Influenced by his philosophical studies and personal experiences, Nigeria’s poet Gabriel Ayomide Festus channels themes of grief, absence, and language into his work. In this interview with SEGUN ADEBAYO, he reveals how his father’s absence and eventual passing shaped his artistic vision, leading him to develop what he calls “spatial poetics.
Your poetry is deeply rooted in themes of grief, absence, and language. What personal experiences or philosophical influences shaped your artistic focus on these themes?
You know, it’s fascinating how life shapes our art in ways we don’t initially understand. My journey with poetry began during my Philosophy studies at OAU in 2013, but the real catalyst was my father’s absence and eventual passing. This experience taught me to observe what I now call ‘spatial poetics’ – the way grief transforms the spaces we inhabit. When my father passed, I realized I was dealing with not just rage and resentment, but this profound sense of loss that made me hyperaware of presence and absence. My philosophical background gave me the theoretical framework to understand this: how a space can be simultaneously full of memories yet devastatingly empty. It’s like what Billy Collins said about poetry being “an interruption of silence” – I found my silence constantly interrupted by my father’s memories, and poetry became my way of exploring that intersection between presence and absence.
You are described as a “cross-breed of Sub-Saharan and North-Eastern African poetics.” How do you blend these two literary traditions in your poetry, and what unique voice does this fusion give you?
That description emerged organically from my literary journey. Being born in Ibadan, which we often call the cradle of Nigerian literature, I was immersed in the rich traditions of Sub-Saharan poetry – its rhythms, its oral traditions, and its way of weaving community narratives. But when I discovered North-Eastern African poets, particularly Safia Elhillo’s work, I found another dimension to explore. Her work showed me how to navigate between worlds, how to use language as both bridge and explore. This fusion allows me to approach themes of loss and memory from multiple angles. For instance, when I write about absence, I can draw from both the communal grieving traditions of Sub-Saharan Africa and the more personal, experimental approaches I found in North-Eastern poetry. It’s like having access to two different literary languages, each with its own way of naming the unnamed.
Your first major influence was Gbemisola Adeoti’sNaked Soles, and later, Safia Elhillo’s The Life and Times of Susie Knuckles. How did these works shape your poetic style and thematic choices?
You know, encountering Adeoti’s work in 2013 was like finding a key to a door I didn’t even know existed. What struck me about Naked Soles was how Adeoti mastered this delicate balance between intense simplicity and profound complexity. He could take oral traditions and weave them into contemporary narratives in a way that felt both ancient and startlingly new. Then, discovering Safia Elhillo’s work – particularly The Life and Times of Susie Knuckles – it was revolutionary. Her ability to navigate personal and political landscapes, to make loss feel both intimate and universal, showed me new possibilities in poetry. These two influences shaped my understanding of how poetry can function on multiple levels: as personal testimony, as cultural preservation, and as a bridge between different ways of seeing the world. I learned from Adeoti how to ground my work in oral traditions while keeping it accessible, and from Elhillo how to push boundaries while maintaining emotional authenticity.
As someone who integrates African oral traditions into contemporary poetics, how do you see the role of oral storytelling evolving in modern African poetry?
This is a question that really touches on the heart of contemporary African poetry. You know, my experience teaching younger writers in Nigeria, particularly during that 2020 class with 14 participants in Ibadan, showed me something fascinating about how oral traditions are transforming. These young poets weren’t just inheriting our traditional oral forms – they were actively reimagining them. When I worked with ipissmedia in Ibadan, facilitating poetry classes, I saw how students naturally blended traditional oral elements with contemporary global influences.
Think about the way we used to gather around elders for stories – that communal aspect of storytelling. Now, we’re creating digital communities, like my experience with Word, Rhymes and Rhythms on Facebook, where poets from across Africa share work that carries echoes of oral traditions while speaking to modern realities. It’s not a replacement of oral traditions, but rather an evolution that allows these age-old practices to find new life in contemporary spaces.
Your works have appeared in major literary journals like Tupelo Quarterly and Eunoia Review. What do you consider your most defining publication so far, and why?
