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For over 20 years, I’ve asked you — our readers, our writers, our community — to open yourselves up.
To send in your stories.
To speak the unspeakable.
To risk being fragile on the page.
You’ve done that. Week after week, year after year.
Now, it’s my turn.
This is an extract from a memoir I’ve been quietly working on for some time — not as a publisher, not as an editor, but as Eric: the boy once called Kwaku, the young man who found his voice in South London, the father now trying to pass on something steadier to his daughters than what he inherited.
I’m sharing this piece with a hope — that it resonates, yes.
But more importantly, that it offers something useful.
Because I believe in story not just as catharsis, but as a kind of map — a way out, a way forward.
I want young Black boys growing up today — the ones who are told to shrink their dreams, or disappear behind someone else’s — to know that it’s possible.
It’s possible to build something.
To choose a life of meaning.
To rewrite the story — not just for yourself, but for those who come after.
My daughters are watching now.
And for them, I want to be more than just a survivor of my own history — I want to be an example of what’s still possible when we face it head-on.
This is the beginning.
Thank you for reading.
— Eric Akoto
Publisher, Litro Magazine
MY NAME ISN’T SIMON. MY STORY ISN’T HIS.
I was never the polished altar boy or the captain of the school football team. I didn’t chase gold stars or shine shoes on Sundays. I wasn’t neat. I wasn’t even interested in being liked. I was curious. Quiet. Always listening.
My real name is Eric, but before that, I was Kwaku. And before that, I was just a boy in Accra, barefoot and dreaming.
Until I was eight, Ghana was all I knew. Raised by my grandmother, I didn’t know I was “missing” parents in London. I didn’t feel missing. I felt whole. My grandmother was a fortress. I felt her more than I remember her face. She was warmth and faith and laughter and prayer. I belonged to her.
Then came the letter. Then came London. Or rather, Battersea. Cold buildings, colder stares. I didn’t know my mother. She didn’t know me. Our reunion was a stranger’s handshake dressed up as a hug.
My father was there, then not. He went out one morning and came back as a deportation notice. Caught cheating. Caught without papers. Gone.
I don’t remember feeling heartbroken. I remember feeling blank.
I’ve never had a good relationship with either of my parents, but we tolerate each other now. I know I’m more like my mother than my father. She told me once that I’d been kidnapped by middle-class white women as a baby. A strange story to grow up with — part folklore, part trauma, all metaphor. Maybe it was her way of explaining a childhood that had too many gaps.
But I did love learning. I loved music. Those two things saved me. Made me fluent in making friends. I always wanted to be older than I was. I dated older girls. Hung with older kids. That’s how I fell in love with language.
I was 12. Nicola was 22. My neighbour. My first crush. I wrote her poems I was too shy to read aloud. She smiled, anyway.
In the summer of 1992, I went to New York to meet my father again after two years. My mother said he wanted to see me. I didn’t know what to expect. What I got was a trip to Tracey Towers in the Bronx. Ghanaian migration central. And at Fordham market, I got my hands on a bootleg TDK tape of The Chronic. That was my real reunion.
Back in London, I sold copied tapes at school. That was my first business. My second hustle was ghostwriting poems for older boys to give their girlfriends. I didn’t always get paid. But I avoided beatings, which was a kind of currency.
I went to an all-boys Catholic grammar school. And even there, I kept dreaming big. I saw America as a second home. Because it had my name in it. Eric. America. Even if I hated crowds and kept to myself, New York felt like mine.
Years later, I ended up living in the city during the pandemic. My work took me back. And so did my past. My father was there. Still complicated. Still broken. But I showed up. I always have.
Now I’m in my 40s. I’ve got two daughters. I’m building something — in publishing, in business, in legacy. I missed birthdays. Catch-ups. Reunions. But I kept moving. I kept showing up. For others. For myself. For them.
I still don’t know if I love my father. But I’ve made peace with who he was. Who I became. Who I’m becoming.
This isn’t Simon’s story. It never was.
This is mine.
And I’m just getting started.
This is part of an ongoing Litro series exploring memory, identity, and truth through the lens of first-person narrative. As platforms and publishers, we often hide behind the curtain — but sometimes, the most powerful stories are the ones we carry ourselves.
If you have a story that reclaims your truth, challenges a past narrative, or simply deserves to be heard — we’re listening. Submit to: submissions@litromagazine.com
About Eric Akoto
Eric Akoto is the visionary founder of Litro Magazine, an international platform dedicated to celebrating diverse voices and fostering storytelling across borders. Under his leadership, Litro has evolved into a vibrant hub where emerging writers and established authors come together, creating a dynamic space for literary innovation and cultural dialogue. Eric’s entrepreneurial spirit and creative foresight have made Litro a beacon for cross-cultural exchange in the literary world. Beyond his professional endeavours, Eric is a passionate advocate for personal well-being, balancing his pursuits with a commitment to meditation and his love for tennis.
