Everything Here
Since I was born, daddy bought us books. He was a writer himself, writing stories in notebooks that ended up in corners of the house, unpublished. Had my father been born in more recent times, he’d be a great writer, I think.
I like forests because they are full of mystery and are mystical. I love that they are full of life and yet quite secretive. If you’ve ever lived near a forest, you get that sense of latency, something just coiled and waiting, a sense of fullness even when you don’t see anything but the trees. It’s like a hum, a pulsation underneath everything.
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.
Although a chapbook of very short poems (which seems like the poets’ attempt to test the water of critical reception), part of the aesthetic appeal of the collection is the poets’ use of language.
Curiosity is a part of my being. I always want to know ‘the whys’ of every colour, every song, every kindness and every decision. I am that bag of turmoil, I trap the swiftness in emotional readjustment so fast I cannot let go of the outcomes in a hurry.
But life isn't always like poetry, it hardly ever starts from the last stanza. Sometimes, you have no idea if there will be a last stanza at all, or if it will continue in long lines that do not have an end. Like the cliffhangers at the end of thrillers. And these cliffhangers of life... these events that continue to infinity like a recurring decimal, are the parts of life I struggle to deal with. My mind shifts and fidgets endlessly when it goes on a journey that does not seem to have an end.
I was becoming so good, too good that I could write someone’s destiny. So when my muse became tired of my poetic praises and my love, I lost all purpose. Soon I became an empty quill. Speechless. I reduced myself to a spectator, attending poetry events and festivals in Kano, Abuja, Kaduna or wherever I could, and from afar I’d cheer online performers in Orange Poetry, Hilltop or Alitfest, while I go snap, snap, snap, or fire emoji, fire emoji.
