“What in the World is Happening in Nigeria?": Adedayo Agarau on the Recent Explosion of Nigerian Poetry on the World Stage

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f we must write about the new crop of Nigerian writers, we must write it through history. The angels did not just remember to stir the waters of Nigerian poetry today, bestowing upon them the evanescent gift of language and the ability to submit poems and support one another on Twitter/X. Nigerian poets ride on the backs of small hubs, community culture, and language already established by writers before them. Before Facebook or the arrival of social media, Nigeria had already been identified as a major literary hub from which writers of the global south had emerged. Before I was born, Professor Wole Soyinka won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1986 and was said to be "in a wide cultural perspective and with poetic overtones fashions the drama of existence." In 1979, Chinua Achebe was awarded the Nigerian National Order of Merit. We have had Cyprian Ekwensi, JP Clark, Gabriel Okara, Christopher Okigbo, and Flora Nwapa, among others.

Earlier writing communities were formed in hostels, under trees, under the small light of nights where revered writers read to each other, published work in bulletins and formed collectives. Professor Niyi Osundare, whose poem made me fall in love with writing, Femi Osofisan, Odia Ofem, Tanure Ojaide, Festus Iyayi, and other writers of the second generation emerged with their sound nature and socio-political poetics heavily influenced by diverse Nigerian oral traditions. The history of Nigerian writers, contemporary or newer, has directly or indirectly been influenced by an earlier generation of brave writers who wrote despite.

As Julia Kristeva’s theory of intertextuality reminds us, no text or artistic movement emerges in isolation; it is instead a mosaic of past voices and influences. Akin to Newton’s First Law, metaphorically applied in cultural studies, the movement we see today is a continuation, a response to the enduring currents that shaped its path. In fact, it feels wrong to define Nigerian poetry as a movement. We’re just writing and submitting because our voices are fresh and our languages primed, and the world is listening.

Nigerian poets ride on the back of small hubs, community culture, and language already established by writers before them.

This essay captures my firsthand experience of community, reflecting how Nigerian poets formed connections on Facebook and beyond. It does not aim to alienate, erase, or rewrite the history from which it draws. My experience of the Nigerian poetry hub is personal, shaped by where I lived and the communities I belonged to, and does not imply that other communities did not exist elsewhere.

Only a few months after discovering the poetry scene on 2go and meeting Rasak Malik—one of my earliest mentors—I slid into Kukogho Iruesiri Samson’s DMs on Facebook Messenger and asked him to mentor me. A few years before, I had seized the Anthology of West African Voices from a junior student we called Fufu Meje, my first encounter with poetry. Samson asked me how far I was willing to go, and I responded, “As far as you take me.” Samson was a Nigerian working in media who loved literature, had written several poems, and, like everyone, believed he could make something out of creative writing. Instead of focusing on writing his manuscript Devil's Pawn, which won the Dusty Manuscript Prize in 2015, Samson dedicated hours to the community he created on Facebook—Words, Rhymes, and Rhythms (WRR)—platforming thousands of Nigerian writers like me. Samson mentored me, edited my work, and published my first poem, "Freedom." WRR democratized access to literary resources, particularly for poets who lacked formal training or connections to established literary circles. By creating an inclusive environment, WRR enabled diverse voices to emerge, reflecting the multiplicity of Nigerian experiences.

Samson asked me how far I was willing to go, and I responded, ‘As far as you take me.’ 

Outside of WRR, small hubs of meetings, readings, and slams were emerging across the country. The year Tade Ipadeola won the NLNG Prize for his remarkable volume The Sahara Testament, I found myself in the crowd at Artmosphere, hosted by Servio Gbadamosi and Femi Morgan, shaking in my boots as Femi called me up to read my poem "An Ode to Amiri Baraka." Around the same time, Dami Ajayi had just released his career-defining chapbook Daybreak & Other Poems, a collection that explores desire through lush metaphors. Dami, with his enigmatic, carefree, and effortlessly humorous presence, struck me as someone who had stumbled into poetry by chance, as nothing about him seemed to fit the stereotypical "poet." Moments before taking the stage, he downed a bottle of beer, then proceeded to captivate the audience with his electrifying poems. I was invited to #BeBlessed a week later, hosted by Olumide Bisiriyu. I still remember my mother sewing me an Up-Nepa buba and sokoto for the poetry event—her son had finally found something he loved, even if it was something she didn’t fully understand but supported wholeheartedly.

