From Alaandiiche to Nebraska: A Naming with Chinua Ezenwa-Ọhaeto

An interview by Akal Mohan in Kisumu and Chinua Ezenwa-Oheato in Lincoln, NE.

first question in my notes that I wanted to ask was what being the son of an award-winning Nigerian poet, writer, and scholar Ezenwa-Oheato, gave you. Like, did his talent genetically transfer to you? You must have, at a point, heard of artists when asked where they got their art from, they respond with: I got it from my mum or dad or any family relation.  

I, however, won't ask this, simply because you have said more than once that when you first took him a poem you had written after reading his collection, The Voice of the Night Masquerade, he asked you to go write your own.  Perhaps let’s start there. Did you at that young age understand what he meant by, “go write your own?” Are you at a place where you are able to describe what writing your own means?

Chinua: What my father really said was—“Chinua, put your feelings down”— and is both simple and seismic. This statement has been in my consciousness. For me, as a poet, it resonates deeply. It carries the weight of autonomy, the call to find my own voice amid a world filled with echoes, harm and sad news. I think my father’s words were not just advice; they have always been a challenge, almost a dare to discover and lay bare the truths around and inside of me. Now, as someone who is “over two decades old,” I understand what it means to write my own, to put my feelings down. It’s more than just putting words on a page. It’s about living in the fullness of who I am— my mistakes, triumphs, quiet observations of the world. It’s about stripping away imitation and allowing myself to create something that is irreducibly me, life and life’s wahala. In other words, it is a sharing. That’s what poetry is to me, and that’s what my forthcoming book The Naming is too— a collection of moments and truths that are uniquely close to my reality. In the collection, I explore the movements, the excesses, and the extremities of existing as a postmodern individual. It is heavily rooted in the Igbo ontology, especially navigating my personal experiences with that of my ancestors and my lineage. It is also invented in reimagining memories, history, homestead, and the intersection of the past, present, and possible future.

To talk about my progress or metamorphosis, it wasn’t always poetry for me. I first wanted to be an inventor. Then I turned to painting and drawing— a more immediate, visual form of storytelling. And then football, oh, football! I love it and still play it. It teaches me rhythm, strategy, and movement, things I still carry with me into my writing. When I play football, I am free. It feels good and I remember when I played for local clubs, I was a menace to opponents. This brought my way serious man-to-man markings, tackles and injuries. The worst I had was a groin injury.

I must say that 2014 was pivotal. Being a runner-up for the Etisalat Prize for Flash Fiction wasn’t just an acknowledgment of talent; it was a moment of clarity. Coupled with my mother’s advice, it helped me reconsider what I truly wanted to build my life around. Then I chose writing fully. And I haven’t looked back.

Akal: I haven't read your forthcoming collection, The Naming. I can't wait to have a hold of it. But, something you say in its description: a collection of moments and truths that are uniquely close to my reality: has me wondering. This statement, in my understanding, is an acknowledgment that truths are barely absolute. It’s an admission, and I might be wrong, that reality is mostly specific. In other words, it's you saying that your reality gives you your truth. However, why should we care about personal truths? and I am not being impolite by asking this, I am asking to probe you further on why you had to collect your moments and truths in this book. What was the agency? On the same note, is writing by any chance an evidence of your truths?

Something else, Chinua, what does a quiet observation of the world look like? ‘Cz I know this; if there isn't chattering of people then there is the whooshing of cars, or rumbling of planes or humming of electronic gadgets. If not then there are mosquitos buzzing or birds twittering, frogs croaking. If all these sounds and noises are absent then there is the thumping of our hearts, and to the dead, I guess the noise they occupy is silence, perhaps even echoes.  How do you achieve ‘quiet’?

