Zibusiso Mpofu: Hi Diepreye. It’s lovely to be in conversation with you. I am seated in my little cubicle in the office I share with other teachers who work at the same school as me and I have just finished my lunch, roasted goose and rice, my favorite meal right now. I buy it at a tiny restaurant near the old building I live in here in Hong Kong. I ate while reading your poem, “May I Not Return the Same Way I Came.” It invoked so many memories for me. The kerosene lamp, Vaseline-sheen skin, stories of witches, superstitions, catching flying insects after the rains, and golden clay roads that smelled like water. And then after the country began to crumble, came the dry water taps, the boreholes and bowsers, potholes, the nights lit only by moonlight because the streetlights had stopped working; a complicated yet common story.

I was deeply intrigued by the poem’s last line, “May we not return the same way we came.” What does that mean for you right now? Do you think poetry offers an alternative way to “return”?

Diepreye Amanah: Hello Zibusiso. I have never eaten roasted goose but I am sure it is tasty! For lunch today, I made egusi soup and pounded yam. Since discovering the African stores here in Ann Arbor, I have indulged in Nigerian cuisine. How is Hong Kong this time of year?

I haven’t thought about that poem in a while, thank you for reading it and for your question. Thinking back to when I wrote it, the last line was a grasp at hope, at faith, that there is something better for the Nigerian masses and, on a global scale, there is something better for humanity. Many of us are born into a world of nothing, live with nothing, and then die with nothing still. The end of the poem, “May we not return the same way we came,” hopes that we someday be able to afford a decent livelihood for ourselves and our loved ones.

That line means the same for me even now. Although, I must add that the meaning has stretched to other aspects of my daily life. For example, in my writing process, I challenge my poems to offer something tangible to the reader. I want for each reader to not exit the page in the same manner they encountered it.

And yes, I think poetry offers us alternative ways of return. One that easily comes to mind at the moment is return via memory. When we write in retrospect, a poem can help us return to the past to extract new interpretations and understandings of events and feelings that we might have not been able to at the time they were happening.

You are currently living and teaching in Hong Kong. How has the environment and culture of the place impacted you and your work? You also write prose in addition to poetry. Do you think prose offers an alternative way to return than what poetry offers?

Congratulations on winning the 2022 Brunel International African Poetry Prize! I just had the pleasure of reading your poem published in 20.35 Africa, “How Nurses Recruited from Zimbabwe are Being Caught in Uk ‘Bonded Labor’ Schemes.” An increasing number of Africans resort to leaving our continent “to seek resurrection on other mountains” in the West only to realize that the struggle does not end even overseas. It might be a different kind of struggle but is difficult nonetheless. There is the option to return but when “home is [indeed] an aching sinkhole,” what can one do? What should one do? Do you think writing/literature concretely offers a means of processing and/or accepting this limbo state that many of us find ourselves in after we move to the UK or US? And is it unfair to ask writing/literature to do this work?

Zibusiso Mpofu: Hong Kong is an interesting tapestry of contradictions. It is a hot and humid capitalist wonder. Sky scrappers, unbroken tar, tiny apartments, a brilliant transportation system, healthcare, you name it. According to people I have engaged with, it remains the envy of the east. But for me, it sometimes feels like a giant factory. It never sleeps. It moves, churns and hums constantly. The people work long intense hours and somehow that is normal. And it can be a cold, cold city. Not in weather terms but in people’s relation to each other. I have since developed this theory, the more concrete and tar we live with, the more beachfront hotels there are, the more distant people get from each other. The less we really see each other. Thinking of and writing from this perspective has been interesting especially as a relative outsider. I write a lot about loneliness because this is a lonely city. And how migration, being away from a familiar world where no one questions your existence, exacerbates that loneliness. It is something we don’t speak about much. I spend a lot of time imagining different worlds, how we can be more tender towards each other. And I think about romantic love too. Being here, a black African immigrant means you have to deal with a lot of pre-programmed perceptions about you. You have to watch potential romantic partners recoil, constantly. So, I write about love that stretches beyond skin and borders. It is an exercise in creation, I think. That is how I return, different each time.

