen. Creative but uncertain of where to begin.
Through this platform, their words are not just written—they are discovered.
They are given mentorship, so they do not fall into the traps many before them did.
They are given visibility, so their voices can travel beyond their immediate environment.
They are given validation, so they can believe that their stories matter.
More than rewards, the competition offers direction.
More than recognition, it builds confidence.
More than exposure, it creates opportunity.
It teaches them that writing is not just a dream—it is a path.
A path that can be guided.
A path that can be protected.
A path that can lead somewhere meaningful.
Because every young writer deserves more than struggle.
They deserve a fair chance.
They deserve to be seen.
They deserve to be heard.
And this time, their journey does not have to begin with pain.
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