Chinua: Let me begin with the idea of personal truths and why they matter— why they mattered enough for me to build an entire collection, The Naming, around them. Personal truths, in my understanding, are like the strands of existence. They are not just facts or moments that happened to us; they are the entirety of how we interpret our history, our geography, our ancestry, and even our quiet rebellions against silence. Before anything else, my personal truth began in my family, in my village in Ishiowerre in Owerre-Nkworji in Nkwerre Local Government Area, in Imo State, Nigeria, where my ancestors resided. My ancestors speak to me often from Alaandiiche, the realm of the ancestral spirits. I know you are wondering how they speak to me. Well, this art is passed down to me via the lineage of the first son, tracing back to Obashi, the man who founded our lineage. In Igbo ontology, ancestors are not absent; they are part of the living, part of me. Owning their deeds—both triumphs and errors—is a sacred responsibility. Writing The Naming is a way to gather all these shards of reality—my experiences, my lineage, my existence—and hold them up to the light, not for perfection or universality, but for what they mean to me. I think we should care about personal truths because they remind us that reality is layered and multifaceted. My story may not mirror your story, but it will reveal its own rawness, its own music, and perhaps, a fragment of something you can hold onto. Writing, for me, is evidence of these truths— not an evidence as in proof, but evidence as in presence. It is a visible mark that says, “I am here. I was here. These moments matter and matterred. These voices, these ancestors, this land, this journey—they existed.”

Now, as for the second part of your question—what does a quiet observation of the world look like, and how do I achieve ‘quiet’— I must say that quietness is not the absence of sound. Quietness, to me, is a recognition of the chaos within and without. Silence is its own kind of chaos—it is the loudness of absence, the vastness of an unspoken truth, and perhaps a louding emptiness. In Igbo cosmology, silence is rarely ever truly quiet. In other words, whoever keeps quiet also agrees or accepts something, might be what is said, discussed, undiscussed or done. You see, silence is its own kind of chaos, if you ask me. Making it relative to what we are discussing, silence holds the vibrations of my ancestors speaking, of land breathing, of the unseen pulsating with life. Silence is an energy. When I observe the world quietly, I am not tuning out the chatter of people or the whooshing of cars or the chirping of birds. Instead, I am entering into a dialogue with all these sounds and the spaces between them. I am listening to energy and what isn’t immediately heard—the story beneath the noise, the history behind the moment.

Akal: I recently read Ukabila—a think piece cum essay—by the Kenyan writer and political analyst, Nanjala Nyabola, and in it she argues on the reorganisation and weaponization of tribal identities according to the interest of political power. Ukabila is Swahili. I am not bringing up this essay for any other reason except for me to ask for your loyalty to Igbo.  I have noticed that Igbo ontology and cosmology plays an integral role in The Naming. Could you talk a little more on why you trust your Igbo lineage despite, as you say,  existing as a postmodern individual? Ooh, and when you write: my mother puts prayers in my head/to be my guide, in your poem, A Page From My Diary, is her prayer directed to the Igbo God?

Chinua: I trust my Igbo lineage because it is home, and I know no other home. It is my anchor and the foundation of my identity. Secondly, I trust my lineage because I know my history— I think everyone should know their history and lineage. This knowledge gives me the context to recognise when the tiger rain started beating us and when it stopped. By this, I mean that understanding one's lineage and history equips us to confront problems, adapt to challenges, and build solutions. For me, lineage and history are essential frameworks for survival and progress.

I must clarify that there is a distinction between fiction and reality in my poetry. When I mention the mother praying to God in my poem, she is praying to Chukwu-Okike, but I cannot definitively say she refers to my real mother. In Igbo cosmology, Chukwu or Chukwu-Ọ̀kịké is the greatest force— the Creator of all existence. He manifests as Agwu (divination and wisdom), Amadioha (justice and thunder), Anyanwu (the sun), Ala (earth and morality), and Chi (personal destiny) to serve different purposes. That said, my real mother is herself a custodian of Igbo history and identity. She has written a book titled Afamefuna, where she traces and shares the meanings of Igbo names spanning over 600 years. Names, in Igbo culture, are profound— they encapsulate meaning, circumstance, fear, joy, philosophy, history, destiny etc. This connection to names, history, and lineage reinforces my loyalty to Igbo identity, even as I exist in a postmodern context that often questions fixed identities. My Igbo lineage is not static or confining; it is dynamic, evolving, and adaptive, much like the cosmology it emerges from. My first name in full is “Chinụalụmọgụ”. The Igbo people have “Chi”, a personal and spiritual guide that descends from the great God, Chukwu. My name loosely means “Chi fight for me.”

