Afropean’s Tommy Evans exchanges notes on poetry with fellow lyricist Saraiya Bah, one of London’s finest emerging spoken word artists. As a poet, writer and performer, Saraiya posits herself as a chronicler of life as a London-based young Muslimah. Here she discusses the pitfalls of being a potential role model, her creative process and what can be considered a “permitted” performance style. Rallying the support of other female poets through “coffee creatives” and disseminating her work through modern forms of technology, Saraiya is clearly a 21st century Afropean griot in the making.

Saraiya Bah photo by Zara Singh

TE: When did you fall in love with poetry?

SB: I’ve always loved stories. The first poem I wrote was at the age of 9 and I recited it in assembly because it was that good! From there I was in the gifted and talented programme between the ages of 10 and 14 writing short stories. I fell in love with the literary greats like HG Wells, Wordsworth and Edgar Allan Poe; as for Rumi, I discovered him later in life and really appreciated his art form. I’d eventually lose confidence in my writing and left it for four years until a hardship occurred: my grandmother became terminally ill. I almost lost myself only to rediscover whom I was through writing again to get to the point where I am now.

TE: Did you find poetry helped articulate those emotions?

SB: Definitely. When I receive feedback on my poetry I find that the emotions audience members feel get connected back to their own experiences. Maybe people are not supposed to understand exactly what I’m feeling because ultimately we are all going through our own individual trials and everyone is tested differently. That’s given me an idea for another poem…

TE: Glad to be of service! So you’re saying the poet or artist is able to articulate emotions, ideas and experiences in a way that your “average” layperson might not? As a consequence, the listener or observer is then drawn to them and sees aspects of their own self in that public figure or role model but maybe it isn’t an accurate assessment – perhaps they’re just projecting their own personality onto them. We don’t see the world for what it is but for who we are.

SB: Definitely. And maybe we’ve inadvertently discussed what a role model is. Oh sugar! I am a role model.

TE: Like it or not!

SB: This is disappointing…

TE: Why? You no longer have free reign to act without account?

SB: Were someone to say I’m a role model it’s like: oh my gosh, so now I have to be even more careful how I conduct myself but perhaps that’s me looking at it in a negative way. I could look at it positively and be like: well, I’m a role model that means I’ve actively got to be a better person on all fronts.

TE: It can be an issue when the art and the artist converge in the mind’s eye of the audience and they don’t separate the two. I think our art needs to come with a public health warning: just because a creative produces beautiful art it doesn’t mean they possess a beautiful soul as well.

SB: Definitely. If you’re a punk rocker who happens to listen to classical music to unwind no one is going to want to know about your need for R&R. They don’t care about that. You have to be that punk rocker 24/7! As a role model there’s an expectation and you have to hit that benchmark every time. If you supersede the benchmark even better but you have to keep on going up and up and up. Going to popular culture now: every album the Rihannas and Beyonces of the world release or every concert they perform must be bigger and better than before. Kanye West worked himself into exhaustion to surpass his previous artistic accomplishments. Now scaling it back down to me, every poem I write has to be better than the one before; there’s a standard I have to hit every single time. It can be a bit difficult because some poems you can just write on the spot and can take five or ten minutes. Alternatively, some poems can take a year or longer to write depending on the content. There are some poems I’ve written where I thought I’d finished them but upon revisiting them I added more to the piece. That’s why I love poetry so much because there is no “The End” to it. Plus poems are super short to write and complete; I do a wide range of writing and although I love writing prose I hate it at the same time because I can never finish! That’s one of my goals for 2017: to complete the supernatural fiction story that I started in 2010.

TE: Sounds scary. Is there a clown in it?

SB: No clowns!

TE: Phew – clowns are terrifying! Back to the creative process. I’m intrigued as to how you go about composing poems. I know how I do it – when inspiration hits I just have to write.

SB: That’s pretty much what I do myself [shows poetry book].

TE: Just looking at the way you compose words on a page I’m struck by how structured it all is. I, however, have never been able to write in a linear order. I flood the page with thoughts and rhyming couplets then connect these disparate themes with scrawled lines. My writing resembles the random ramblings of The Joker from Batman!

SB: This work is not completed. You’ll see a lot of scrubbing out and redrafting of things and whatnot. I never really type things. I always write on paper because I like the visceral feeling of writing – I’m a geek.

TE: Likewise.

SB: One time I nearly lost my book, which had A LOT of my work in it, and I nearly had a heart failure! I didn’t realise until I needed to write in it but I’d left it at an event where I’d recited my poetry. Fortunately, the organisers found it and kept it for me. Basically, I have completed poems and incomplete ones in these folders on my iPhone. If I’ve written something down on paper I take a photo of it.

TE: A fascinating technique. That’s your back up. Your “cloud”.

SB: In case I ever lose a book.

TE: I’m still relatively new to spoken word and very much approach poetry with a rapper’s sensibility. One thing intrigues me: how are poets “allowed” to perform on stage reading from a book? That’s “cheating!”

SB: [Laughs].

TE: Do you not memorise your work beforehand?

SB: No!

TE: I’ve seen so many poets do it.

SB: We can get away with it!

TE: How is it you’re “allowed” to do that?

SB: Personally, it’s a crutch I’ve been holding onto but I’ve been told categorically by a friend of mine – who doubles up as a mentor – that I’ve got to dead reading from a book, iPad or phone to move forward and break that potential disconnect with the audience. However, traditionally speaking, poets would read from the page because they’re churning out so much material they don’t have the time to memorise everything and then recite it.

TE: I don’t think there’s a right way or wrong way there’s just different ways…

SB: Does it annoy you a bit?

TE: Not at all. It just intrigues me! But my background is not in spoken word or poetry so I’ve come to this discipline via a very different route. When I started performing spoken word I still had my rapper’s head on so I’d literally prowl the stage back and forth because standing still felt like “cheating;” it didn’t feel like much of a spectacle for the audience. However, the ambience of going to see Septa live is different to seeing Suli Breaks live; they’re both fantastic at what they do but they’re masters of two very different disciplines. Which is cool. When you’re performing as a rapper or grime artist on stage the principle objective is to literally “move the crowd” (like Rakim said) physically as well as emotionally (and intellectually to varying degrees) whereas a poet’s primary goal is to move audiences intellectually and emotionally.

SB: That being said, having observed other poets who do use apparatus-

TE: That’s an interesting way to describe it.

SB: There’s some who are not engaging and are just getting the words out; there’s not been much thought devoted to the actual performance. Whereas you have some people who use apparatus also have a technique like… Remember when you were in primary school and your teacher would read to you? Some teachers would just read whilst there were some teachers who would hold the book like so and employ big hand gestures and facial expressions whilst knowing how to drop lines. You’ll have poets who know how to emulate that style. I’m still discovering myself as a performer. However, I do feel I’ve mastered the art of evoking an emotional response from the crowd based on the control of my voice and how much passion and intonation I inject into it. Some of my poems I’ve memorised and I’ll feel comfortable reciting without a book but the majority of the time I rely heavily on my “crutches” so now I have to let them go! At the moment I’m going through-

Click to continue …

Afropean’s Tommy Evans converses with Ragz-CV, the visionary founder of non-profit organisation Poetic Unity and an accomplished spoken word artist, as well as a former ambassador for The Alzheimer’s Society. In 2016, Poetic Unity supplied alternative education and recreational projects for over 3000 young people, facilitating 60 events as well as hosting south London’s only weekly poetry night, ‘The Poets Corner’ at Brixton’s legendary Black Cultural Archives.

Ragz-CV

TE: What’s the story behind the name Ragz-CV?

RCV: I was in a group called Cleverly Versatile around 2005. I wanted our name to say what we do and show who we are. At the time my group member could play guitar, he could DJ, he could rap and he could play keys; myself: I could DJ, play keys, produce and rap so we were clever with it but versatile as well. So I was like: ‘Cleverly Versatile’ – it rolls off the tongue. ‘Cos there’s so many people out there that could be known as ‘Ragz’, it’s kind of a bait name, so I added the CV to it so no-one could ever have that name. Also, if anyone ever asks what it means it’s incorporated in my name – it’s exactly what I am. To answer where Ragz came from: that’s from when I was a kid. When I was in secondary school, I think I was about 12, people started calling me Ragz ‘cause I was so blunt. I would say what was on my mind – you know how people say you’re so raggo!

TE: Yeah [laughs].

RCV: That’s me. I’ve always been that way. I think people appreciate how I am because they know they’re getting the truth. Some people can’t handle it because I might say something that’s not necessarily rude but it comes out a bit harsh. People will be like: calm down Ragz! I’m not on a hype, I just don’t mince my words – I go straight to the point.

TE: You’re forthright.

RCV: This is me since I’ve been 12. That’s why I’ve kept the name ‘cos I haven’t changed.

TE: Speaking of change, how did you make the transition from rapping to spoken word?

RCV: That was very natural, funny enough. It’s very interesting how it all transpired. It was never my-

TE: Intention?

RCV: Yeah, my intention to be a poet. Never.

TE: Same here actually!

RCV: You know what I’m saying. Even now I don’t go out listening to poetry. I love to watch poetry live but I’m not necessarily a guy who’s going to go looking for it. Some people might ask, have you seen that Def Poetry Jam from ten years ago and I’m like: nah, not that I have anything against it.

TE: Interesting.

RCV: I’m not going to lie to you: I didn’t even know what spoken word was. When I wrote ‘Digital Slaves’ (Ragz-CV’s 2014 single) I didn’t set out to write a poem – I just write how I write. It was me but on a different vibe. In my eyes, I didn’t call it anything: I didn’t say this is spoken word or this is rap. But the more I performed ‘Digital Slaves’ the more people called me a spoken word artist. I’d come off stage and people would say, “You’re sick! How long have you been a poet for?” I was like Huh? Did I just do poetry? I didn’t even know. Anyway, I performed the piece for six months in different places seeing what people thought of it. By the end of that time I knew it was spoken word and this was a lane I needed to go down because people listen to spoken word. I’ve always been an artist of substance with a message that needs to be said and the power of words allows me to do that.

TE: What was the origin of Poetic Unity?

RCV: I had this idea of bringing a group of poets together and to start doing videos about important issues. Now my coming from the music scene, I hardly knew any poets at this point so a presenter I knew at a radio station helped facilitate a meeting with 20 poets and that’s where I shared my vision. It was early 2015 when we had the meeting and subsequent writing sessions at the Royal Festival Hall. We ended up shooting two videos, one on domestic violence and one on social issues. Anyway, I wanted to take it further and being around all these poets sparked Poetic Unity – the unity between us.

TE: So that’s where the name came from.

RCV: Yeah, I had two names in my head: ‘Spoken Unity’ or ‘Poetic Unity’. Now I consider myself a spoken word artist and that approach is a bit different to traditional poetry – which is why I leant more towards Spoken Unity at first. When I thought about it more it didn’t make sense: the name could be misinterpreted and people might not have understood that it referred to poetry. You can’t say ‘Spoken Word Unity’ – it’s too much – so in the end I decided to go with Poetic Unity as it sounded better.

