If This Were a Book: The Woman King

Title: Iron Crowned

Tagline: A kingdom defended by women. A history written in steel.

Excerpt: If The Woman King were bound in pages, it would be a hardcover manifesto—matte black with crimson thread stitched down its spine. The prose would carry the strength of oral tradition and the elegance of high court declarations. Regal. Righteous. Reverent. A warrior’s tale disguised as historical fiction.

“She bled not to be remembered, but to make forgetting impossible.”

I couldn’t help but wonder… what does it mean to carry a kingdom in your chest?

If The Woman King were a book, it would not be shelved. It would be enthroned. Draped in palm oil pages, inked in sweat, blood, and sisterhood. The kind of novel that doesn't whisper when you open it—it roars. A chorus of warrior women standing on the precipice of history saying, “See us now.”

This wouldn’t be bedtime reading. It would be battle reading.

You’d feel the weight of every chapter. Each paragraph sharpened like a blade, each sentence training your spine to stand taller. You wouldn’t just read it—you’d spar with it. Because if this were a book, it would ask not to be consumed, but confronted.

And there, in the opening lines, would be General Nanisca. The kind of woman whose silence is heavier than most men's speeches. She wouldn't be a character—she’d be a command. A warrior wrapped in wisdom and war wounds. The kind of leader who teaches that rage can be sacred and discipline, divine.

If The Woman King were a book, it would tell the story of women who didn’t wait to be rescued. Who didn’t ask to be rewritten. Who knew that crowns can be forged from fire—and worn with bare feet on sacred soil.

The story would swirl with sweat and ceremony. With rituals that predate religion and loyalty that lives deeper than blood. There would be pain, yes. Betrayal. Grief. But underneath it all, a beating heart of liberation, pulsing through every page like a war drum.

This book wouldn’t end with a kiss. It would end with a revolution.

Because love, in this story, isn’t about possession—it’s about power. Love is the look between warriors who’ve just survived something unspeakable. The arm extended when you’re too tired to lift your own. The decision to choose yourself. Again and again.

If The Woman King were a book, I imagine it would sit beside my bed like a talisman. I’d read passages aloud before I go out into the world—armor in the form of words. A literary lineage reminding me that I, too, am my own legacy.

Because sometimes the kingdom isn’t a place. It’s a woman who decides she no longer needs permission to rule.

And that… is a story worth writing.