Imagine walking through a charred forest that still smells of fresh rain—a paradox where destruction and hope meet, intertwining like roots and ash, Abu Bakr Sadiq’s poetry collection, Leaked Footages, reverberates with such depth of vulnerability that endears its reader(s) with an intimacy born of conflict, survival, and endurance.
There’s a pulsating realism in his verses, an unflinching mirror of the chaos that confronts not just Nigeria but countless communities around the world that are at the mercy of larger forces. Reading Sadiq’s work feels like walking through a familiar terrain, and as I dive deeper into his poems, I find my lived experience as a young intersectional advocate (in Nigeria) for marginalized communities deeply entwined with the themes he brings to light. His words speak to those who, like myself, have spent their lives trying to make sense of instability, change, and resilience in environments that offer no guarantees of safety or peace.
Take the poem “While a Newly Elected President Is Being Sworn In,” for example, the political unrest hinted at in this piece isn’t just a footnote in history—it’s an ever-present reality in our Nigerian landscape. We see this daily on the streets where once-vibrant posters of campaign promises are shredded by a disillusioned populace, and the stifling smoke in the room feels like an apt metaphor for the confusion and suffocation that often accompanies governance in our part of the world. “A country in crisis does not hold its breath,” Sadiq seems to suggest in these stanzas, and I couldn’t agree more. The poem unfolds in a way that makes us experience the immediate aftermath of electoral promises turned sour.
This political consciousness isn’t just a topic for debate in faraway halls of power. It’s a daily reality for communities like mine, where even the youth—the so-called “future of the nation”—feel stranded between hope and despair. As an advocate, especially within the queer community,
Sadiq’s reflection on political disappointment hits differently. We are constantly grappling with promises of inclusion, protection, and rights that are all too often delayed or dismissed. As feminist Nigerian author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie touchingly notes, “Grief is a political emotion when it is a grief of what could have been.” Sadiq’s poem is an embodiment of this collective grief.
In his poem “Estrangement Theory,” there’s a recurring theme of displacement that feels painfully relevant, not just on a global level but particularly here in Nigeria. It’s no secret that political instability and economic uncertainty have led to a surge in migration.
Whether people are leaving for greener pastures abroad or being displaced within their own country, there’s an inevitable loss that comes with uprooting one’s life. The evocative line “sometimes the only thing left behind is a favorite dress, sometimes a tribe, mostly a language” speaks volumes. It reminds me of Wole Soyinka’s lamentation on the erasure of culture in the face of colonialism, where language wasn’t just a means of communication but an anchor to one’s identity.
In today’s Nigeria, where migration has become a ubiquitous solution to systemic failure, Sadiq’s words resonate deeply. When people leave, they don’t just depart physically; they leave behind parts of their history, their connection to home, and oftentimes, they find themselves strangers to the languages that once defined them. This hits home for me.
As an advocate working across intersections of marginalized communities with an emphasis on 2SLGBTQ+ communities, I see how displacement isn’t just about physical space but also about socio-cultural identity. Queer Nigerians often find themselves estranged from their own families, communities, and even their languages when their identities clash with societal norms. Sadiq’s poetry doesn’t shy away from the complexity of this issue. But rather, in his versed words, he acknowledges the pain of this loss while also suggesting that survival necessitates it.
His poems are rich with vivid imagery, grounded in the everyday reality of life. In “After a Conversation about Janazah,” he presents an image that is both simple and profound: a father standing over his son’s body, refusing to cry. Here, the absence of tears is more telling than any outpouring of emotion could be. In a society where death has become almost commonplace, grief takes on a different form—one that is quiet, stoic, and at times numb. It’s as though the father in the poem is representative of all of us, the survivors, who have witnessed so much loss that we’ve become desensitized to it. In Nigeria, where violence has claimed countless lives, from Boko Haram insurgencies to the ever-present clashes between herdsmen and farmers, there’s a pervasive sense of emotional exhaustion. We don’t always cry because we’ve learnt that tears aren’t enough to bring back the dead.
