20 Books Later - by Quietly Loud

At the beginning of this year, I made a promise to myself. It did not look ambitious compared to the usual New Year resolutions people make. I did not promise to become rich, wake up by 5 a.m. every day, fix my entire life, or suddenly transform into a brand-new person. I simply told myself: Read. At least one book every month. That was the goal. At first, I wanted physical copies because there is just something beautiful about holding a real book, folding pages, underlining sentences, and seeing your progress physically. But reality quickly reminded me that books are expensive, and consistently buying them is not something I can afford right now. So I adjusted. E-books became my alternative, and honestly, I’m proud of myself for sticking to it. Since January, I have read twenty books. Twenty. That number may seem small to some people and huge to others, but for me, it represents consistency. It represents me keeping a promise to myself and that matters. In January alone, I read seven books.February slowed down because of exams, so I managed only one.March came, and somehow I bounced back with eight books.April… honestly, I disappeared a little from reading. I cannot even defend myself properly there. I only completed one book that month. But it was a meaningful one. R. E.S.T by Sophia Uwoziya was gifted to me shortly after its release, and I remember feeling genuinely happy that I could read it and write a review for it. There is something special about being trusted with someone’s work, especially when they created it with so much intention. Now it is May, and so far, I have read three books. Maybe I will finish more before the month ends, maybe not. But even then, I am still proud of myself because this is the most consistent I have ever been with reading. And somewhere along the line, I started understanding myself better as a reader. At first, I was heavily into dark romance. Books filled with obsession, tension, toxicity, messy emotions, and very explicit scenes. I read books like Corrupt, works by Jade West, Rina Kent and several others that revolved around that world. But after a while, I noticed something. A lot of dark romance started feeling repetitive to me. The stories often centered more on shock value, sex, and intensity than actual storytelling. And once the excitement faded, I found myself wanting something deeper. Then came psychological thrillers. And honestly? I think that genre changed everything for me. When I read The Housemaid, I was hooked immediately. I loved constantly trying to predict what would happen next, convincing myself I had figured everything out, only for the story to completely embarrass me with another plot twist. That feeling of suspense — that constant “wait… what just happened?” is something I genuinely enjoy. I realized I love books that play with my mind. At the same time, African literature will always have a different kind of hold on me. There is a familiarity that comes with it. The language, the expressions, the culture, the references — it feels close to home. Even the slang feels warmer because it sounds like people around me. Reading African literature does not feel distant. It feels personal. One book that especially stood out to me was Who Fears Death. That book was an experience. It blended African storytelling with fantasy and sci-fi/fantasy in a way that stretched my imagination completely. It made me pause and picture things differently. It reminded me that African stories do not always have to stay within realism. They can be magical, strange, futuristic, and expansive too. And whenever I want to relax from emotionally heavy books, I turn to graphic novels. Nothing will ever make me laugh and feel comforted the way Diary of a Wimpy Kid does. That series is honestly timeless to me. No matter how old I get, it remains entertaining. I also read Binding 13 series, and I think what stayed with me the most was how emotional it felt. The romance was there, but it was not loud or overwhelming. The story focused more on trauma, abuse, healing, and survival. Some parts genuinely frustrated me because I kept wondering why certain characters tolerated abuse for so long, especially when children were involved. But maybe that frustration is proof that the story did its job. And I think that is what I am beginning to appreciate most about books now. Not just stories that entertain me, but stories that make me feel something. Looking back now, I realize this year has not just been about reading books. It has been about discovering what kind of reader I am becoming. Twenty books later, I think I am still figuring that out. Yeah, you read that right. I would keep reading and exploring different genres across literature and writing.

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