You were born in Lesotho but now live in
Paris, after stays in South Africa, Kenya and the US. How did you end up in
Paris?
Our
family was targeted, in 1981, in an organised night attack by agents of the
then Lesotho government, the aim being to eliminate our father, Ben Masilo, who
had been an outspoken opponent of the government. Following that attack, which
failed to kill our father but instead took the life of my 3-year-old nephew,
Motlatsi, we left the country in a hurry by crossing the frontier into South
Africa under the pretext of ’going shopping’.
In
South Africa, in Springs where we were staying, we suffered the rule of pass
laws and ended up in jail. Following that episode, we left South Africa for
Kenya, where we would remain in exile for 9 years, till the regime changed in
Lesotho and refugees started flocking back home, including my parents and
siblings. At that time, I was already in the US studying. While there I met my
girlfriend, and she would become my wife. We moved to France, her home, in
1987.
Your first book, Things That are Silent, was published in 2012. When did you start
writing poetry and getting published?
I
started writing poetry in high school with my friends (who today chide me that “we
wrote poems together in high school, not knowing that you were serious”). I was
a short story writer at the start; one of our teachers organised a competition,
which I won. He kept me behind after class and asked me where I had copied my
story from. Despite my protestations, he never believed I had written it
myself. I stopped writing altogether. Many years later I realised how much that
had been a compliment.
Poetry
came to me through a new teacher who would read to us; and she did it so well
that I just had to write poems. One summer I bought Dennis Brutus’s Letters to Martha with money I had earned
through a holiday piece job, helping build the then Lesotho Hilton Hotel, today
known as the Lesotho Sun, in Maseru. I was hooked. My first attempts produced
poems that gushed and clichéd their way everywhere. But the more I read poetry,
the more they gushed less and the more they shirked trite expressions.
I
discovered more poets in the US, following exile: Frost, cummings, Walcott,
Dickinson and others. I submitted to the varsity journal and managed to get a
few poems published. Then the writer Phil Rice started canopicjar.com (without
the dot com, then) and a few poems that would later end up in Things that are Silent appeared in it. Early
in 2012 Pindrop Press and I agreed on a book project.
What poets have influenced you? Are there
any southern African poets who have had a strong influence on your work?
Dennis
Brutus influenced me immensely by showing me that it was indeed possible to
write good, albeit defiant, poems, when I had thought all along that poetry was
only about love and flowers and the shapes of natural things. ‘M’e ‘Masechele
Khaketla, a Mosotho writer who wrote in Sesotho, also influenced me. I still
recall a not-so-easy-to-translate image she used in one of her poems: “Tšintši
e betsa leqhamu poleiting ea sopho”. Or, “a fly doing the crawl across a plate
of soup”.
Rustum
Kozain has had more than a little influence on me as well. I was shocked when I
discovered he was actually younger than me (I hope he won’t see this). The
certainty and truthfulness in his voice drew me in. I have had the fortune of
meeting him on two occasions (in Paris and in Durban). While at Poetry Africa in
Durban together in 2016 we looked at some poems in Waslap, and he commented that he could hear me echoing him and that
he was pleased: I was busted and stoked at the same time. His poems have taught
me pacing, as well as finding that one word without which a line remains
average. The first poem of his I read was ‘Stars of Stone’. It is about the
stoning of an adulterous couple in Afghanistan, and throughout the poem I could
actually hear the stones hitting. For my fourth book, Qoaling, I asked Rustum to have a look at the poems before sending
the manuscript to the publisher and, by George, he did.
Reading your work, I
detect a common theme of a journey from the innocence of childhood in rural
Lesotho, then trauma, followed by experiences of exile and yearning for the
lost world. Would I be correct?
Absolutely. In fact, it is difficult to find the right label
because I grew up in the capital, smack in it, then when dad was imprisoned in
1970 we moved to a smaller place, still in town, but mom couldn’t keep us there
and feed us at the same time, so we moved to Qoaling, which is considered a
suburb today but was really a village in the outskirts of the capital then; that’s
where I learned to herd livestock and stick fight. The place was quite rural
then.
I
have in the past tried to resist the tendency to write about my life, but I
lost that battle. It is the subject that doesn’t stop coming back with more
words and sentences almost every time I start to write. In February this year I
read at Rockview Beer Garden in Maseru, and several times the audience chorused
me for a love poem after reading. One can only speak of tragedy so much. I did
read a love poem in the end and it went well, which made me think that perhaps
I do write about other topics but do not give them the weight they deserve.
All four of your collections have been
published abroad, three in the UK, by The Onslaught Press and Pindrop Press,
and one in the US by Canopic. Do you find getting published to be easy, or do
you find that it is difficult?
