The Monthly discusses the life and poetry of Sudanese poet, Najlaa Osman

Have you any early memories of being attracted to writing in general, or poetry specifically, as a form of self expression?

I’ve always been surrounded by poets, though not in the traditional sense of published writers or those who take writing as a profession. Instead, I was influenced by a different group of artists—those who composed songs about their daily lives, their children, and their grandchildren. These were my aunts. While my mother didn’t compose songs herself, she was constantly by the radio, immersed in Sudanese music and Madih, the local tradition of praising Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him.

My father, too, was deeply connected to poetry, often reciting verses written by relatives and friends. Whenever he had something on his mind, he would express it through poetry rather than ordinary conversation. I would bring him tea, and he would smile and recite a local ballad from Northern Sudan, where our family originally hails from, and it would go like this:

I see her from afar, following my trace, bringing me tea with a gentle grace.

The lovely girl, with a tender plea, asks me softly, “Shall I pour some tea?”

I say, “Yes, I need it so,” she asks, “Two cups, or did it overflow?”

I say, “Don’t count the cups, my dear, for they are many, let’s keep it clear.”

Then we would laugh and drink tea together.

My father passed away a couple of years ago in Sudan, and I wasn’t there to say goodbye. Now, as war ravages my home country, it’s not even possible to visit his grave or return to the house where he spent the greatest part of his life, caring for our family and speaking to us in poetry. My father had a small garden where he used to feed a flock of pigeons. They showed up every day; he would sit there, waiting for them. Remarkably, they kept to an exact schedule—flying in low and landing just after Asr prayer, around tea time. He fed them with unwavering regularity for years, almost as a ritual.

But now, all of that is gone. The Rapid Support Forces have taken not only our homes but also our memories, our sense of belonging, and our continuity. Suddenly, millions of people in Sudan have been brutally uprooted, chased out of their homes, villages, and towns, facing famine and floods—and yet, nobody seems to be talking about it.

Back to your question about the early influences, my inclination towards creating and appreciating poetry was deeply shaped by these familial influences. However, I chose to focus on writing in classical Arabic rather than Sudanese colloquial Arabic, as an expression of what is often regarded as high culture, in contrast to folk culture. This dichotomy, largely imposed by British colonial systems, created a divide where rural areas were assigned their own distinct political, judicial, and cultural spheres, fundamentally different from those of urban areas. In the countryside, governance was based on customary law and the Native Administration System which is a colonial construct. Politics were organized along ethnic lines, and the culture of these areas was often “relegated” to the realm of popular culture and folklore, which was not held in the same esteem as the work produced by the educated elite. From the beginning, I found myself at the center of the tension. Interestingly, though I wrote only a few poems in Sudanese Arabic, these are ironically the ones that many people celebrate the most.

Did you go on to study literature at college or university level?

Yes, I studied English literature as well as translation. My journey into writing poetry began when I was in high school, around 16 years old, so I knew literature is where I belong. My mother had always hoped I would study medicine—every family needed a doctor, after all. It was a matter of social status and financial security. Despite my deep dislike for biology, I wanted to make my mother happy, so I enrolled in the Science Faculty at Khartoum University, formerly known as Gordon Memorial College.

This colonial institution was established by Lord Kitchener in 1902 and named after Charles George Gordon of the British Army, who was killed during the anticolonial Mahdiyya Revolution in 1885. The college was the softer side of Kitchener’s otherwise ruthless campaign to discipline the “uncivilized” people who dared to put Gordon to rest, an act that deeply embarrassed the queen—she was quite fond of him, you know.  Anyway, I spent the entire first year dissecting frogs, and I failed nearly every exam—an absolute disaster.

Eventually, I decided to change course entirely and pursued literature at Al Ahylia University. The frogs I dissected in vain occasionally resurface in my poetry, serving as a reminder of that period in my life. But my time at Gordon College wasn’t entirely negative; I met some of my closest friends there, and we remain close to this day.

What ideas or themes do you examine through your writing?

Isolation and alienation are recurring themes in my writing. I often explore social and political realities, and I’ve written about love as an impossible quest. Due to my extremely poor memory, my recollections often linger in the recesses of the subconscious mind. These memories resurface in my writing, sometimes unexpectedly. Occasionally, I manage to connect the dots, but more often, they remain unexplained, like fragmented dreams or nightmares.

You have published your collections in Arabic. Do you also write in English, or other languages, and if so, is there a difference in terms of expressing the ideas you wish to express in these languages?

I don’t write in English. My writing is rooted in and sometimes challenges a specific tradition, drawing from a repertoire that is deeply local—a cultural reservoir not only of language, images, and artistic forms but also of philosophical and political frame of references.

What are you working on now?

I’m currently working on a short story and have also outlined the skeleton of a novella—I hope I find the courage to see it through. Additionally, I’m leaning more towards prose these days, focusing on essays and articles about colonial and postcolonial Sudan.

What are you looking to do in the future with your work?

I’m looking forward to sharing my work with people. I would love to see my work translated into important languages like Swahili and Urdu. I was particularly thrilled to discover that one of my poems had been translated into Persian by an Iranian poet I’ve never met. Persian is the language of towering cultural and spiritual figures; it is such an honor