The interesting thing is that it is poetry that kept me coming back to Hong Kong. I first came here in 2015, with a heavy spirit. I had been studying and working in mainland China and my soul was exhausted. This city offered a reprieve. I went to an English open mic night and read a poem I had written only a few hours before. In it, I spoke about how being on the mainland as a Black African changed me. I enjoyed that night so much I kept coming back for the next few years. So, yes, I do think literature offers us a way to process the limbo state of being away from home. However, I also think the world of publishing has pushed us into that box. Most of the work by African writers that gets international recognition deals with or is in some way connected to migration. That was my experience even with the Brunel prize. I understood the kind of poems that won were ones dealing with the trauma of being stuck in a world that sometimes wants you and sometimes does not. Luckily for me, I was already writing a lot about that. But I do think it is limiting.

I love the requirement you have for work you make. That it offers something to the reader. In my own practice, I require that my work offers me something whether that be reliving a memory, preserving one, processing an experience, or thinking out loud. If it changes me, it can do something to the reader. With fiction the world grows much bigger. I do not hold back. I demand honesty from myself and say things as they are in my head. I like to think readers connect to this, especially with themes that may be considered taboo. And I use myself as an archival reference a lot so honesty is a must. Prose offers an opportunity to not only return, but also come forth into multiple different lives and worlds. It is a masterclass in being human. You have to step into every character’s shoe, one way or another.

You live in America, what has been your experience and how has it impacted the work you make? I’m also curious about your role as the assistant editor for The Michigan Quarterly. When considering pieces from authors of African descent what do you look for? Is the theme of migration something that is urgent for you? As an Academy of American Poets prize winner yourself, what was your thought process in crafting the work that you submitted for the prize?

Diepreye Amanah: I concur with you, the publishing world can push African writers into the box of writing about migration or the unfortunate experiences of being Black in a predominantly White nation. I try very hard to numb the effect publishing has on what I write and how I write, but sometimes, it slips in subconsciously because I am actively trying to publish more. And with each rejection, I find myself considering if I should write more in the direction that the literary community expects from Black African writers (not my proudest moments).

The poem I submitted for the Academy of American Poets prize was one of the last handful of poems I wrote for my undergraduate Senior Honors Thesis which occurred weeks before the prize opportunity came up. So, thankfully, I did not craft the poem with a competition or publication in mind.

My thought process for crafting the poem was simply to emulate the musicality of Gregory Pardlo’s lines and the sense of community he created almost magically with the singular “I” in his poem, “Written by Himself.” I encountered the poem by accident. I was browsing poems to read for inspiration on a completely different poem I was struggling with when Pardlo’s Pulitzer Prize winning collection, Digest, came up. The poem, “Written by Himself,” immediately held my attention and I found myself reading and re-reading it because I could not quite figure out if the speaker was one voice or a chorus of voices. I cherished the ambiguity and I wanted to replicate it in a poem that captured my people and my home and the sense of community that I missed so much since my arrival in the United States.

Even though I have been in America for almost eight years now, a good majority of my poems are about or set in Nigeria. It is what I know best. America does impact my work in many crucial ways. I learned how to write a poem in classrooms taught by American poets. Many of the poetry collections I love are by contemporary American poets. All the workshops I have been in were with predominantly American classmates. So at the beginning of my writing journey and for most of my undergraduate creative writing classes, I found myself Americanizing my poems in order to accommodate the understanding of my teachers and my peers. For example, I would use the standard English version of the word for an item that was only referred to by its Pidgin or Yoruba or Igbo name throughout my childhood. I would translate phrases or sentences that I know in Pidgin to standard English before using them in my poems. I would substitute English names for traditional names when writing about people in my life – I called my grandmother “Alice” in a poem because I didn’t want my peers to struggle with “Agboduma-ere.” But coming into my graduate program, I promised myself that I would write more authentically, which I don’t think I started doing until the second semester of my first year in the MFA. It is still a work in progress for me.

I am one of the handful of Assistant Editors for the Michigan Quarterly Review. My job is actually not as glamorous as the title sounds. I read through the slush piles and send up poems or nonfiction essays that I think are worth considering for publication to the Editors. I do not look for any particular topic when considering pieces from authors of African descent or authors in general. Sure, migration is urgent in my own work, however, I don’t look for it in the work of others. I love poems that strike or marvel me in some way either with its diction, music, story, voice, or revelation. I am really just looking to be challenged by a piece. But I think I am partial to poems that capture humanity (especially the dark sides) and what it means to be human. Different poems accomplish this in different ways.