TE: So Poetic Unity and by extension The Poets Corner have literally only been in existence for the past couple of years?

RCV: It’s still very new but feels like so much longer ‘cos we’ve done so many things. A lot of people say that it feels like we’ve been doing this forever.

TE: Poetic Unity certainly carries an aura of being very well established – it doesn’t feel like a new project at all. A lot has been accomplished in a short space of time. I’m impressed.

RCV: Thank you man. If I’m going to do something I’m going to do it big.

TE: 100%.

RCV: You can’t do it half-hearted.

TE: I’m the same.

RCV: People that know me know that if I’m in something, I’m in it 100%. I’ll try my best to make sure it goes well. I’ll be honest with you – I didn’t want to do The Poets Corner as a weekly event – I felt like it would be too much work. I’m not going to lie; I thought I couldn’t do it. I was working a couple of jobs at the time when the opportunity arose through my friend Elijah, who manages the venue. Elijah wanted to add something new to the venue as my other friend Junior Booker hosted a weekly comedy night there and at first I turned them down but then I thought, let me try it. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work but let me see if I can fill the venue and fit the night around my schedule because I’ll have to be there to make sure it goes well. I didn’t want to host the event, as I didn’t want it to be about Ragz-CV, I wanted it to be about Poetic Unity. I knew I needed to get a young person as host to take away from myself and to embody that whole element of empowering young people – which is what Poetic Unity is all about. So I phoned Tevin (Tevin Vassell – one of the hosts at The Poets Corner). He hadn’t hosted an event before but he’s a positive guy and lived close to the venue, that way he’d be able to commit to a weekly event. I thought let me give him a chance and he was on it. Now I knew the first event would be good because people always come out for the first one, especially because it was free and it was evident I was trying to do something positive. The test was how the next few weeks would go… I can happily say from the time it first started, we never had an empty week and it’s always had that same great vibe ever since. The Poets Corner is the most important aspect of Poetic Unity as it’s the thing we’ve got going on all of the time. And since we have different people attending we build up our following, even if it’s just one new person a week attending or someone spreading the word. The consistency of The Poets Corner has been integral to the growth of Poetic Unity and helps us to push our other projects and events.

TE: I love how you have a slightly old school work ethic in that you don’t just rely on-

RCV: Social media?

TE: Yeah, you actually promote your projects in the real world as well as inside ‘The Matrix’.

RCV: Yeah, I’m 29 so I use to promote raves flyering in the middle of the night. When I started doing raves there was no such thing as social media. It was literally word of mouth back then. What I like about the old school thing is it’s personal; you build up relationships. With social media you might just message someone and say come to my show. Obviously, you’ve got to do it because you’re not going to see everybody, not everyone is going to come to your events all the time. I don’t mind who does or doesn’t come but I have to tell everybody that I know an event’s happening. Some promoters get mad when people don’t come to their events. Okay, they might not come to your first ten but they might come to your eleventh. You don’t know what people are going through in their lives, an event might be irrelevant to them so I don’t take it personal if people come or not. I want people to come because they want to come, not out of sympathy! Obviously we’re doing a good thing trying to help young people – support that, yes please but come because you’re going to enjoy yourself. I don’t like pity. What’s better than to go out and enjoy yourself and support a good cause.

TE: In relation to that, one thing I’ve noticed about The Poets Corner is how non-judgemental and supportive the space is. There’s a lot of good will that allows artists to develop their craft without fear or pressure.

RCV: That’s another thing I like. To be honest, it’s why I prefer the poetry scene to music and not just our event. In general, the poetry crowd are much more open to listening to performers, even if they’re not good they’ll still give them a chance. Whereas, I’ve been to music shows where people have had stuff thrown at them.

TE: Me too! I’m from a rap background so it’s taken me a few years to mentally adjust to the poetry scene – people are so much nicer.

RCV: It’s weird, isn’t it?

TE: I should have had some confrontations by now. I’m wondering why it hasn’t happened yet. [Laughs].

RCV: I feel the same way. I come from a rap background myself – a lot of us poets do – poetry and rap are very similar. Poetry is the godfather of rap. Rap’s evolved from poetry. But that’s what I love about it – it’s a supportive place where people can grow and not be scared to be themselves. That’s the important thing as an artist and in all aspects of life – just be yourself. Find the best you. You can’t compare yourself to everybody else – there’s always going to be someone better than you at something but be confident, believe in yourself and be happy with what you’re doing. That’s what I try to push out there with Poetic Unity.

TE: I think you’ve accomplished it.

RCV: Thank you.

TE: Any concluding thoughts? I was especially touched and inspired to learn how your grandparents played a pivotal role in your growth as an artist, promoter and most importantly, as a person.

RCV: I would never say I was a selfish person but before my Nan was sick with Alzheimer’s, I wasn’t selfless. I wasn’t that guy thinking about others all the time but that experience changed me. That’s why I raised over £10,000 for The Alzheimer’s Society through my music and events. My grandparents are the main reason why I am the man I am today. I’ll always say that. Obviously, my parents have been great; I’m lucky to have both of my parents in my life, I’m grateful for that. In particular, my grandparents have been a big influence on my career. There was a point when I was focused on just me and my music – which is not bad – but when I went through that situation I realised that helping people was going to help me grow as a person. I also want to leave a legacy. I want people to remember me for something that has substance, not just writing a good song. To me that’s nothing special. You might do a few good songs here and there but what’s the point if you’re not adding something positive to the world as a person. It doesn’t make sense. Treat people how you want to be treated and you’ll be okay.

Social media:

@RagzCV

@poetic_unity

Neimo Askar is a 22-year-old London poet who has blessed numerous stages with her visceral writing in a short space of time. Neimo is also a percipient photographer, industrious events promoter and student of Bioscience. Her interview with Afropean’s Tommy Evans quickly evolves into a conversation between two creatives concerning identity, expression and perception.

© Neimo Askar

TE: The most salient feature of your style is its subtlety. Your delivery is so understated it’s almost conversational.

NA: I like to read slowly when I’m reciting.

TE: Why’s that?

NA: It gives audiences time to digest what’s being said. Whereas if you go too fast there’s a lot of things that might be missed. You have to go home and watch footage of the performance on your phone to catch what was said.

TE: That’s funny, as the one thing my mum always used to say about rap was that it was too fast for her ears!

NA: Laughs.

TE: Perhaps spoken word poetry is more accessible to some… but back to your style. Is that leisurely delivery a considered choice or has it just evolved organically that way?

NA: That’s how it comes out. When I practice at home I don’t devote too much thought to delivering lines in a particular way. It’s more of a natural ambience, what the poem means to me at that moment.

TE: How do you go about composing your pieces?

NA: There are times when you have an idea come into your head and you jot it down – most of my poems are composed in that manner. I might start with a theme and build from there, arranging the words in a way I like.

TE: Do you edit on the page or screen?

NA: Both but I prefer writing to typing. It’s just-

TE: -More physical?

NA: Yeah, more physical. More intimate.

TE: 100%. Increasingly I write less that way, only because of life circumstances: I’m so busy I tend to write on my phone whilst travelling but it’s a non-intuitive technique I’ve had to learn. One area where I think we’re similar is that when the urge hits we just have to write. Are there certain things that trigger the process for you?

NA: Life experiences in general. I might be out, sitting on the train and certain situations occur. I go back home and draw upon particular objects, observations, experiences or ideas illustrating them through my poetry. My style of poetry is not just something you read it’s-

TE: -A more visceral experience?

NA: Yeah. That’s the word I was searching for. I prefer it that way. If it’s contrived it doesn’t feel sincere. It doesn’t feel like it’s coming from you. It feels like you’re just doing it for the sake of doing it. As opposed to having that moment of inspiration and then it’s just you and your pen.

TE: I can relate. I’m working on a commercial project at the moment and have found it so hard to the point where I’m up at night writing away and passing out on my sofa. In contrast to when a theme or title just comes into my head and the words flow easily onto the page.

NA: I get you. It feels less like work, more like your passion.

TE: Exactly. One thing Saraiya Bah [another emerging London poet recently interviewed by Tommy for Afropean] pointed out to me is that, either consciously or unconsciously, you import your experiences as a medical student into your writing.

NA: I didn’t notice it until she pointed it out. I went back home, looked through my writing book and noticed there were a lot of references. Every single piece!

TE: I always have an obligatory reference in my works to The Matrix, as I’m fascinated with illusion and reality. Our subconscious spills onto the page so I can appreciate how the body could bleed into your work, metaphorically speaking of course.

NA: I’ve been artistic from a young age, be it painting or drawing. It’s therapeutic: my way of relieving stress would be to pick up a paintbrush. I’ve always loved science too although I could never be a surgeon. I can’t stand the sight of blood! Anyway, I find it’s very quiet and private in the lab; working individually with a sample. There’s a sense of vulnerability in that you’re alone, immersed in your work with time to think and research, knowing that what you’re doing is impacting others. I guess the vulnerability expressed in poetry enables you to relate to people as well. A shared emotion. For me, that’s how the two disciplines relate – if that makes sense?

TE: Totally. I love the image you conjured of the lone researcher immersed in their project and how you juxtaposed it with the writer at work. The act of writing is a solitary process. Whilst working on a book a number of years ago the thing I missed the most was collaborative creativity. It’s a lot more exhilarating working in tandem with someone else, bouncing ideas off each other. But there’s also purity in the solitude of writing too. I can definitely discern the overlap between the scientist and scriptwriter, so to speak. Plus for me as an artist there’s a magic about science, as I don’t understand it fully. Conversely, as a creative practitioner, I understand the science behind the art, which can break the illusion shattering the spectacle on stage. I experience a greater sense of wonder watching Brian Cox documentaries about black holes and dark matter, as science is so alien to me. Pun intended.

NA: I sit in lectures with my classmates and we’re all just in in awe. The human body is a work of art. In researching the body you are exposed to its beautiful language. For me, that’s what science is: trying to understand your whole being. It’s fascinating. For example, the process it takes to break down glucose is so complicated, there are three different cycles and each cycle uses innumerable enzymes to do the job… it’s like you’re staring at yourself in a way that you could never envision. I’ll look through a microscope at blood cells and think: whoa, that’s me!

TE: How does identity inform your art?

NA: Day to day you might encounter racism and Islamophobia on account of being a Black Muslim woman so a lot of my writing centres on that. It’s part of my experience. You have to resist so many obstacles daily. Simply by existing you represent something that so many people don’t want to see. There are so many spaces where you might try to fit in and find you’re not welcomed.

TE: Does it get to the point where you have no desire to fit in and that becomes empowering?

NA: It does. You become unapologetic about your being. This is who I am, if you don’t like it, I don’t care. I’m certainly more comfortable with who I am these days. When you get on the mic people see you for who you are. Poetry can take away expectations: you become the words you share in the eyes of the audience.

