I reached out to Nadia Cassim, author of Not another samoosa run!, with a few questions. What I got back was thoughtful responses that make you want to read her grocery list.
As you are a writer whose work engages with power, intimacy and personal freedom, what does romance mean to you beyond its genre conventions?
In my mind, when I categorise romance, there are two kinds. The first is the conventional fairytale version – the fantastical kind I grew up consuming through Sweet Valley High books and Disney movies, which I loved as a child and, to some extent, still hold close to my heart.
The second is the real version of romance. Real romance contains snippets and fragments of the fantastical, especially when you’re falling in love for the first time, but for the most part, it is far more complex to navigate. We carry layers of ourselves into relationships: socialisation, childhood baggage, past wounds, learned behaviours. The conventional romance asks us to see life through rose-tinted glasses, while real-life romance asks us to be honest about who we are, what we want from a partner and what truly makes us happy. I try my best to look at romance through a real-life lens.
Do you believe that South African romance carries a distinct identity? If so, what shapes it – and if not, what prevents it from fully forming one?
I think it ultimately depends on the writer, the story they want to tell, and what they feel comfortable exploring. I’ve read romance by South African authors that feels distinctly local, and then some that reads more like European or American love stories. Writers who lean into a clearly South African setting and sensibility often do it beautifully. Their work feels grounded, relatable and deeply resonant within their communities.
Those who choose a more “universal” style are reaching for a different audience and may be using that approach as a way to connect beyond specific cultural markers. Neither is inherently better; they’re simply different creative choices shaped by voice, intention and readership.
How do place, culture, language and community shape the love stories you tell, particularly in a South African context?
I prefer writing from a place of knowing. As a result, most of my work, especially my first novel, places strong emphasis on the culture I was born into, the community that shaped me, and the ways in which we communicate with one another. I love drawing on places and experiences that are familiar to me.
I think that as writers, we sometimes underestimate a reader’s ability to recognise inauthenticity. That’s something I’m very conscious of. I never want a reader to feel that what I’m writing is removed from lived truth. I want them to believe that what I write about is what I truly know.
What are the most difficult emotional truths to write honestly in romance, especially when love intersects with trauma, expectation or constraint?
One of the hardest truths for people to accept is that romantic love is not perfect. Once you remove the protective bubble and place a reader in reality, the effect can go either way – it may alienate them from the story, or draw them in more deeply.
Any emotional truth that is difficult to face in real life can be challenging to weave into a romance narrative, precisely because it risks breaking the spell. Yet, those same truths are often what gives a story weight, depth and resonance.
Romance is often associated with escape. How do you balance the desire for hope and pleasure with the realities your characters inhabit?
I don’t think I ever set out to be a romance author. My main focus has always been to write honestly, and to centre the relationships that matter most to us on a deeply human level. I don’t consciously think about “balancing” light and heavy elements – that’s often my editor’s role. She’s the one who tells me if something has become too weighty. I simply write from the heart. I don’t deliberately follow tropes, either; I tend to stumble upon them rather than plan them. What I have learned through my writing, though, is that humour can be a powerful tool. It’s my secret weapon for ensuring that hope and joy aren’t drowned out by the realities my characters face.
Are there themes you feel expected to include – or avoid – when writing romance, particularly as a South African woman writer?
No, I don’t write what’s expected of me. I write what comes naturally. Placing pressure on yourself to produce what you think is “relevant” can slowly erode creativity, and you run the risk of producing something inauthentic. I write what brings me joy; that’s where the truest work comes from.
Do you feel that romance is taken seriously within the South African literary space? Why do you think this perception persists or is shifting?
Perhaps not always among the judges of prestigious literary awards, or even within certain peer circles, but I would argue that the average reader does take romance seriously. You could say that the general reader’s opinion matters most (and in many ways, it does), but let’s be honest: Broader literary respect often still follows institutional recognition.
Romance writers are deeply valued by their readership, yet the genre itself tends to gain wider cultural legitimacy only when it begins to appear on award shortlists and prize lists. Until then, there’s often an unspoken hierarchy at play.
What misconceptions about romance writing frustrate you most as a writer?
The biggest misconception is that romance must always end in a happily-ever-after or revolve around a clear-cut hero and heroine. Human beings are flawed and so are our relationships, and I’m interested in exploring that complexity.
How, if at all, do publishing trends and market expectations influence your creative decisions?
I don’t follow trends or write with market expectations in mind. I trust that my work will find the spaces where it’s meant to be received and appreciated, and if it doesn’t, that’s okay, too.
How conscious are you of your readers when writing intimate or emotionally sensitive scenes, and does that awareness ever shape your choices?
I try to write with a strong sense of responsibility and awareness. To do otherwise would feel like a betrayal of my reader.
Do you feel a responsibility toward representation, healing or hope in your stories, or do you resist the idea of obligation in fiction?
Yes. I believe it’s important to represent society truthfully and to tell stories that uplift, empower or bring long-hidden truths to light. A writer’s role in a reader’s life should never be underestimated. Stories shape the way we see ourselves and the world.
What would you like to see change in South African romance publishing over the next decade?
I would love to see romance authors claiming more literary awards, and for publishers and institutions to take the genre seriously – not only as a commercial force, but as a meaningful literary form.
Do you think South Africa’s high levels of violence, particularly gender-based violence and femicide, influence how romance is written, read and perceived in this country?
Yes, I do think so. South Africa’s high levels of gender-based violence have contributed to a growing disillusionment with romance as a genre. Many readers struggle to see themselves in narratives where love is presented as a safe, redemptive force, or where “love conquers all” remains the central promise.
Asking readers to detach emotionally from their surroundings in order to invest in idealised romantic outcomes is a far greater leap here than in societies where personal safety is less precarious. This is reflected in reading trends: Browse the fiction shelves of South African bookstores, and you’ll notice the dominance of crime fiction – stories that feel closer to home.
In your view, do people in South Africa feel emotionally and socially safe enough to fall in love, and how does this reality shape romantic storytelling?
I think the previous point applies here as well. Women, in particular, often do not feel safe enough to surrender to the idea of love. There are simply too many risks to weigh, too many realities to navigate. Love, in theory, asks for openness, vulnerability and trust, yet many women are moving through a world that constantly reminds them to be guarded, alert and self-protective.
How do you navigate writing romance in a country where the reality of femicide and violence against women is ever-present?
Stories rooted in reality keep readers invested. When writing feels too far removed from lived experience, it loses emotional truth. Readers want to recognise something familiar in people, places or struggles. For me, the most powerful fiction doesn’t escape reality; it engages with it honestly.
What advice would you give to new writers entering the romance genre today, especially those navigating questions of legitimacy and voice?
My advice to other writers is simple: Write what is truly on your heart, without overthinking how it will be received. When you write from an honest place, you’re rarely wrong.
See also:
Not another samoosa run! by Nadia Cassim: a reader’s impression