What about you? What do you look for in a poem? What kinds of poems or stories move you? I like what you said about not holding back in prose and how you “demand honesty from [your]self.” Do you think poetry does not offer ample freedom to be completely honest on the page? If yes, why? Is it due to poetry’s structure? Is it due to the consistent failure of most readers to differentiate the “I” speaker in a poem from the author and the consequences of that?

Zibusiso: I think of poetry as the language of the spirit. It touches parts of my brain, soul, and spirit in ways I cannot quite explain. Take “Things You Bring to the Ocean at Night” by Nayyirah Waheed for example. In it, she talks about a pilgrimage to the ocean and bringing “the smoke in your legs,” and “the music in your hair,” and “mason jars for moonlight.” These are lines that I cannot directly explain but because I am deeply connected to the ocean, I can feel what they say. Another example, Rita Dove’s “Testimonial.” She retells a moment in Rosa Parks’s life, when “everything was new,” and she was “pirouette and flourish,” and “filigree and flame.” My chest fills with air and my head buzzes when I read these lines. I feel what they say. That, for me, is the effect of poetry. You can be honest, there is ample room for that, but because of the demand for lyrical language that creates feeling, there is a limitation when it comes to saying something plainly and directly.

When I write a poem, I lay down the first draft in one sitting. Then I return to it after some days and begin re-writing – plain and direct words are replaced with more lyrical ones that help the poem flow and sound better. It is in those lyrical words and sounds that the poem’s truth resides. You feel it rather than encounter it as one would do in prose. It’s less direct but still profound in this way because a poem’s truth is laced with metaphors and other literary tools. I hope this makes sense.

You raise an interesting question about readers’ inability to differentiate the “I” from the author. I had personal experiences with this after I won the Brunel. Family members and friends were shocked at some of the things I wrote about and there were loads of questions, but because I write about myself a lot, I have never viewed it as a problem. In fact, I believe that readers connect more to work that is (to whatever extent) testimonial. Perhaps, it is human nature to fail in differentiating the “I” from the author. I say this because I do the same thing when I read. Using the “I” draws the reader into a personal world where they can feel and see what the author is writing about; the face they see in those moments is the author’s, even if the scenes created are not “real.” I think that is a responsibility I do not mind taking on. Poems that move me the most are ones that I think of in this way.

What is your process like when crafting a poem, especially now that you are committed to writing from an authentic space? And has the academic world in your MFA program helped change it? The latter is something I often think about now as I head to Cornell this fall to join the MFA program on the fiction track. I wonder how the voice in my head will change or grow. What has been your general experience?

Diepreye: I appreciate your use of the adjective, “testimonial” rather than the historical “confessional” in describing poems written about the self or inspired by personal events. “Testimonial” brings a positive connotation – a testimony, a celebration of the self. Whereas, confessional connotes sin, as if it is embarrassing to indulge the “I” and speak of the self.

Thank you for your questions. My process for crafting a poem begins with research almost immediately after I get an idea or scraps of it. Usually, my timeline from conceiving an idea to putting words on the page is at least three weeks; some poems sit in my mind for months. I like to keep simmering ideas while researching the topic I am interested in. I read so much before starting any poem – I take in what other poets have done with that particular topic, learn from their moves and choices, and examine if my poem will add anything new or different to the existing discourse. Almost every topic has been written about by those that came before us and are now being written about by our peers, which is why newness in my poems is very important to me. I ask myself, “What are you adding to the conversation?”

Humans have similar experiences with birth, childhood, adulthood, parenting, ageing, and death. In my view, what differentiates each story is the unique voice and writing style behind it and the peculiarity of each individual’s circumstances. Three kids who grow up on the same street, in the same house style, attend the same elementary school, eat the same kinds of food and wear the same kind of clothes, and are raised by parents of similar upbringing and ages, will all still have a little something different to offer when asked to describe their childhood for instance. The “little something different” though does not come easy to articulate. One must dig deep to find it, so I spend a lot of time doing that and I don’t start writing until I know I already found it or am on the track to finding it.