TE: Now is that the real you or just part of your personality you accentuate to connect with the crowd? A “hyper” version of yourself that is performed?

NA: Yeah.

TE: The public then become enamoured with that one aspect of yourself you’ve manifested on stage or screen but the complete person is a much more complex creature. Yet the two are conflated and your deficiencies are overlooked – even forgiven – because you’ve been gifted with a talent that you become loved for. The audience might be in awe of our way with words as poets but off stage we could be very different people.

NA: People say I come across as very confident on stage but when they speak to me off it I’m more shy and awkward. My inner Neimo comes out when I perform. I think you’re quite the same though.

TE: Maybe it’s because I’ve been doing this for so long. I do think performance is an accentuation of character. There’s a certain ammount of control one can exert in that short period of time you have people’s attention to shape their perception of you, whether you’re a poet, actor or athlete. You present the apex of your humanity. All the best things about you condensed into an atom that’s shared for that moment.

NA: A perfect example of that is when I attended one event last year and the poets who performed – if you were to see them in the street you might think they were ‘hoodrats’. Yet there was so much vulnerability in their work. They shared things that you wouldn’t expect to come from them. Appearances are deceiving.

TE: So is the stage a space you can-

NA: -Be yourself.

TE: Like Kanye said: “We’re all self-conscious, I’m just the first to admit it.” I find poetry allows for honesty in expressing emotion. Maybe there are not many spaces in our society where you can do that so it’s a beautiful thing.

NA: Definitely: if you’re working 9-5 you rarely have time for self-reflection.

TE: I think that’s it. I guess many people, with all the demands of modern life, probably don’t hold themselves to account very rigorously. However, when you reach a certain level of gnosis you cast a much more scrutinising gaze on the self. The challenge is how to catalyse that awakening.

NA: Certain situations affect the spirit and if they do you have to remove yourself from that crowd or environment. Or you might avoid certain habits you previously indulged in knowing how much they impact your soul. You notice that in people too, for example, in a group of friends there might be one person in denial of their emotional and spiritual needs.

TE: So with regards to the company you keep: are there any poets out there inspiring you?

NA: Obviously yourself.

TE: Thank you. The respect is mutual.

NA: I like your style. It’s very distinct. It does have that impact. My mum is a big fan of yours. She’s like: where’s that cadaan [Somali for white] guy?

TE: That’s the beauty of art: if done correctly it can transcend and touch different crowds.

NA: Mohamed Writes too. His level of poetry is something else. Saraiya Bah: her poetry stays with you. You’ll be listening in her presence and she’s still there when you go home. Troy Cabida. He sent me a poem the other day and I thought I just don’t want to write any more! I’m leaving this (Laughs).

TE: I know the feeling.

NA: The thing I love the most about his poetry is its vulnerability. In our society so much pressure is placed upon you not to show vulnerability, especially men. To be in the presence of human beings who are not shy or afraid of being themselves, just basically existing – I’m inspired by that.

Twitter: @a_neimo

Tunde Euba (Comrade Edobor) & Patrice Naiambana (Greatness Ogholi) in Oladipo Agboluaje’s ‘New Nigerians’. (c) Alex Brenner.

Greatness Ogholi (Patrice Naiambana) is a rare political creature. A veteran Nigerian socialist tired of the self-serving political elite, he announces his intentions to run for president at the next election, as head of the People’s Revolutionary Party. He has established a grassroots movement – the New Nigerian Initiative – whose activists are trying to raise awareness about Comrade Ogholi’s policies nationally. Committed to progressive politics that transcend gender, age and ethnic barriers, Delta state-native Greatness even has a young Igbo woman as his running mate; the formidable Chinasa (Gbemisola Ikumelo).

Unfortunately, Ogholi’s message of hope isn’t catching on in key states. (As one character quips, Nigerians aren’t natural socialists). His overt atheism isn’t popular in a deeply religious country either. Without sufficient support, he has no chance of even making it onto the ballot.

A dubious lifeline appears when a defector from the main opposition party, the billionaire businessman and ideological opponent Danladi Musa (Tunde Euba), suggests forming a coalition with the PRP. Even some of Greatness’ supposed union allies are advising him to jettison his principles in the name of ‘political pragmatism’. He wonders if his ideas will ever see the light of day intact. They are all that are left him. After the recent death of his father and abandonment by his wife Grace (Ikumelo) taking their only child with her, little remains of his personal life to salvage.

Despite its satirical slant, lively performances from a versatile cast, and light-hearted audience participation, a familiar bitter taste pervades Oladipo Agboluaje’s highly germane ‘New Nigerians’. Some variation of ‘You need to be in power to effect change’ is repeated like a depressing mantra. Comrade Ogholi’s struggle to remain true to his socialist ideals in the face of systemic rot and cynicism is the same that preoccupies leftist politicians the world over (I feel for you, Mr Corbyn). True radicals are stymied by champagne socialists in denial and/or self-appointed gatekeepers of power. Besides the acerbic wit, ‘New Nigerians’ main antidote to the sense of despair is optimism about the growing political consciousness of the upcoming, tech-savvy generation.

Through the deterioration of Greatness’ marriage, Agboluaje underlines the huge personal cost of staying true to one’s vision. His estranged born-again wife Grace, who doesn’t share her ex-husband’s fervour, resents being a revolutionary widow. Nevertheless, ’tis a pity that the writer chooses to caricature certain social groups. The two main female characters occupy extreme ends of the spectrum; all too willing to use their sexuality to curry favour (Chinasa) or sour-faced and repressed (Grace). Churchgoers as a whole are depicted as joyless Pharisees; too heavenly-minded to be any earthly good. Agboluaje has bought into the falsehood that ‘pie-in-the-sky’ faith prevents Christians ever taking an interest in socio-economic justice.

Such lazy stereotyping is not worthy of an otherwise sophisticated and perspicacious analysis of contemporary politics in Nigeria and beyond.

Personnel:

Written by Oladipo Agboluaje

Directed by Rosamunde Hutt

Assistant Director – Richard Speir

Set Design – Jemima Robinson

Costume Design – Kate Royds

Cast:

Tunde Euba – Danladi, Comrade Edobor

Gbemisola Ikumelo – Chinasa, Grace, Waitress

Patrice Naiambana – Greatness

‘New Nigerians’ continues at the Arcola Theatre, London until 11 March 2017.

Caleb Femi – Young People’s Laureate for London 2017

Afropean’s Tommy Evans connects with Caleb Femi, The Young People’s Laureate for London. A poet, educator, photographer and filmmaker, Caleb effortlessly synthesises the verbal and the visual, addressing ideas and issues ranging from Grime music to black masculinities in his sui generis style. Caleb has captivated audiences from the Barbican to the British Library, from the Roundhouse to the Royal Festival Hall; accordingly, the two wordsmiths exchange notes on their craft as it appears on both page and stage.

TE: Please tell me a bit about your family background. I recall seeing one of your posts detailing a Hausa connection…

CF: My dad is half Fulani, half Yoruba and my mum is from Delta. I was born in Kano and lived in Jos - basically I lived in a Hausa area. I used to be able to speak Hausa.

TE: I’m still trying to get to grips with English! I admire anyone who speaks more than one language. We white Brits tend to take monolingualism as the norm because English is a lingua franca around the world but monolingualism really is the exception to the global rule.

CF: That happens to me sometimes when I go to places and expect everybody can speak English

TE: It’s a bit lazy, isn’t it?

CF: Yeah, it’s so lazy. I’m in your country. I’ve come to you and I’m speaking English and I’m not even trying to ask you in your language if you can speak English. It’s so bizarre. However, if someone visited the UK and came up to me they wouldn’t just start speaking in their language; they’d use English first and perhaps ask if you spoke their language. It’s weird.

TE: You’re travelling a lot at the moment: Germany, Canada, Sweden and France. What sort of work are you doing?

CF: It’s a bit of everything, really. Sometimes it’s for a workshop, sometimes it’s to sit down at a conference just to talk, and sometimes it’s for other reasons. Recently, I did the creative direction for Suli’s show [fellow poet Suli Breaks’ “Not A Role Model” show] – him going to Canada meant I had to go. It’s for one reason or another; I’m going to Italy in a few weeks time to work with refugees.

TE: Do your skills in the visual arts inform your writing and vice versa or do you keep them separate?

CF: I try to put them all into one as much as possible. It’s really good, as if the writing gets a bit much and I hit a stumbling block I can switch over to photography. Sometimes it’s difficult when I have ideas and I want to do all of them but it’s also nice to have that freedom of intertwining different disciplines. Sometimes I use one skill as a stimulus for another one.

TE: Likewise. It’s a natural synthesis of disciplines. I’m especially involved in the visuals accompanying my verbal expression, right down to the typography.

CF: Typography is so important when it comes to reading poetry on the page. I’ve sat with people inside and outside of workshops and a lot of them haven’t been able to connect with a poem because of the typography. They might say they don’t like how it’s been written or there isn’t something about it that’s visually inviting. It was a big eye opener.

TE: It’s such a precise science and one that operates in a way that people don’t necessarily know how it’s affecting them. On another note, you recently performed with Cecilia Knapp and Jordan Stephens [of Rizzle Kicks]. How was that?

CF: It was really good. They both have a great energy. They made it easy to come on stage and read some poems and have a conversation. Nowadays I really focus on if performers are going into autopilot mode. When they’re done, they’re done. That’s it. The question is: how can we put ourselves in a position where everyone is listening even though only one person is talking but there’s still a conversation going on. If that doesn’t happen then it’s just performative: you’ve performed the role as a listener in the audience and you’ve performed your role as the speaker on stage and we’ve all gone home. Really, it should feel more conversational where everything I’m saying on stage you’re responding to.

TE: Does that demand a verbal response from the audience?

CF: Not always verbally. When you come on stage it’s up to you to disarm the audience and recalibrate them. The first thing you need to do is make them trust you. They can’t see you’re nervous as it makes them feel uneasy for you. Secondly, you need to be a mirror. They need to see themselves in you regardless of what background they come from – they need to relate somehow. That could be in the way you say hello or the fact that you smile. You just need to be yourself. I then think about what poem I’m performing and how it is relevant to the evening because some people turn up and they do their poem no matter what. They don’t read the situation, what has come before.

TE: Performance requires emotional intelligence.

CF: Emotional intelligence, yeah, all of that. It’s such a science. Once all of those conditions are met then me, as an audience member, I feel like I’m having a conversation with you, the performer. Even if I don’t come up to you afterwards, the next time I see you or talk to someone about you or read your work, I remember us being on the same level and it’s easier for me to access your work or future work. It’s easier for me to read or listen to anything you do henceforth.

TE Do you have a preference for writing or performing?