In 2014, #BeBlessed Quarterly emerged as a crucial gathering place for young Nigerian poets, fueled by our collective passion for language—a fervor that consumed us entirely. VicAdex, who once walked halfway from Ibadan along the perilous Ibadan-Oyo highway to attend #BeBlessed the night before an important exam, exemplified the depths of our dedication. Such was our hunger for poetic communion. Every quarter, Mr. Olumide Bisiriyu's home became a sanctuary for around 30 young writers with nowhere else to stay after the poetry event. His generosity was a cornerstone of our burgeoning community. Evenings were spent in shy, earnest conversations in the dimly lit corners of the Bisiriyu compound. Mornings began with a humble feast: slices of bread, fried eggs, and tea. I can still vividly picture Mr. Olayemi Ayo, a fellow poet, sipping tea in front of the large television, sweat glistening on his brow as he later read a poem about his life in Lagos. The image is etched in my memory, a testament to the power of those moments. Lawal Kafayat Gold, Kemistree, Clementina, Oluwatosin Faith Kolawole, Bliss Akinyemi, and several other writers would take turns standing before Mr. Bisiriyu's TV, their voices bringing their poems to life in that makeshift arena of art. At a time when oral traditions and the study of poetry were declining—or by extension, the death of Nigerian education—writers were forming a community to uphold the tradition of language.

Around the same time, initiatives from Poets in Nigeria (PIN) began to flourish in Lagos, expanding the reach of our poetic renaissance. The convener, Mr. Eriata Oribhabor, became a pivotal supporter of Samson's visionary ideas. Under his guidance, PIN launched the Nigerian Students Poetry Prize, the PIN Food Poetry Prize, and several other smaller contests fostered in hubs across the country. Mr. Oribhabor's support extended beyond the conceptual; he provided crucial financial backing to young writers, nurturing talent with both resources and recognition.

At a time when oral traditions and the study of poetry were declining—or by extension, the death of Nigerian education—writers were forming a community to uphold the tradition of language.

In 2015, when Ademola Adefolami and Ewo Chidiebere won the PIN-Rose Residency program, I found myself in Ademola's room, engrossed in deep discussions about poetry. These moments of intense literary exchange became the crucibles in which our craft was refined. I had not learned of the African Poetry Book Fund then. The first time I heard about it, we were huddled in a small room at the Ayotoz Hotel, a dilapidated hotel that Samson’s “Feast of Words”—a poetry and literature festival hosted by WRR—could afford. Chika Jones mentioned that Kwame Dawes sent him an invite to submit to the box set. Imagine the bewilderment in the room. A quick Google search showed us what Kwame Dawes had done and was doing with Chris Abani on the continent. We sat in silence, listening to Chika and Ademola tell us the history of this new industry we were attempting to break into. I was a writer that year. That was all that mattered—being a writer. I hadn’t even thought that years later, I’d be writing this essay from a coffee shop in downtown Oakland. Looking back, I am struck by our fervent desire for growth, which I now realize was born out of the lack of formal institutions. Without established structures and the generosity of older writers willing to throw a few thousand around, we became our own mentors, critics, and champions. We were all we had, and in that scarcity, we found abundance.

Looking back, I am struck by our fervent desire for growth, which I now realize was born out of the lack of formal institutions. Without established structures and the generosity of older writers willing to throw a few thousand around, we became our own mentors, critics, and champions. We were all we had, and in that scarcity, we found abundance.

This grassroots movement, built on the foundations of gatherings like #BeBlessed, WRR, and initiatives like PIN, has played a crucial role in shaping the landscape of contemporary Nigerian poetry. It stands as a testament to the power of community, passion, and perseverance in nurturing literary talent and fostering cultural expression. It is important to mention that, as far as mentorship goes, Nigerian poets Kanyinsola Olorunnisola and Oyindamola Shoola started the SpringNG Mentorship program, which has successfully mentored hundreds of writers, some of whom are now in MFA programs and are award-winning poets.

In Rasak's poem "If You Come Tonight," published in African Writer in 2014, the poet captures this deeply rooted authenticity:

And if you come tonight
To preach to my deaf ears
For I have seen miles before birth
I have rendered my lines with mourning mothers
At unnamed tombs
I have earlier spewed words
Only cureless consolation I received
And if you come tonight
You won’t see me.

This verse underscores Rasak’s burden of inherited memory and his relentless confrontation with suffering, capturing the rawness of the Nigerian experience. I met Rasak for the first time at the Poetry and Palm Wine event hosted by the Arts and Theatre students of the University of Ibadan. That evening, I learned that my childhood friend, Uthman Adejumo, also wrote poetry. We’re drawing poetry from communal and personal experiences. We’re writing into and from the graffiti in our small lives. If the Nigerian poet sings of birds, it’s because pigeons are on electric cables outside their house. If we sing of fire, is the fire of the current political climate not hot enough? We’re closer to our metaphors, in language and in reality. Rasaq’s writing introduced me to language—and not just me; a host of Nigerian writers were studying Rasaq’s deviation from Victorian English into something that feels quite like a night in Iseyin.

