I was intent on reading Saddiq Dzukogi鈥檚 Bakandamiya (University of Nebraska Press) in one sitting, but quickly realized this is the kind of collection one savors. In an effort to interrogate what is often perpetuated of a people and furiously preserve national history, Dzukogi has produced a book that openly laments collective loss and insists on embracing African culture. What makes this epic poem unforgettable is the intense emotion that floods each page鈥攖he afflictions and devastations are bright red, the memories are sharp, and the possibility for hope is unending.
鈥淭he tyranny / of the unknown can only be shaken off // by the light of knowledge,鈥� Dzukogi writes. Bakandamiya exhibits a daring trait of asking questions and inviting the reader to aggressively examine what we鈥檝e heard, too. Any impulse to look away, to rush through these lines to evade any sense of unease, is readily quelled by Dzukogi鈥檚 treatment of language, which is beautifully tender, spiritually charged, and fiercely urgent.
Tryphena Yeboah: Let鈥檚 begin by looking at the five years between Your Crib, My Qibla, which was published in 2021, and now, Bakandamiya. Are there subjects you鈥檙e still drawn to, even now, and have there been exciting new directions in your writing?
Saddiq Dzukogi: Thank you so much for making time to talk to me about my writing. It鈥檚 been half a decade. Sounds like an eternity when put that way. Your Crib, My Qibla is a different book, one that wrestles with questions that are more personal. Bakandamiya, though an elegy, deals with a communal kind of elegy. It draws a clear line between the personal and the communal and makes the argument that they are inextricably connected; it ventures into a collective memory and spirituality and the decay that my society has been subjected to in the name of progress. This is not to rebel against modernism, but a subtle protest against the ways we have turned our backs on the collective self of the past to embrace something new. Which in of itself is not inherently bad, but this kind of novelty demands we let go of ourselves, our stories, our culture, and our names. That of course is a rupture in our center that we cannot recover from鈥攁nd one that will render the self defenseless against the machination of the modern world. This all sounds a tad philosophical鈥攂ut beyond this mist of language, this is a book of lamentation for what, even now, continues to languish in the fringes鈥攈istory and its overwhelming consequence on not just the future, but now. This is what excites me about my current writing that focuses on building a voice that is clear about my place in the world, my story, my history. Which inadvertently means centering the voice of my people鈥攖heir ways of life now, and whatever relics remain of a plundered past. I have a subtle anger against the world in the way it constantly seeks to reduce the voice of the African鈥擨 am not committed to using that anger in the service of violence, I am committed to using it for change by mainstreaming that history, that perspective, that culture, one word at a time. To make the evitable pronouncement that it stands on the same pedestal as any other voice in the world.
TY: Was there ever a time when you dealt differently with this anger toward the perpetuation and misconception of the African voice? What are you learning or unlearning in yielding it as a tool?
SD: I think for me anger is a spur to act the only way I know how. To write. It is a force that propels and energizes me to write my poems. That is how I have dealt with the world lately, or even for a while now.聽
TY: I read that 鈥渂akandamiya鈥� is a Hausa oral tradition. I would love to know more about this act of storytelling and how you came to explore it as an artform.
SD: Yes, bakandamiya is the poem sung after a poet has attained the peak of his creative powers. Such hubris. It is a praise song that usually outlines the Griot鈥檚 biographical journey and creative conquest of sorts. I grew up listening to Maman Shata, as I imagine most people of northern Nigerian heritage, particularly growing up around the 70s up to early 90s. This praise song is usually accompanied by a talking drum, and the poem itself continues to grow and evolve. It is never ending. The reason why I explored this form of telling in the book was solely because I wanted to harmonize the poetic sensibilities that I have acquired later in life and that of my childhood, that honors my grandmother and Maman Shata.聽
I remember listening to him from cassette players in most northern homes, in the market, or the small radio placed on the edge of the barrow of the sugar hawker. I wanted to present to the world the way poetry existed in my part of the world and insist that there are many indigenous poetic forms with such history worthy of knowing. Medium should not subject and bound these forms to the shadows of undue hierarchization. What is spoken and what is written have solely one distinction鈥攁 difference of medium. And poetic merit is not established by the medium but by the art itself. This is a book that deals with myth and laments the loss of culture and that spiritual center that draws unquietly from the folks and the land.