CF: I love them both but I feel a bit exhausted from performing at the moment so I’m trying not to be on stage as much as before. There’s an essence of me that’s tired. I don’t know what it was. Just tired. Mostly tired of space. It’s very taxing on poets, whether they know it or not; it’s taxing when you’re in a space that’s not conducive to creating the prime conditions for people to listen to poetry. That doesn’t necessarily mean a quiet library; I just think we need to do better with regards to the spaces we choose. Don’t pick a space that has a bar that’s less than 10 feet away from the stage, little things like that. Don’t pick a space with a toilet next to it and people need to pass through impeding upon the experience; just practical things about space. Once you get that right then you can really think about the non-physical space and how to mould it. I wouldn’t want to sit on a roller coaster and try to read a book: we have to find spaces that work for us. Nowadays, people are taking whatever space they can get. It’s not their fault, London is London, but we really need to look for spaces or create spaces that are conducive to people feeling relaxed. A lot of my Muslim friends don’t really like to go to certain places where everyone around them is drinking whilst you’re trying to listen to poetry. It’s cool but let’s all just find a way that makes everything physically conducive to listening to poetry. When you walk into a place and you feel uninspired, you’re not going to be your best version of yourself on stage.

TE: Sometimes it has to be an efficient 1-0 “win” on stage if it’s an inattentive and indifferent audience. However, if it’s a creatively literate and enthusiastic crowd then you can go all out for that Germany thrashing Brazil 7-1 in the World Cup type of performance!

CF: I think you’re right. Some people try and fit poetry to their event and that jars me a lot. I’ve stopped doing that.

TE: I think I’m more mercantile: show me the money, baby!

CF: No, if the money’s right -

TE: The money’s always right for me [Laughs]!

CF: [Laughs] All of that can be testing, especially if it’s what you love to do but you’ll do it regardless.

TE: Agreed. I performed “for the love” just the other night and it was so fulfilling. The feedback I received was incredible. It’s interesting how your work can have a life of its own.

CF: Literally. That’s it: once it leaves you, the poetry is no longer yours.

TE: Any poets on the scene you’re feeling right now?

CF: There’s a kid from Manchester, Isaiah Hull, he’s 18, 19; he was on Kate Tempest’s show on the BBC. Do you remember?

TE: I do.

CF: He was one of the opening poets. There were three.

TE: Yeah, Deanna Rodger was one.

CF: Yeah, He was one and the older guy, David J. Pugilist. I really liked Isaiah. He has a really mature voice. He knows how he writes and what he wants to do. For that age, it’s really amazing. He writes very well with obscure references; you need to listen to it three times to understand each layer. I like him and Alice Oswald: she’s got a collection of poetry called “Falling Awake”. It’s absolutely brilliant but she’s very underrated. I saw her perform at the TS Eliot Prize and she gave the most powerful ten minutes ever. It’s like she was somebody else and she was powerful with it. She was not meek; she was hitting you in the face. It felt like she was looking at me in the eye. She was burning through the audience reading with such wondrous intent. Her poems are short. She didn’t talk between them. She’d give you two seconds to recover and then would be back in. At the end everybody was silent, then everybody just looked at each other and there was a huge roar and a standing ovation. It put me to shame. I’d never read as good as that and had probably read more times than she had. She has a few decades over me but I come from a performative space. Not only had she outclassed me on the page but in the physical performance.

TE: Which is inspiring.

CF: It is because I went home and thought I’m not performing for a while. I’ve got to step it up on and off the page. It has to work in performance and on the page; there can be no disparity.

TE: I love seeing artists better than myself. I’m not an insecure guy.

CF: Yeah.

TF: I had two moments last year similar to your own experience. It was the first time I saw Amina Jama – who you know too – and Magero. Both of them took it to another level and that can only inspire you as a creative to do the same.

CF: Exactly.

http://www.calebfemi.com

Urbain Hayo (Brother), Kiké Brimah (Sister) & Sacharissa Claxton (Lover) in Urban Wolf & Tom Wainwright’s ‘Custody’. (c) Lidia Crisafulli

Brian, a young man of Nigerian descent, is killed by the police following what was supposed to be a ‘routine’ stop and search.

The authorities’ insultingly mundane understatement ‘…There was a bit of a scuffle…’ is to suffice as explanation to Brian’s bereaved. The complexity of the grieving process is compounded by the wilful deception surrounding the circumstances of his death. Disbelief gives way to rage, loss of faith, bitterness, gallows’ humour and profound, unspeakable sorrow. Despite the verdict of unlawful killing at an inquest, the courts declare that there is insufficient evidence to prosecute Brian’s killers. Whilst his sister (Kiké Brimah) fights on, his brother (Urbain ‘Urban Wolf’ Hayo) scoffs at her efforts. Whatever low-lying resentment or sibling rivalry existed before Brian’s untimely demise is dragged to the forefront.

Devised by Urban Wolf, written by Tom Wainwright and directed by Gbemisola Ikumelo (recently seen in ‘New Nigerians’), the superbly-realised ‘Custody’ is already one of 2017’s theatrical highlights. It straddles traditional and experimental theatre with unpretentious aplomb. At times dialogue is chanted and delivered in a fusion of dance and performance poetry. This dramatic device is most often put to use as the cast recite the police’s diabolical ‘…scuffle…’ refrain. The voices in unison denote shared grief and memories. Brian belonged to no-one in particular and yet everyone who cared. Those left behind each assert the greatest claim of love for, and/or knowledge of, Brian; his fiancée (Sacharissa Claxton) most possessively of all. When the cast addresses the audience as if in conversation with the deceased, we are not merely invited to partake in their collective mourning; we are forced.  There are star turns by all, yet it is Brimah and Hayo whose performances rend the heart.

Phil Newman’s stark mausoleum of a set is a doleful playground for Wainwright and Ikumelo’s ingenuity. The stage is framed by an outline of Brian’s head and bordered by the paraphernalia of candlelight vigils.

Whilst acknowledging the Black Lives Matter movement, ‘Custody’ is not jumping on that particular bandwagon. Rather, it attempts to understand the narrative from a different angle. Hayo cites this as inspiration for the play…

“…The voices of the families of people who died in police custody have stayed in my head, haunting me and bringing me to tears. Staging their stories will allow more people to hear them and be inspired to do something to bring justice to these families…”

‘Custody’ is a gut-wrenching and terrifyingly brilliant exploration of where the personal and the public elements of these tragedies intersect.

Personnel:

Created by Urbain Hayo

Written by Tom Wainwright

Directed by Gbemisola Ikumelo

Assistant Director – Eddie Howell

Producer – Hannah Tookey

Set Design – Phil Newman

Movement Director – Cindy Claes

Composer – Dan ‘Sekrit’ Bilbrough

Cast:

Kiké Brimah – Sister

Sacharissa Claxton – Lover

Karlina Grace-Paseda – Mother

Urbain Hayo aka Urban Wolf – Brother

FAITH drama productions website.

Meaning ‘welcome’ in a native language of the Ivory Coast, Ayok’a is a new platform designed to make the work of black artists available in the form of fine art prints, phone
cases and t-shirts by emerging and established black artists from across the diaspora.

African Lady by TEDA © ayokadeco.com

The artists are hand-picked by the site’s curators and include illustrators, visual and multi-media artists, all of whose back stories are explored on the site in the form of interviews, bringing the passions and inspirations behind the art to life.

Untitled 6 by Neema © ayokadeco.com

Run by sisters Alice and Liliane Gbelia who hail from the Ivory Coast via France, Ayok’a is about reflecting their heritage and love for black culture and accessing the kind of artwork and fashion that they desire to have in their home. Given how much representation matters, the sisters and many of the artists involved aim to shatter stereotypes of well-worn African narratives, and reflect African and black art in a new light, whilst making it accessible for those who want to adorn their homes with it and generating profit for the artists involved.

A Little Birdie by Dope Lady © ayokadeco.com

Current stock includes art prints (framed and unframed), including Limited Editions; women’s t-shirts; and iPhone and Samsung phone cases, but the aim is to include more products such as greeting cards and home accessories in due time. Initially only available in the UK, expansion to Europe and the US will occur in the near future.

Noire by Artista Amarela © ayokadeco.com

Abstract Shape by TEDA © ayokadeco.com

Love by Artista Amarela © ayokadeco.com

To view the art and learn more about this impressive range of artistry, from Delphine Alphone’s Technicolour Dreamscapes; Infinite Minimalism by Teda; Pop Art and Feminine Illustrations with Dija Ouija; Pauline N’Gouala’s “Artivism” and Humanism; Ebz’ Art that Presents a Mirror to Society and many, many more, check out www.ayokadeco.com.
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Questlove Music Day
© ayokadeco.com

The following interviews are excerpts of full interviews taken from a Master’s thesis carried out by Abena Wariebi at the Universitat Pompeu Fabra in Barcelona, Spain.
Entitled “National Identity, Citizenship, and Belonging: Afro-descendants in Spain and Catalonia”, the thesis is an investigation of black identities in Barcelona, specifically exploring what it means to be black and Spanish, or black and Catalan. To carry out the project, outside of doing research on the topics of national identity and citizenship, Abena conducted interviews with
six Afro-descendants in Barcelona. Participants were asked about their identity, i.e. how they identify themselves, how they believe they are perceived in Spanish/Catalan society, whether or not they felt included in that society, and if they believe they are discriminated against due to the colour of their skin.

These interviews represent a small part of the black community in Barcelona. This thesis is in no way conclusive or overall encompassing. It does not represent the views or opinions of all Afro-descendants in Barcelona or Spain. Nevertheless, these accounts are powerful, enriching, and demonstrate the unquestionable solidarity that exists within the diaspora.

Gina
Age: 21
Profession: Student

Gina – Barcelona based student

Original text in bold.
English translation by Abena Wariebi.

Como española no me indentifico para nada. No. Porque realmente no tengo nadie de mi familia que sea español digamos. Mi familia, por parte de mi madre, es catalana y por parte de mi padre es de África. Despues, en España es como que la gente aunque hayas nacido aqui, la gente que no tiene el tono de piel mas blanco o un poco mas blanco, ya la gente Española no te indentifican como española a ti. Así que yo no me puedo identificar tampoco como española. Si los otros ya directamente es como que rechazan el hecho de que puedes ser de aquí.

As Spanish, I don’t identify at all. No. Because really, I don’t have anyone in my family who is Spanish. My family, on my mum’s side, is Catalan and on my dad’s side is from Africa. Then, in Spain, it’s like people, even though you have been born here, people who don’t have white skin or skin a little more white, to the people in Spain they don’t identify you as Spanish. Therefore I can’t identify as Spanish. It’s as if they reject that fact that you can be from here.

