Recurring Nightmare
by Kọ́lá Túbọ̀sún
It is 8:25 a.m. in Sharjah, United Arab Emirates. I have been here for a week at the Festival of African Literature, sophomore edition, organized by the Sharjah Book Authority, a government entity also involved in the annual Sharjah International Book Fair, which has apparently become a global destination for producers of literature. The organization seeks to “transform Sharjah into a global cultural hub by promoting literature, publishing, and a knowledge-based economy.”
A few days ago I was on a panel on language in translation with a distinguished Ethiopian writer, Ayalneh Mulatu Abeje; I shared my work with writers from other parts of the continent, and generally had a productive time networking, sightseeing, and enjoying the hospitality of this fascinating country. But my heart has remained in Minneapolis, my adoptive home city, where Trump and his goons have turned what was a pleasant, if frequently frigid, U.S. city into a scene of intentional chaos.
Friends and well-wishers have reached out to ask how we’re coping. Even here, all it takes is the mention of “Minneapolis” for genuine queries of concern to emerge, followed by long, spirited conversations. When I’m in Minnesota the news can be easy to ignore, if one avoids the television and stays offline, but the sighting of ICE agents in Brooklyn Park and other nearby suburbs has proven that we won’t be insulated for much longer, if we ever really were. Trump’s fixation on subduing a progressive state led by someone who once ran against him has brought a slow-burning combustion to the boiling point.
Keep us breathing fire!
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