i wish to find my ancestors: an Intention Document

Flower Print 1: Lavender, 2025

i wish to find my ancestors / living:

an evocation / invocation / invitation

living / i wish to

find my ancestors,

living.

Evocation, I:

the thing is,

i have decided

that i will be living.

choose my life.

i choose to live, my life.

do you hear me,

all of me?

do you hear that

we have chosen life?

do we hear, what that

means? we

hear what we mean:

we mean life.

we mean aliveness, living.

we mean a life, therefore, a life of beauty:

we mean art.

The First Interview-with-Poetry – of Which There Will Be Many More:

a Self Interview

We are sitting on the couch on which we are currently sleeping. Together, we are all

together. I want to sit with me—the artist and the interviewer—to get into our practices

and beliefs around lineage, and art ancestors. I hope to intend: I hope to set intention for

the project I am engaging/engaging with, which i am calling “we must find our ancestors.” I

begin:

Thank you for sitting for this interview.

I’m glad to be here; i am eager to get into this work.

I’m glad to hear that! Could you introduce yourself to us? How would you like to introduce yourself to us?

I would like to tell you about my name, and i would like to share a poem of mine that i have been

sitting with, floating with, today.

so, my name is valiant, or waiyaki, or wamuoyo. whenever i introduce myself—oh, i have

another name, which i use in sacred affairs; Ra’it—my preference is that a person i meet would

pick one name—a mononym— and stick with it; that they call me that name. so, i write it with

slashes, to indicate the option, and with spaces between the names, to indicate that each word is

an option: valiant / waiyaki / wamuoyo. today, you can call me wamuoyo.

Alright, wamuoyo, which pronouns do you use?

When we are speaking English, i use a plural they/them/theirs.

Great! You mentioned a poem?

Yes! This is the poem from my folders, notebooks, archives which has been calling to me today.

i received it from a grove of baobab trees—so sacred—that i call the Mibuyu Guides, and this is

the First Poem from the Mibuyu Guides, also called “and they will come”; karibuni!

[they read “and they will come”]

and they will come

“in October, i gave up and decided to

become a tree.”

so, the Guides said to me:

Build something real,

where, “real”, here is

something alive, wooden, organic.

the wetness of a baobab’s bark

after the rains,

is the same wetness of a human’s skin

after they are born:

all of us, connected in life;

“It’s the bright green/ bright red/ brightness

just under the skin;

that is real.”

So, build something real. (And?)

(The first poem fr. the Mibuyu Guides)

Thur 10th Nov 2022

i am moving through some big transitions in my life right now, and i am reaching for

exhortations into the organic, into the body, into trust—even trusting the darkness, the unknown:

the bodily, organic confusion of existence. so, those lines about what real is, this “bright

green/bright red/brightness” is really calling to me today. what struck you as we read it today?

Indeed, I would love to hear from our audience which parts of the poem resonated most for

them. For me, today, as The Interviewer, I was very interested in the building of something real: the start, the starting with simple ingredients, the aliveness, the woodenness, and yeah, the organicity. I like the idea that honest ingredients can make an object of value, a thing that “they” want, that enriches “them.” This catches me, because this is what I am

hoping for from this conversation: the space to set intention for the work before us. What’s your intention for this conversation?

I intend to represent myselves in a way that feels clear, and—most importantly—recognisable to myself. i want to feel myself in all my voices. i want to share what visions i am currently working with, around “We Must Find Our Ancestors” and the arts review and recommendation magazine i intend it to live in. i want to be honest, and vulnerable. i want to flow.

How about you, what are your intentions for this conversation?

I want to make space in which it feels safe for my subject to be honest, and vulnerable. I want to ask insightful questions. I want to uncover new information within myself. And I want it to be fun and funny, along the way. So, here we are, surrounded by our work, and listening to what we consider soothing, ancestral music. There is also an art altar before us. We’re lighting a candle on our actual altar. Can we begin there, actually: could you share a bit about your practice of art altars and what is—or, rather, who is—present with us this evening?

[They stand up to light a candle.][After they complete their incantation, they sit to continue.]

Well, an art altar is an energetic technology – like all altars. the purpose of these technologies is to welcome, hold, concentrate a particular kind of energy, a particular entity or team of entities. when i make an art altar, i am often, specifically, incanting for the presence of creative potential energy in general. i do so with the use of art objects that connect me to work i like, to artists whose work i like, to my own creation(s) from the past. all of this to invite smooth, creational

flow as we pursue the creative process once more, to welcome into the room those whose work has come before ours, that Council of Care and Expertise to help midwife what we are creating

in that moment.