Bakandamiya is already an established artform in Hausa literary tradition, the only problem is one of contemporality鈥攊t exists as oral literature. I think it is a problem of a Eurocentric view of knowledge and its prioritizing of literacy and the book. So, on another level the book seeks to force us to contend with other forms of knowledge and its preservation. And art is evidence of a sophistication that many African societies have been denied, only acquired after our contact with Europeans. Now presumably we owe that sophistication to Europe. But there is evidence of the presence of art, of course we know this, that reveals a lush history鈥攖o accept this is to humanize and elevate the pre-colonial civilization of African people, which does not comport with the image of the African and Africa of the contemporary world. This book is a celebration of a tiny part of that lineage. An emphasizer, really.
TY: Anger and resistance. Preservation and harmony. This tension exists in these pages, but I suspect that the poet鈥檚 body inhabits the contradiction too, perhaps? What runs through your mind as you move from one end to the other? What do you cling to? How does it feel?听
SD: I try to distill the irrational out of my action because even though I might do harm, it is not the intention. The intention is to resist in a way that is rational. And writing helps with that. If I have this gift, and the ability to tell a story is a gift, what story am I going to tell? Certainly one that affirms the dignity of my people, the complexity and nuance of my people. This is not to romanticize the African but to humanize that voice. To say enough, Africa can also speak, and most not just be spoken for. And indeed she is speaking through me, through many of the beautiful voices striving in all corners of the continent and everywhere else, despite all鈥espite all鈥�
TY: The collection begins with a line from T. S. Eliot鈥檚 鈥淟ittle Gidding鈥�: 鈥淲hat we call the beginning is often the end / And to make an end is to make a beginning. / The end is where we start from.鈥� Was there an ending from which you began to write Bakandamiya?听
SD: Yes, I like that quote a lot. The end is the beginning. In the context of something broader than ourselves, when something dies, it鈥檚 a fertile ground for something new to grow. This is perfectly illustrated in our history as humans. The end of one civilization is the beginning of another, we are a continuum and every individual is a quantum of interrelated stories. I started the book from 1455, after the death of Bayajidda, the prince credited with beginning the formation of the Hausa states. The story is told from the perspective of the animist spirit who schemed for the prince to come to Daura to rid them of the menace of 鈥渢hirst,鈥� the serpent king that stopped the village folks from fetching water. This is not as the original story unfolded, it is where I subverted the story to take back agency for the people. Bayajidda is revered as a mythical figure for the act of saving the town from that menace. As often, someone must come from somewhere to liberate indigenous people, which is a notion that the book sought to challenge. Also, I wanted to make clear that something else existed鈥攁nd our beginning is always the end of something, or someone. A closing chapter for one is an opening chapter for another.聽
What kept pushing me was my own mortality. I was sick, bedridden and recovering from surgery鈥 was talking to my mentor recently, and he said when you were writing that book, you thought you were dying but it was the happiest I have seen you. Something to that effect. It was medicine for the pain my body was going through. This was a difficult time for me and my family in ways I am not ready to confront鈥ut the distraction of wanting to finish the story, even if it was my last mission on earth, was strong and that kept me going trying to finish what I started. Trying to end the book鈥檚 own beginning, which began as lines in a notebook a friend gifted me.
TY: There is something forcefully and terrifyingly jolting about facing one鈥檚 own mortality. I am glad you are here, and grateful for what came out of such a painful season. I imagine that writing a book-length epic poem, particularly under the conditions you鈥檝e touched on, is quite different from working on a collection of poems. Can you talk about the process of unspooling one long thread?
SD: I think there are threads in everything we undertake, even if not apparent to us. The one thing I had to do was try to build the characters in each of the three books that make up the collection. Giving them distinct voices that I had to learn and relearn each time I returned to that character. It was revelatory, because I approached that as a prose writer would, keeping the lyrical impulses of the poet. The first book was built upon the popular myth of Bayajidda; I followed the original story and filled it with reimagined details. I adopted a similar strategy for book two, situated within the historical context of the first military coup in Nigeria. The last book followed mostly personal and biographical details, which is necessary for every bakandamiya.
