They Were Here

Dzifa Benson’s debut collection Monster is inspired by the life of Sarah ‘Saartjie’ Baartman – a South African Khoekhoe woman who was brought to England in 1810 and displayed in freakshows across Europe for her large buttocks. Our knowledge of Sarah’s life, experiences, and treatment in Europe has relied heavily on predominantly white male accounts. Benson seeks to redress this, through an empathetic and imaginative retelling of Sarah’s life as the ‘Hottentot Venus’. 

The book’s title is a loaded word: monsters are born from a shared understanding of what is good and acceptable in appearance and/or moral conduct. Benson’s Monster interrogates historical discourse about the black female body – the case of Baartman being a harrowing yet presently familiar example of the dehumanisation of black women. Monster also examines how displacement and othering shape a fractured sense of belonging, forcing individuals to navigate spaces where they are both hypervisible and unseen. 

The book is split into four parts, with the first bearing the same title as the collection and focusing on Sarah’s journey from her homeland to foreign surroundings; her imagined perspective is the primary window into this unfolding. The second section, ‘Mɔse ƒe ye nye xɔme’ (an Anlo Ewe proverb that translates to, ‘The end of a road is inside a room’), is more personal as it explores the poet’s Ghanaian heritage with a focus on Ewe language and lore. The third part, ‘After a Panoptic Ekphrasis’, showcases a range of poems that correspond with pieces of art and gallery installations. The final part, ‘Addendum’, is rich in spiritual catharsis. Benson’s positioning as a medium for Sarah broadens to encapsulate a plethora of voices and influences, as the poet reconciles her own diasporic identity. This technically expansive, somatic, and possibly too-broad body of work is characterised by a variety of poetic forms, a flair for extended lines, and intricate language which can at times feel cumbersome, although it lingers with dramatic effect.

‘who will give me anything here?’ is the opening line of the first poem, ‘Lacuna, with Sea Scape’. Here, Sarah does not seek permission to speak but presses into how much she will be heeded – even by the reader. Historically, narratives around Sarah Baartman have been concerned with what happened to her rather than her interior world. As a South African woman from the Sarah Baartman District Municipality, my indignation at her treatment overshadowed my curiosity about her. By conjuring a voice for Sarah, Benson grants her agency, so that she might be not merely a historical figure but also a presence in contemporary consciousness. 

The second poem, ‘Blues for Sarah’, shifts between Sarah’s voice and her keeper’s, though it could also be read as Sarah defiantly mocking her keeper in a darkly humorous monologue. Sarah’s authority to shape the reader’s perception aligns with her higher moral standing, as seen when she asks, ‘Can they be human / if their eyes are empty?’ The poem critiques Sarah’s subjection to European beauty standards, with the word ‘unnatural’ emphasising the oppression and internalised hatred Black and Brown people have faced in resisting these ideals. By labelling Sarah a ‘monster’, her keeper reinforces the European ideal of womanhood, where difference is ridiculed and vilified. 

One of the standout poems from part two is ‘Ahanoŋkɔ // “A Nameless Thing is a Vague Thing”’. Drawing on her Ghanaian heritage, the poet translates the meaning of Ewe surnames and strings them together to form a surreal, proverbial poem. Traditionally, the Anlo Ewe people did not have surnames. However, when colonial schooling systems imposed the use of surnames, individuals adopted their paternal ‘drinking names’ – names that reflect personal traits – as their family name. Although this practice was originally somewhat improvised, the names retain significant meaning and even supernatural power, as they are thought to reflect the nature of the person who bears them. Over time, descendants continued to use these inherited surnames, but the tradition of drinking names allows for individuals to receive new names that reflect their own unique identity. Benson takes advantage of the innately imaginative, whimsical qualities of these names to achieve the unusual directions the poem takes. There’s something about not knowing where a line will end that almost simulates trying to follow intoxicated murmurings, which yields a narrative of delightful absurdity.

Whilst the names in Monster are given based on the bearer’s characteristics, other tribes view names as prophetic. Theresa Lola’s Ceremony for the Nameless explores how names define belonging. The book delves into the poet’s relationship to her name, its cultural roots, and the complex ways it is negotiated in Britain, where Nigerian identities are often perceived as ‘other.’

The opening poem immerses the reader in a lucid and lyrical narration of Isomoloruko –  a Yoruba naming ceremony – traditionally held the week following a child’s birth. The privilege of bestowing ‘A necklace of names for one’ (‘Chorus at the Ceremony’) is reserved for the closest kin, who commune to echo each syllable of the child’s given names into the ether, declaring their existence as hallowed. Woven into the texture of Lola’s language is the deeply spiritual nature of the practice: ‘Angelic dancers, unseen by the surface eye, / silk in our midst’. The steadfast belief in unseen realities extends to God, spirits, and the child’s flourishing future. One can’t help but wonder about the extent to which Yoruba people’s characteristic confidence can be traced to these brilliant foundations. Here, names act as protective armour, an affirmation of a transcendental truth that belongs only to its bearer.

The theme of faith courses through this warm, poignant, and musical body of work. The second poem ‘First Miracle I Witnessed’ portrays how the speaker’s notion of God deepens through a vulnerable and life-threatening experience. ‘I knew this one’s nature: knew the God who covers nakedness.’ There’s a strong tension throughout the poem, not only in the speaker’s description of what is at stake without the protection of a higher power, but also between the speaker’s sense of the known and unknown. But spiritual matters require spiritual reasoning. At the end of the poem, the speaker recognises that their inclination to make sense of mystery threatens to dilute its power and impact. There’s a truthful uncertainty in the question at the end of the poem: ‘If miracles are attached to anguish, / how will I come to encounter God’s other names?’