I have only ever written one poem in one sitting. Writing a poem is a reasonably slow process for me. It takes me a few days because I write and edit at the same time. I do not move on to the next line until I am satisfied with the former, which I know can be counterproductive when handled without care. The reason I stick to this approach in my writing process is that by the time the first draft is complete, the poem is often nearly done and what I envisioned has most likely been achieved. I can let the poem rest for a few more days or just submit it to workshop and after I receive feedback, I begin revising for the second draft, etc.

The academic world in my MFA program has not necessarily helped or changed my writing process in any tangible way. Even with weekly poem deadlines, my writing timeline stayed the same. My social life, however, suffered immensely. Writing a new poem almost every week required me to be a recluse and I did not mind because I enjoy having lots of alone time.

Congratulations on Cornell! That is a tremendous feat! You are betraying poets, Zibusiso. Why Fiction and not Poetry?

My general experience of the MFA program has been decent. What really helped me was having a set of personal goals and plans before beginning the program. MFA workshops don’t teach you how to write; that is a skill they expect you to already possess before arrival. They can help you hone that skill, but I think most of the work is personal (between you and the page). One cannot rely too much on teachers or peers or mentors to help achieve ambitions for a manuscript or progress in the writing journey. Workshop will only provide feedback on a piece that has already been created. It will not help one create a piece; it can only guide by helping to avoid common writerly mistakes or to draw attention to writerly quirks that should be refined. Workshop also provides a writerly community of people going through similar things as you with their craft.

What are your expectations for your MFA experience? Do you have any particular plans for your fiction at Cornell?

It was clear to me that if I chose anything else over the work of storytelling, I would be brought back to the path by any means necessary.

– Zibusiso Mpofu

Zibusiso: Wow, your process is very interesting. I have never thought of poetry as a larger conversation or my work as a contribution to a pool of work that already exists. Your intentional process of research around the topic you’re writing is intriguing. Thank you for sharing that. I research when I’m feeling stuck and trying to find a way to say what I want. For me, poetry is a lot like breathing (but for the soul). I have only ever really thought of it as a deeply personal thing which, I think, is why I never even considered doing my MFA in the poetry track. Part of the reason is because I was afraid I’d receive feedback that would kill the voice in my head. I’d rather let it grow and develop at its own pace.

Fiction, however, is something I knew I’d need extra help with as it is more labor intensive and often requires a team (author, trusted readers, agents and editors) to bring it to its final form and out into the world. And I thought getting an MFA would be a way, however limited, to access a bit of that. I also think for African writers who want access to international publishing opportunities, getting an MFA is one way to do it. To that end, I, like yourself, have a set of goals for my MFA. They are quite lofty as I am a rather ambitious writer, but I intend to at least try. I have several drafts of my first novel and the first draft of a second. I want to work on both these plus a third while I’m at Cornell. I know one can’t predict these things but I hope to publish at least one of them soon. I am also looking forward to the mentorship from the faculty members and engaging with literary work in ways that I have never done before.

Your writing process reminds me of Eloghosa Osunde, author of the incredible Vagabonds! She too edits as she writes. Basically, she writes paragraphs as they come until she receives new information (about a character, setting, or something else) and then she goes back up the page and changes things. She too does not move on until she feels that things are as they are supposed to be. I find that so fascinating and such a meticulous way to work. For me, I need to see and hear the entire thing before I can zoom in on the details.

Going back to the topic of the larger conversation, do you ever think of an intended audience when you write? Who do you write for and to mostly? Does that change with every poem?

Diepreye: You already have solid drafts of two novels and concrete plans for a third? Impressive! The MFA program will definitely serve you well with ample time and space to finish these works. I will be looking out for your novels in the bookstores!

Largely, I like to think I write for a global readership and my work is reasonably accessible. My style of writing is more narrative than lyrical and I am not philosophical or highbrow, so anyone who enjoys reading poems will most likely be able to engage.

But primarily I write to and for my people – Nigerians and Africans. My mother is in almost every poem I write, even the ones in which she is not mentioned at all. My family is Nigerian. The neighbors, streets, churches, schools, and culture that made up my childhood and formative years are Nigerian. Nigeria is in the heart and language of my poems. With that being said, I can categorically say that many Americans read my work more than Nigerians. All the magazines I have published in are American with American editors, a substantial percentage of the magazines I still aspire to appear in are American and cater to an American audience, so it would be disingenuous to not acknowledge that I also write to and for Americans. Some of my poems are about America and Americanness. I have some poems that are neither Nigerian nor American; they just observe the business of being human.