Y catalana mi identifico un poco más porque tengo raices catalanas pero es curioso porque cuando yo no era consiente del proceso de descolonización antes de que me interessase por todo estos temas de África y tal yo no me planteaba del hecho de que podrÍa ser Áfricana. Era como he nacido aquí siempre he tenido mis amigos blancos, mi madre es blanca y es la que tengo más relación. Tengo más relación con mi madre que con mi padre entonces era como he crecido con la cultura catalana, era como sabes, soy catalana. Pero claro cuando empiezas un poco a realmente pensar y bueno fuí a Guinea tambien este año en septiembre. Claro volví de viaje en plan con una mentalidad totalmente distinta. Sabes? Te das cuenta de quienes son tú familia, de donde vienes. Te das cuenta también que hay muchas cosas aquí viviendo en Barcelona, situaciónes de discriminación racista, que quizás pasabas por algo y dices no tiene importancia pero claro cuando eres consiente de tus raices y todo, realmente ves que sí que tiene importancia.

And Catalan I identify as a little bit more because my roots are Catalan but it’s interesting because when I was not conscious of the process of de-colonization, before I became informed about all these topics about Africa I didn’t realize the fact that I could be African. It was like, I was born here, I’ve always had white friends, my mum is white and she is who I have more of a relationship with. I have more of a relationship with my mum than with my dad so it was like I’ve been raised with the Catalan culture, you know, I am Catalan. But later when you begin to really think, and also I went to Guinea this year in September and I returned with a totally different mentality. You know? You realize who is your family and where you come from. You realize also that there are many things living here in Barcelona, situations of racist discrimination, that maybe things happen to you and you say they are not important but when you are conscious of your roots and everything you see that yes they do have importance.

Claro, como identidad sí que soy catalana porque he nacido aquí, mi madre tal cual, pero despues la gente te hace ver de alguna manera que no eres de aquí. Sabes como que comentarios como ‘que bien que hablas el catalan’ es como yo he nacido aquí porque me estas haciendo notar esta diferencia solo por el color de mi piel. Y bueno realmente no se de que manera identifico. Sería como afrodescendiente…pero no sé.

Clearly, as an identity yes, I am Catalan because I was born here, and my mum etc. but later people make you see in some way that you are not from here. With comments like ‘Oh, how well you speak Catalan’ and it’s like I was born here, why are you making me notice this difference only because of the colour of my skin? And well really, I don’t know in what way I identify. It would be something like Afro-descendant but I don’t know…

Gina – Barcelona based student

By Abena Wariebi

The second excerpt from interviews taken from a Master’s thesis carried out by Abena Wariebi at the Universitat Pompeu Fabra in Barcelona, Spain.

Entitled “National Identity, Citizenship, and Belonging: Afro-descendants in Spain and Catalonia”, the thesis is an investigation of black identities in Barcelona, specifically exploring what it means to be black and Spanish, or black and Catalan.

These interviews represent a small part of the black community in Barcelona. This thesis is in no way conclusive or overall encompassing. It does not represent the views or opinions of all Afro-descendants in Barcelona or Spain. Nevertheless, these accounts are powerful, enriching, and demonstrate the unquestionable solidarity that exists within the diaspora.

Name: Agnes
Age: 20
Profession: Teacher and Photographer

Agnes, teacher and photographer

“I think my mum is the only person in the world who thinks I’m Spanish. Because when I go out on the street, when like a policeman comes and they see my passport or whatever they keep asking ‘oh but where are you from? This says Spain; this says you were born in Barcelona but where are you from? Where is your dad from? Where is your mum from? So, I feel like, I don’t want to be Spanish.
I really feel like I’m Cameroonian. And in a way my dad always tried to raise me to feel like I’m not Spanish, I’m Cameroonian.”

“To be an Afro-descendant here is hard. Like I’ve explained, you never feel this is your place… ‘Cause I’ve also lived in France, and in the UK, and there are a lot of black people there and people that can say I’m black British or black French without having someone question how they identify. But here it’s like no one would believe you’re Spanish if you’re black.
I think I’m perceived as a black person. I’m not sure if Spanish people really make that separation between black people and mixed people. I believe through my experiences with them that to them we’re all black… A lot of people come to me and say, you’re black, but you’re not like that Senegalese guy who is selling on the street. And it’s like well, you don’t know how I feel and how I identify.”

Agnes, teacher and photographer

By Alice Gbelia

Wall framed prints. Three People Praying © TEDA, Flower Child © Rahana Banana, Pineapple © Natasha Lisa, Jimi Hendrix © Pauline N’Gouala, Untitled 5 © Neema

Cool art. Printed your way.
AYOK’A

Meaning ‘welcome’ in a native language of the Ivory Coast, Ayok’a is a new platform designed to make the work of emerging and established black artists from across the diaspora available in the form of fine art prints, phone cases and t-shirts.

Run by myself with the help of my sister, Ayok’a is about reflecting our heritage (we hail from the Ivory Coast via France) and our love for black culture as well as having access to the kind of artwork and fashion that we desire to have in our homes.

We hand-pick the artists (illustrators, visual and mixed media artists) and explore their back stories on the site in the form of interviews, bringing the passions and inspirations behind the art to life.

I built Ayok’a for selfish reasons: I had moved into a new flat and wanted to decorate my walls with nice art prints that reflected my African heritage. I shop mainly online so that’s where I started my search. I opened Google and realized that I didn’t even have the keywords to find what I was looking for. So I tried “posters Africa” and found vintage travel posters, maps of Africa, images of wild animals in the jungle… all the usual clichés! I then tried “African art” and it was no better: I found posters of lions, paintings of women carrying pots on their heads… I have nothing against these types of images, but I wanted something more contemporary.
Luckily, around that time, a lot of online publications were highlighting the work of black illustrators and what they produced was more in tune with what I wanted. I started tracking them down but stumbled upon another hurdle: most of them didn’t sell their art or if they did, the information was not readily available. That’s how the idea started taking shape: why not create a platform showcasing all these talented artists and allow anyone to buy the art prints? I asked friends what they thought of the idea. They loved it, so I just ran with it.

When it comes to business, I think that being black or a “minority” is kind of a blessing because big companies don’t care much about our needs. There are a lot of gaps that still need to be filled and black entrepreneurs are building businesses around those. You have Tristan Walker and Zim Ugochukwu doing great things with their aspirational brands, Bevel and Travel Noire. I’m trying to do the same thing with affordable art and Ayok’a.

It was very important to me to create a transactional site and not just a platform to showcase art. The only way artists can continue to create is if we buy from them. Every sale on ayokadeco.com pays an artist. And our success will open more doors for them. I’ve been interviewed by the BBC and I brought some of my artists with me, to give them additional exposure. They are the best placed to discuss issues of representation in the art world. In their work, they make a point of depicting black people in ways that we rarely see. Adekunle Adeleke’s portraits are very moody and show a vulnerability that is rarely associated with black men. Neema draws African women that are sensual and free, not your typical “Mama Africa”, to use her own words. Delphine Alphonse draws women with gorgeous, magical afros because she wants to fight that perception that Afro hair is not beautiful.

Current stock includes art prints (framed, unframed and Limited Editions), women’s t-shirts; and iPhone and Samsung phone cases. We plan on adding more products such as greeting cards and home accessories, so that our customers have even more ways of expressing themselves. Initially only available in the UK, expansion to Europe and the US will occur in the next year.

Follow afropean on Facebook and/or Twitter for more insight into Ayok’a during their tenure as #AfropeanBusinessOfTheMonth

To view the art and learn more about this impressive range of artistry, from Delphine Alphone’s Technicolour Dreamscapes; Infinite Minimalism by Teda; Pop Art and Feminine Illustrations with Dija Ouija; Pauline N’Gouala’s “Artivism” and Humanism; Ebz’ Art that Presents a Mirror to Society and many, many more, check out www.ayokadeco.com.

Use the following link/code for a great discount, exclusive to Afropean readers, on all products at www.Ayokadeco.com: AFROPEAN25 (enter the code on the checkout page)

Alice Gbelia © Pedro Nunez

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By Abena Wariebi
The third excerpt from interviews taken from a Master’s thesis carried out by Abena Wariebi at the Universitat Pompeu Fabra in Barcelona, Spain.
Entitled “National Identity, Citizenship, and Belonging: Afro-descendants in Spain and Catalonia”, the thesis is an investigation of black identities in Barcelona, specifically exploring what it means to be black and Spanish, or black and Catalan.

These interviews represent a small part of the black community in Barcelona. This thesis is in no way conclusive or overall encompassing. It does not represent the views or opinions of all Afro-descendants in Barcelona or Spain. Nevertheless, these accounts are powerful, enriching, and demonstrate the unquestionable solidarity that exists within the diaspora.

Name: Eric
Age: 32
Profession: Contract Worker, & Organiser: Black Barcelona Collective

Eric – Contract worker

Original text in bold.
English translation by Abena Wariebi.
“No me identifico como español, ni como catalán. Porque en varios aspectos, la sociedad y la estructura de poder institucional no reconoce mis derechos: El derecho a ser diverso…Me identifico como miembro de las comunidades africanas de mi ascendencia africana y en los totales como africano: Porque en ellas puedo ser y tengo derecho a ser.”

“I don’t identify as Spanish or Catalan because in various aspects, the society and the institutional power structures do not recognize my right: my right to be diverse…I identify as a member of the African communities of my African descent and ultimately as an African because in those groups I can be and I have the right to be.”

“A nivel institucional, por varios indicadores, ya sean públicos o privados, en las estadísticas oficiales y otros censos, tanto públicos como privados, me siguen clasificando como ‘inmigrante de segunda generación’. Yo no he emigrado de ninguna parte. He nacido en suelo español y mi cultura es catalana y española.”

“At the institutional level, through various indicators, public and private, in the official statistics and other census, public and private, they continue to classify me as a ‘second generation immigrant’. I did not immigrate from anywhere. I was born on Spanish ground and my culture is Catalan and Spanish.”

“No me siento español cuando sucede y sigue sucediendo a diario, los paros policiales a personas africanas o afrodescendientes y ‘afroespañolas’ en las calles. Eso es negar que una persona pueda ser ciudadana española de pleno derecho a pesar de tener rasgos ‘no-occidentales’.”

“I don’t feel Spanish when there are daily police stops of Africans, Afro-descendants and ‘Afro-Spanish’ people in the street. That is denying that a person can be a Spanish citizen in their own right, despite having characteristics that are ‘non-occidental’.”

Los hay tolerantes y que respetan mi identidad. Por otra parte, los hay que me perciben como un ‘fetiche’ o como algo ‘exótico.’ Muchas veces esto se debe por ignorancia de gente que no conoce otras realidades ajenas a lo español, lo occidental, lo ‘blanco’…”

“There are some who are tolerant and respect my identity. On the other hand, there are some who perceive me as a fetish or as something exotic. A lot of times that’s due to the ignorance of people who don’t know other realities apart from the Spanish, the Occidental, or the white…”

“En este país se pretende potenciar una sociedad homogénea donde mi singularidad queda en segundo plano. Desde cosas tan sutiles como los ” cánones de belleza ” hasta aspectos más profundos como la incompatibilidad de ser reconocido como español, debido a mi ascendencia. Mi ascendencia e identidad africana es minimizada u omitida a nivel individual, a nivel colectivo y a nivel histórico.”

