Let me tell you a story.
A few weeks ago, I had a powerful conversation with Salem King (a dynamic voice in the creator economy) and a guest on Episode 15 of the Mannyville Series. We were talking about storytelling in the age of artificial intelligence. At some point, he said something that sounded like.
“AI will tell better stories, but it won’t feel pain.”
And just like that, we had captured the paradox of our age.
Today, machines are writing novels, curating art exhibitions, composing music, and even telling bedtime stories to kids. ChatGPT can craft plot twists. Midjourney can draw a scene. AI can simulate Shakespeare or Chimamanda. It’s easy to look at all this and think, “Well, the creatives are next. We’re about to be replaced.”
But let’s slow down.
See, when I tell a story, I don’t start with data. I start with memory.
I remember the smell of ‘tear gas’ during one too many riots in Kaduna and Lagos. I remember my father’s voice during those nights when the lights were out and the moon was high, telling folktales about the tortoise and the leopard. I remember walking into a tech conference as the ‘only’ African in the room and feeling the weight of expectations. These are not stories crafted from prompts; they are etched into my bones.
Machines may learn language patterns, but they don’t remember in the way humans do. They don’t carry scars. They don’t carry longing. And they certainly don’t carry hope.
That’s why human storytelling remains sacred. Because in every great story, there is a part of the teller that bleeds through… a voice, a twitch, a laugh that comes too soon, a silence that says more than words.
Let me be clear, I use AI every day. As someone who runs a digital equity initiative and a business advisory firm, I lean into automation. AI drafts strategy documents, summarises research, and accelerates work I used to spend hours on.
But when it’s time to connect, to pitch a vision, to rally a team, to reach that one kid watching our Mannyville livestream from a remote Nigerian town… I still need my voice. My human voice.
The challenge isn’t that AI is getting better. It’s that we’re starting to forget why we tell stories in the first place. Not just to inform. But also to transform.
At a recent Mannyville session, a girl, quiet, wide-eyed, and unsure of herself, pitched for a laptop. Her pitch wasn’t the most articulate. She didn’t quote data. But it was real. She spoke about being the first in her family to touch a computer. About teaching her siblings what she learnt. About staying up late under candlelight just to practice typing.
We gave her that laptop.
And in the months that followed, her story became part of ours.
No algorithm could have written that moment.
So What’s Next?
Will AI replace human storytellers? No.
Will it augment them? Absolutely.
The future won’t be about picking sides; it will be about forming alliances. Let AI do the heavy lifting. Let humans do the heavy feeling.
We’ll need both.
AI to suggest what comes next.
Humans need to know why it matters.
In Africa, storytelling is currency. It is culture. It is survival. From the griots of old to the digital creators of now, we have never just told stories; we have lived them. And in a world drowning in content, the real differentiator will not be volume, but vulnerability.
Machines can tell stories that sell.
Humans tell stories that stick.
So to all the builders, branders, and founders out there: use the tools, but don’t outsource your soul. The world
needs your voice. Not just your version.
And as for me?
I’ll be here … still telling stories.
Still listening for the ones that sound unmistakably… human.
Emmanuel Okwudili Asika is a seasoned business leader, digital equity advocate, and industry strategist with over two decades of experience in ICT and IT, spanning executive roles at Globacom Ltd. and HP Inc. Asika has a BA in English (Lagos State University) and an MBA from Warwick Business School, with a Harvard Business School executive stint in ‘Building Businesses in Emerging Markets.’
