Until Someone says Yes!
This interview is a result of notes sent via Google Docs between Kisumu and Salt Lake City.
Akal: Kasimma! The Kasimma! The great Kasimma! This is how I have you registered in my mind. It is not mere flattery. I think of you as great, particularly for your language. Your use of language is….gosh!....unimaginable (a description I borrow from this interview). To put it plainly, you are amongst a group of writers that I have always returned to. Maybe even exalted. Now, imagine my shock when I was reading your latest essay, ‘Going To America’. “But she is great. But she is great. But she is great.” I kept summoning this statement, coercing it to echo in my mind as I read the essay. Perhaps this was my way of diluting the struggle(s) you were writing about. Perhaps it was a way to still exalt you. Kasimma, before I ask how you are doing. Before I wish you a Happy New Year. Before anything else, I want to ask about ‘Going To America’. Could you please say something about this essay?
Kasimma: Akal, thank you so much for this wonderful intro. This might be the best introduction to any interview I have granted. It’s so warm, just sweet, and hilarious. It reminds me of Constantine the Great, Alexander the Great, historical figures who now have “The Great” attached to their names as surnames. Thank you. Thank you also for reading my works. Thank you for this interview. It’s a joy to be on Ubwali, a journal I have the highest regard for.
Now, to your question, “Going to America,” actually, you did not ask a question. So, to “say things,” I’ll “say” about your experience reading my essay. I get you. I remember being shocked that one of my idols cried, and I actually asked them, “So you cry?” But it’s just that I have thought them out of humanness. To me, then, they are larger than human, so they cannot laugh or cry or poop or love. But I understand now that they are human and are vulnerable too. When I wrote that essay in 2022, I was coming to terms with my reality in the United States. I wanted to come here. And when God answered that prayer, I was no longer sure if I wanted it. Rereading that essay during the editing period, I was shocked at how vulnerable and raw it was, and, despite how shy I was to share it with the world, I didn’t rescind the publication opportunity because I am grateful for how strong that experience made me and also because it shows me the deep waters I’ve swam in and not drowned.
Akal: “But it’s just that I have thought them out of humanness.”- such a way to look at it. I will come back to this in a bit.
For now, I want to follow up by asking about your actual going to America. I want to ask about how it felt hugging your family goodbye, saying you loved them, and in a sense walking into loneliness, uncertainty, and lostness. If time were rewound, would you do it again?
I believe in the words of the writer, Edwidge Danticat, who admonishes the immigrant writers, reminding them that they must quantify the price of the American dream in flesh and blood. Maybe the separation from your loved ones was the first price you had to pay for chasing your dreams. It is nice, however, to know that you have moved on, made friends, found warmth, and stopped wishing that you would become a ‘Titanic, at sea, destined to crash.’ What then is your new struggle as an immigrant writer?
Kasimma: If time were rewound, would I do it again? Absolutely. Absolutely. I thank God every day for saving me from the regret that might have swallowed me whole had I not come to the United States. I had just walked away from an abusive marriage. When I walked away, I had no job, no money. I had bleached every kobo in my account the year before, applying to MFA programs. Getting an admission would be an excuse to put a distance between me and a marriage that no one thought I should leave. I had not gotten that admission when I decided to walk, to walk away from that marriage so that my very ability to walk would not be taken from me. I had settled back in at home. I had stopped borrowing menstrual pads, toothpaste, soap, cream, from my sisters because I couldn’t afford them. I was now able to contribute little-little things at home. As God would have it, I got a lot of paying acceptances that period, so I had some cash. I had settled in. That was why when the admission came, I was not sure anymore. The marriage I was running from, I had run from. Leaving my children was not something I wanted to do. All these culminated in my unconscious decision to self-sabotage. These struggles were what my best friend, Frances Ogamba, alluded to in her marvellous award-winning essay, “Here’s to the Breed of Flying Hens.”
