Today we’d like to introduce you to Kayodè Soyemi.
Hi Kayodè, so excited to have you with us today. What can you tell us about your story?
I’m a first-generation Nigerian-American actor, writer, and producer—born in Lagos, raised in Atlanta, now living in Harlem, with strong creative ties pulling me west toward LA. But the real story is less neat. The arts saved my life.
A lot of the people I knew when I was younger are either dead or in jail. I say that without any judgment— that’s just how it worked out for some. I recognize that I could’ve been on that path. After Hurricane Katrina, the entire makeup of my neighborhood changed in what felt like overnight. The impact of that natural disaster truly changed the South. Folks were angry, sad, and poor. The Atlanta suburbs became housing projects for displaced families. Danger and crime increased and young folks had to grow up fast. I was looking for safety, for brotherhood— and ended up in a gang, just trying to find some ground to stand on.
I found my way out by complete accident. I lost a bet, had to audition for the school musical. Somehow got a lead role, and that was the first time I ever felt butterflies in my stomach from nerves. Challenging myself to push through that, to get through a full junior musical, was an experience I’d never had. And I’m not gonna lie, I loved it. That’s when the bug bit me as they say. It felt real in a way nothing else had before.
I had a middle school counselor, Miss Patterson, who just believed in me. She said, and I remember this so clearly “You don’t have to do sports. You don’t have to join the military. You don’t have to sell drugs. You’re an artist.” She knew I was smart, had a vivid imagination, and wanted me to feed that part of myself. And so she recommended I attend an HSPVA. She saw the spark, and held my hand in the process of getting into CCCEPA (Cobb County Center for Excellence in the Performing Arts). A few years later, she passed away. To this day, I carry a piece of that debt with me. I didn’t get to thank her properly. So now I let the work be the thank you.
At CCCEPA, I had a drama teacher, Katie Grant Shalin. She, introduced me to the idea of Yale in 2010, and that became the goal. Ten years later, 16 out of 1600 people walked through those doors, and I was one of them. Katie, too, passed—brain cancer. Both of these women saw my future before I could. That made the arts something spiritual for me. Almost prophetic.
Unfortunately, if folks know anything about CCCEPA now, it’s probably because of the very recent scandal— abuse, negligence, half the teachers outed. But I will say the rigor and discipline I experienced there (20+ hours of rehearsal a week on top of a full class schedule of AP and advanced classes) gave me stamina, versatility, and a work ethic that still drives me. Several of my relationships suffered back then because of that schedule, but everyone understood: this was what I was going to do. And I hope my journey has helped inspire other immigrants, other first-gens, to chase their own creative dreams.
I remember I was really into breakdancing in middle school. I used to spin on my head in class (I CAN’T ANYMORE) but that helped me drop weight and avoid some bullying. I saw You Got Served, said “Bet. I can do that” and I did. Movement has been part of my story ever since. But I didn’t really get serious about acting or writing until CCCEPA.
Along the way I’ve always been fascinated by how all the pieces come together to make a story—whatever the medium. I learned as much as I could, to become an ace-of-all-trades. Got my BFA at SMU—I told my very Nigerian parents I was going to study Psychology because trying to explain “BFA” at the time felt like trying to explain why I’m choosing a “broke fuckin’ ass” path. When I finally fessed up, they were actually very supportive and celebrated my accomplishments. I think that from the outside the arts looks like an upper class career where you really need connections to make it. It’s difficult to break in if you don’t have the means. I think they felt that it seemed like a privileged route to take. But you know, I still feel like I’m studying psychology. Just through people, through characters, through stories, through this art. It is a form of empathy and psychology doesn’t work without empathy, they go hand in hand.