TY: How does an elegy mirror the themes of cultural loss, national lineage, spirituality, and history?
SD: This is a poem of lamentation about the death of culture, spirituality, and history. Something has emerged and the old is no longer in our social consciousness, even something as foundational as history. In fact it has become controversial in many ways. Again, in the book we are confronted with a mourning for people, but more especially the mourning for eroding history, culture, and spirituality. Perhaps what is dead can be called back to life.聽
TY: In 鈥淗aske,鈥� you recount the horrific killing of Ahmadu and Hafsatu Bello during the 1966 military coup in Nigeria. You write in the epigraph, 鈥淚t鈥檚 not an Igbo Coup, but the optics suggest it is. The street believes it. I hear it again and again. I know the truth.鈥� Are there ways you鈥檝e come to think differently of your role as a writer in researching and chronicling history as well as interrogating what鈥檚 happening in our world?
SD: This section begins with the lamentation of the animist spirit who is all knowing and addressing the question of perception, especially in a process as delicate as nation building. Nigeria as an entity is reluctant to contend with history and its implications. The fraught political dynamic can certainly be traced to events that predate the 1966 coup, but it widened to a breaking point when a group of young military officers planned and executed a mutiny against the Nigerian government. However, the casualties of the coup were largely not commensurate with the region of the officers involved, which at the very least showcase a naivety that further complicated their stated objective of ridding the country of corrupt leaders.聽
This is still a contested framing, but I felt art would afford me the opportunity to assess implication, especially one that arises from perception; whether rightly or wrongly perceived, there is a tension that must be recognized and addressed. Unfortunately, the precipitation was a violent civil war that claimed many lives. Years after that unfortunate episode, the frictions persist and Nigerians are still wrestling with what it means to build a country. I think my responsibility as a writer is both to chronicle the world as I see it and make space for difficult, uncomfortable conversations鈥攈ow both the past and the present are responsible for shaping the future.
TY: There are striking meditations on collective wounds and healing, as well as a resolve to cast light on what is dark and in the shadows. What was important to you in writing about these themes? Were there underlying questions you were grappling with?
SD: Yes, a wound will not heal if it鈥檚 not acknowledged and tended to. And there is no great distance between the past and the present; it is a small veil that we call the present, hence consequences bleed from one dimension to the other and impact us profoundly. Chronicling knowledge was important to me, regardless of the resistance set up against it. I wanted to explore the history that was missing in the classrooms of our schools in Nigeria. I wanted to chronicle the history that is not acknowledged. I wanted to put Islam under scrutiny as a tool of colonization which is rarely discussed, at least in my part of the country. I wanted to question belief and present it as a remarkable statement of faith. Because questions are really the journeys we undertake when there is an interest to know. I wanted to know. Still want to know.
TY: How about we end on poets and poems that have stayed with you over the years:
A poet you鈥檒l read anything by: Derek Walcott聽
A poet that inspires you: Kwame Dawes
A poem you know by heart (or wish to know by heart): 鈥淟ove After Love鈥� by Derek Walcott
Two nightstand poetry collections: Deaf Republic by Ilya Kaminsky and The Half-Finished Heaven by Tomas Transtr枚mer
A collection you鈥檒l read again and again: The Waste Land by T.S Eliot
A poem for the new year: 鈥淚n Jerusalem鈥� by Mahmoud Darwish聽
A poem for a hard season: 鈥淧hotograph from September 11鈥� by Wislawa Szymborska
A poet you鈥檝e recently discovered: Zaynab Iliyasu Bobi (more like a poet I want the world to discover)
Two poems we should read after reading this interview: 鈥淗eritage鈥� by D.M Aderibigbe and 鈥渄ear white America鈥� by Danez Smith聽
is the author of A Mouthful of Home (Akashic Press, 2020). She teaches English and creative writing at Tennessee Wesleyan University.
