Literature as a Place of Communion: A Dialogue with Isaac Kanyinji
LITERATURE AS A PLACE OF COMMUNION
A DIALOGUE WITH ISAAC KANYINJI
Isaac Kanyinji is a Zambian poet and short story writer. His work has been published in both online and print publications including Publish’d Afrika, Salamander Ink Mag and Poemify.
When not writing, he hosts a radio show and reads fiction between shifts.
BY NKATEKO MASINGA
This conversation took place between Zambia and South Africa, via email.
Nkateko: Hello, Isaac. Thank you so much for agreeing to have this conversation with me. Congratulations once again on being shortlisted for the Ubwali Hope Prize. The title of your poem, A 2019 Survey on How People Imagine Themselves Dying, positions itself in a simulation where people already knew about the pandemic as early as 2019, whereas in reality the first cluster of infections appeared in December 2019, which then escalated to the declaration of a global pandemic in March 2020. What was the reason for this time jump to a year prior? Is it that 2020 hits too close to home, and that perhaps if we knew what we were facing earlier then we would have been able to avoid the horrors that we saw at the height of the Covid-19 pandemic? Or is the aim of the title to emphasise that nobody in the world would have accurately predicted the cause of their death in 2019 because we did not yet know what awaited us in the year that followed?
Isaac: The titling of the poem, or more precisely the use of the year 2019 was mainly influenced by the time at which the poem was written. I wrote ‘A 2019 Survey on How People Imagine Themselves Dying’ somewhere early in 2024. So when you look at it, I wrote the poem at a time when the COVID-19 rollercoaster had already come to a halt and the world was catching a breath. One of my intentions with the piece, however, was to document the pandemic just the way it came to us—with its unpredictability. I like to think that while the subsequent years could have worked just fine, 2019 was more fitting because at that time, no one knew what was coming ahead of us and if anyone did, they most likely did not imagine it would come with the impact it had. It never occurred to any of us that a virus would shrink our hopes of survival so badly that when we survived, it was almost a dream. And more than the pandemic, that there is what we had to survive: our uncertainty.
Nkateko: Would you say that you find inspiration in uncertainty? In your poem’s retelling of Jonah’s story, he is swallowed by a shark, while the widely told tale is that it was a whale. Some Biblical translations even caption the story as “Jonah and the Whale”. I recently learnt that this is because it is scientifically possible for a human being to make it down the oesophagus of a Blue Whale, and back out. What I do not understand is how we are expected to believe in all sorts of miracles, but when it comes to Jonah we employ logic and science to identify a fish with enough room in its throat and then pin the charges on it. The original text does not specify what type of creature swallowed Jonah, only that it was a “big fish”, so it could have been a Great White Shark for all we know, and wouldn’t that be the greatest miracle of all? To have gotten past those razor-sharp teeth twice, and live to tell the tale while playing beach volleyball with new friends? Your piece puts us in the dimension of the humanly impossible. I would like to think that Covid-19 did the same, and therein lies the beauty of the story you are telling in your poem, which is an ode to uncertainty in some ways. If we knew what each day held in advance, would we still want to live it?
Isaac: Absolutely. I do find inspiration in uncertainty. If I am to be exact, however, it is what uncertainty brings out of us that is even more inspiring to me. Take hope for instance. You see, hope is a place, and the road to it passes right through the heart of doubt.
When I see people proclaiming hope in the midst of uncertainty, I am reminded of what strength can look like and that is inspiration.
Inspiration to offer applause, to give a testimony, or even just to write a poem. Coming to Jonah’s miracle, it indeed would be the greatest miracle. I say this because it is interesting how we neglect logic in most miracles and happen to employ so much of it in this particular miracle. But when all is said and done—the shark or the whale—there is something about the miracle that preserves its extraordinary nature and that is what makes a miracle one.
“An ode to uncertainty”. Your interpretation of my poem is very perceptive I must remark. This brings me to the thought of living in a world where we know what is coming ahead of us even before it arrives. Good as it may sound, I like to believe life’s worth is in hoping. It’s in not being sure of what arrives next but to expect something regardless. That is where the fun is.
Nkateko: “Life’s worth is in hoping.” This is profound.