So, today, we have a few different artists with us. is it surprising that i am the artist most voluminously represented? at the bottom is the folder that holds the zines i am currently selling, for good luck. resting on that are some of my notebooks, from my journal—because we are being guided to journal more—to other (smaller) books containing my poetic work. there are two [notebooks] open—one that holds “and they will come” and another open to its very first page: a thing i was writing on my birthday, an “open poem” called “What i Have Had on my Birthday.” This one was screaming to be present today, so perhaps it bears reading for the room. plus, more artists: a quote by Stella Mann, quoted in “The Artist’s Way” by Julia Cameron, which came to me through Alex/is Grace Teyie. it reads: “To accept the responsibility / of being / a child of God / is to accept the Best that / Life has to offer You.” near these notebooks is a poetry-object i am working on; a blank zine, symbolising this new project, the new work to be made; and, some art that connects me with my Art (Grand)Mothers, the subjects of this process. so, there are two books published by the Nairobi Contemporary Art Institute (NCAI). One, an interview between Chelenge van Rampelberg and Jepkorir Rose, for Chelenge’s solo retrospective exhibition, Chelenge van Rampelberg: The Long Way Home, which ran from November 2023 to February 2024; The other, an interview between Don Handa and Michael Armitage for the [exhibition at NCAI, called] 60 Years. while i haven’t yet read the interview, it has a Theresa Musoke painting on its cover. finally, there’s a biography of Tabitha wa Thuku, and a list of her artworks, part of Circle Art Agency’s exhibition, Seasons Within A Season. it was a solo exhibition by Tabitha, and i believe i met her at the gallery the day she was sitting down with the writers who would

craft this biography.

Oh, you met her? How did it feel?

I really enjoyed it. It felt like meeting a hero, a freedom fighter. She has really long dreadlocks, and they are white at the roots. It felt like meeting a new grandmother. We didn’t spend a lot of time together; she wasn’t there to see me. Most of it was me thanking her for this work, for making work, and her — overwhelmed by seeing her work going up on walls, overwhelmed by the work and attention being paid to her — thanking me too, and asking me to attend the exhibition opening.

Did you?

No, I’m afraid i didn’t. i also don’t feel that i spent enough time sitting with and in that exhibition. what a pity.

Yes, a pity. Still, were you moved by her work?

Oh, yes! oh, yes. i remember the [artwork] called Laureate’s Anger,  which, as i stared at it, suddenly the face of Prof. Wangari Maathai revealed [herself] from among a lushness of foliage, flora, fauna. i loved it. then, a bit later, at the NCAI exhibition 60 Years,  i fell in love—i fell into grandness, i fell into life—in the first Gallery, which had work by Tabitha wa Thuku, right next to a painting by Theresa Musoke. it filled my heart! i wrote a whole zine, channelling from all the paintings in the room; it's called Gallery I says SHINE!  and features the most direct piece of ekphrasis of Tabitha’s work that i have so far:  “in Tabitha’s telling,.”would you like to hear it?

Yes, please!

[After a brief search, they find a copy of the zine from among their things for NGAO Mag.a.zine. They read “in Tabitha’s telling,”]

The Artist, Sitting Between Theresa & Tabitha, I

in Tabitha’s telling, 

the Forest is a place you've 

been before, but

can't quite    rem`_^er

reme’-_r

remember everything

feeling hazy, misty, a Monday-

like mystique/ominous presence.

in Kenya, it's been Monday

since 1963. in Tabitha's telling,

a left hand weaves/warps/wends

a whole life within

a barren landscape. in Tabitha's 

telling, you can see the primordial

smoke: the remnants of the

fires of creation, a fresh world only

just coming into being. 

You know, i think this poem captures well the aim i have, or even the aim i take, when it comes to these ekphrastic projects—and, specifically, the “We Must Find Our Ancestors” paradigm.

Tell us more… the line of the left hand?

Yes… but, especially the [line about the] barren landscape and the weaving/warping/wending a life of art out of the barren landscape. it often feels like the place i am in delights in making impossible, specialises in making life less and less easeful, peaceful, possible. and it feels like this deathgaze, this death-work, finds its fullest expression in the way that the Other is treated. which tracks, right? like, you scapegoat the Other; the weight of dysfunction falls on the scapegoat, on the Other. the Othered. the disenfranchised, [the disavowed and estranged,] those who are dis-illusioned—like, divorced from their fantasies, and stories, and dream life. i think of disobedient women, of queer and trans folk, of artists in Kenya. people punished for being different from the Ideal, for deviating from the Official Narrative. a landscape made even more “barren” for those outside the status quo. and yet! and yet, life is made, despite the impediments and impossibilities. yet, a left hand makes life. yet, yet, yet; Karwitha's “despite, despite, despite.” i am so interested in these left hands—these beings making life despite, despite, despite—and in what these lives are like. ultimately, i want to listen, learn, compare what notes i can; i want to know how to craft, for myselves, for my antecedents, for my generation, for our descendants. how do we craft these lives, for ourselves, in ways that serve us and will not be overwritten and/or discarded, despite, despite, despite? there's another poem—in an unreleased zine about the exhibition 60 Years – that kind of talks about this: a pair of poems, actually. would you like to hear them?