We’re drawing poetry from communal and personal experiences. We’re writing into and from the graffiti in our small lives.

James Ademuyiwa and Gabriel Ayomide Festus were among the few emerging writers at that time whose language seemed like a gift from God: fresh, unpredictable, and brilliant. I also argue that the cycle of influence does not end—while writers before us took influences from writers like Pius Adesanmi, JV Verissimo, Lola Shoneyin, Toni Khan, Professor Gbemisola Adeoti, Harry Garuba, Professor Remi Raji, Uche Nduka, Ogaga Ifowodo among others—some of whom were members of Krazitivity, an earlier online community of writers—newer Nigerian writers take influences from the immediate generation before them. My earliest writing was heavily influenced by Gbenga Adesina, who won the 2016 Brunel Poetry Prize with Chekwube Danladi, D.M. Aderibigbe, Salawu Olajide, Shittu Fowora and Funsho Oris, who supplied some of my earliest edits. At the same time, I was writing with Olu Afolabi, Moyosore Orimoloye—one of the most brilliant writers I have ever worked with—Hauwa Shaffi Nuhu, Shade Mary-Ann, James Ademuyi, Mesioye Johnson, Ridwan Adelaja, and others. My first chapbook, For Boys Who Went, was published by Kukogho Samson's Authorpedia in 2016. It went on to become one of the most-read chapbooks at that time.

I cannot underestimate Krazitivity's role in the brilliance and vibrance of Nigerian literature as it migrated from the page to the screen. The online community was pivotal in developing Nigerian literature in the early 2000s. Founded as a Yahoo Group, it served as a virtual gathering place for Nigerian writers, poets, and literary enthusiasts within the country and in the diaspora. The platform facilitated discussions, critiques, and collaborations, fostering a sense of community among emerging and established authors. Notable members of Krazitivity included Nnorom Azuonye, a poet and publisher who later founded Sentinel Poetry, an online platform that provided a space for many Nigerian writers to publish their work. Toni Kan, a renowned Nigerian writer, also participated in the forum, engaging in literary discussions and networking with fellow authors. The forum was instrumental in connecting writers like Molara Wood, Afam Akeh, Pius Adesanmi, Victor Ehikhamenor, Obi Nwakanma, Esiaba Irobi, Ike Okonta, Wale Okediran, Chuma Nwokolo, Uche Peter Umez, Austin Njoku, and Abdul Mahmud, among others.

The understanding that an institution like the African Poetry Book Fund is bridging the gap between African poets, both at home and in the diaspora, and a global audience provided a glimpse into what you can be as a poet. But that felt so far-fetched. We didn't even know it was possible to live the life of a writer. It takes information for the world to open before you. My friends and I started researching, and our dreams started to build. They seemed unreachable, but at least the poet’s life is his dreams. We learned of D.M. Aderibigbe, whose collection was named a finalist for the Sillerman First Book Prize—another initiative of the African Poetry Book Fund—for his manuscript My Mother’s Song and Other Similar Songs I Learnt. The relative scarcity of continent-wide literary opportunities in Africa has played a significant role in shaping the trajectory of Nigerian poetry. Programs like the Brunel International African Poetry Prize, the Sillerman First Book Prize for African Poets, and the African Poetry Book Fund have been crucial in providing platforms for African poets. However, the limited number of such initiatives underscores the systemic challenges facing Nigerian and African poets seeking to reach a wider audience.

We didn't even know it was possible to live the life of a writer. It takes information for the world to open before you. My friends and I started researching, and our dreams started to build. They seemed unreachable, but at least the poet’s life is his dreams.

Because of how competitive it is for African poets—which may also be argued to be one of the reasons why we must be so good— I and six other poets—Agbaakin Jeremiah, Adebayo Kolawole, Pamilerin Jacobs, Michael Akuchie, Wale Ayinla, and Nome Emeka Patrick—started the UnSerious Fellowship, which awards four Nigerian poets annually with financial and editorial support. Some UnSerious Fellows have won the Evaristo Poetry Prize and the Sillerman Poetry Prize. The UnSerious Collective started as a writing group on WhatsApp, which then evolved into an editorial team that worked together to produce the most extensive anthology of Nigerian poetry—Memento: An Anthology of Contemporary Nigerian Poetry, published by Animal Heart Press in 2020. The anthology also ushered in a text that contemplates the substance of Nigerian poetry—the range of language, the fluidity of its metaphors, the cloud of similes, and the barrage of issues the poems discuss. UnSerious Collective has influenced newer collectives and writing groups like the Frontier Collective, sprouting across the country. One of the most influential ways to emerge as a people is if we exist in groups.