In that loneliness, in the USA, I found myself. I had the space and isolation to be with myself alone, not with my sweet sisters, who were always looking out for me, not my beloved children, whom I was hiding my tears from. I was alone. No one to say, “Sorry,” if I cried. I was forced to look in the mirror, at my own face, in my own eyes. In that loneliness, I raked up the pebbles of the broken vase that was me, buried in the rubble of chaff that five years of consistent violent chafes and consistent pretend-happiness left me. I found myself. Cliché, yes, but I found myself. The speck in my eye, alongside the ash caking my vision of self, fell. And I glimpsed the answer to, “What did I do to deserve this?” I did not, do not, deserve cruelty. I had yielded myself and happiness wholly onto the shoulder of another who had to carry his and mine. I shouldn’t have. He succumbed under the load of carrying himself and carrying me; yet, he shouldn’t have resulted to violence. Without the distance of the United States, without that loneliness, I would never have looked inward; I might never have healed. Another thing the US gave me was unfettered access to books. The University of Kentucky’s library is a dome of books. I guzzled books. I read insanely because in my attempt to forget my story and focus on those of others, I found how to tell my own and rewrite my future. The books taught me new ways of thinking, of being. I do not underestimate the power of books or reading. Reading, literally, saved me. I am no longer a Titanic at sea. I am a powerful, strong, confident woman. So, if time were rewound, I’d do it again.
Now, Akal, don’t go, “But she’s great! But she’s great!” after this. 🤣 I won’t even deny the deliciousness that comes with being called great before I have achieved greatness. 🤣 Great. It just makes me laugh. Anyway, great people are people first. Great is just the adjective that modifies; it only gives more info about the noun, the is, the human.
My new struggle as an immigrant writer is money. 🤣. As an international student, you are confined to working 20 hours a week and working within the school. Because of that, I don’t always have as much money as I’d like to network. I wanted to come to the US because an Igbo proverb says that if you want to watch the masquerade, go to the square (where they display) or something along those lines. But the proverb did not mention anything about the money one needs to transport oneself to that square. And that’s where I’m struggling: money to travel to book festivals, events, etc., to network with people who are living my dream and those who make those dreams possible.
Akal: A little story, Kasimma. Two months ago, someone I am really interested in, love even, migrated abroad for school. In just days after arriving, I began observing the gloom that crusted her face. Her initial vibrancy switched off, and irritation became a thing that couched most of our interactions. Then one time she said, “Be careful about the blessings you ask for.” Her voice wore sadness: a pensive sadness. And what she implied in a way was that a big part of her was already second-guessing whether moving was a good decision. I asked whether you would still go to America on this premise. Your response is assuring and encouraging to some of us who are also looking into moving. She has since ghosted me, so I can’t tell if, like you, she has moved on or not.
You have mentioned solitude. The Senegalese writer Mohammed Mbougar Sarr opens his novel, The Most Secret Memory of Men, with an interesting passage. “Of a writer and their work, we can at least know this: together, they make their way through the most perfect labyrinth imaginable, the path long and circular, and their destination the same as their starting point: solitude.” Solitude, as put in this essay, is at times wretched and menaced by doubt. With this in mind, khai, me I can't imagine your double, triple, quadruple menace. How were you even able to pull through these solitudes? Your solitude as a writer? Your solitude as a divorced/separated wife? Your solitude as a mother, sister, and eventually an immigrant writer? Pole. Ndo. Sorry, Kasimma.
Now to you. Kasimma! The Kasimma! The great Kasimma! You say that you have had to think of your idols as humans. For me to think of you as human, I have to know your way of being human. Could you please help me with this? What is your primary way(s) of being human?
Kasimma: Oh dear! I’m sorry to hear this. I hope you both are coping fine. Ndo.
About your question, please, could you add some specificity?
Akal: Thank you.
About my question. What I mean to ask is, how are you practising your humanness? What are the things that define your human condition? How are you thinking of yourself as different from other species?