I also write for myself. I think of myself as my principal audience and I have demanding standards. I must like my poem before it meets the eyes of others because I know then it has considerable potential to be good. I respect and care so much about my readers and want only to offer them my best.

One of my big writing goals is to craft a poem completely in Nigerian Pidgin English. I have had this goal in mind for a few years now and what has stopped me from going through with it is that I have not been able to satisfactorily answer the question: Who in my American audience (peers, teachers and the few people (mostly other poets and poetry teachers too) who read the journals I have published in) will be able to read and understand a poem in Nigerian Pidgin English? I ask myself this question because I strongly believe that every creative work is finished by the observer, the consumer, the audience.

The desire to accomplish this poem idea was refueled towards the end of last year when I read Ajibola Tolase’s poem, “Brotherman,” in 20.35 Africa. I hadn’t read a poem in Pidgin English before and to have it be a Shakespearean sonnet too? I was overjoyed! Well, “Brotherman,” is a loose Shakespearean sonnet considering the non-adherence to the syllable count requirement and the “aabb” rhyme scheme of the first stanza. But I adored how Tolase broke those sonnet rules – to me, the poem was like a challenge to the cannon and I respect that. It is hard enough to write a poem in Pidgin. The fact that Tolase wrote it in a restrictive form like the rhymed sonnet is an achievement that inspires me.

Early this year, I read Jonathan Escoffery’s short story, “Under the Ackee Tree” in The Paris Review (Summer 2019 issue) and it filled me with so much happiness and surprise that I paused midway through the story to order his book, If I Survive You. The story is not only stunningly written, heart-touching, and relatable, it is also entirely in Jamaican Patois. I was able to read and understand because it is similar enough to Nigerian Pidgin. I was in awe. I kept repeating to myself: “The Paris Review published Jamaican Patois? Really? Patois?”

Although I have inserted a few Pidgin phrases and sentences into my most recent poems, I am still yet to write my Pidgin English poem because it is still cooking. But very soon. Very soon.

What about you, do you write with a particular audience in mind? And does your audience change depending on the genre, that is, poetry or fiction? Also, have you ever written in Pidgin or your native dialect before or do you plan to?

Zibusiso: I look forward to reading your Pidgin English poem. I just checked out “Brotherman” and my god. Though I don’t entirely understand everything, the feeling that it evokes is powerful and immediate. Do you think writing in Pidgin will make a piece more striking? Will it be a different kind of “spell” from English?

I think about NoViolet Bulawayo’s We Need New Names. She writes the sentences exactly as they’d sound if someone from my home city were to speak them. When I read that book, I was floored. I took it as a challenge to always try writing like my people speak. Although we do not have a Pidgin dialect in my country, there are ways in which my people speak that are unique to us, and I always try to bring that across, particularly in prose. I am aware that the voice in my head can speak in that diction, so I listen closely and write what I hear in the manner it comes. I have done less of this in poetry but I like to play around with language by mixing Ndebele and Shona (and sometimes Mandarin) to render meaning and feeling. This brings me to another question: Do you think writing in Pidgin requires you to approach your writing process in a different manner? Do you hear the poem in a different way?

I like to imagine that someday, a young, queer Zimbabwean will pick up one of my books and see themselves in it. I know having that when I was young would have impacted me immensely. But, like you, I write for myself first; perhaps, to heal that inner child who never had stories with people like me in them. I see myself in almost all the characters I create, so in many ways, I write to process whatever topic I’m writing for myself. I trust that the work will find whoever needs it. This is how I found books that have altered me and I hope mine will do the same. Having said that, what I am sometimes specific about is where I want the work to be published. I wrote a poem called “Root” in 2022 with the intention of having it appear in the Hong Kong Review, which it did. That is where it made the most sense because it was set in several parts of the city and about a person from there. Same thing for the one I published in 20.35 Africa.