You know, it’s interesting because while these publications are significant milestones, what defines a publication isn’t always about the platform’s prestige. For me, my most defining work has been the pieces that emerged after my father’s passing. These poems, particularly those published in Tupelo Quarterly, represented a crucial evolution in how I approached the poetics of absence’.
Theres one piece – and I still remember working on this during my early days of teaching poetry – where I managed to capture that precise moment when personal loss opens up into a larger conversation about collective memory and cultural inheritance. It connected my father’s empty chair to the broader narrative of absence in African literature, something that resonated deeply with readers across different cultural contexts. The publication wasn’t just about sharing my work; it was about contributing to a larger dialogue about how we process loss and memory in contemporary African poetry.
Looking ahead, what major literary project or research do you hope to embark on that will leave a lasting impact on African literature and global poetics?
I’m currently developing what I call “Bloodline and Borderlands,” a project that investigates how empire and colonialism create their own geometries of language. It’s ambitious, I know, but it builds on everything I’ve learned about spatial poetics and the geography of bereavement. I’m particularly interested in exploring how personal grief – like my experience with my father’s passing – opens up into wider spaces of diasporic experience and postcolonial memory.
The project seeks to explore these intersecting territories of loss – personal, historical, colonial. I’m asking questions like: How do we navigate spaces haunted by both personal and historical ghosts? How can verse chart the territories where private grief meets public memory? You know, it’s fascinating how the empty chair at my dinner table becomes a lens through which to understand larger patterns of migration, loss, and survival across continents. I believe this work could offer new ways of understanding how poetry can serve as both witness and cartographer of our collective experiences of absence and presence.
As an MA student and instructor at Florida State University, you received prestigious awards like the Maxwell Courtney Fellowship. How have these recognitions shaped your academic and literary career in the U.S.?
The journey at Florida State University has been transformative in ways I couldn’t have anticipated. Receiving the Maxwell Courtney Fellowship, particularly while maintaining a 4.0 GPA, validated my dedication to both academic excellence and creative growth. What’s particularly meaningful is how the university recognized my potential early on – the assistant chair of the English department even sent a letter supporting my visa application.
But beyond the accolades, what’s really shaped my experience is how these opportunities have allowed me to bridge different poetic traditions. Teaching here while pursuing my MFA has given me a unique perspective on how poetry can transcend cultural boundaries while remaining true to its roots.
You were ranked among poets who “rocked Nigeria” in 2017 alongside Romeo Oriogun and Adedayo Agarau. How does it feel to be placed among such prominent contemporary voices, and what does it say about the current state of Nigerian poetry?
Being included in the 2017 Chrysolite Team ranking was both humbling and affirming. You know, when you’re mentioned alongside voices like Romeo Oriogun, Nome Emeka Patrick, and Adedayo Agarau, it’s not just about personal recognition – it’s about being part of a movement that’s reshaping Nigerian poetry.
What’s particularly exciting is how each of us brings something distinct to the conversation. Oriogun’s work, for instance, has this urgent, instructive quality that I deeply admire. What this ranking really demonstrated is the vibrant diversity in contemporary Nigerian poetry. We’re seeing a generation of poets who aren’t afraid to tackle personal trauma, political realities, and cultural transformation in their work. It’s poetry that’s both rooted in tradition and unafraid to break new ground.
Winning the What Can Words Do?! Poetry Contest in 2014 and the Green Authors Prize in 2015 were major milestones early in your career. How did these recognitions impact your literary journey and open new opportunities?
You know, those early recognitions came at such a crucial time in my development as a poet. Winning the What Can Words Do?! Contest in 2014 was particularly special because it happened in my first year of seriously engaging with poetry through Word, Rhymes and Rhythms. It was like getting a signal that I was on the right path.
But the real impact came with the Green Authors Prize in 2015. This led to co-writing “Verses from the Niger,” which was unprecedented for me – the collection sold 3,000 copies!
For a young poet in Nigeria, that kind of reach was extraordinary. These weren’t just accolades; they were doorways. After these recognitions, I found myself part of a wider conversation in Nigerian poetry. What’s interesting is how these early successes shaped my approach to writing. They gave me the confidence to explore more deeply the themes of absence and grief that had initially drawn me to poetry. But more importantly, they connected me to a community of writers who were, like me, trying to make sense of our post-independence realities through verse.