“This country attempts to promote a homogeneous society where my singularity remains in the background. From things as subtle as the beauty standards, to aspects more deep such as the incompatibility to be recognized as Spanish given my descent. My descent and African identity is minimized or omitted at the individual level, the collective level, and the historical level.”

More on Eric and the Black Barcelona Collective here.

Eric – Contract worker

Written by Andrew Kay

Ty © Bunny Bread

TY is probably one of the best-known British rappers, having cultivated an international reputation for quality rhymes over rich, dense and soulful production – much of which he has produced himself. His last concert in London was a roaring success of experimentation and tradition, with TY pushing the creative envelope. This is his fifth album and perhaps his most realized and ambitious yet.

Opening with a nice, funky instrumental, this is a palette taster leading up to “Eyes Open”, a breezy, jazz-infused, piano-punctuated, keyboard-enveloping and buttery lyrical journey of optimistic yearnings and reflective musings, conjuring up dreamy days of sunny skies and peaceful vibes.

Cleary an autobiographical story of TY’s struggles as an artist, the song is about wanting a positive future, but with a note of caution.

“Somehow Somewhere Someway” continues the jazzy vibes, recalling the best of A Tribe Called Quest, as the song warms the soul with similarly positive lyrics, EQ’d to perfection to give TY’s powerfully distinctive British-accented voice and rapping style the right expressive lane to showcase his talents. There’s a nice stab of trumpets nestling in the organ-flavoured sonic landscape. The spoken word poetry of Umar Bin Hassan 1970s group The Last Poets’ lets the song’s deep lyrical agenda powerfully linger.

“Brixton Baby” is a lyrical ode to the multicultural and creative melting pot that is South London’s hub and musical apex. A consistent album tone of jazz licks gives the song a liberating poignancy. There’s a mixture of reality lyrics and a tone of hope and community, illustrating Brixton’s resistance to mass gentrification and constant regeneration as a home of cultural renaissance.

The album’s title track has an energetic and jagged, sonic foundation, really emphasizing the electronic bouncy jabs and stabs, like a teddy bear being thrown down a flight of stairs. Complementing this chunky keyboard creation is TY’s wonderful wordplay and his distinct vocal range, which sounds purposeful and dominating.

Ty © Bunny Bread

“Marathon” is however a more reflective song; an honest ode to depression, mental health and keeping perspective. TY conjures up vivid images in his heartfelt poetry. The song’s production is powerful, but there’s a prayer-like lilt that softens the harsh realities of the song.

Hip-hop and jazz meld perfectly on “No Place To Run” over a rugged foundation, with female vocals expressing and lamenting the daily issues of living in poverty and with less opportunity. The addition of a mournful saxophone gives the song the kind of power and run up TY’s fast-paced style of vocal delivery requires, adding a required gravitas and energy. In contrast, “You Gave Me” slows things down a pace over a rhythmically hypnotic beat that sounds deceptively simple in its repetition, but which has added cymbals and saxophones and a lush female vocal sample. TY comes in with his commanding voice expressing gratitude for those that have helped him along the way.

“Harper’s Revenge” is the album’s most energetic song – pure hip-hop, the album’s party jam – a funk foundation with added 21^st century creative keyboard soundscapes. There’s a bouncy, excited and rhythmically jumpy and infectious groove throughout and some bossing flutes and a whole lot of vibes going on. The song uses the Malcolm McClaren “Buffalo Girls” sample to give what Rakim referred to as a “solo without an ending”- letting the beat ride out, extending the feeling of good cheer and playful energy.

“Folks Say People Say” – a classic hip-hop foundation of “Think” by Lynn Collins and used by early 1990s RnB group Today, amongst countless others – features TY buggin’ out in a happy place, illustrating a positive frame of mind. The traditional hip-hop beat is left to savour memories of a simpler time.

Music and spoken word are used to communicate strengths and to mend broken relationships on “A World of Flaws”. Given its title, it’s more reflective than pessimistic, showing that we’re all mortal and we have differences and commonality, often at the same time. TY looks to everyone to improve with an engaged and engaging mind over a smooth but rugged beat, with added melody and sophistication through creative and judicious layering. The vocal sample towards the end sums up the song and cements its power and purpose.

“Raindrops” arrests the listener with a head-nodding therapeutic infection – the raindrops on this song are like funk hailstones, embracing a Parliament-style chunkiness that envelopes the speakers. TY is clearly having fun on this song and so are the listeners.

The boom-bap foundation of two hands clapping on bongos and a rhyme scheme that playfully nods a head to the essence of hip-hop is “The Raspberry”. While the lyrics are clever and dexterous –  using women as a metaphor and an abstraction with a reference to Prince – the song has many layers of production, which is what real hip-hop is all about.

“As the Smoke Clears” feels like a jazzy Roy Ayers song operated on by knowing hip-hop heads. There’s a lovely combo of male and female vocals, chorus and assistance, with a dirty pavement, street-smart sensibility, like how the bastard art-form jazz was hewed and how another bastard art-form came about from jazz. The smoke clears from Miles Davis on a small stage to TY dealing with a smoking ban – the mantle goes from one to another.

“A Work of Heart” is truly that: a sincere journey of TY’s progression as an artist and as a human being. It is hip-hop and jazz with Timberland stomps on rough streets and late-night whisky sessions in places where the mainstream forgets, but which, out of that rejection and neglect and lack of opportunity, creates works of art, from the heart, with TY articulating a rage with intellect and talent that sees him at the top of the British rap pantheon, with an outward looking sensibility that should bring him a whole new generation of listeners. Those that know, know. It’s not all about Grime. Ty paved the way for those cats to eat. So, respect the architects and support this album.

Ty © Bunny Bread

A WORK OF HEART IS OUT MARCH 2ND 2018 , GATEFOLD VINYL/CD/DOWNLOAD/STREAM

Started in 1994 by Kingston, Jamaica-based Jamaica Arts Holdings, IRD is the annual 24-hour global celebration of Jamaican music and culture on July One. The 2018 theme is ‘Jamaica To UK: The Reggae Revolution’. The final list of events will soon be published on the IRD JA and UK websites, which are currently being developed. The hub events organised by BBM/BMC and its IRD UK partners, which include Reggae Fraternity UK, Reggae Village Trinity, Ready For The World, Goldsmiths, University Of London, HiCrEC Music, UKUNSIGNED and Brent Black Music Co-op, consists of:

• ‘Reggae Tree’ planting in Harlesden to underscore Harlesden and Brent’s claim to being the Reggae capital of British Reggae. It is hoped the ‘Reggae Tree’ would have become one of the north-west London borough’s cultural assets by the time Brent celebrates its Borough of Culture status in 2020.
• A day’s conference of talks, films, music and awards covering Reggae history, copyright, highlighting Reggae sector issues and some the veterans in front and behind the microphone.
• A Reggae @ 50 photographic exhibition commemorating ‘Women In Reggae’.
• HiCrEC Music in association with BBM/BMC, UKUNSIGNED and BBMC (Brent Black Music Co-op) will celebrate IRD, British Black Music Month and Brent Black Music History Live with a live concert highlighting production and performing group Ruff Cutt’s 35 years plus career and performances by British and Jamaican reggae acts who have had a career association with Brent. Since the earliest 1960s, Brent has been the cornerstone of Reggae music in the UK. The borough’s influence stretches from behind the scenes in management, recording and distribution, through to local and international singers and musicians.
• Satellite events by IRD UK Collective members include a Catch A Fire club night, and a veteran UK sound system will be organising a special all-night session.

IRD events celebrate the best of Jamaican music and culture promoting 1Love and all performances and audio visual content must be devoid of racist, sexist, misogynistic and foul language or imagery.

For more information and details about acquiring an event licence, please email: editor@BritishBlackMusic.com.

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Daliso Chaponda © Steve Ullathorne

Malawian comic Daliso Chaponda effuses good cheer. Even the timbre of his distinctive speaking voice rings with bonhomie. Few can boast of that.It comes in handy for someone who likes to push his audience’s buttons. Having immersed myself in Chaponda’s world as preparation for our interview, I have a few historical bones to pick regarding his BBC radio show Citizen of Nowhere. I won’t be going easy on him. Chaponda isn’t fazed. ‘All art is a dialogue, not a monologue’, he offers magnanimously. It’s the first of many pithy nuggets.

The title of Chaponda’s weekly broadcast is apt. Born in Zambia, he has lived in Kenya, Swaziland, Thailand, Somalia and Canada. The list is not exhaustive. Contrary to expectation, Daliso is not a super-polyglot.

‘I can say hello and ask for directions in a lot of languages but I’m only fluent in English -maybe French to an extent. I was only in one place for one or two years. I don’t have an ear for languages.’

Daliso became familiar with life as a global citizen very early on.

‘I was going to an expensive school in Kenya which, absurdly, was British. I learned English, French and Latin. There were only three black people in my class. It’s only when I left and look back that I realise how bizarre it was.’

Chaponda’s father went from humble beginnings as a refugee to becoming a senior diplomat. Having embarked on a career as potentially masochistic as stand-up comedy, would Daliso say resilience is in his blood?

‘It caused me to take for granted that you could do absolutely anything no matter how bonkers’ he reflects ‘It’s only when speaking to other people that I realise not every child has that. I didn’t think my race or that I might not be talented in something would ever stop me. I’d grown up in a house where I had parents who were born in villages and one became a doctor, the other a high commissioner of the UN.’

Chaponda is remarkably self-assured, treading the right line between confidence and cockiness. It’s endearing. And useful. Debilitating self-doubt would do him no good as a performer.

Daliso Chaponda © Steve Ullathorne

‘I’ll be nervous before a date but going on stage, I’m more confident than anything’ he quickly adds ‘It’s the one thing I know I’m good at.’

Still, like the rest of us Daliso is subject to human frailty. He confides ‘It’s balanced by crippling insecurities in other spheres. It’s fine to be confident about your artistry if you’re insecure elsewhere.’

Prior to doing stand-up Daliso had dalliance with computer programming (at the behest of his parents) and journalism. His love affair with comedy began whilst attending Canada’s world famous mirth-fest Just for Laughs. He was eventually to play the festival himself.

‘I thought that would be my big break but then I had to leave the country when my visa was up’ he shares ‘I tried South Africa but that scene was terrible. There were a few comedians -who have all done very well now [including Trevor Noah, with whom Chaponda shared a stage for a month] but they literally built it from the ground up. I was very pessimistic. There was no industry. Little did I know they were going to transform the comedy scene.’

Daliso turned his sights to the UK. By the time he auditioned for Britain’s Got Talent last year, he was a veteran of sorts. I wonder thus what would have been the appeal of a novice’s platform. He objects to this classification.