There’s a similarity here to James Baldwin’s observation that “people are trapped in history, and history is trapped in them.” Baldwin was referring to the Black American experience, but it’s just as true in the Nigerian context, where the history of colonization, military coups, and ethnic conflicts continues to haunt us. Sadiq, in his poetry, taps into this ongoing trauma, giving it voice in a way that is both raw and elegant.
The rhythmic quality of Sadiq’s poems is another thing that caught me off-guard in the best possible way. He doesn’t stick to a conventional meter, which allows his words to flow more naturally, more conversationally. This stylistic choice enhances the authenticity of his voice. In poems like “Reaching an Endpoint,” the rhythm slows down as the city tries to pick itself up after a crisis.
The change in pace reflects the process of healing, which is never linear. Sadiq understands this deeply; he recognizes that recovery is often uneven, with moments of stillness punctuated by bursts of activity. This mirrors the very real experience of living in post-crisis Nigeria. We see this in communities rebuilding after floods or after violent clashes—there’s an initial flurry of activity, but soon, the efforts slow, people grow weary, and life returns to a fragile normalcy.
Another striking poem is “Survivor’s Gift,” where Sadiq writes, “In the end, I learn, even time surrenders itself to memory.” This is a philosophy that resonates with me on a personal level, especially as someone who works with marginalized voices. There’s a powerful truth here: that even the most traumatic events, the ones that leave deep scars, eventually become memories. It’s a bittersweet realization because while time may soften the edges of our pain, it also means that the urgency of the struggle fades. As advocates, we fight to ensure that the stories of those who have suffered aren’t forgotten—that their memories remain vivid and meaningful. But Sadiq’s line reminds me of the delicate balance we must strike between remembering and moving forward. We can’t stay trapped in the past, but neither can we allow it to be erased.
The Nigerian poet and activist Ken Saro-Wiwa once said, “The environment is man’s first right.” While he was speaking specifically about the Niger Delta and the devastating effects of oil exploitation, Sadiq’s poetry touches on a broader sense of environmental decay—not just in the natural world but in the social environment as well.
In his poems, there’s a constant interplay between destruction and regeneration, much like the Nigerian landscape itself. Whether it’s the image of smoke swirling through a room or the slow reconstruction of a war-torn city, Sadiq is acutely aware of the fragility of our surroundings. He understands that survival isn’t just about making it through the next day; it’s about finding ways to rebuild in the aftermath of destruction.
Sadiq’s use of sound patterns is subtle but effective. He doesn’t rely on heavy rhyme schemes or overt alliteration, but there’s a musicality to his words that draws you in. For example, in the poem “Smoke Swirling Around the Room,” the repetition of soft consonant sounds creates a kind of hypnotic effect, pulling the reader into the scene. The smoke isn’t just a visual image; it becomes almost tangible, curling around the words themselves, much like the way political uncertainty wraps itself around the lives of everyday Nigerians. It’s this kind of sensory detail that makes Sadiq’s poetry so immersive.
What I find most compelling about Sadiq’s work, as seen in Leaked Footages, is his ability to hold space for both despair and hope. He doesn’t shy away from the harsh realities of life—whether it’s political unrest, personal loss, or the ongoing trauma of displacement—but he also leaves room for moments of grace.
In a country like Nigeria, where despair often feels like the default setting, finding those moments of grace can be difficult, but it’s necessary. As someone who works with marginalized communities, I’ve seen firsthand how people continue to find joy, even in the most challenging circumstances. Whether it’s in the resilience of a single mother raising her children in a conflict zone or the quiet determination of queer youth fighting for their rights, there’s always a flicker of hope. And that, I think, is what Sadiq’s poetry ultimately offers: a reminder that even in the darkest times, we can find light.
Leaked Footages is deeply personal, but it also speaks to a collective experience—one that I, as an advocate and a Nigerian, feel deeply connected to. His poetry doesn’t just reflect the world as it is; it imagines what it could be if we only had the courage to face our truths and rebuild from the ashes. In the end, Sadiq’s poems are a gift to those of us who are searching for meaning in a world that often feels chaotic and cruel. They remind us that survival isn’t just about enduring; it’s about finding ways to thrive amidst the ruins.
Poetry Review by: Oluremilekun B. Idowu
For: Akpata Magazine