 Akal: I at times envy how the Igbo culture is being exported especially through writings and stories in general. Chinua Achebe must have been a pioneer, but I also know from listening to this interview by the Nigerian writer, Otosiriese Obi-Young, that the Igbo are a tribe of storytellers. In the interview, he also explains the disruptions happening in contemporary literature. Is your preoccupation with your Igbo lineage a way of disruption for you? Or is it something that has been done before? If yes, which writers have done it in a way that is influencing you?

Chinua: My preoccupation with my Igbo lineage is not necessarily a disruption in the sense of upending a tradition. It is more of a reclamation and continuation of a deeply rooted legacy. However, in a contemporary literary space that often seeks to universalise stories or decontextualise them, writing so intimately about my Igbo roots does not fully feel like a disruption. In terms of whether it has been done before, the answer is absolutely yes. Writers like Chinua Achebe, of course, but also Flora Nwapa, Buchi Emecheta, Ezenwa-Ohaeto, Catherine Acholonu, Chigozie Obioma and Elechi Amadi and others have written with a profound commitment to portraying Igbo life, spirituality, and ontology. My father, Ezenwa-Ohaeto, explored the Igbo Night Masquerades and Minstrels in his works. These writers remind me that writing about my lineage and culture is not just about documentation, but about embodying them in a way that resonates universally without losing its specificity. That said, I am aware that every generation of storytellers brings something new to the table. For me, the “disruption,” if you will, lies in how I blend traditional Igbo ontology with my personal truths and contemporary experiences. I write from the intersections of what is inherited and what is lived. In that sense, my work carves its own path while staying tethered to my lineage.

 Akal:  “Not every moment carries the weight of memory.” I’ll remember this. Now that you have brought up Kwame Dawes, have you read his line,“Every poem has its own ancestry”? I find it resonates with what you have been talking about all this time. The thing about drawing from your lineage. Him challenging you could be an affirmation of what Rachel Zucker in her piece, Oh Kwame Dawes, I was Just Thinking About you, writes: A white girl at a fancy university claimed you as a poetic ancestor. Much has been said about his role in boosting Africa’s poetry scene especially with his work at African Poetry Book Fund. We appreciate him for that. Today, though, I want to hear from you, how has his work on fatherhood influenced your writing? Could you also tell us why the word father is so common in your vocabulary? Your title: The Last Time I Saw My Father, has it there. It's countless how many times this word  appears in your poems. What is it with this word f-a-t-h-e-r?

Chinua: Kwame Dawes’ line, “Every poem has its own ancestry,” feels like an anchor to the work I now do, particularly in how I draw from lineage, personal history, and memories. It affirms that poetry or any writing is never created in isolation but is always in conversation with something older or inherent, something deeper—whether that’s ancestry, or other things. Baba Kwame’s work, especially his explorations of fatherhood, has profoundly influenced me. Heard of his father, Sir Neville Augustus Dawes? I don't know if I have already said that I am tracing fatherhood in his works in a research I am currently on. Baba Kwame’s ability to navigate the complexities of memory, responsibility, and legacy in his writing has also challenged me to examine my own experiences and connections to fatherhood. He writes about fatherhood with an honesty that is both tender and unflinching. Kwame’s work doesn’t just challenge me; it affirms this perspective. I must say that the word father is so common in my vocabulary because it is central to my story, my existence, and, by extension, my writing. I lost my father when I was 13. For a long time, his absence was like a wound, but it was also a presence. Even in death, he remained a guide, a figure I turned to in my imagination and memory. I have a manuscript titled February Memories, there I explored fatherhood and the wonderful relationship I had with my father. The nonfiction you mentioned, published in the Republic Journal, became a way to process that loss, to make sense of me assuming roles of maturity and responsibility prematurely. It also became a way of my acceptance of the loss. I am most grateful to my mother, without whom I may not be this kind of person you are having this conversation with. I can't thank her enough, especially for her sacrifices all these years past.