Do you think it is possible, as a writer, to rectify the issue of accessibility? Do you know how you want the poems you write to go out into the world before or while creating them? And where do you imagine your poem written in Pidgin English appearing?

Diepreye: I have not read enough works written in Pidgin to confidently assert that they are more striking than works in standard English. Other than the two authors I mentioned earlier, the only other Pidgin piece I have read (and not in its entirety) is The Palm-wine Drinkard, a 1952 novel by Amos Tutuola.

Upon reading the first few lines or sentences, I find a Pidgin piece striking because it is unexpected, uncommon, and refreshing, especially when written by an African writer in the diaspora. After spending more time with the piece, it becomes striking on a deeper level as it transports me back home. I can easily visualize the speaker(s) or character(s) including their outfit, facial expressions, physical gestures, accent, etc., and I am reminded of the parts of home I miss most.

Writing in Pidgin requires a different approach because you are writing in a new language. Pidgin English’s cadence, music, syntax, syllable count, etc., differ from standard English’s. You have to consider the words and hear the poem differently to get across meaning. For example, my personality shifts a bit when I am on the phone with my mom in Pidgin compared to when I am in the classroom as a student compared to when I am in the classroom as an instructor. The poem has to be thought about differently to observe all nuances.

I don’t think a writer can rectify the issue of accessibility autonomously. One cannot predict every time how an audience will react to a particular piece – people’s tastes can be surprising. Also, aesthetics and tastes change often with time and place. I think what is possible is that a writer can actively try to examine their piece through the eyes of the average reader and revise from that point of view, without compromising the original vision. Then after that, hope for the best and have faith that readers will approach the work with care and attention, and if they do not, it is fine. I believe that once a piece leaves the author’s hands and enters the public sphere, it belongs to the public and they are allowed to consume it however best it meets their needs. Editors and publishers also impact accessibility – traditionally, they decide what is available to readers.

Publishing, for the most part, is out of my control. I don’t usually have any specific ideas about how I want a piece to go into the world. I always imagine it will either be through a journal that accepts it or as part of my first collection. Even if you think a piece is perfect for a particular magazine, a reader for the magazine must first approve it and then send it up to an editor. The piece won’t appear there if the editor disagrees with you and the reader. With this in mind, I only submit to magazines I desire to publish in. This way, if a piece gets accepted against all odds, I don’t have to think too much about saying yes.

Once I have a decent draft of the Pidgin poem, I intend to send it out to multiple places like I do all my poems, but I will prioritize journals that publish a lot of African voices because it will be more appreciated there. Have you ever thought that one of your pieces would be perfect for a particular journal but then you got a rejection from that journal?

It is a blessing that you can write in multiple languages. I am jealous! How did you learn to write in Mandarin? What drew you to go live and write in Hong Kong? How are you feeling about leaving Hong Kong for New York in the fall? Do you have other languages you are currently learning or interested in learning?

Zibusiso: The backstory of what drew me back to Hong Kong is long. I started writing prose as a teenager after reading a short story that a friend had written, but when I discovered poetry I stopped writing prose. In late 2018, I began a process of deep spiritual change that dramatically altered my life. The road I had been going down until that point ceased to exist. Fast forward to 2020, still in the midst of great shifts and COVID, I came to a point where I asked myself the questions, “What now?” and “Where to now?” Around that time, I read Akwaeke Emezi’s book Dear Senthuran and it completely changed my trajectory. I realized that writing was part of my life’s purpose and decided to pursue it on a serious level. That meant I needed to find a way to support myself, a way that would still leave me with ample time to write. It was clear to me that if I chose anything else over the work of storytelling, I would be brought back to the path by any means necessary (said means have included car accidents). Anyway, at the end of 2020, I woke up one morning with an instruction on my chest – to return to Hong Kong. I didn’t know why exactly but I listened and here I am. I have a job that has allowed me to write my first two novels.

I had to learn Mandarin because I did my undergrad in China and the language of instruction for the program I wanted was Chinese. I spent a year and a half learning it. It is one of those decisions that sound cool but the reality was much more challenging. I was the only foreign student in my program and that had its ups and downs. Now I speak it better than I write. I haven’t really used the language since I left mainland China as Cantonese is the language spoken in Hong Kong. I’m not learning any languages at the moment but I think I’d love to learn Arabic and Swahili. I love the sound and musicality of both. How about you?