Isaac: Absolutely, hope gives us a reason to live.
“Literature is a place of communion. I want to read a book and get comfort, get strength, or just anything, knowing well that someone somewhere created something to which I can relate.”
Nkateko: I agree! On the subject of hope, you are no stranger to attaining literary accolades, a part of a writer’s life that requires one to be simultaneously hopeful for a win and gracious when the desired outcome does not materialise. How do you handle this part of your career? I was reading up on the publications that you mentioned in your bio and I read that you won the Publisher’s Choice Award in the Publish’d Afrika Magazine Short Story Competition in 2022. This is very impressive. How was that experience for you, and do you feel that it was an opportunity that set you up for further wins?
Isaac: Accolades are a byproduct of creating, and when it comes down to assigning priorities, I adopt the same order: writing first, accolades later. My very first attempt at submitting my work to a magazine for consideration also landed me my first rejection. I was disappointed. Over time, with many other rejections and acceptances too, I have learned that there are always two possible outcomes and that I should always be ready for either. It’s always a beautiful feeling getting mail that says my work is being considered for a certain prize, and while the outcome matters, I just never let it affect my creative process. Because when everything is said and done, writing comes before everything else.
Was that 2022? Wow! It’s amazing how much time has gone by since then. I still remember the moment I got the news like it just happened. It was such a beautiful moment. That win boosted my level of confidence in the work I write, and it is that very confidence that got me trying things outside my comfort zone. So, in a lot of ways, winning the Publisher’s Choice Award did set me up for the future.
Nkateko: Rejections are so painful! A few years ago I virtually lived on my Submittable page, tracking the outcomes of my submissions. At the time, I checked my statistics on and off that platform as some submissions were via email and in total, I had a 1:5 ratio of acceptances to rejections, so if I got five rejections in a row, I knew an acceptance was on the way. If I got to ten consecutive rejections, I knew I was awaiting two acceptances! (Laughs). Do you have any rituals that make the process of getting rejections more bearable?
Isaac: In all honesty, nothing makes rejections more bearable than stories like yours. When I get it from a writer I admire—that they also experience rejections—it makes me realize that rejections are just one of those things that can happen to any writer, much like writer’s block. Out of that, I’ve created a ritual where I share my rejection emails with my closest readers, most of whom are also writers. I share my rejections the same way I would my acceptances, and just getting to talk about them motivates me to keep trying, and that keeps me going.
Nkateko: Those are such kind words, Isaac. Thank you. I have also found that sharing rejection emails with others is motivating, especially when the editor has taken the time to give me detailed feedback that I can implement. Discussing this feedback with trusted readers helps me to identify where I can improve my work and I come out with a stronger piece. I actually have a piece that was rejected for a non-paying publication years ago. I edited it after some generous feedback from the editor (and an invitation to send them something different) and submitted the new version to a journal that offered an honorarium. I submitted a different piece to the non-paying publication as a thank-you. Both of these were accepted for publication and I was grateful to both platforms, one for giving me a gift more valuable than money: constructive criticism, and the other for the affirmation that I can make a living from my art. What are your thoughts on the relationship between art and money? I have met artists on both sides of the fence: those who say that they make art solely for the edification of the collective, and those who say that art should not starve the artist for the sake of feeding the community. Do you think that these differing perspectives are influenced by whether someone is a full-time artist or not?
Isaac: Okay, story time. When I started writing poetry, I didn’t really have a reason why I wrote…I just wrote. The drive to write came from a place I didn’t even understand. The same was true for the short fiction I wrote, but that changed later. Somewhere in high school, my book, in which I wrote short fiction, fell into the wrong hands. I say the wrong hands because the hands of a beautiful girl who asks you to write more because she enjoys reading your work are the wrong ones, especially when you have to risk getting bad grades writing for her at times when you should be studying. Over time, I started having other reasons to write: a potential first kiss with the same girl (laughs) and, much later, an obligation to update my series of short fiction, which now had a whole readership thanks to this girl. I’m of the mind that the relationship between money and art is a decision each artist makes based on their conviction. Money is a measure of value, and so are other forms of ‘payment’ that artists may take (kisses included). So, when others take money as the reason for them to create, it doesn’t make them any different from those who create for personal gratification, whatever form it may come in, because therein lies the value.