Akal: Loss! Oh loss! However much I run from this conversation on loss, it, in some ways, always finds its way in. When are we ever going to just write about unicorns feeding on rainbows without holding breaths over anxieties of looming losses? Your friend Chimezie Chika has an essay, Suffering Is Literature's Big Game, and in it he asks: ...does a significant part of art and literature luxuriate in the exploration of pain? Do you mind responding to him as we end?

Chinua: It lingers, even when we try to chase it away. Chimezie’s essay poses a profound and uncomfortable truth: pain, in its many forms, often fuels the most resonant art, I think. I believe this isn’t because writers revel in pain, but because pain, like joy, is universal. The exploration of pain in art is not a glorification of suffering; it is a reckoning with the human condition. Loss, grief, heartbreak—these are experiences that unearth truths we might otherwise ignore. And I must say something briefly: I don’t dream of unicorns feeding on rainbows; I dream of Ijele, Izaga, Adamma, ojuju calabar . . . Back to the issue of loss, I also write about unrestrained joy, about love, about a world where hope isn’t constantly tempered with. And I think we, writers, can. In fact, I think we must. Here’s why: the act of creating art about pain and loss is not just an acknowledgment of suffering; it is also a reclamation of joy. Chimezie asks if suffering is literature’s big game. Perhaps it is. But if so, it is not the final game. Literature does not just luxuriate in pain; it transforms it. It turns suffering into something meaningful, something we can hold, examine, and, ultimately, let go of. And maybe this is the point—not to escape one or the other, but to embrace the fullness of both—loss and joy.

Akal: It’s been a pleasure talking to you. Happy 2025!

Chinua: The pleasure has been all mine! Thank you for such a thoughtful conversation. Happy New Year! And may we all succeed!

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AKAL is a Kenyan short story writer, essayist and poet. He has previously been shortlisted for the Africa Writers’ Award in poetry. Akal is also a 2023 Idembeka Creative Writing fellow and Ibua Novel Manuscript workshop attendee. In 2022, he was a recipient of two digital residencies organised by the University of East Anglia, one of which resulted in a short story collection that he contributed to. Akal reads in trust and writes in faith.

CHINUA EZENWA-ỌHAETO lives in Lincoln, NE, where he is pursuing his Ph.D in English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln with a focus on creative writing (poetry). He became a runner-up in the Etisalat Prize for Literature, Flash Fiction, 2014. In 2018, he won the Castello di Duino Poesia Prize, the Eriata Oribhabor Poetry Prize (EOPP), the recipient of New Hampshire Institute of Arts Writing Award, and the recipient of the New Hampshire Institute of Art’s scholarship to the MFA Program. In 2019, he was the winner of the Sevhage/Angus Poetry Prize. Winner of the 2022 Special ANMIG poetry prize, organised by Centro Giovanni e Poesia di Truiggio, Italy. In 2023, he was shortlisted for the Alpine Poetry Fellowship. His full-length poetry manuscript, The Naming, is coming out in fall 2025 via APBF. His works have appeared in Isele Magazine, Poetry Ireland Review, Oxford Poetry, Massachusetts Review, Frontier, Palette, The Common, Southword Magazine, Colorado Review, Mud Season Review, Notra Dame, Anmly, The Republic, Up the Staircase Quartely, Ruminate and elsewhere.