The emergence of the WRR Facebook community led to TJ Dan’s now-defunct Praxis Magazine. The magazine published one of the most important queer chapbooks, Burnt Men, by Romeo Oriogun. Around that time, Wale Owoade founded Expound, and Wale Ayinla co-founded DwartzOnline. Agbowo Magazine, which I now lead as the editorial head, started as a collective of writers from the University of Ibadan. The magazine expanded into one of Africa’s most-read literary journals. Magazines and publications, riding on the wing of the global demand for Nigerian literature, now focus on publishing Nigerian voices. Nigerian NewsDirect Newspaper’s online poetry column solely dedicates itself to amplifying Nigerian voices. In a similar fashion, Poetry Sango-Ota—edited by Michael Akuchie and Jakky Bankong-Obi and chaired by Pamilerin Jacobs and me—reserves its monthly archive to platform Nigerian poets. Maybe why we enjoy what the world would imagine as a confident presence is that we’re creating these platforms for ourselves. During a project review with Pamilerin, I suggested we expand Poetry Sango-Ota to the Black diaspora, since we get submissions from the larger Black community anyway. But Pamilerin, whose mind is a wonder, argued that while the Black diaspora has several institutions, communities, magazines, residencies, and grants, Nigerians do not. And truly, we’re creating opportunities for ourselves, providing spaces for the next generation of writers, working and hoping that something like a miracle happens so we can preserve and archive the work we’re doing now.

In 2016, I created a WhatsApp group called "Growth is Coming," where we discussed poems for several days. We wrote and edited each other's work, preparing for a time like this. One of the participants, Toby Abiodun, became one of the most celebrated spoken word poets in Africa today. It seemed we had been doing all this wonderful work in our formative years, and the world was only catching up. But this was not the only writing group at that time. I was added to a small, closed group of writers that had Hauwa Shaffi, Daisy Odey, Salawu Olajide and Saddiq Dzukogi. We wrote, submitted, wrote and fought.

… we’re creating opportunities for ourselves, providing spaces for the next generation of writers, working and hoping that something like a miracle happens so we can preserve and archive the work we’re doing now.

There is always that person whose success helps redefine the movement. Although Gbenga Adesina had won the Brunel Prize a year prior, when Romeo Oriogun won the Brunel Prize in 2017, something shifted in our community. A year prior, the “Growth is Coming” community discussed the poems of Danez Smith, Sam Sax, Hanif Abdurraqib, Safia Elhillo, and Ladan Osman—whose workshop I attended at the Lagos International Poetry Festival in 2015—alongside other poets who seemed to form a collective of writers exploring the body in new, visceral ways. We jokingly called them the “Beotis Poets” that year (after the literary agency they were signed to). We studied their work closely, examining how they approached identity, trauma, and intimacy. Yet, it wasn’t until Romeo won the Brunel Prize that it began to feel like Nigerian poets could enjoy more audacity to be bolder, more daring, and precise in their poems because Romeo had broken a threshold.

Until 2017, many of us were writing from the outside in, dabbing our wounds with metaphors and tiptoeing around our intricate struggles. Romeo’s winning poems challenged this approach. They were fearless and unflinching, addressing themes of queerness, violence, and love in delicate and powerful language. In the winning poems, Romeo does not shy away from the intimacy of pain or the complexity of bisexual desires. He confronts, instead, with precision, letting the weight of each word settle. Romeo, like many Nigerians—because our lives are animated as much as our mother tongue—heavily relied on images. His poems went for the jugular of the reader simply because he could reach that deep inside. This was a departure from the past, where many of us masked our vulnerability with florid language or distant symbols. His poems permitted us to be direct, to not only dab at our wounds but to press them into the open, allowing for a raw and unadorned exploration of self. So did Gbenga Adesina’s, Bhion Achimba’s, Kechi Nomu’s, Salawu Olajide’s, D.M. Aderibigbe’s—heroes of the new age Nigerian poetry.

We cannot deny that historically, Western educational institutions and publishing houses have acted as gatekeepers, determining which voices were deemed worthy of global attention. This system of literary apartheid effectively silenced or marginalized countless Nigerian and African poets, regardless of the quality or significance of their work. The recent "discovery" of Nigerian poetry by the global literary establishment is less a testament to its sudden emergence than an indictment of the systemic biases that have long obscured it.

