My father’s works shaped my artistic journey – Chinua

Born in Awka, Anambra State of Nigeria, Chinua Ezenwa-Ohaeto 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 is a celebrated writer, award-winning poet and an advocate for Nigerian indigenous languages.   In what ways have past Igbo […]

Born in Awka, Anambra State of Nigeria, Chinua Ezenwa-Ohaeto 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 is a celebrated writer, award-winning poet and an advocate for Nigerian indigenous languages.

 

In what ways have past Igbo writers influenced your work as a contemporary Nigerian poet?

I must start by saying that 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. For me, lineage and history are essential frameworks for survival and progress.

Past Igbo writers have profoundly shaped my work as a contemporary Nigerian poet, particularly in how I engage with language, memory and cultural identity. The lineage of Igbo poets and writers — Christopher Okigbo, Chinua Achebe, Flora Nwapa and Catherine Acholonu, among others — has provided a framework for navigating both the historical and the deeply personal in my poetry. 

Okigbo’s lyricism and spiritual depth resonate in my works, where I explore ancestry, divination, and the weight of inherited names. His ability to fuse Igbo cosmology with modernist experimentation has encouraged me to embrace the mystical and the fragmented in my poetic craft. Achebe’s approach to language — his insistence on grounding English in Igbo sensibilities — has influenced my engagement with voice and rhythm, in that pattern where poetry remains rooted in the cadences of Igbo speech and thought. Similarly, Nwapa and Acholonu’s poetic works on ecology and spirituality echo my exploration of nature and cultural practices. Their writing affirms the power of Igbo women’s voices in literature.

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Beyond stylistic influences, past Igbo writers have instilled in me a responsibility to write against erasure — to document the complexities of belonging, migration and spiritual inheritance. My poetry wrestles with these themes, drawing from their groundwork while forging a new, contemporary path.

 

Your father, Ezenwa Ohaeto, was a distinguished writer and academic. How did his work and presence shape your artistic journey?

My father once said to me “Chinua, put your feelings down.” It was a statement both simple and seismic. It has stayed with me, shaping not just my approach to writing but my understanding of what it means to be an artist. As a poet, those words carry the weight of autonomy — the call to find my own voice in a world filled with echoes, harm, and sad news. My father’s words were not just advice; they were a challenge, almost a dare, to discover and lay bare the truths around and inside of me. Growing up in a house filled with books, I was always aware of the weight of words and the legacy of storytelling. My father was not just a scholar of poetry; he lived it. His work, particularly his ability to document and celebrate Nigerian and Igbo literary traditions, instilled in me a deep sense of responsibility — to write, to document, to ensure that memory does not fade. 

Now, as someone “over two decades old,” I understand what it means to write my own, to put my feelings down. It’s more than arranging words on a page. It’s about fully inhabiting who I am: my mistakes, triumphs and quiet observations of the world. My father’s work and presence shaped my artistic journey in ways both direct and subtle. He didn’t tell me to become a writer, but his life made it impossible for me not to write.

 

As a Nigerian creative residing in the diaspora, how do you explore themes of culture and nostalgia in your work?

Culture and nostalgia shape my writing in profound ways, serving as both anchors and mirrors. Living in the diaspora means carrying home in fragments — through memory, language, food, music, and the stories passed down. My work engages with these remnants, not just as objects of longing, but as evolving landscapes that I reconstruct and interrogate. I write from a place of in-betweenness, where the past is not static but fluid, constantly reshaping itself in new environments. Nostalgia, for me, is more than just remembering — it is a form of translation, of making sense of distance and the echoes it leaves behind. I often find myself drawn to the cadence of Igbo proverbs, the weight of inherited silences, and the rituals that persist despite displacement. These elements form the backbone of my poetry, allowing me to navigate the complexities of identity, belonging and transformation.

Language is central to this exploration. I intertwine between English, Igbo and sometimes the unspoken—those pauses and omissions that carry as much meaning as words. This reflects my reality, as I am constantly translating myself, and navigating different cultural expectations.

My work also examines migration and memory, particularly how distance reshapes perception. There is an urge to preserve, to document, but also to reimagine — to tell stories not just as they were, but as they continue to unfold in the present. In doing so, I challenge the idea of nostalgia as mere sentimentality. Instead, I see it as an active engagement with history, a way to understand the self in relation to both what was and what is becoming.

 

Do you hold an optimistic view regarding the international relevance of Nigerian poetry?

Absolutely. Nigerian poetry has long been a formidable force in global literary circles, and I believe its relevance will only continue to grow. Our poets have consistently pushed the boundaries of form, language, and thematic exploration, engaging with histories both personal and collective, while remaining deeply attuned to the present moment. What gives me further optimism is the increasing visibility of Nigerian poets through international prizes, anthologies, residencies, and academic studies. The digital space has also widened the reach of Nigerian poets.

Moreover, as contemporary Nigerian poetry engages with themes of migration, ecological concerns, gender, memory, and resistance, it aligns with broader global discourses, making it even more relevant internationally. Nigerian poets are not only responding to their immediate environments but are also shaping and influencing the poetic traditions beyond their borders.

That said, international recognition should not be the only measure of Nigerian poetry’s success. Its true power lies in its ability to remain deeply rooted while being globally resonant. As long as Nigerian poets continue to innovate, challenge, and expand the possibilities of poetry, I have no doubt that our literary tradition will remain not just relevant but indispensable on the world stage.

