What does it mean to inherit a history you didn’t create? In Child of Congo, Laurène Southe grapples with this very question. At just 24, this Congolese-Austrian poet has crafted a debut that feels both timely and timeless. Throughout the collection, she wrestles with questions that have haunted displaced peoples for generations: What remains of home when borders are redrawn? How does one carry the weight of inherited trauma while forging a new path?
In verses that alternate between devastating clarity and luminous hope, Southe examines the lasting echoes of colonialism in modern Congo. Born from her performances at Vienna’s African Writers Club and refined during her residency at Echo Correspondence, her work refuses to look away from uncomfortable truths about global exploitation while celebrating the resilience of those who survive it.
In this exclusive interview with Akpata Magazine, Southe opens up about the journey that led to this remarkable collection.
1. What was the initial spark or idea that led you to write “Child of Congo”?
When I speak of ‘Child of Congo’ these days, it feels like its own entity. And just like a living being, it went through several phases. It first began when I participated in an exhibition and was asked to interpret my writing into a visual medium.
It’s one of the few times I had to sit down and really reflect on what I wanted to say—what bridge I wanted to cross, so to speak. That is how the first poem and title of the book were born. Once I knew what I wanted to say, it became a matter of finding the space and time to rediscover myself. This takes us to the second phase of the book: the unveiling of Congolese history.
It is often said that you can’t know where you’re going without knowing where you’re from There was so much I didn’t know about my own history. I attended a residency and within that period, I spent more time researching than crafting poems.
Finally, the last stage was presented to me when the book was done and I left it on the side for almost a year. It was the realization that its tales are bigger than me. I wasn’t just telling my story; I was telling the stories of my ancestors who live on through me and countless others. These are universal themes. Every human being will experience at least one of the trajectories mentioned in the book during their lifetime.
2. Who are some poets or writers who have influenced your work, and how?
I always go back to Emily Dickinson and Wanda Coleman for two completely different reasons. I see a lot of similarities in our lives, Emily and I. And that is why I identify myself with her poems the most, and, arguably, we project a common melancholic writing style.
Wanda Coleman, on the other hand, is a very eccentric writer—not only in her words but also in how she chooses to display them. As a writer who wasn’t made in any classroom or institute, that rebellious attitude, of course, speaks to me.
Her work encourages me to bend the rules but also to simply be myself and accept the fact that I am not going to sound like or have the same approach as many of the successful writers we have today because I am cut from a different cloth. With differences come complexities, lack of relatability, and also uniqueness. If I can be known for anything, I hope it’s that I have brought something new to the table and encouraged weird writers like myself to be their own version of a storyteller.
3. Your collection explores themes of identity, displacement, and heritage. Can you elaborate on the importance of these themes to you personally?
As I mentioned before, I think those are universal themes. Everyone has experienced displacement or an identity crisis at least once in their lives. These are vital to me because they are a part of my own story. The fact that I can speak and write in English today is due to the European education I received.
It wouldn’t have been possible if my parents hadn’t decided to leave everything that they knew behind and start a new life in Europe. The struggle of navigating an African household within a Western society is not spoken about enough, even though it affects a great portion of our population.
It is important to me to offer this perspective outside of the American and UK narratives because they tend to have a clearer sense of identity. However, in our case, there is a vacuum in smaller and lesser-known regions where children with a multicultural background are often forced to choose between them rather than forge a blend of both worlds. Many members of the African sphere, whether in the diaspora or on the continent, remain oblivious to this reality.
4. Some of the poems in the collection, particularly the first poem, Child of Congo, contrast beautiful imagery of pre-colonial Africa with harsh realities like war, exploitation, and poverty caused by colonialism. Can you discuss how this contrast functions in the poem? Why was it important to you to include this contrast?
It is important for me to include contrast because I believe, especially in the Congolese context, that truth has been hidden and watered down since the creation of its nation as we know it today. I don’t want to get political here; I just wanted to shed light, in this poem and throughout the book, on realities I think the general public just doesn’t know about. Many individuals do not understand that we’re imprisoned in a vicious cycle.
