Benjamin Zephaniah has appeared at really pivotal points of my life, either in person or through his work. The first memory I have of him was in the early 1990s when my parents took me to an anti-apartheid demonstration in Parliament Square. Benjamin addressed the crowd through a red and white megaphone. I can’t remember the poem he read out but he kept saying: “Open up your mind,” and my dad, who had me on his shoulders, was repeating it. Seeing someone on the stage who resembled members of my Jamaican family, who was taking a stance for peace and justice, had a huge impact on me.
When I was 11 and had just started in a deaf school, my mum gave me Benjamin’s young adult novel Face. I remember reading the whole thing in one go. I was very self-conscious about wearing hearing aids and I needed stories that humanised disability, as Face did. I was still struggling with my literacy at the time, and I understood Benjamin as someone who was self-taught and had been marginalised within the education system. And so he really felt like an ambassador for young people like me.
The first time I properly spoke to him was about 12 years ago when I was invited to read at an event at Keats House called The Roast of Benjamin Zephaniah. It was funny because I had no idea what a roast was, so everyone else got up and critiqued him and made fun of him, and then I got up and read this really earnest poem. Some people were saying that his poetry was elementary, that it wouldn’t stand the test of time. I’ll never forgot Benjamin’s response. He said: “Look, I’m not trying to live for ever, but as long as my poetry outlives your opinions, I’m fine.”
My contact with him was mainly mediated through friends. My mentor, Hannah Lowe, worked with him at Brunel, and often I’d say: “I wonder what Benjamin would do,” and she’d say: “I’ll ask him.” So it was almost like talking through a wall, communicating by osmosis. I thought it would be only a matter of time before someone put us on a bill together. I completely took that for granted, so it’s such a shock that he’s not in the world any more. I’m still trying to make sense of it.
When I met him at Keats House, I got very gushy about him, and he was just like: “Oh don’t worry about that, I’m just doing my thing.” He brushed it off. But Benjamin really did feel the love from people. He really did. Often people don’t get their flowers when they’re alive, but Benjamin really got his flowers, and he smelled them all day long.
He pushed a few of them away as well, like when he turned down an OBE. It was an opportunity for him to say something, and what he said was that he was profoundly anti-empire. It’s such a powerful message. I will say that he never judged the Black people who did accept it, as long as they knew what they were doing. Lemn Sissay has done some incredible work with his honours, and I’m trying to do the same. So Benjamin’s always been on my shoulder, he’s always been someone I can reach through the wall for guidance.
I think he’ll be remembered as a poet of justice, of peace, of people power – as someone who was profoundly principled and lovable and full of soulful integrity. For me, Benjamin has been a sounding board, a model, a shrine, a cultural touchpoint throughout my entire life. If I had a poetry father, it really was him.