 

Are you concerned about the emerging trend of ‘international journals’ among young Nigerian poets? In what ways do you believe this trend may impact originality, particularly in terms of style and form?

I think the growing interest in ‘international journals’ among Nigerian poets is a complex phenomenon — both an opportunity and a challenge. On one hand, international recognition can amplify Nigerian voices, offering poets wider readerships and access to platforms that may provide funding, mentorship, and career-defining opportunities. It allows for dialogue across cultures. 

However, my concern lies in the subtle pressure to conform, deliberately or not. That said, I do not think the trend is entirely negative. Nigerian poets have always been innovative, finding ways to navigate and negotiate between local and global traditions. The key is in maintaining a strong sense of artistic self-awareness. Nigerian poetry does not need to seek validation from international journals; rather, it should engage with them on its own terms.

 

Are there any notable platforms within Nigeria that excite you? What distinguishes them?

Yes, The Republic Journal is one platform within Nigeria that excites me, even though they don’t publish poetry. What distinguishes The Republic is its commitment to rigorous, intellectually engaging discourse on politics, culture, literature, and philosophy. It is one of the few Nigerian platforms that foregrounds long-form, deeply researched essays and thought pieces. What I particularly admire about The Republic is its dedication to shaping conversations around African narratives on African terms. It resists the oversimplification of Nigerian and African experiences that is often found in mainstream global media. Instead, it offers analysis that is both deeply rooted in local realities and globally relevant. The quality of writing and editorial curation is consistently high, making it an essential space for scholars, writers, and thinkers looking for thoughtful engagements beyond the immediate cycles of news and social media discourse.

 

The act of publishing poetry in Nigeria is often described as a labour of love. What do you think of this?

Describing the act of publishing poetry in Nigeria as a labour of love is dynamic, both accurate and revealing of the realities poets and publishers face. Poetry, unlike commercial fiction or nonfiction, does not promise financial rewards, nor does it command the kind of mass readership that other literary forms might. This means that both poets and publishers who commit to the craft are often driven by passion, a deep sense of cultural responsibility, and an unwavering belief in the power of poetry to document, challenge, and reimagine society.

Yet, while this devotion is admirable, it also highlights the structural difficulties within the Nigerian literary ecosystem. There are limited poetry presses, and even those that exist struggle with distribution, funding, and readership engagement. Many poets rely on small, independent presses or self-publishing, often financing their own books with little expectation of significant sales. The absence of robust institutional support means that poetry publishing remains largely sustained by personal dedication rather than a thriving literary economy.

However, despite these challenges, Nigerian poetry continues to flourish. Poets find ways to circumvent traditional publishing obstacles—leveraging digital platforms, collaborating with collectives, and reaching audiences through performance and spoken word scenes. Publishers who persist in curating poetry collections do so out of a genuine commitment to literary excellence and cultural preservation. So, yes, publishing poetry in Nigeria is undoubtedly a labour of love, but it is also an act of defiance, of resilience, and of faith in the enduring significance of poetic expression.

 

Your full-length collection of poems, The Naming, is set for publication by Nebraska Press. Would you mind sharing the themes it explores?

The Naming explores the movements, excesses, and extremes of existing as a postmodern individual, connecting these experiences to familial ancestry. The poems in this collection examine the various ways one remains tied to their ancestors by reimagining memories, history, homesteads, migration, and the intersections of the past, present, and possible futures. Through this exploration, the collection seeks to rebuild a world that doesn’t merely replicate realities but reinvents, enshrines, and re-stories them.

To expand it, the work is an interpretation of Igbo and Nigerian history, our geography, our ancestry, and even our quiet rebellions against silence. Before anything else, my Igboness 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, of course, 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. 

 

Do you miss home? Where is home to you? 

Yes, I do miss home. But home is a complicated thing—it is both a place and a feeling, both fixed and shifting. Home, for me, is Nigeria, specifically the places that have shaped me —Awka and Ishiowerre in Owerre-Nkworji, where my roots are, where movement and ambition pulse through the streets, and all the spaces where I have felt a deep sense of belonging. Home is also in language, in Igbo, in the music of everyday speech, in the proverbs that hold wisdom passed down through generations.

But being in the diaspora adds another layer to what home means. Distance reshapes one’s relationship with it. I miss the immediacy of certain things—the cadence of conversations, the way the air feels before it rains, the unspoken understanding shared among people who know the same histories without having to explain them. Yet, I also recognize that home is not just a geographical place. It is memory. It is people. It is the things I carry with me — stories, rituals, the food I still crave, the music that makes me pause because it pulls me back in time. So, while I miss home, I also know that it is not entirely lost to me. It travels with me, layered in my work, in the way I navigate the world, in the small and large ways I keep it alive.

 

You’re also an award-winning short story writer. Do you see yourself publishing a collection of your stories in the future?

Yes, I definitely see myself publishing a collection of my short stories in the future. Writing short stories has always been an integral part of my creative journey, allowing me to explore different facets of human experience, culture, and emotion. While my focus has primarily been on poetry, the impulse to tell stories continues to drive me. I think a collection of short stories would allow me to further explore the themes and cultural reflections that are at the heart of my work. It would also offer a way to expand my creative practice of character development, plot, and the intricate ways in which storytelling can evoke meaning. Just as poetry has allowed me to engage with language in a condensed, often intense way, short stories give me space to explore character depth and the intricacies of plot.