Author Q&A with Nwodo Chukwu Divine

Nwodo Divine obtained his Bachelor’s degree in English and Literature from the University of Benin, Nigeria. He is the chief editor of Akpata Magazine and also evaluates submissions for the Word’s Faire. Nwodo’s works have been published or are forthcoming on Poetrycolumn, Heavy Feather Review, Bacopa Literary Review, and others. 

Divine’s poem, Trauma is a Lullaby in Igbo, is featured in Issue 17.

Tell us about yourself.

I am an academic and creative writer. I obtained a Bachelor’s degree in English and Literature from the University of Benin, Nigeria. I hail from the Eastern part of Nigeria. My tribe is called The Igbos. Igbos have been historically marginalized and discriminated against in Nigeria. This led to their quest for self-determination, which led to what’s known as the Civil war or the Biafran war. 

Over three million Igbos were killed by the Nigerian government in the war. Hundreds of thousands were displaced into different obscure parts of the country, and some fled to neighbouring countries. I share this because even though I never experienced the civil war, I was born into a family and world that was shaped by its legacy. My mother always told me about the civil war and how it led to the loss of some of my relatives as well as her permanently relocating from our homeland. I am someone shaped by that inherited trauma.

How do you hope Trauma is a Lullaby in Igbo will honor those who were brutalized by the Nigerian war between 1967 and 1970?

I hope the poem lights a candle for every untold story. The poem is my way of saying, I see you, to those lost generations of Igbos. I hope it breathes life into their memories and helps them gain closure. I also hope it raises awareness on the fact that the consequence of war spans across generations.

How do you think the trauma felt by your mother and her family has affected you? What are your thoughts on generational trauma?

Generational trauma is like an invisible inheritance. Although my mother carried her pain quietly, it left a mark on me too. That’s the thing about generational trauma. It’s a kind of grief that lives inside us even if we weren’t the ones directly wounded. It shapes the way we respond to loss, how we navigate love, and even how we fear or trust. I’m a carrier of that trauma, not by choice but by blood—and by poetry, I hope to make sense of it.

Learning from history is our best defense against repeating past atrocities. How do you think your poem, Trauma is a Lullaby in Igbo, can educate your generation and any that follow?

To me, education doesn’t always mean facts or historical details but the way we learn to feel deeply about the past. My hope is that Trauma is a Lullaby in Igbo creates space for empathy and, through empathy, a lesson. And I want this lesson to be one that is felt more than told. If a reader can step into that emotion and feel that inherited pain even if they’re far removed from it, they might approach both the world and history with a different kind of awareness and a commitment to ensuring the tragedies of the past never happen again.

In Trauma is a Lullaby in Igbo, you mention never having been on your ancestral soil, only knowing the ‘sting of displacement.’ Do you think you’ll ever want to visit your ‘ancestral soil?’ Why or why not?

Visiting my ancestral soil feels like a question that might haunt me forever. I’ve always been reluctant to go there because I do not know how I would react seeing the land in which my grandparents and uncles shed their blood for me. In a way, I don’t think I am ready for that. I don’t know if I’ll ever be. Yet, I still have something in me pushing me to go there, telling me that returning might be a way to finally close a chapter I’ve been writing from afar. I hope one day I can answer that call and find the courage to touch the earth that holds my ancestors.

How does poetry help you process the horrors your family faced?

Poetry is the only language that feels true enough, fluid enough to carry the complexity of grief. It allows me to reshape and re-imagine memory in such a way that loss and survival can sit side by side. Though my family’s pain serves as the backdrop of my poetry, I also juxtapose it with their resilience and courage. Poetry helps me take something that might otherwise be overwhelming and break it down, word by word, until it becomes a story I can live with and share with others.

Do you often turn to writing to understand the world around you? Why or why not?

The world makes little sense to me without the time and space that writing provides. It’s the only place I can ask questions and get answers, even if they’re temporary or fragile. I admit that writing does not always solve the world’s mysteries or answer the burning questions in my soul, but it does help me find a way to live with life’s ambiguity without becoming bogged down by it.

How do you encourage other writers to tell the important stories that can sometimes be hard to hear?

I tell them that the hard stories are often the only ones that matter. If a story aches to be told, that ache is a sign that the world needs to hear it. There’s power in vulnerability, in laying bare the things that frighten or haunt us. I remind writers that these stories, however painful, have the potential to bring us together, to remind us we aren’t alone in our suffering, and that by telling the truth, we can help others survive their own.

What do you think of when you hear, “the good life?”

The good life, to me, is knowing that I’ve told the stories that needed telling and that I’ve left nothing unsaid. The good life isn’t one of ease or plenty, but one of faith, courage, and the willingness to hold space for everything— the beauty and the terror, the laughter and the tears.

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Thank you, Nwodo, for being a part of our growing literary community and for spending extra time with us on this Q&A. We wish you the best!