I say this because artists who openly say they create for money alone often come across as not having art in their best interest, but that’s not true. Coming to whether being a full-time artist has an impact on how one views the relationship between money and art, I feel the side one picks in this matter has little to do with that. I’ll stand on my earlier thought that each artist will define themselves and the scale at which they practice art will not impact what they choose to be.
Nkateko: Aw! That is such a heartwarming story! Did you ever tell that girl how much of an impact she had on you pursuing a career in writing? On the topic of money and alternative measures of value, your perspective is very refreshing. Art is being made, often against the odds in cases where the funding to create is needed and not easily accessible, and the motivation behind how and at what cost one makes that art attainable to consumers is dependent on the artist’s convictions.
What are your thoughts on artificial intelligence (A.I) in the world of literature? Do you think that we should be worried about our future as writers, especially now that there are programs literally feeding books to A.I and training its systems to write in the same style and voice? I recently completed a course on Effective Altruism and one of the topics we spent some time on is A.I safety, which honestly seems like an oxymoron to me because how in the world is any of this safe?
Isaac: I doubt I’ll ever get the chance to tell her, because she reminds me every time (laughs).
Coming to the topic of artificial intelligence, I’m of the view that artificial intelligence doesn’t hold a place in the world of literature. I read stories sometimes that make me feel as though the writer knew me—stories can be that relatable at times—and experiences like that remind me that, more than anything, literature is a place of communion. I want to read a book and get comfort, get strength, or just anything, knowing well that someone somewhere created something to which I can relate—not a trained program.
I doubt if anyone is in a better position to tell my story than me, and for that reason, I’ll tell my story. And yes, we should be worried as writers. I read a story some months ago where an A.I-generated book had won a book contest in Japan and that made my heart sink. I wouldn’t be surprised if, in the next five years, we found ourselves in a situation where A.I-generated work is getting all the acclaim. What worries me even more is our future as upcoming writers. I fear that we may see a rise in the number of A.I-generated books on the market to the point that it would be hard for a reader to pick up your book if they haven’t heard of you. I suppose there has never been a more uncertain and unsafe time for writers to put their work out.
Nkateko: As she should! (Laughs). I have a friend from university who attended all my poetry slam auditions and the open mics I went to when I was starting out and I tell her all the time that a glimpse of her smile in a sea of faces is why I kept going all those years ago. Community, love and friendship mean everything to me.
What you are describing is the exact reason why I love being a literary interviewer. When I read a story, essay or poem that makes me feel as though the writer found my diary on a bus or train and then proceeded to not only read it but to publish an open response, I want to fight them. And by fight I mean to engage critically about the thoughts, emotions and fears that make us human. The things that keep us up at night and drive us to wake up in the morning.
We are definitely in uncertain and unsafe territory as writers. You have phrased it so well that I can only echo your response. I think that A.I dilutes the intricacy of our craft into empty paragraphs that can be churned out in a matter of seconds. I am still learning the language for the loss I feel when teachers and lecturers express their frustration at students’ blatant use of A.I in assignments. The era of imagination is gone.
Thank you so much for having this conversation with me, Isaac. All of the best with the outcome of the Ubwali Hope Prize. I have truly enjoyed engaging with you and I hope to read more of your work in future.
Isaac: Bless that friend of yours! Companionship is such a treasure and in a field like literature, one needs that friend who can see the artist in them long before the world does.
It’s clear how much love you hold for conversations around literature from this conversation. The fact that this was my first interview had me nervous, but I ended up enjoying it more than I thought.
While A.I poses a threat to arts, I’m of the belief that true art will survive.
Thank you so much for such a wonderful interview, and for the good wishes, too.
I look forward to reading your work, too.
Here’s a toast to new readership and to communion!
Nkateko: Cheers to that!
Nkateko Masinga is an award-winning South African writer whose poetry has been translated into French, Bengali, Tamil, Kannada and Romanian. Her latest book, Daughter Wound, was published by UK publisher Hazel Press in April 2024 and was named Book of the Week at the London Review Bookshop in the first week of its release.
