THE Conclave

In the Tokoloshe world, your Tokoloshe—the inner wild, instinctual self—knows before you do. She’ll rub under your skin. She’ll purr. She’ll growl. She’ll basically roll around like “Ma’am. This is the one. Mark them. Bite them. Climb them.”

Dej is the textbook Desi Alpha. Commanding. Fiercely loyal. Smells like oud and emotionally unavailable poetry. He wants to love Sasha fully—to be hers, to surrender, to build. But he’s fighting a code stitched into his bones. A belief that to need is to be weak. That protecting her means pushing her away. That his pain is his burden alone.

In the world I created, every Tokoloshe has an inner self—an instinctual, primal version of them that isn’t bound by human logic, only feeling and energy. It’s the spirit within. The truth that cannot be contained.

The real-life Tokoloshe folklore has always fascinated me. These mysterious creatures that lurk at night, born of dark magic, mischief, and ancestral warning. But the way the stories were told—always from a place of fear, superstition, and silence—I couldn’t help but wonder… what if we rewrote the story?

Every dark fantasy world I write begins with a low, rhythmic, ancient heartbeat. It’s not something I create. It’s something I listen for. Before I write, I dig through myths, rituals, whispered superstitions, the ghosts of forgotten gods.

When I write, lore doesn’t arrive fully formed. It creeps. It waits. It whispers before it roars. The worlds in Tokoloshe and Pisces Family weren’t drawn on a map.

When I write, the goal isn’t just to tell a story; it’s to build a feeling. A world that breathes. A myth that mirrors something real. My dark fantasy novels, Tokoloshe and Pisces Family, didn’t begin with outlines or maps. They began with emotion. With questions. With wonder. Everything else, the structure, the arcs, the twists, came later.

People often ask me, “Why do you write dark fantasy?” And the honest answer is: Because the real world isn’t always kind. But stories? Stories fight back. I write because growing up, the monsters didn’t wait for nightfall. They looked like silence when you needed comfort. Like shame handed down in polite conversation. Like systems that made some of us feel invisible unless we became something louder, brighter, or broken enough to be noticed. So, I created my own monsters . Bu