There are many ways to read “A Cult of Fireflies”— the best, in the company of a lover, a private picnic in a lush garden under the sun. Because each poem is a box of sweet, each stanza, a smile unwrapped, each line, a glass of wine.
Your days were no longer short in the university, it was mostly business as usual, but you had your own charms. Like how, when I took lectures at the old campus, I looked forward to you so that I would listen to the khudba and pray the Friday prayers. I loved the silence when the Imam’s voice travelled through the audience. I loved seeing the elderly women, who were regulars at the mosque, dress in their best attires and sit to pray. I loved it when the ladan said “a tsaya, a shiga sahu, a rufe salula, babban dan yatsa a kan layi, rufe salula malam”. I loved the imam’s voice. I always imagined how his lips moved, and his tongue rolled when he recited the Qur’an.
While growing as a little girl, I found pleasure in looking at the sky.
Renowned author, Aminatta Forna, once said, “If you want to know a country, read its writers.” Perusing Christopher Okigbo’s literary works would teach you of Biafra—a mirage of a country.
In 2023, my primary motivation was to express my frustration built up from a conflict of self-identity. I was (and still am) navigating this crisis: as the eldest son, a male child, and, in my parents' eyes as of 2017, something of a disappointment due to my decision to abandon my initial ambition of becoming a Catholic priest. I remember in 2017, after deciding not to continue with the vocation, I didn't gain admission to my preferred university to study the course I was passionate about (fortunately, I am now in the clinical year of that program).
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.
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.
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.