After undergrad I went back home to Atlanta. The following year I had my first grad school trial, and I really only auditioned for two schools. I was very cocky and overconfident for my own good at that time. I got far in the audition process but I didn’t get in. Humbled me real quick! When I returned home I did the whole full-time job thing working in sales. I was not happy and I knew why: I hated it. I left the office and literally the next day got a rep, and I was acting and again. Once I felt like I had done all I could in Atlanta, I started looking for regional opportunities with the goal of finding the next community to be a part of. The search led me to the Professional Training Company at Actors Theatre of Louisville. Everyone I worked with there kept telling me that grad school would be great for me, so I decided to try again. For the second trial, I auditioned for way more schools and got into all of them including Yale. Flash forward to the most intense and transformative chapter. In addition to the training, Yale gave me something else: life-long collaborators. I was an Artistic Producer at Yale Cabaret 55, the student-run non-profit theatre on campus. We were the first all-Black leadership team and we led the first real full season post-pandemic. We reintroduced the Cab Kitchen, a staple at the Cab, in collaboration with a local Black owned restaurant, Anchor Spa (their food was an art in itself). We were able to reshape the Cab Kitchen experience by sharing food from different cultures instead of the typical American food. I was a leader in FOLKS, the YSD Black student union, I was an EDI representative as part of Student Government, I was a Producer at CCAM (Center for Collaborative Art and Media) I was a Jerome L. Greene fellow, Orchard Project Fellow, Connecticut Artist Fellow, and Hoening Theatre Artist fellow. During the pandemic, I connected with Briantria Smocks of Smocks Media Group (Bri and I actually went to SMU together). I was moved by their family’s journey, faith, and their children’s book Levi and Toonk. I asked if they’d be interested in me producing an online reading of two of their books as part of Yale Cabaret 53’s digital season. It was incredibly well received and gave us the impetus to develop it into an animated series. We recognized that there were very few high quality, educational children’s shows that are representative of the POC experience. We’ve been working together ever since. That helped solidify my connection to LA creatives and the Smocks team. It’s part of why LA is such an important part of my artistic orbit today. On top of that, my manager is partner at 11:11 Entertainment, which is also based in LA— so the city continues to be a growing hub for my creative and professional life.
These days, new work, collaboration and inspiring artists from different backgrounds is a huge part of my mission. I didn’t get here alone— and I don’t believe anyone should have to. Through my production and consulting company, The Well, I hope to create a space where others can find that same sense of possibility, of community, of purpose. Now more than ever, I want my work to open doors for others— because that’s what it did for me. It gave me a life.
Would you say it’s been a smooth road, and if not what are some of the biggest challenges you’ve faced along the way?
Haha oh yeah definitely not a smooth road. I think if it had been, I wouldn’t be the artist I am.
The biggest challenges started early. When your neighborhood shifts overnight— when your world becomes about survival, not expression— that shapes you. I joined a gang because it felt safer than being alone. And climbing out of that meant unlearning a lot of negative instincts.
Then there’s the emotional weight. Two of the mentors who believed in me most, Miss Patterson and Katie Grant, passed before I could really show them what their investment meant. Carrying grief while trying to build a career in this industry is something I’m still learning how to do.
The industry itself isn’t gentle. I was training in a pandemic, fearing the industry would not bounce back. And then, I graduated during an industry-wide strike. No roadmap. No guaranteed opportunities. And navigating the mental health side of it all was a challenge I hadn’t fully prepared for. Rejection, depression, burnout, and the constant swirl of global unrest— all of that can shake your passion and make you question your path. I had to learn how to care for my mind and spirit as much as my craft.
A lot of us who come from immigrant families also carry this extra layer of expectation and pressure. Our wins aren’t just for us, they’re for everyone watching. I’ve battled imposter syndrome, self-doubt, financial instability— you name it.
And I’ll be honest— I’m rebellious by nature. I’ve always had a need to live in truth, and I can’t fake it just to make people comfortable. That part of me challenges people sometimes. It burns bridges. It cracks relationships. There were moments, especially under the intense training or leadership pressure, where that rebelliousness showed itself in ways I’m not super proud of. If I hurt anyone along the way, I truly hope they understand it wasn’t about them. It was about trying to hold onto my own truth in systems that often ask you to shrink. That’s how the hard work manifested for me sometimes. I cracked… many times… and I learned from it every single time. I still do. I just hope and pray folks can see my pursuit underneath it; that I’m always chasing growth, not perfection.
There were also times where the sheer pace and pressure of training cost me personal relationships. When you’re doing so many hours of intense training, or at the helm of multiple leadership roles, something’s gotta give. And sometimes it was friendships. Sometimes even family.
Through it all, I learned resilience. Learned how to ask for help. Learned that collaboration is not weakness, it’s strength. Learned how to prioritize mental well-being so that the passion stays alive. I know what it feels like to not have a clear path. I want to help build one for others.