As a poetry instructor at Florida State University, you have taught courses on African oral traditions, cross-cultural poetics, and contemporary experimental techniques. How do you incorporate African literary heritage into a predominantly Western academic setting?
At FSU, my approach has been deeply influenced by my own journey as both student and teacher. What’s fascinating is how maintaining a perfect 4.0 GPA while teaching has given me unique insights into bridging these traditions. You know, before coming to FSU, I had experience teaching poetry to 14 participants back in Nigeria, focusing on how they could impact their communities through art.
In my FSU classroom, I bring these experiences together. I often start with the fundamentals I learned from studying Adeoti’s work – that ‘intense simplicity’ I mentioned earlier – and show how it converges with contemporary poetic techniques. It’s about creating a dialogue between traditions rather than presenting them as separate entities.
You’ve held editorial positions with Ibadan Magazine, Barren Magazine, and Animal Heart Press. What has your experience as an editor taught you about the evolving landscape of contemporary poetry?
I need to correct something there. While I’ve been published in various journals and worked with ipissmedia in Ibadan, I’d rather focus on my actual experiences building literary communities. Teaching those poetry classes in Nigeria showed me how young writers carry their stories, their losses, their terrors in their bodies, often without knowing how to transform them into voice.
What I’ve learned is that contemporary poetry isn’t just evolving in form – it’s evolving in function. Through my work organizing poetry classes and facilitating workshops, I’ve seen how vital it is to create spaces where emerging voices can find their footing. It’s not just about publishing; it’s about nurturing.
Your biography mentions that you are pioneering “Africanism and the Poetics of Absence, Distance, and Home.” How do you foresee this literary movement growing in the next decade?
This movement, as I envision it, emerges from my current work on “Bloodline and Borderlands.” It’s about investigating how empire and colonialism create their own geometries of language. When I explore these themes in my work published in places like Tupelo Quarterly and Eunoia Review, I’m trying to explore what I call the ‘geography of bereavement.’
Looking ahead, I see this movement expanding beyond personal grief to examine how absence shapes communal experiences. How do we navigate spaces haunted by both personal and historical ghosts? This is why my work at FSU, and my potential future academic pursuits, focus on developing these ideas into a broader theoretical framework that can help us understand the intersections of loss, memory, and cultural identity in contemporary African poetry.
Given your administrative roles, including Program Coordinator for the Nigerian National Poetry Prize, how do you plan to use your influence to shape the future of African poetry on both local and global scales?
I should be transparent here – while I’m deeply invested in the future of African poetry, I want to focus on my actual work in building poetic communities. My experience teaching poetry, particularly that class of 14 participants in 2020, showed me something crucial about influencing African poetry’s future.
What I envision is creating more spaces like the ones that nurtured me – from those early days with Word, Rhymes and Rhythms to my current work at Florida State University. It’s about building bridges between local and global poetic traditions. The real influence comes not from administrative titles, but from nurturing new voices and creating platforms for dialogue between different poetic traditions.
Looking ahead, what major literary project or research do you hope to embark on that will leave a lasting impact on African literature and global poetics?
I’m currently developing a project that I believe will push boundaries in how we think about poetry and loss. It’s called “Bloodline and Borderlands,” and it investigates how empire and colonialism create their own geometries of language. You see, I’m fascinated by how personal grief – like my experience with my father’s passing – opens into wider spaces of diasporic experience and postcolonial memory. I’m exploring how the empty chair at a dinner table becomes a lens for understanding larger patterns of migration, loss, and survival across continents.
This work draws inspiration from poets like Dionne Brand and Natasha Trethewey, who’ve masterfully explored these intersections of personal and historical loss. Through this project, I hope to demonstrate how poetry can serve as both witness and cartographer of our collective experiences. It’s about creating a new language for understanding how absence shapes presence, how distance defines home, and how personal grief connects to larger histories of displacement and survival.
My goal is to contribute not just to African literature, but to expand our understanding of how poetry can explore the territories between personal loss and collective memory. This is the work I hope to develop further through my academic pursuits and creative practice
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