Writer: Linda Masilela | Photographs: Poetry Africa
The spectacle was clouded by anxiety—firstly from the poets themselves, and secondly from the audience. As fear sat among us, we were treated to a fine dining of poetry with a touch of theatrics. Most poets came prepared, evident in how they conducted themselves on stage. However, and this is where Olive Olusegun stands out, the metric of preparedness is measured by how well you connect with the crowd. What Olive did is what every poet should aim for: select the right poems, engage with the audience, and don’t choke. From the first round to the last, she displayed brilliance, her poems underscored by a sense of urgency. She recited as though these were her final words, as if after this, the world should either be better or at least reflective. Her fellow finalist, Masai Sepuru, was also a great dance partner. The dance that started in Joburg was to be completed in Durban, with the rest of the country as a fated audience.
The Seabrooke Theatre, given its history and stature, was an imperfect venue for the event. The air conditioning was so loud that at times we could barely hear the poets. The cramped auditorium made it feel like the seats were limited—perhaps they were, given how popular the slam is. Despite its size, the space felt intimate—not because of our closeness to each other but because of our proximity to the performers. Even without a microphone, you could still hear the poets, which gave the event a sense of personal connection, as though each performer was speaking directly to you, embracing you with their words and metaphors.
The show opened with the host hyping up the audience, using a few exercises here and there to create a uniform energy. Her performance as a host is commendable; given her experience in the slam world, she handled the heckling, technical problems, and delays in judgment very well. Her mini introductions before each performer set the mood. Where she shone brilliantly, however, also revealed a fundamental flaw in slam culture: the glaring biases. The host is a performer too, participating in the bonfire of performance and occasionally using theatrics to keep the energy high, but this can sway both the audience and the judges. Often, the host would laud a performance and elevate it without leaving space for reflection on the quality of the poem itself. We saw this after Masai’s second round and Olive’s third round. Mandi, the host of the day, also fell into this trap, as did Vus’muzi Phakathi when he hosted the semi-finals. The art of hosting requires balance—participating in the creation of the bonfire while remaining fair and impartial, excited and dismayed at the right moments, but always returning to the primary duty: facilitating the show.
The first performer, in most slams, is called the sacrificial lamb. This poet sets the stage. The purpose of this is to set the performances at a certain level so as to allow the poets who follow to maintain that standard or surpass it. And what better way to delegate this important role to Lethu Nkwanyana. Nkwanyana was not only the right person for this task but also the perfect candidate. I’m intentional in clearly separating right and perfect in this regard because its important. Nkwanyana was the right person in a sense that at that point he was the current Poetry Africa Slam Jam champion. Him opening the slam was a ritual in passing the torch to the would-be champion of the day. He was also perfect for this role because he is set to represent our country in the next coming World cup slam. This was a rehearsal of some sort and allowed us a sneak peak of what to expect of him. Donning a white shirt, formal pants and a suit vest, complimented with white sneakers, his aura was that of a clergyman. So, with that they allowed the poet to speak/preach.
The stage was set. The mood electrified, a kaleidoscope of anxiety and excitement with urgency tethering the entire feeling to a lamppost. We were set for a showdown. One of the most anticipated slams in a long time. It did not disappoint. Before we delve into the finer details of what happened on that day. Perhaps let’s interrogate three important questions regarding slams. Firstly, what is the future of slam in the current age of advancing technology, abject poverty, high unemployment rates, intolerance, fake news? How does slam respond to these important questions? Secondly, how can we ensure that this beloved artform does not lose its core and how can we come up with ways to ensure that slams are innovative, encourage growth from poets and contribute towards the South African literary canon? The last question is what happens after the slam? The above are important questions that one has to wrestle with especially when they contextualise the Poetry Africa Slam jam and what it ultimately means.
Poetry, as we have come to know it, has often been the cauldron where radicalism simmers. In the shadow of overwhelming violence, economic uncertainty, complete disregard for human life, and abject poverty, poetry becomes an offshoot of our resistance—a true representation of how we respond to these challenges. If we are to explore the future possibilities of poetry’s identity, we must surely set parameters for what we want it to become. This will serve as a navigation system, guiding us back on track should we lose our way. As we have seen, spoken word, with its growing popularity, is a formidable tool that allows us to shape poetry according to our vision, with slams as the brazier that, as the cliché goes, keeps the fire burning. This act of radicalism, grounded in ideas of decoloniality, is what we should aspire to—especially in a modern world intent on silencing, distracting, and, in extreme cases, destroying us and our voices.