The roots of this gatekeeping can be traced back to the colonial era, when Western education systems were imposed on Nigerian society. These systems not only prioritized Western literary traditions but often actively denigrated or dismissed indigenous forms of expression. The result was a literary landscape where Nigerian poets were often forced to conform to Western standards or risk being ignored entirely. Even as Nigeria gained independence and developed its own robust literary traditions, the legacy of this colonial mindset persisted in the global literary establishment. Major publishing houses, literary prizes, and academic institutions continued to be dominated by Western perspectives, creating significant barriers for Nigerian poets seeking international recognition. This is not to say that Nigerian poetry was entirely absent from the global stage during this period. Poets like Christopher Okigbo, Wole Soyinka, and John Pepper Clark-Bekederemo gained international acclaim in the mid-20th century. However, their recognition often came at the cost of being categorized as "African poets" rather than simply "poets," a label that often carried reductive expectations about themes, style, and content. Even in 2024, Nigerian writers working from the U.S. and the diaspora are still treated, regarded, and hinted to be the lesser poets in every room where our writing is being discussed.

The recent 'discovery' of Nigerian poetry by the global literary establishment is less a testament to its sudden emergence than an indictment of the systemic biases that have long obscured it.

When I arrived at the University of Iowa for my MFA program in 2021, Mark Levine asked me the same question: “What is happening in Nigeria?” I cannot exactly remember my answer, but I remember telling him later that the program needs more Nigerians. We’ve finally found a way, through digital media, to let the world know we’re here and we’re many. Language is not the problem; our country is. At AWP in 2023, Dante Micheaux, the Programs Director of Cave Canem, regarded the gathering of young Nigerians (mostly poets) in the walkway as we plotted and decided where to take the party later that evening as the “Nigerian Corner.” The joy—the sheer joy—to be finally seen as a collective of writers from Nigeria. At Cave Canem this year, he told us—Ajibola Tolase, Nome Patrick, and me—that he was wondering what was happening in Nigeria. "Nigerians are taking over!" I understand. The proliferation of MFA programs, particularly in the United States, has had a profound impact on the global literary landscape, including Nigerian poetry. We’re all trying to escape Nigeria—the unsettling disregard for human life, the corruption, the kidnappings (which is central to my forthcoming collection, The Years of Blood), the lack of safety, and the absence of governmental institutions that support creatives. In fact, in the face of untold hardship, the Nigerian government is looking to tax creatives. Therefore, I understand that you can only write poems if you are first alive and well—and many Nigerian poets are seeking these programs as a means of honing their craft and gaining access to international literary networks, and most importantly, to stay alive.

As Nigerian poetry gains increased global attention, we must critically examine the nature of this attention. Is it a genuine appreciation of the artistic merit and cultural significance of our work, or does it reflect a form of literary exoticism? There is a risk that Nigerian poetry might be valued more for its "otherness" and the strangeness of language than for its deep-rooted qualities, which may perpetuate harmful stereotypes and expectations about African literature. This dynamic is not new. Chinua Achebe, in his seminal essay "An Image of Africa," critiqued the way African literature was often received in the West, arguing that it was viewed through a lens of exoticism and otherness rather than being engaged with on its own terms. While Achebe was primarily discussing prose, his observations remain relevant to the reception of Nigerian poetry in the global literary sphere. In fact, the declaration of literary obscurity when a writer is of color or of African descent is still prevalent. Contemporary Nigerian poets are acutely aware of this dynamic and often engage with it directly in their work.

Is it a genuine appreciation of the artistic merit and cultural significance of our work, or does it reflect a form of literary exoticism?

Even with the current climate of high-quality poetry coming out of Nigeria, the global publishing industry needs to address its structural biases. This includes publishing more Nigerian poets and ensuring that they are marketed and distributed with the same vigor as their Western counterparts. It also means cultivating more diverse editorial staff who can engage with Nigerian and African poetry on its own terms rather than trying to fit it into pre-existing Western categories.

As we celebrate the increasing global visibility of Nigerian poets, we must also remain critical of the structures and assumptions that have long marginalized our voices. The true challenge is not in "emerging" onto the global stage but in transforming that stage to be truly inclusive and representative of the world's diverse poetic and oral traditions. This transformation requires action on multiple fronts. First, there needs to be a concerted effort to decolonize literary curricula and canons, ensuring that Nigerian and other African poets are studied not as exotic others but as integral parts of world literature. This means going beyond token inclusion to fundamentally rethink how we categorize and value different poetic traditions.

What took the world so long? We have always been here, writing. We will continue to write and submit. We will build on the foundations laid by those before us. We will advocate for systemic changes in the global literary landscape. Poetry is a global language and we will use it.