Kasimma: Akal, this question is hard shaa o! Practice is a strange choice of verb because I do not practice humanness. Being human—something I am because I resemble it—is an automatic thing. E.g., my body organs work without my daily authorisation. What I practice is the art and act of being. Being = verb (of be) + noun (essence). The being is the substance without which the human isn’t, in whose absence the human is no longer even called human (but body or corpse). There are many ways I practice the art of beingness, and it’s a continuous thing because only God is perfect. I learn from nature.
An Igbo proverb says that uzu amarọ akpụ ogene ya nee egbe anya n’ọdụ: the blacksmith who cannot fashion the gong should look at the tail of the kite. Among its many meanings, one of them is that nature is a good teacher. For instance, nature has taught us over and over that if you plant a mango seed, you can never ever harvest onions. What you will harvest is mango, not just one mango, but a mango-manifesting tree. This means that you harvest abundant mangoes, and not once, but continuously and yearly, because the tree is wired to keep producing mangoes. The only way to stop the tree from producing is to cut it down. Homo sapiens learn from this that if you plant a seed of jealousy, simply by being it, your life will keep manifesting abundant jealousy until you cut down that jealousy from yourself, not the other. Another lesson from the (mango) tree is Process. The process of breaking the seed, germination, etc., without which the tree isn’t, happens out of sight. By the time we see anything, the process is (or is nearly) completed. Therefore, the process is the essence, without which nothing is, and when that thing acquires the density of our accustomed physicality, it has or nearly has reached completion. It applies to everything: childbirth, book publication, manufacturing, etc. One more lesson from the tree: the tree produces fruits, not caring if they are consumed or not, because it knows that two things are involved: either the fruits are eaten and nourish the consumer, or they rot, fall to the ground, and nourish the tree. Therefore, when I write, I know that there are two things involved: I might sell this story by which it nourishes the reader, or I might not, which means it’s left in my laptop for me to learn from and thereby nourish my other stories. All these lessons are just a scintilla of what the mango tree teaches us. There are slight differences in the lessons from a flower, from ụgụ, from palm trees, etc. Then think of the lessons in the different species of animals, in the sky, the ocean, the mountains, the weather, the seasons, ad infinitum. Apart from nature, there are many other things that feed the art/act of my beingness, which will take a long time to discuss.
Akal: Let’s settle this first. The word ‘God’ keeps appearing in your responses. I wanted to ignore it, but I guess I'll have to ask now.
I know that you are proud of being Igbo. Your bio says it. There is a line from one of your poems that I have. “Spirits, our venerable audience”. To my shallow understanding, spirits have origins and rituals to either appease them, exorcise them, invoke them, etcetera. For the longest, I have always assumed that your spiritual situation is in the Igbo religion. In fact, what grounded my assumption is when I read your essay, Eight Vases of Njideka, where you write: “What is more than peace? Every dawn, I gather the deities, spirits, and ancestors, moon and stars, to throw nzu with me in orison. They give me humility and kindness. They heal me of post-traumatic stress disorder. They sustain me. Every day they sustain me.” This quote, to me, sounds like you are referring to Igbo deities, spirits, ancestors, which is contrary to how I am hearing you in this conversation whenever you mention God. Who is your God, Kasimma? Why do you owe it all to him/her/them? (Does it even matter that I ask?- 😃 😀 😄)
Kasimma: Your assumption is correct. My God is Chukwu Abiama, the Almighty God, the possessor of all life, knowledge, and wisdom—referred to in the Bible as “the Maker of heaven and earth, the sea, and everything in them” (Ps 146:6). I owe everything to God because in God I live and move and have my being, just as everything else in creation. Does this, in your words, “settle” it for you?
Akal: Yes, it does.
There are many things to discuss, but I can also sense that you are already worn out. So, before it gets boring, let me ask just one last thing.
