Ibé: The Translator of African Struggles
By Linda A. Annan                                                                                     

The witty Kwaku Ananse has a significant African fan base. His dexterous tricks do not seem to amaze his curious listeners: children in villages who enjoy sitting around a miniature bon fire surrounded by the dark night pierced with starry skies. In eagerness, they await their elders to be fed more hilarious stories. Those in the city – who unfortunately lack such natural settings – settle for the turning-off-lights-sitting-around-blazing-coal pots outside the kitchen. But either way, the moment is greatly savored by every child, whether it is an Ananse story or a tale of the rabbit. While some may grow with memories imprinted in their minds for reminiscence's sake, others go as far as fueling that curiosity, as did Ibrahim Kaba, a Sierra Leonean spoken-word poet/writer.

“I was one of those kids. I loved [it] when the elders were not around to tell the stories, I was the one that was re-telling the stories,” recalls Kaba, simply known as Ibé.

Kaba also retraces his memory back to the seventh grade when he would visit his school library and be fascinated by the engaging stories available, some of which he did not waste time feasting on. The poet that he is known to be today, he says, did not emerge until about seven years ago while a junior at St. Cloud State University in Minnesota.

“I just had my bias against the whole genre of poetry. You know how some macho guys think about poetry, it's like ‘ahhh, that's some soft stuff, you know,'” he confesses, but then adds with a tinge of humor: “So I heard spoken-word and I'm like ‘oh, this is fun. It's not like those Shakespeare stuff that I was forced to take in school.”

His love for story telling made the transition into poetry a lot easier, he asserts. After attending a couple of events he realized that he could hear short stories in live poetry, and consequently began to abbreviate his tales to fit into the genre. But this 31-year-old biographer – another way he describes himself – is not all about versifying; he continues to cultivate his narrative abilities through short stories. His work, he says, primarily focuses on Africans in America .

“I try to tell our stories a lot of the time to people that may otherwise never hear our stories. They just see us, they think we are just another immigrant,” he explains. “I have mad respect for the African American history and stuff, but our experience in America is very different from them, so I take it upon myself to tell our unique story in America .”

Kaba considers himself to be somewhat of a literary intermediary to friends and family and their American neighbors who may be unable to understand their daily struggles. Though he addresses American audiences in his works, he speaks to African listeners as well. “Sometimes we need talking to too, we need to be inspired, to be reminded; for our brothers and sisters to tell us that ‘I understand your pain, just keep doing what you're doing, we're here for a reason, you just keep doing it,'” he eggs on.

Kaba's upcoming book, Bridge Across the Atlantic, – set to be published between now and next month – is a collection of personal poems that have been in the works for some time. “It covers the journey from Africa to America ,” he clarifies.

“It comes in three sections; the first section deals exclusively with life in Africa , some of the issues we're going through there. The middle section is about adjusting, just [a] reflection on life between the two worlds. And the last section is about being an American in America . So it's autobiographical in a sense, but of course, the story didn't happen exactly as it is in the poem, but it's inspired by real life.”

Speaking of inspiration, he says: “African women are the sole central thread around which I weave many of my poems. They inspire me!”

“My sister is a big one, and African women in general… just coming here and seeing my sister and my mother and my aunties and cousins go through what they go through in America just to make ends meet inspires me, and I just try to tell their stories. And just try to be the little voice that tells them that ‘you know, I feel your pain. Hang in there, it'll be okay.'”

Kaba lost his father at a very young age and admits he barely remembers him. Although raised by various relatives since the age of four, he thrives in the love and support he says was displayed to him.

“My mom is still alive, I love her dearly, and I still feel like we have that mother-son connection, but basically I've been raised by the village,” he says, proudly. “And I tell people, never once did I feel like I didn't belong, did I feel like I wasn't biological when my aunty was raising me. The bigger family is who has been raising me since I was a kid, they never let me down. So my hopes and prayers are that I never let them down.”

This is why he rates family highest on his list of the most important things in life. “No matter what, if there's any one day I can live by is knowing that family will always be there for you. It shakes, it dances with the wind, but it never breaks.”

Perhaps it is this perspective that makes him hope for better unification amongst Africans? “I feel like we can explore, appreciate and celebrate our Africanity more,” he says, “I'd like to see an African organization that answers to the interest of all Africans.” A community of Africans that get along as brothers and sisters is what he alludes to.

With this new project - his book - about to hit stores, Kaba intends to connect with all African students across the U.S. to share his stories.

“Wherever we have an American that has an African student sitting next to them, I want to come and tell those Americans about the African sitting next to them and tell that African what I know about us so that we can converse, and hopefully try to preach what I think we need in our community,” he explains.

“We have the community, but we don't have the unity in it,” he conclusively states a disappointing truth, but not without that tinge of hope.