In his article, “Teaching Spoken Word Poetry as a Tool for Decolonizing and Africanizing the South African Curricula and Implementing ‘Litocracy’,” Dr. d’Abdon notes that, “One could assert that the quintessential function of poetry is to defy, circumvent, and subvert the conventional use of language.” This ability of poetry to defamiliarize, unconventionally challenge, and mythologize common language is what makes events such as slams the bedrock of inventiveness. This artfulness allows one to explore different terrains where possibilities are manifold. It also permits one to be creative while concurrently treading on the sidelines of literary rules. Slam, in its essence, encourages such innovation. I can argue that one of the building blocks of slam is its inventiveness. However, we have seen the life of slam exsanguinating at the hands of unimaginative poems masquerading as good poetry. The knock-on effect is that we end up with shows that are spectacles but do not contribute to advancing the development of poetry. I will explore this argument later in the article and show how a lack of imagination is a poisoned chalice that threatens the existence of spoken word poetry. Major events such as Poetry Africa should never be complicit in this.
In his key address for the opening night of the Poetry Africa Durban leg, Ntate Lefifi Tladi asked, “What is the vision of an artist [poet] in today’s world?” In the noble activity of building this nation, what is the role of the poet post-slam? If we don’t contend with such difficult questions, we risk turning slams into nothing but dopaminergic events that uplift us temporarily but do not respond to our needs. It is our duty not to commit the ‘original sin,’ as Che Guevara lamented—the sin of not being ‘revolutionary’ enough and doing art for art’s sake; of merely being entertainers, circus clowns who contribute nothing toward dismantling the current status quo. In addition to paying the poet, as the popular chant goes, we also need to arm the poet with financial support, psychological assistance, and conscientization to be socially aware and politically attuned to all matters regarding our society. As we continue to contend with these important questions, let’s return to what happened on the day of the slam and consider whether some of the questions we posed have been addressed.
The slam itself, as envisioned by Poetry Africa, should be a bastion of change, tolerance, freedom of speech, decoloniality, intersectionality whilst concurrently enmeshed within a cloak of literary brilliance. It should espouse the principles of Dennis Brutus, the anti-apartheid poet whose poem, Somehow We Survive, was chosen as the moving spirit that undergirds the entire festival. Perhaps one can see the participating poets as writing or attempting to write letters to Dennis Brutus. The slam stage is then transformed into an epistolary affair and every poem serves as a dialogue between the poet and the late Dennis Brutus. With poets set to saunter into this coliseum filled with anticipatory gasps and murmurs from the audience, the night was set to be an interesting one.
From the first round, swords were drawn, with every poet unsheathing every weapon that would allow them to win. The poems performed in the first round dealt with issues that we face in our society. For example, where Jonathan Lefenya sees how absent fathers can lead to existential crises and ultimately young boys winding up adopting misguided notions (often detrimental) about masculinity, Busi Mahlangu enlightensd us about present fathers who are abusive. The outcomes for both lead to deleterious effects. In the same poem, Jonathan asserts, “We travel back in time to wear our fathers’ jeans.” The temporal implication here is visible with the invocation of loss. On the other hand, Busi Mahlangu recites, “When the police come to arrest him…tell them to put handcuffs on the door; this house is a culprit.” The intentional allusion to an inanimate object, such as a house, as a culprit inevitably interrogates the question of complicity. When we hear loud screams from our neighbors at the hands of their abusers, do we respond? Or are we like the house that Busi speaks of, watching victims die? Despite its heavy messaging and lines replete with death (for example, “We have touched death every evening”), Busi was eliminated in the first round, while Jonathan proceeded to the second.

The remaining performers in the first round-Tshegofatso, Olive and Masai- delivered poems that not only speak to the language of intersectionality but also supreme level of penmanship. Perhaps the cardinal sin that Che Guevara lamented about missed the poets. Olive showed us that racism and misogyny collaborate on the strands of black hair to perpetuate notions of self-hate. The tendrils of racism expand and even reach our body politic. Ultimately this contributes to how we view ourselves through the Eurocentric optics. Ms de Klerk that Olive speaks of, is our colleague, our class mate, our lecturer and when they ask to pat your hair in the pretext of curiosity, the contribute towards the violent notion that black bodies are landscapes to be explored.
