Black Poets: Bassey Ikpi.

…I walk into these arms, the ones that mothered my mother,
taught her how to mother me i inhale the history from her skin
She reminds me of the little girl
bow legged and round faced, holding roasted corn in one hand
and a fistful of chin chin in the other…

Bassey Ikpi is a poet, performer, writer, and mental health advocate whose work is intentionally focused on social commentary to dismantle the societal concept of shame regarding the human experience. 

Born in Ikom, a bustling commercial town in central Cross River in Nigeria, she spent the first four years there until she emigrated with her family to the United States. Her ethnicity and identity are prominent motifs in her writing and performances. 

In Nigeria and the United States of America, she has staged performances and organised initiatives bordering on causes she is passionate about. An example is the Do The Write Thinginitiative—a spoken word event organised to support the #BBOG campaign in 2014 after the abduction of the Chibok girls in Nigeria. The Siwe Project, another initiative of hers, launched in Washington DC in 2011, is a global not-for-profit dedicated to promoting mental health awareness throughout the black community.

Bassey Ikpi still identifies as a writer though she has referred to herself as an “ex-poet”. She has recently clarified that poetry was simply the conduit through which she could articulate all the emotions she failed to understandably express. Now, she says, she is healthier than ever and is interested in publicising wellness as a possibility, as a lifestyle. 

Notable among her writings is the poem “Homeward” where she speaks about her nostalgia and longing for her homeland in Cross River. The theme of childhood joy resonates through “Sometimes Silence is the Loudest Noise”. The tone is reminiscent of simpler times, times “when girls were girls and boys were boys”. 

Homeward by Bassey Ikpi

Today, I remember my grandmother
As she attempts to connect with her second children 
she finds the only english words she knows
from somewhere hidden in the belly of her 4 foot 9 inch body 
and instead of awoke she greets us with "bye bye" 
beckoning us into her thin clay colored arms 
She has my mother's face etched with time 
peers at me from eyes wide and dark like mine
I walk into these arms, the ones that mothered my mother,
taught her how to mother me i inhale the history from her skin 
She reminds me of the little girl
bow legged and round faced, holding roasted corn in one hand 
and a fistful of chin chin in the other 
still begging for Orange Fanta to wash it all down I remember her voice firm yet loving
"eh eh... mma bassey agi.. awai..." you must eat, then drink
sometimes I forget but she remembers the small scared girl carried away on an iron bird to America
Seems like that same bird has returned only to replace, her, 
that perfect girl with me this strange tongue tied woman, 
the one that can barely say hello
without the clicks and moans the dips and tones of the white man's language
She listens now as I struggle with atum adem

It breaks my heart to realize that I can only love her clearly in english
But tears do not replace the words love will not make it easier
make it less heavy
desire will not help me remember
what the words taste like flowing like the Cross River from my tongue

But this is not my only tongue
Insolent and heavy with the awkward movements of amber waves east or west this is not my village and my heart still longs for my grandmother's voice steady and strong crossing rivers and oceans rounding buildings of mud, thatched roof of steel and glass
concrete and confusion
still I am afraid that it will not find me here in this land miles
from the one that welcomed me into this world lifetimes before I existed in this cosmopolitan space

"nbong non yin ben yami?"
"bong non yin ben yami?" what will I teach my children?
what will I tell them of where l've been the earth that shaped me the hands that held me the land that made me what will they call home
and will they here it if and when it calls them my heart still holds the salt and clay of Ugep the strength of our women isn't lost in me
but sometimes I forget and find it difficult to walk in bare feet afraid to remember what history feels like dust covered and peeking from brown toes

oklahoma
DC
brooklyn
will not help me remember ikom
ugep
calabar
they will also not let me forget fingers sticky with fuu fuu swallowed whole
or tongues stinging numb from plantain fried in palm oil
But I have lost the grit and the grain of my grandmother's gari
I can't taste past this nostalgic lump in my throat can't stomach the reality of this my divided culture
African American
I am everything And I am nothing
Nigeria quietly begs me to remember
While America slowly urges me to forget but it's for my past It's for my future it is for my children and it is for you, grandmother that I must always always remember.
Keyu Usani
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A proficient article writer, research analyst and copy editor. I have loved books for as long as I can remember. From the smell of books just out of their wraps to the feel when I run my fingertips down the spine, the fonts and sizes, the various ways cover and internal elements are arranged as much as the places books take me to and the people I meet within those pages. Archiving poetry is a special passion.