I would go as far as to depict it as modern slavery—here everything you could think of in the West comes at the cost of impoverished regions through forced labour, tarnish, and death. Can you imagine a reality where a victim’s only way of survival is to run into the arms of those who inflicted harm upon them? I feel like if people truly took a moment to digest this information, the world wouldn’t be in the shape it is today.
5. The poems also address the impact of colonialism and its lasting effects. How do you see these effects playing out in the present day?
The effects of colonialism—and most importantly, its lack of rehabilitation—are really what I wanted to focus on. My family never got the opportunity to heal from what they endured, and as a result, their traumas were passed onto their children. What Congolese people had to face during Leopold II’s reign is monstrous and inhuman. How do you rectify such abuse? Surely not by closing the chapter like nothing ever happened and leaving its victims to find salvation on their own. In any other case, when someone is injured, they are given treatment and a time to heal. I don’t think the Congolese people were ever given that opportunity. Now, you have generations walking among us with missing limbs—-metaphorically. We’re talking about traumas that have never been addressed. Unless one member of the family tree chooses to seek help, the trauma will just keep being passed on. And what trauma does is resurface in different shapes and forms, all stemming from the same root: the unaddressed side effects of colonialism.
6. What was the most challenging aspect of writing this poem, and what was the most rewarding?
I don’t believe I encountered any specific challenges because this is, in its own way, simply me narrating my story. What has been most rewarding are the times I performed the poem in front of an audience that looked just like me, and they came up to me afterward to say they felt seen in my words.
They could relate to what I was saying, and in that sense, I offered a voice to their stories as well. You don’t really know what someone has gone through unless they tell you. A lot of times, we do not get to have these tough conversations within our communities. We need tools such as the arts, cinematography, or poetry to unfold the human spirit.
7. How does your upcoming poetry collection reflect the journey of reclaiming and redefining identity in the modern world?
My poetry collection is written through the lens of a child. Its innocence, purity of understanding, and the lack thereof are imbued in every page. Contrary to what people might think, that child is not me. My story doesn’t begin with me; it begins with my mother and her life-changing journey outside her homeland, which brought her to Central Europe. Once she obtained European nationality, my story truly began. Coming to this realization and achieving self-acceptance will take more than a book. It is a driving force within us that some might call fate, destiny, or purpose.
The real journey begins, just as it did for my mother, when you act upon that unexplainable force and trade what you’ve known for something new. But nothing is really lost, is it? If anything, it is just enhanced, amplified, and renewed. My mother is still the child she was at 16 years old—that child will always be within her. It has simply been revived through me and her other children. Whatever we leave on this earth—whether it is a poetry collection or a Congolese dish—will always carry a trace of her.
8. Do you see poetry as a form of decolonization? If so, how?
To determine whether poetry acts as a form of decolonization is a question that must be answered by the reader. I believe that poetry can serve as a vessel, but the real work begins within. It is our duty as individuals to decolonize ourselves from the Western perspective of our livelihood. What is writing, at its core? It serves to inform one generation for the next. Yet, we all know by now that history is written by the winners. We must actively seek the truth within the cracks and learn to detect it among a sea of lies. And believe me when I say there are many of them. That’s how I see poetry.
9. In your collection, you write about “scramblers” trying to separate nations and borders. How do you perceive the role of artificial borders in shaping modern Africa?
That’s a very difficult question. Do I love that my family and I identify as Congolese, even though, on my father’s side, we most likely derive from the coast of Zanzibar, and on my mother’s side, they probably had little connection to the Kingdom of Kongo? Yes and no. My stance comes more from curiosity. What would we have identified as? What would Africa look like today if not for the Berlin Conference?
Still, I can’t deny, like everybody else, that I love my country, and I love the African continent as I know it to be. If a flower can grow from concrete, beautiful things can emerge from terrible times. What matters is where we choose to go from here, and I believe pan-Africanism and pride in our people are the best way forward. We can’t go back in time or capture what has been lost, but we can create a better tomorrow.
10. What do you hope readers take away from reading your poem collection?
My hope is to showcase the beauty, struggle, and resilience of African people through a Congolese tale. This could be a call to action or simply a shift in how they see the world. That feeling might translate into an urge to write their own story, or they might leave the book on their bookshelf and let it receive dust. Regardless of the outcome, I believe anyone who encounters this work will become a fuller person as a result of the experience.