‘It actually isn’t if you watch the people who do well’. He continues ‘I’d been frustrated because I’d done a lot of auditions. Despite the fact I’d always made the crowd go crazy, I never knew why I didn’t get through. You get all conspiratorial. I liked the idea of a show where if they don’t want me, they will tell me why to my face. I wasn’t getting any love from the mainstream so I thought “I need to cheat; find another way”’.

Daliso avoided the winner’s curse, finishing third. He hasn’t looked back. He’s currently on an extensive UK tour. And of course, there’s Citizen of Nowhere. It’s a diachronic political satire focusing on the relationship between the West and Africa. Listening to the show is a conflicting experience. With sabre-sharp insight, Chaponda dissects the liminal existence of Africans in the diaspora as well as global economic imbalance. On the other hand, the show inadvertently reinforces certain stereotypes about the Continent. It can be grossly over-simplistic (for example, why socialist revolutions stalled across Africa); at times even ahistorical (ignoring the advent of pre-colonial Christianity). Perhaps it’s the nature of the comedy beast. A show of this type nonetheless calls for thoroughness…

Chaponda is mildly exasperated by my pedantry.

‘It’s impossible to cover every subject within 27 minutes’ he explains ‘It’s meant to be a stone you throw into a river and then ripples. If someone has an interest in something you talk about, then they find out more.’

There are also practical considerations.

‘We record 50 minutes and edit down to 27. We choose the bits that get the biggest laughs. It’s a balancing act but I’m not even explaining it away. I am happy with the result. It’s a comedy show first and a lecture second.’

True. But there is a lot of talk on the programme about nuance-or the lack thereof. Wouldn’t it be better not to cover a topic than to do so too lightly?

‘I disagree’ is the swift riposte ‘I think it’s better to speak of it because these are things people are not talking about.’

As well as journalism and comedy, Daliso is also a Sci-Fi writer. I ask about the nexus of his creative outlets. Is it a question of mood?

‘It’s a question of what I’m trying to say’ he replies, ever the pragmatist. ‘The first episode of Citizen of Nowhere came from this personal realisation that as much as I resent a lot of colonialism, I am very much a product of it.’

Admittedly, Daliso addresses this paradox well.

‘On the other hand for example, I wrote a short story about the Rwandan genocide because you cannot make that funny. I don’t necessarily see myself as a comedian or writer first. I try to understand the world through art and what expresses that best.’

Back to pushing buttons. Chaponda has courted controversy to the point of run-ins with censorship boards and being threatened with arrest back in Malawi. Yet his motivations are nobler than mere sensationalism.

‘I generally start with pain. I start with things that depress or enrage me and I try to turn it into something positive. I cope with the monsters by making fun of them.’

It wasn’t always the case. As a fresh-faced young comic back in Canada, Daliso’s thoughts were far from subverting trauma. Then he had a cinematic-related epiphany.

‘When I was a 19, 20 year old most of the jokes were about sex and silliness’ he recalls ‘then I watched Life is Beautiful and I was like “Wow, comedy can do that; be about the most depressing thing and be somewhat uplifting? I need to learn to do that.”’

‘That’s what I’ve been slowly doing. All of these are small steps to the big opus you write when you’re 65 and you’re in command of all the answers.’

How do you stop the line blurring between needless offence and pushing boundaries to provoke thought? (I suggest the This is America video as an (arguably) successful example. Daliso is yet to watch it)

‘I think the dangerous thing as an artist is to focus too much on the effect you will have’ he warns ‘You cannot fully control that.’

Chaponda is open to audience feedback, within limits.

‘I find if people are aware I’m not trying to offend them, they talk to me in a different way to if they were watching a shock-jock. I’ve even changed the language of some jokes because someone has said “Look, I see what you’re trying to do but the way you’re saying it is interfering with that”’

Make no mistake, Daliso is his own man. Nevertheless, there are cultural expectations that constrain artists from a particular background.

‘I think the biggest problem for ethnic artists is that we have to be talking about our ethnicity.’

Case in point, Chaponda envisaged his radio show to vary thematically from week to week. The Beeb were having none of it.

Perhaps this pigeon-holing is part of the global impact of US pop culture. Racialism has drifted across the Atlantic. Once again, Daliso begs to differ on pragmatic grounds.

‘Artists aren’t idiots. Years ago on my first ever TV appearance in Canada I talked about race, love and family for 10 minutes. They edited it down to the three minutes about race. You realise what they want. The next time you go for an audition, you do ten minutes about race and more of if it gets broadcast. The best way to not get your stuff aired is to perform like you’re not living in the real world’.

Although he’s under no illusion, Chaponda believes change is possible; if not exactly imminent.

‘The moment of progress will be when black people can do a show about parrots or juggling. We’re not there now. If you get a big enough audience, then you can do your parrot show. You can’t do it when people don’t know who you are. You have to give them something to latch on to.’

Daliso doesn’t always receive the warm exception where he’d most expect it, even in the UK.

‘Those shows that are American Def Jam style, they want a certain thing which is not me. When it’s an African gig, I do well.’

The experience has left him bemused. He ventures ‘I think it’s because I grew up in countries where there is a black majority. Yes, we had historical crimes committed to us but currently, we are the people we’re seeing in all the television shows. I have noticed I am definitely less triggered by things than some [Western-raised] comedians. I think I’ll never have that same rage’.

One would therefore imagine that Daliso would be most at home in his native Malawi.

‘I’m more of an outsider there than I am in the UK’ he confesses ‘I have different values. A lot of my views are things Malawians would consider offensive. Now it’s good but there were some growing pains in my first shows.’

He illustrates by citing an example where he worked around the notoriously sensitive issue of religion using some biblical ingenuity.

‘By basing it on scripture the audience thought “Oh this guy, he’s read the bible, we’ll listen to him!”. To be an international comedian, you have to know different cultures find different things acceptable.’

The cultural landscape has changed greatly over recent years. After decades of African-American or Caribbean influences shaping the paradigm of perceived ‘blackness’, it seems African artists are increasingly getting recognition across domains. Heck, there’s a worldwide box-office smash set in an (admittedly fictitious) African nation.

Daliso attributes this to ‘… the rise of multi-media. There’s always been stuff from African culture people get excited about. People loved The Lion King; yes it’s an absurd version of Africa but it is Africa. People loved Cry Freedom. When I was young, there was Youssou N’Dour. Wole Soyinka won a Nobel Prize. It’s always been there. The only difference now is that it’s easier to find the art that you like.’

The gamut has nonetheless expanded beyond literature, sport and the odd African musician with worldwide acclaim. chaponda has been charting the maturity of the African comedy scene for decades.

‘I used to cringe at a lot of the comedy that was coming out of Africa 20 years ago. It was very broad and slapstick. Now I tell people “Watch this, please! It’s brilliant”. There’s a thriving South African, Nigerian and Kenyan scene.’

Daliso is optimistic about this trend overall.

‘There’s a lot more innovation in the arts in African countries. It’s rippling across the world. I think it’s a case of better art coming from Africa so it can be exported easier.’

Daliso Chaponda’s “What The African Said”  tours the UK throughout Autumn 2018

Twitter: @dalisochaponda

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/dalisocomedy/

This is an edited version of the original interview.

Daliso Chaponda © Steve Ullathorne

Inspired by the Harlem Renaissance, this October Afropean hosts a Weekend at Bozar, Brussels Dedicated to the notion of Black Travel. Featuring live performances and readings by Zap Mama, Caryl Phillips, Tete-Michel Kpomassie (An African in Greenland) in conversation with Claude Grunitzky (True Africa), Jessica De Abreu (Black Archives), Lola Akinmade Akerstrom (Nat Geo), Bernardine Evaristo, Amina Jama, Catherine Johnson, Inua Ellams, Roger Robinson, Nick Makoha plus special guest Linton Kwesi Johnson!

A weekend of talks and performances dedicated to the notion of Black Travel, curated by Johny Pitts, TV host and author of the forthcoming publication ‘Afropean: Documenting Black Europe’.

Within the general notion of travelling, we will look to complicate an area overly hinged on white, masculine, heteronormative experiences, and celebrate the gaze of a diverse group travelers who are often ignored.

Inspired by the conviviality and international politics of the Harlem Renaissance, the Negritude Movement, and postwar African Independence, BOZAR Brussels will set the stage for a weekend of art, photography, historical narratives, poetry performances, live music and panel discussions, followed by a guided decolonial tour of Brussels, bringing to life the myriad ways members of the Black community experience the world through travelling.  The weekend will also mark a relaunch and rebranding of Afropean.com!

Book tickets here

Old Port of Marseille © Johny Pitts

Bass Culture 70/50 is a four-week exhibition exploring the impact of Jamaican and Jamaican-influenced music on British culture, taking place in London from 25 October until 22^rdNovember 2018, held at Ambika P3, London.

The event celebrates 70 years since Windrush and 50 years of reggae.

The exhibition will feature previously unseen artwork, specially commissioned films, top industry speakers, UK reggae label pop-up showcases, live performances, and over 70 hours of individual testimonies, linking – for the first time – the memories and experiences of black British musicians, industry practitioners, academics and audiences.

Contributors include Benjamin Zephaniah, Steel Pulse, Linton Kwesi Johnson, Sir Lloyd Coxsone, Don Letts, Blacker Dread, Carroll Thompson, Dennis Bovell, and Janet Kay.

The exhibition will also include a ‘Rude Boy Catwalk’, with attendees invited to come dressed as they were when they first experienced a gig influenced by Jamaican music, be it ska or reggae, jungle or grime. Taking place on 9 November, the collaborative catwalk will be the first of its kind to reflect on five decades of fashion inspired by these genres. There will also be a mini film festival premiering ‘Bass Culture’, a 60-minute documentary mapping the impact of Jamaican music from a youth perspective.

Curated by Bass Culture Research, a three-year Arts and Humanities Research Council funded project set up to explore the impact of Jamaican music in the UK, the organisation has already made waves with The Grime Report, which led to the withdrawal of Form 696, a controversial risk assessment form criticised for being discriminatory and targeting genres such as grime.

While Jamaican music has been fundamental to the development of multicultural Britain, its influence has arguably never been recognised. Following recent moves to ramp up police stop and search powers, together with claims that Jamaican-influenced genres such as drill are fuelling gang wars, marginalisation and discrimination risks being on the rise again. Bass Culture 70/50 seeks to challenge these negative interpretations and rather recognise the impact of Jamaican culture on not only the musical canon but on British culture and identity itself.

Partners of the exhibition include the AHRC, Black Cultural Archives, British Library, SOAS, Goldsmiths University, Urbanimage and Camera Press.

Mykaell Riley, Principal Investigator and Director of the Bass Culture Music Unit at the University of Westminster, and former member of Steel Pulse, said “This is the story of the soundtrack to multiculturalism, a hidden history that is still impacting on new music.”