I am a product of Idembeka Creative Writing Workshop, a creative writing workshop that you co-founded with Frances Ogamba and Mubanga, whom I currently work for at Ubwali. Previous fellows have gone on to show their potential. Notable is Matshediso Radebe, who was shortlisted for the Commonwealth Short Story Prize in 2023. How does it feel knowing that you are having such an impact on young, emerging, lesser-known writers? What is your ultimate hope for us, your students?
Kasimma: No, Akal, I am not worn out. If you have other questions, I’m more than happy to answer them: rest assured.
It’s an immense joy to see our fellows do great things. I occasionally look them up and silently read their published works. Africans entered this kind of literature late in the game. We had our own script systems crucified so that our current literature might have life in abundance. Before we started writing in European languages and using European alphabets, a lot of wrong perceptions had been written about us. I’m adding my quota to the service of correcting/enhancing African stories, and it’s massively joyful. My hope for ICWW fellows is that they go on to become world-celebrated writers; that they write the stories that are true to them in the best way they currently can; that their writing dreams come true in their lifetime.
Akal: ICWW gave me a chance at a time when I wasn’t sure about my writing. When you accepted me, I had never published. I was just a guy. That Impostor Syndrome thing had me choking up during the sessions. You had made it—including my fellow participants. I report to you that I now have a couple of works published. I report to you that I am still in chase of this writing thing. I read. I write. I listen. I get rejected. I write past them. I do all that I can to improve my ability. My indebtedness is eternally resting on Mubanga, who has taken me as a protege. In solitude, I am guided by the words of Tendai Huchu, a facilitator during my year at ICWW. “Writing is not about talent. It is about endurance. Those who make it are those who endure.” Perhaps his words are a recasting of what James Baldwin said when he talked about talented ruins. “Talent is insignificant. Beyond talent lie all the usual words: discipline, love, luck, but most importantly, endurance.”
Kasimma, forth I go to achieve all that you hope for me. For us. Any valediction for me?
It has been great having this conversation with you!
Kasimma: This is really moving. I’m happy to hear that ICWW was helpful to you. And Mubanga is goodness-in-flesh. She is intensely supportive of writers. ICWW was established to give a hand to writers who have published nothing or are in the very beginning of their careers. And I’m glad our workshop was that for you. For you to even get a spot in that workshop, you must have written really well, because the competition is stiff. So, keep at it. Keep at it. What tears me apart in my writing career is not rejection but doing nothing. I am restless if I do not read, write, or submit my work for consideration. I know that doing those means I have done my bit, that I am not the one holding myself back. I know that the response to my effort is really not in my hands to determine. It’s up to the editors to decide if they like to publish me or not. And being a judge at ICWW, and understanding how people are waitlisted, even come right to the line, but do not make it in—the difference between them and the ones who get accepted being a mere swab of exceptionality—I work hard on sending out the best work that I am proud to put my name under. If one editor does not see it fit for their journal, no hard feelings. Someone else always feels otherwise. In my career so far, it is only once that I have published a work that was never rejected, i.e., my first submission was accepted. Only once. Every other thing I have published, over 50 of them now, has all received multiple rejections at some time. The key is perseverance: improving yourself, your craft, and sending the works out over and over until someone says yes. Keep at it. Rejections are a given; rejections are proof that you are trying. If you don’t work, it means you will never get any acceptance, and that is worse. Don’t fear work or outcome, fear laziness: that one is lethal.
Akal, let me also say how much I’ve enjoyed this interview. What a great way to start 2026! Thank you so much. It is so encouraging, validating, and fulfilling that someone who interviews me has actually read me. I am so moved by how much of my work you’ve read. But for the links to those works you quote, I might not even remember where I wrote them, but you do, which is really gladdening. Thank you for reading my works. Thank you for this interview. I’m rooting for you, rest assured.
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.
KASIMMA is from Igboland—obodo ndi dike. X: @kasimmam IG: @iamkasimma Website: https://kasimma.com/read-online/
