Everything Here
Dennis Brutus (1924–2009) was a South African poet, educator, and anti-apartheid activist, renowned for his passionate resistance to racial injustice and his captivating poetry. Born in Harare, Zimbabwe, and raised in Port Elizabeth, South Africa, Brutus was fueled by the circumstances surrounding his nativity and became a leading voice in the fight against apartheid during his time. His activism led to his arrest and imprisonment on Robben Island, where he was held alongside Nelson Mandela.
You see yourself putting others before you, shrinking yourself so that you do not take up too much space, so that society does not label you a misfit. You keep going back to the man who has made your skin a gallery of bruises, and whose love you can no longer find in you no matter how hard you look. You tell yourself each day that it is for the kids, for the social security and respect that comes with being married. You look in the mirror sometimes, unable to recognize the you who now cares what society thinks.
Born in Maryland in 1990, Safia has lived a nomadic life, but she always identified deeply with her Sudanese roots, with Arabic as her first language. Living in America introduced her to a new language and culture and the tension between these worlds created a space where poetry became a tool for hybrid expression.
The Black Poets series, a weekly feature on Konya Shamsrumi's website, introduces poets of African origin to new audiences through original biographies and samples of their work. Usani follows in the footsteps of previous curators Richard Ali, author of "The Anguish and Vigilance of Things" (2019), and Star Zahra, known for "Dance of Dawn" (2018).
I read the entire compendium of Shakespeare’s sonnets in junior high school, not having the slightest idea what he was talking about in most of them, but loving the sounds and the mathematical arrangements of the words. Love Is Not Love (sonnet cxvi) is still a favourite. At the peak of my identity crises when I started to terribly fear that I did not belong and perhaps never would, I discovered Emily Dickinson. And there she was, speaking to my spirit. In the same way that the Psalms did which was a powerful crutch for me as I was estranged from religion at the time.
But I picked up the pieces, one by one, And slowly learned to let the healing begin. I found solace in the silence, and peace in the night, And slowly, I started to shine with new light.
I remember always turning back in the car when we pass a particular sculpture and I remember the sculpture, "a woman with long breasts breastfeeding a child". That sculpture was intriguing to me as a child
Western arrogant rationality, which tends to overhaul other perspectives has ushered every part of the world into the age of "posts": post-modernism, post-marxism, post-truth, post-humanism, and we even hear things such as post-Africanity. Fortunately, Africa has not caught the flu of this chaos completely. And, as the overfed children of hypercapitalism and consumer culture get exhausted in their boredom, Africa will be the place of what being human looks like—albeit if the Western power doesn't change us too soon.