I am excited about moving to New York. Hong Kong has given so much but my time here has ended. This is clear to me too. I am headed towards a life where writing is what I will do the majority of my time and this makes me nervous as it is a new place for me. I am anxious about the future. What happens after my time there ends?

Do you think about your future as a writer? What do you see? Any plans after your MFA program ends?

Diepreye: I am interested in learning French. I also want to learn to speak more of my own native language – Ijaw. Currently, I am not learning any languages.

And yes, I think about my future as a writer. I want to keep writing and publishing, full-length collections as well. My program ended last month. I am now on a third-year fellowship with my school that will end April 2025. After that, I must obtain a job to pay bills. I don’t know what that job is going to be yet. I would love for it to be intertwined with writing and my first choice is teaching. I might apply for other writing fellowships just to postpone going back into the real world.

Do you enjoy teaching? Do you see that as a future career path?

Zibusiso: I have an interesting relationship with teaching. I don’t exactly like or enjoy it but I’m good at it. My mother was a teacher, perhaps she passed the trait down to me. I often find it exhausting but when I have a good day, it feels like I can conquer anything. It requires a lot of patience and active care. The triumph of teaching is to see a student blossom. Students hold their teacher’s opinions, thoughts, ideas, etc. closely, so one should be careful of what one says as this impacts them in profound ways. I always try to encourage the ideas they have, no matter how crazy they may be. That kind of positive validation is important.

I would love to be one of those writers who gets to do writing full-time, and I think, depending on how one’s work is received, other opportunities can sprout from a writing career. I intend to explore as much as I can. That is the joy of being on this difficult planet. We get to be different people at different times doing different things all our lives. At long last, whatever happens, as Yrsa Daley-Ward writes, “It will give you poetry.” I look forward to forever drinking at its wellspring.

Is there anything else you’d like us to delve into?

Diepreye: I cannot think of anything urgent at this moment. We have touched on the writing topics that I have been ruminating on recently. Is there anything else you would like us to talk about?

Zibusiso: I also think we’ve touched on topics that I too had been thinking about. Perhaps to conclude, I’d love to hear a little bit about your thesis collection, The Catapult, The Titmouse, The Stone, whose title I found while prowling the internet. What was the process of writing it like for you? And any final thoughts to share?

On my end, I am currently working on edits for my first novel which is a mammoth task. So much changes while one is writing a novel and each time you return to it, you are completely different and see it with new eyes. On the upside, I’ve learned to like the process. I hated editing before. I am finding that it is much like making a world and then altering it to shape. It is akin to creation. You come to know, quite intimately, each stone in that world, and that is an immense power to come to terms with. Whatever becomes of the characters is in many ways my responsibility (even though they have free will). The lesson is always staying true to the story so that you can successfully midwife it into this realm where readers can access it.

Diepreye: I had the idea for the thesis before beginning my MFA, so I focused on executing it during my time in the program. I workshopped almost all the poems in the manuscript and, in the end, I was happy with the final product.

Thank you for having this conversation with me. Getting to know you has been a pleasure. Good luck with everything! And I will look out for your poems and stories.

Zibusiso: Thank you so much, Diepreye. I loved having this conversation with you too. It was revelatory and filled with many takeaways. I look forward to reading more of your work and future collections.

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Diepreye is a Nigerian-American poet from Charlotte, North Carolina. She holds an MFA from the University of Michigan-Ann Arbor and is an Assistant Editor for Michigan Quarterly Review. She is the winner of a 2022 and a 2023 Academy of American Poets Prize, the second-runner-up in the 2023 American Literary Review Poetry Contest, and a longlistee in the 2023 National Poetry Competition. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in Epoch, The Adroit Journal, Up the Staircase Quarterly, Rising Phoenix Press, and elsewhere.

Zibusiso Mpofu is a queer Zimbabwean writer. He is the winner of the 2022 Brunel African Poetry Prize and was shortlisted for the Intwasa Short Story Competition (2021) for his story Culo and the Witch. He was long-listed for the 2018 Babishai Niwe Poetry Prize. His works have been published in A Long House, Brittle Paper, Her Zimbabwe, and elsewhere. Zibusiso is an MFA candidate at Cornell University.