Similarly, to Olive, Tshegofatso in this round explored racism and the morsels left behind after this violent act. But he explores it at an institutional level. How else can you dissect institutional racism except by using one of the most historical moments in South Africa, #FeesMustFall? The poem is more of a dialogue between a white student, who is privileged and unaware (intentionally or otherwise) of the systematic exclusion of students of colour from university spaces. The poem reads like a lecture, but it goes beyond. It foregrounds how the world is intentionally designed through binary axes: Black and White, Rich and Poor, and, in this slam, teacher and pupil. If Lethu, the sacrificial lamb, was the catechist, then Tshegofatso is the teacher, albeit under different circumstances. Where Tshegofatso speaks to the racist world and white people through the invention of a white student, Masai Sepuru addresses scientists, anthropologists, and historians who demonized our practices as witchcraft. If you want to see how white supremacy is intent on degrading, denigrating, and demolishing anything black, read up on The Witchcraft Suppression Act. In this poem, Masai does the opposite. What the world sees as an abomination, he sees as magical—something worthy of praise. When he says, “You may laugh at such skills. To bend elements at will. To be intimate with nature,” he is (re)creating a new way of thinking about ourselves. Masai and Olive, with poems that delight as well as surprise, but fundamentally reinforce the aphorism “Black is beautiful,” went to the second round. Tshegofatso was eliminated.

The second round was eventful in many ways. There were standing ovations for Masai and Olive, technical problems (the mic suddenly stopped working), a long wait for the tallying of scores, and the heat in the theatre, which reminded us that we are in the Southern Hemisphere. But one moment stood out for me: the underwhelming reception of Jonathan’s poem. I specifically chose this moment because, at its root, it relates to the process of translation—a topic that Poetry Africa had a livestream on. Perhaps my strong feelings about this are guided by the fact that Poetry Africa should have done a better job. Merely handing out pamphlets of a poem and expecting the audience to follow the performance line by line, while hoping everything aligns, is not only ambitious but also an indictment of how ill-prepared the organization was in this regard. While Claudio Pozzani received the privilege of subtitles in the background during his performances, Jonathan was not as fortunate. I should add that the same poem received a more positive response in Gauteng during the semifinals but was poorly received in KZN. Perhaps geography and culture played a role, but if we are to honestly create a space where different languages are encouraged, more work must be done to ensure that nothing is lost in translation.
Be that as it may, Olive and Masai showed hunger and determination to win. It was as clear as day that both of them were going to battle it out in the much-awaited finale. Olive, last year’s semifinalist, had an edge; from the first round, she was at least a few steps ahead of everyone. But Masai was no slouch, and as mentioned earlier, he was a great dancing partner. Together, they created a performance that hinged on excellence. Perhaps the groundwork had already been laid in Joburg, and what we were witnessing was merely the linearity of fate.
In the final round, Masai begins with his magnum opus poem, “Lost at Sea.” It is aversive while tacitly addressing colonialism and how it has dispossessed many Africans. A pedestrian analysis might dismiss this poem as merely about how Black people are afraid of bodies of water, ignoring the ramifications of years of struggle. When Masai asks, “What has the ocean done for us?” he opens a myriad of questions we have been wrestling with, particularly regarding water. While Masai addresses the audience about racism, migration, and neo-colonialism, Olive holds up a mirror that reflects a dim society silencing women. From uncles to fathers to aunts to mothers, all are complicit. The aftermath is a society where women cannot express themselves, even in the midst of strife. Perhaps this poem is also in conversation with “We Are Muted” by Yamoria. When Olive states, “Our mothers and sisters and aunts were made to mutate into morbid things in order to survive,” she not only highlights the grim image of what silencing does, but also infuses the poem with a foreboding feeling about the future of our society. This line, in my estimation, anchors the whole poem. Not only are we complicit in this silencing, but we are also fashioning new ‘women’ who are easily discarded. In this context, silence can signify death, rape, abuse, misogyny, and more. After her performance, everyone knew who the winner was.
As alluded to earlier, slams are terrains of experimental work. This is seen as the lab where ideas are encouraged and innovation is supreme. Although the poems delighted in their own right, some of them are repetitions of the same poems from previous slams. What we end up having is poets using this formula and incorporating it into their performances—a formula where a poem is performed multiple times, at different stages, with no consideration of what it means to create. Perhaps the judgment is on the harsher side, but if we are to protect and enliven this slam experience, we ought to be as creative as we can.
The slam, in its essence, is competitive. It is more of a study on combat, but with poetry as an anchor. It is exciting for the audience, as evidenced by the festival itself, because the slam was the most attended show. Organizations such as Poetry Africa are bastions of slams, and year in and year out, they continue to provide platforms for this proverbial Game of Thrones. Be that as it may, there are improvements that can be made, but such organizations deserve our support.