Lola’s other explorations of power concern imperialism and the diasporic experience. ‘Here Stand before Us the North and South’ personifies the colonial creation of the single nation we now know as Nigeria – imagining the two regions as a reluctant couple standing at the altar of their wedding. ‘The North and South stood at the altar, / unveiled, jittery in unironed suits.’ Although natives form the majority of attendees in the scene, their silent compliance with this reclassification of their home territory indicates that power lies in the hands of colonisers. The line ‘left the aisle newly dressed as Nigeria’ is an early hint at how the colonial project succeeded in enforcing these new definitions of belonging, but the marriage is not a harmonious one. I often hear Nigerian friends make a case for why they identify more with their tribe – be it Yoruba, Igbo, Hausa, etc – as opposed to their Nigerian nationality, as a defiant acknowledgement of a false umbrella term forced upon a uniquely distinguished people. Lola articulates the legacy of forming Nigeria through her masterful conjuring of extended metaphor and wordplay: ‘Opposites may attract, but our differences / are both compass and encompassing.’ 

Known for drawing inspiration from hip hop, it is a delight to encounter this influence in the rhythm and fabric of Lola’s poetry. ‘Nocturnal Migrant: after Chip’ shines in its explicit reference to the nostalgic grime anthem ‘Who Are You’ by Chip (previously Chipmunk). Employing wit and a playful form, this is one of many poems in the collection that balances style with poignant substance. Whether it’s depicting how the migrant experience can be a violent act of assimilation and resistance, or capturing the tenderness of platonic, romantic, and familial love, Lola’s second poetry collection proves that she is a sophisticated and necessary voice.

The intrinsic connection between culture, lineage, and a name lies at the core of Shash Trevett’s debut collection. The Naming of Names begins with a frank and unapologetic note to the reader, acknowledging that the work we’re about to encounter is filled with ‘strange’ and ‘unfamiliar’ names of Tamil people. This is followed by a thoughtful appeal to the reader to move through the poems with mindful reverence: ‘As you turn these pages you will be tempted to gloss over, skim, even ignore them. Please don’t.’ There’s no soft way of speaking about atrocities. Yet Trevett evokes a graceful tenderness in how she holds space for those who died in the Sri Lankan Civil War, filling a series of pages throughout the collection with a methodical and melodious list of alphabetised names. 

‘Black July’ is the title of the opening poem. It also refers to a week-long anti-Tamil massacre carried out by Sinhalese mobs in 1983, during which thousands of Tamils were killed or exiled. This event triggered a twenty-six-year civil war, causing further widespread deaths and the displacement of Tamil civilians. The poem gives two snapshots of the tragic week, illustrating the onslaught that took place on the streets of Colombo and those that occurred inside a prison. At the start of this year, the words ‘unpredictable’ and ‘almost arbitrary’ were used by a fireman to describe the wildfires that erupted across California’s palisades; he was referring to how the fires wiped out entire streets yet left some neighbouring houses untouched. Trevett’s first snapshot, ‘The Bristol building was burnt. So too / the Ambal Café’, stirs up those recent images, but the fires the poet describes are intentional and entirely manmade: ‘Every Tamil business / in the Fort Area smouldered that July.’

Section two of the book breaks away from the names and delves into the social and political implications of migration. As a storyteller and translator, Trevett demonstrates a remarkable ability to choose her words with precision, ensuring that each one serves the larger purpose of the poem. ‘The Naming of Names 6’ is a perfect example of this skill, as the poet traces the evolution of her family’s names across generations: ‘The naming of names and the way we carry them helps us write / the story our children will make their own.’ 

The collection extends beyond Sri Lanka, with poems that parallel or directly speak to injustices faced by minority groups in America’s Civil Rights era. Whilst ‘Curiosities’ references Billie Holiday’s ‘Strange Fruit’, the poem ‘Ann Lowe 1953’ uses the repetition of the phrase ‘A coloured woman made it’ to bring attention to a historical moment of erasure. The first African American woman to be known as a fashion designer, famous for designing Jacqueline Bouvier’s wedding dress when she married John F Kennedy in 1953, was rendered nameless in a published interview with Mrs Kennedy. The implications of names and branding in fashion traverse not only reputational but also material wealth. In this poem, through the obfuscation of Ann Lowe’s identity and the credit she was due, Trevett offers an example of white society benefiting from the labour of African Americans whilst continuing to oppress them. 

One of the final poems, ‘Things Happen’, adds an aloof tone that intensifies the collection’s sombreness: ‘things happen / and the world moves on’. This detached sentiment mirrors the privileged position many of us occupy, physically and emotionally distanced from atrocities like the Sri Lankan Civil War or the ongoing genocide in Palestine. The poem confronts readers with our own complicity in normalising distant suffering. 

But The Naming of Names moves beyond being an antidote to apathy and desensitisation towards mass murder. What starts as a project of cataloguing names culminates as a four-part meditation that makes a compelling case for regarding each name, and the life that once bore it, as precious and worthy to be remembered. In my (Xhosa) culture we have the term ‘camagu’ which is an affirmation or honouring that translates to mean ‘let it be so’. By the time I finished The Naming of Names, I was in tears – overwhelmed by a more profound grasp of why the poet insists that we pay attention to the individual names: each beautiful and painful story testifies that they were here. And to that I say, camagu.