Getting
published only became an objective after some of my poems had appeared in
magazines. The first acceptance that piqued my interest and encouraged me was
from Orbis. It was a poem called ‘White Canes Bend at Two Places, Like Fingers’.
I started submitting furiously and received almost as many rejections. But I had
placed a poem in a reputable magazine and had been paid for it. I continued.
Publishing
poems is a very difficult task, and I think that one of the tricks is
considering a rejection as a lesson; one must look at their poem and wonder why
it was rejected. I still do that. Sometimes there may be nothing wrong with the
poem, only that it had been sent to the wrong magazine.
Your third collection, Waslap, won the 2016 Glenna Luschei Prize for African Poetry. How
did it feel to win such an award?
It
was unexpected, and it took quite some time to sink in. But it was a glowing
moment through which I had to keep reminding myself that there’s no ‘there’ and
that I’d never reach it. I still find more pleasure in writing a poem than in
getting one recognised; though there is no doubt that for many days after the
announcement of the prize I remained elated.
You have also edited
a couple of anthologies. How did those come about?
The first one, For the
Children of Gaza, was published in 2014, the year Israel was bombing Gaza
full-time. My publisher contacted me in Greece where I was on holiday and
pitched the idea of doing an anthology in relation with what was happening.
Together we contacted poets and asked for poems, visual art and prose. The
response was overwhelming. We worked by e-mail between Oxford and Crete and had
the anthology ready in less than two weeks, the aim being to put it out while
the world was watching what was happening.
The
second one, To Kingdom Come: voices
against political violence, was my idea and I edited it alone. In 2015
Brigadier-General Maaparankoe Mahao of the Lesotho Defence Force was killed by
other soldiers, the motive being a political squabble. And I snapped,
remembering what had happened to my own family. I had had enough of political
violence. The anthology, published in 2016, is dedicated to the memory of Mr Mahao.
What is your experience of the poetry scene
in Paris, especially from an expat point of view?
It
is bubbly and lively and a veritable muse. There is an average of three open
mic sessions a week, but I had lived in Paris for over 20 years when I found
out that all of that was going on, through a colleague who invited me to one,
after finding out that I wrote poems.
Going
there actually helps me write faster and allows me to test-drive poems. After each
session I tweak the parts where my tongue tripped up, or where some infernal
rhyme was awkward, and so on. Poets and musicians perform in English or in
French or in any language of their choice.
And
this: having people from other places performing in their mother languages is
actually encouraged and applauded.
Has your worldview
changed since you moved to Europe? You obviously still have very strong ties to
Lesotho – your latest collection is titled Qoaling,
your hometown – but by living in Europe
do you feel as if you are living in some sort of centre stage of world affairs,
especially in relation to, say, Trump and ‘superpower’ tensions? Do you feel
you have had an identity shift?
I
left Lesotho when I was 20 years old, with a first-hand experience worldview
restricted almost entirely to Lesotho
and southern Africa. We certainly did get our news from across the border, too.
My dad would always come home with The
Friend (Bloemfontein paper) the Rand
Daily Mail, The Star (both
Johannesburg-based), but also with Leselinyana
la Lesotho (a Sesotho, ‘Protestant’ paper which he was editor-in-chief of)
and Moeletsi oa Basotho (a Sesotho, ‘Catholic’
newspaper).
Indeed,
I experienced a sort of identity shift, especially in the USA; one does have to
adapt. I sometimes pulled out my Basotho blanket and wore it to class, but the
experience was more negative than anything and I only did it a few times. But
for all that I never changed drastically from whom I have always been, and I pined
for Lesotho then the same way I do now, 37 years out of the country later. My
‘centre stage’ remains southern Africa and the web has helped me stay in touch
with that part of myself.
What projects are you busy with?
Rightfully,
many: I teach English to business people for a living. But for living, I read
and write almost every day. I’m working on a book of poems to follow Qoaling and I am hoping that it will be
published in South Africa. Canopic Publishing has agreed to publish either a Selected Poems or a New and Selected Poems in 2020. There are also two manuscripts of other poets on my
desk waiting to be edited. There is a third anthology on the horizon to be
called Contemporary Poetry from Africa and the Diaspora, for which I have started collecting poems. It will be
published by The Onslaught Press. But I am also working to improve my
curriculum vitae with the hope of landing a job in creative writing somewhere
in southern Africa. Sometimes I tell myself that I might have bitten off more
than I can chew.
This interview originally appeared in The Odd Magazine.
This interview originally appeared in The Odd Magazine.