Location: Ambika P3, 35 Marylebone Rd, London NW1 5LS

Free entry

https://www.facebook.com/events/326479508118773/

http://blackmusicresearchunit.co.uk/

https://twitter.com/basscultureduk

https://www.facebook.com/BassCulturedUK/

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC-8gvfTtVQqiZE9rR0YNnlA/

*** Note: Tickets can only be purchased online BEFORE the event. Take advantage of the EARLY BIRD tickets before they all go! ***

Ticket link below:
https://shoobs.com/events/35201/bmt-presents-the-songbook

Written by Tola Ositelu

I have been told more than once that I have a freakishly good long term memory. It is thus a bitter irony that, despite the numerous mental titbits I have retained from infancy, my one brief encounter with Helen Folasade Adu – or Sade as she is better known – has disappeared from the recesses of my brain.

As my mother tells it, we were waiting in Lagos airport for our plane back to the UK. Sade was also returning to Blighty from one of her frequent trips to Nigeria. It was the early/mid-‘80s. Sade and her band had just started taking the world by quiet storm with their unique brand of soulful pop on a smoothed-out jazz tip. Diamond Life, their debut, eventually scooped a Best Newcomer Grammy. Sade herself was one of the few recording artists to ever grace the cover of Time magazine.

Even as a tot, I would have been well aware of whom she was. According to mum, Ms Adu was so unassuming even the personnel didn’t hassle her (anyone who’s passed through Murtala Muhammad would understand this isn’t common), instead giving her a speedy VIP boarding pass. She graciously signed some autographs before entering the plane.

As this quintessentially Afropean icon turns 60 this month, I pause once more to consider Sade’s enduring cultural and personal impact.

Sade on stage

First there’s the matter of shared patrimony. Both of us carry Yoruba monikers (Folasade roughly translates as ‘The crown bestows wealth’). I’ll forever be grateful she did not retreat to the safety of the Anglo-Saxon ‘Helen’, in the process introducing an indigenous West African name – even if often mispronounced – to the mainstream.

I dare say that it would be nigh impossible for anyone of Nigerian origin growing up in the ‘80s and ‘90s to be unaware of Sade. She always just was. Born on 16 January 1959 in Ibadan, to an English mother and Nigerian father, she is very probably one of Naija’s most celebrated exports.

I have distinct memories of my mum singing Love Is Stronger than Pride when Sade released the (almost) eponymous album. I recall studying the midnight-blue artwork of the family copy of Promise on vinyl, as well as the iconic shots of her performing at Live Aid ‘85; hair gelled and signature long plait hanging to the middle of her back.

I equally remember reading a rare and intimate interview with Sade in a Sunday supplement on the release of the Love Deluxe record circa 1992. I would admire the mocha-gorgeous album artwork of mum’s cassette copy. I acquired a decent knowledge of Sade’s back catalogue but true fandom was (re)kindled in my early 20s. Back in the day, what was then Jazz FM, used to keep the love alive by playing Sade tunes. As an undergraduate living in halls, I watched the MOBO ceremony with excitement when the band made one of their legendary comebacks after yet another ludicrously long (eight-year) sabbatical. I was ticked off at the audience for speaking over the performance, not to mention the general lukewarm reception in the UK to the band’s return with Lovers Rockin 2000.

Ms Adu’s alluring beauty and statuesque physique, combined with her effortless sophistication, makes her the stuff of myth. Sade’s contemporaries speak of her simple elegance. Her distinguishing features – slender neck, wide-set feline eyes, thick eyebrows, broad forehead and full lips- need little adornment. Adu herself once described her image as ‘stark’. She didn’t romance the camera in her promos. You’d be more likely to find her staring into the middle distance, as if she has far weightier matters on her mind. Her aloof singing expression, muted dance moves, reluctance to display her dazzling smile and general slickness make her all the more intriguing. She is famously guarded about her private life, allegedly claiming that all you need to know can be learned through her heart-on-sleeve lyrics. Nothing sparks curiosity like the enigmatic.

After the success of second album Promise, Sade fled to Spain to avoid the glare of the Paparazzi. Like fellow reclusive legend Kate Bush, she seemed to eschew the fame that was an inevitable by-product of her success. This is a far cry from many of the female celebrities who have come in her wake; with their kiss-and-tell stories and insistence on flashing body parts that would make a gynaecologist blush. Sade did do her share of risqué videos – Feel No Pain and Kiss Of Life come to mind – but there was nothing truly sleazy about them. In regards to sex appeal, she embodies the less-is-more ethos; subtle tantalisation which leaves something to the imagination. I am grateful to have grown up in a time when talented and beautiful women were the epitome of class; not chasing fame for its own sake and only receiving media coverage when they released new material.

Sade brings this same classiness to her music. According to an apocryphal anecdote, when she joined forces with band-mates Stuart Matthewman, Andrew Hale and Paul Denman, the former model and fashion student only saw herself as a stand-in vocalist until they found a ‘proper’ singer. Thankfully she was never replaced. The group even jettisoned their original appellation, Pride, adopting instead the middle-name of their lead vocalist. She appears alone on the album covers. The band and its distinctive front woman have always been interchangeable.

Sade’s touring schedule has a similarly Halley’s Comet-like cycle as the albums; a once in a lifetime experience. This only contributes to her mythical status. Back in spring 2011, I had the privilege of attending the London leg of the Soldier of Love tour at the 02 Arena. It was the first time Sade had played their hometown for nearly 20 years. The audience transcended almost every conceivable social demographic. It remains one of my most cherished (pardon the pun) musical memories.

As the huge gaps between albums suggest (almost 10 years and counting since Soldier of Love), Sade aren’t about putting out material just to keep the record company happy or stop the fans wandering off. They’ve released only six albums in a career that spans 35 years; the last three at the rate of one a decade. Sade needn’t worry about being abandoned by their fans. Their back-catalogue is timeless, belonging to its own soulful sub-genre. How else to explain the lasting interest worldwide in their output during the long, silent years between albums?

In 2018, the band released two singles from soundtracks for Ava Duvernay’s A Wrinkle in Time and Steve McQueen’s Widows. Never mind that neither of these folky-soul offerings are representative of Sade at their creative height.Just the rumour of new material set the internet ablaze, with famous fans rendering beautifully-worded homage. Everyone from Maxwell and Jessie Ware to Mayer Hawthorne and Drake cites Sade as a perennial influence. She’s even been a muse for Smooth Jazz heavyweight Kenny G.If the group never release another record, their place in pop-soul history is nonetheless secured.

The secret to their success is perhaps as elusive as the lady herself. I will however attempt to pinpoint some of this ineffable appeal.

Firstly, Sade’s music has an ambience of its own. At their best, the band craft addictive melodies around substantive lyrics. And then there is Sade’s idiosyncratic elongated phrasing, the doleful way she resolves her notes. Let’s not forget the trademark all-male BV vocal arrangements – honey-voiced tenor Leroy Osborne being a staple – that sets her sound apart (Cherish The Day and Nothing Can Come Between Us are two great examples of this male/female vocal interplay).

Moreover, Sade possesses an unmistakable vocal quality. Her smoky contralto – with its masculine texture – is unlike any other. I can’t think of anyone who sounds quite like Ms Adu. She doesn’t do much in the way of leaping across octaves or show-boating ornamentation. There’s definitely no affecting a transatlantic accent, sticking rather to her natural estuarial tone with a hint of West African cadence. Much like everything else about her, there’s beauty in simplicity and restraint.

The ‘80s and ‘90s mark Sade’s creative apogee in my estimation: Diamond Life, Stronger than Pride and Love Deluxe being their superior albums.

These earlier releases showcase Adu at her lyrical best. Award-winning debut Diamond Life is probably the least impressive vocal performance of Sade’s career – she was clearly still finding her voice – yet the song-writing on this seminal album is superlative from start to finish.

Sade has too often been accused by her (almost invariably male) detractors of being dull and depressing. Either they are not paying close attention or Ms Adu’s vulnerability and candour leaves them slightly uncomfortable. True, Sade has an inclination towards the melancholy but she’s far more versatile than her critics claim. Her pen(wo)manship wouldn’t be nearly as impressive if she were merely a balladeer.

Any artist should consider it a blessing to produce anything as era-defining as Smooth Operator,which caught the mood of yuppie fever at the time. Capturing this particular zeitgeist proved a mixed blessing, given the band’s miners-supporting politics were undeniably left of the young -Thatcherite label with which they became associated.

As a master-storyteller, Sade’s penchant for minimalism comes into play once again. Her songs pithily tackle heavy topics such as socio-economic meltdown (Feel No Pain is sadly as salient now as it was during the early-‘90s recession), confessions of a war criminal (Like A Tattoo), ruthless ambition fuelled by poverty (Jezebel), existential angst over the human condition (King of Sorrow)and so on. If there is one recurring theme it’s that of loyalty and friendship (By Your Side, I Will Be Your Friend, Cherish the Day, Turn My Back On You, The Safest Place…).

Atmospheric classic Sweetest Taboo from sophomore Promise, has been sampled or covered ad infinitum in the decades since its release.

Sade isn’t afraid to avoid safe pop song-writing structures (chorus-verse-chorus, verse-chorus-verse); sometimes doing away with a refrain altogether, to which By Your Side and Clean Heart attest. Their arrangements leave space for – shock, horror – extended instrumentation, perhaps a nod to their jazzy inclinations.

Song meanings aren’t always easy to decipher, at times as abstract lyrically as they are accessible melodically. Diamond Life’s Sally– a sultry epic about the woes of urban isolation – could be referring to the Salvation Army or a woman who gives bodily comfort to lonely, disillusioned punters.

As Ms Adu approaches her 60^th, I’d like to once again show my appreciation for the music, cultural pride and that hard-to-articulate sentiment she inspires.

In honour of her birthday, I’ve created the following playlist of Sade favourites. (NB: It’s based on personal preference; not a Best of…/Greatest Hits.)

Happy Birthday Sade. Afropeans everywhere salute you.

This is an updated version of a tribute piece that featured on Soulculture.co.uk in 2010, and this article also appears on I Was Just Thinking

By Tola Ositelu

Seydou Tall (Omar Sy) is going back to his roots. The French-Senegalese actor returns to his country of origin to promote his new book. 12-year old Yao (Lionel Louis Basse) is determined to meet his icon, even if that means skipping school and hitching car and train rides from his remote village all the way to Dakar.

Impressed by Yao’s gumption – and missing his own son back in France – Tall takes the youngster under his wing. He decides on a whim to personally escort Yao back to his hometown. Thus proceeds an inter-generational, cross-cultural road movie on which Tall contends with the heat, Yao’s relentless curiosity, various culture shocks and his own sense of disconnect.

Produced by and starring Franco-African golden boy Sy, Yao is an understated, semi-autobiographical elegy to the West African region. One that isn’t solely concerned with megalopoli nor has an unhealthy fascination with misery-porn stereotypes. Ordinary people live ordinary lives in a particular cultural context. There are no grand plot twists or overwrought epiphanies. Just a feel-good, at times bitter-sweet love letter from the perspective of the ‘lost’ children of the Diaspora, tentatively forging links with their ancestral home.