Thanks – so what else should our readers know about your work and what you’re currently focused on?
I’m an actor, writer, and producer drawn to work that moves the body, stirs the mind, and challenges the world we live in.
As an actor, I’m known for physical and emotional dexterity. I specialize in complex, layered characters who live at the intersection of grit and grace. I’ve become quite versatile, so acting is transformative for me, and my imagination feeds so much of my work, with language, movement, and physical life at the foundation.
Most of my writing is Afro-surrealist; dark comedies and historical fictions that lean into the absurdity of the human experience. I believe history is alive in the present, and I use language, structure, and world-building to explore the truths we often try to bury. I’m not afraid to provoke. My writing asks audiences to sit with discomfort, to laugh at what shouldn’t be funny, and to confront what they’d rather ignore. It’s a practice for them and me.
As a producer and founder of The Well, I’m passionate about creating space for new work— especially for artists of color, who are often rushed to produce without being given the space and time to truly develop. You know there is a layer of white supremacy in time management. Their focus is the NOW! rather than the HOW? The work can be collaborative and it definitely builds community, but it takes time. I believe art should be a gathering point, a replenishing force. I hope that The Well can support projects across theatre, film, and multimedia that reflect diverse voices and expand the cultural conversation.
Training as an artist has also proven invaluable in consulting outside of traditional performance spaces. You’d be surprised how often storytelling is the missing piece in non-performance workplaces. Helping leaders communicate vision, building more human-centered organizations, or shaping experiences that resonate with real people is vital to a successful workplace. Storytelling is a universal tool. Thanks to my journey, I’ve become equipped to help others tap into its power.
What sets me apart is a holistic approach to storytelling. I’m not just an actor waiting for a role or a writer pushing words on a page. I see the entire ecosystem of a project and bring both creative vision and collaborative spirit to every process. I don’t do surface work, it’s very deep for me. I also don’t like using the term “this is a safe place” because it sometimes can be abused and silencing, like anything goes because this is a “safe place.” I rather say “brave” space. That adds more choice and a recognition that we’re stepping into a vulnerable state with confidence.
I’m most proud of building a career rooted in truth and resilience. Like many, I’ve had to fight to get here, and I carry the lessons and the community with me every step along the way.
That’s also why I named my company The Well. Historically, a well is a source of life, of replenishment, of connection. You can look in that dark hole and not see anything but know that there is water in there; that it’s full. It doesn’t matter where you’re from or what you look like, the well serves everyone. I want the work I create, and the spaces I help build, to feel the same way. Open. Replenishing. A place where people can gather, draw from the source, and leave a little fuller than they came.
Can you tell us more about what you were like growing up?
Growing up, I talked too much! If you asked my parents, they’d tell you I was constantly asking questions and talking. I played a bunch of sports. None of it really came naturally, but I enjoyed the energy of it all.
At the same time, I was navigating a lot of cultural layers. I’m Nigerian, and I was learning what it meant to be Black in America, trying to understand where I fit in. I grew up in a strict Pentecostal household—my dad was a pastor, and my mom, who was Muslim before she converted, brought her own sense of discipline and values into the house. So cartoons? Off-limits. Secular music? Off-limits. I remember I saved up to get PlayStation 2, and my mom wouldn’t let me get God of War because of the themes— but Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas at least had humans, so that somehow passed the test. I was resourceful. I found joy wherever I could. Kayodè means “he who brings joy.”
Watching the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air was a main priority. I watched every single episode like it was a masterclass in humor, culture, and identity. And if I wasn’t watching Fresh Prince, I was outside. Yeah, I come from a time when that was very much the thing. We played outside every chance we got. I mean that outside smell was my cologne. The summer schedule was wake up, go outside, and you better make it back before the street lights come on.
I loved puzzles. I still do. I used to frame the ones I finished when I was a kid. I was proud of the patience and focus it took to see them through. I think that mix of curiosity, and problem-solving has always been in me. As look back, the limitations I grew up with actually fueled my imagination. I had to invent my own worlds and ways to play. I was a curious kid, always observing. In a way, that same curiosity is what drives my work now.
Contact Info:
- Website: kayodesoyemi.com / thewellisfull.com
- Instagram: @fkaseun / @thewellisfull
Image Credits
Stan Demidoff—SD Studio