Yes, please!

[The read “Gallery I:” and “never come undone, or, in the Narrative Forest.”]

Gallery I:

sitting between

Theresa and Tabitha,

anything is possible. 

correction – sitting in Gal. I,

between Theresa & Tabitha,

everything is possible.

tumekuwa.kazi,

tumekuwa kazi, na

kazi ipo. tumekuwa,

kumekuwepo.     what

is it like to move like 

a part of a lineage,

like we have ancestors

who love us, see us,

like a thread in a tapestry

that will never come undone?

never come undone, or, in the Narrative Forest

we will never come 

undone; our magic

knows no bounds;

we are exactly where

we need to be:

in our possibility. 

the impossible is not;

we stand on grand 

shoulders; we have

everything we need:

our hearts, our minds, 

our imaginations,

schooled in love,

grounded/ravelled/unravelled

in the richness that

we, perpetually, 

are. 

or: in the Narrative Forest

both from the sketch-zine 60 Years,

made during the Opening of the eponymous exhibition,

Sat 10th August 2024,

@ NCAI, rosslyn riviera

i really believe that; we will never come undone, once we locate ourselves within us, and within those who have come before us.

Yes, this standing on “grand shoulders.” This feels like a natural place to ask: what are ancestors to you? And, why must we find them – like, are they not with us? Where are they, oh dear??

I hear you, i hear you. first, for me, an ancestor is someone who:

a) has gone before me, and,

b) in so doing, has made it more possible for me to exist.

That's it. No matter in which ways we are similar or different; if this person, their being and their work, has made it more possible for me, my being and my work, to exist, then i consider them an ancestor. and, in this way, i have ancestors everywhere, through space and time. i have trans ancestors younger than me. i have ancestors my age. i have ancestors who are still alive, and those who [have passed on]. like my friend Jill was saying the other day, queer and trans folk search far and wide for ancestors, for people in whose image we can see ourselves. i agree, and i feel that the reason for this search—this high and low, this distance in the first place—is the severance created by the Ways of Death. these Ways manifest separation, isolationism, individualism, disconnection within the self—and externally, with the earth, and with one's community. these Ways create, and are created by, various oppressive machinations—with their internal effects, and their external effects: you know, colonialism, and the patriarchy, and homophobia, and transphobia. these reasons are why we do not know and feel the presences of our ancestors; i've written a poem where i—actually, would you like to hear it? it's called “surprise!”

Yes, let's hear it!

[They could not find an offline copy of “surprise!”But, by magic and connection, here, we have a copy.]

 Epilogue to “surprise!”

my dearest faggots -

black + brown, South not North, criminalised + colonised - 

discarded, disregarded, unseen: 

be surprised! be enraged! be hopeful!

the revolution

is inside us:

    inside our crying,

    inside our building,

    inside our fucking;

the revolution

has always been inside us:

    inside our big, bright, beautiful

    ancestors: 

    so carefully removed from history.

as surely as we exist,

they existed.

as surely as they existed,

we exist.

as surely as they existed, and

we exist,

our children will exist.

we carry the future,

Mashoga wenzangu,

and heavy is the

fucking

head - 

but, fabulous, and fabulously supported, too!

cry to your ancestors

(they hear you)

and join me in

remaining surprised.

There is a line i mean to refer to, that talks about “our bright, bold, beautiful ancestors, so carefully removed from history.” this intentional, careful removal of stories of people like us—queer, deviant, inherently anticapitalist, different—removed from official narratives: this violence is what our ancestors survive and survived, and is the reason they are, but [also the reason that they] are to be searched for and found.

Is this what you hope to do, to recover disappeared ancestors?

Yes. Well, to recover a sense of lineage, starting with those ancestors that i can see, hear, experience around me, so far. those ancestors haven't disappeared (yet), have they?

I wanted to ask something similar: how do these ancestors appear to you? How do they emerge to you, and then you say, “Well, these creators are my ancestors?”

I feel it's a different process between art ancestors and other, general ancestors; here, i will focus on art ancestors. with them, it's all about the work of theirs that i have met, and how it has made me feel. i have written a poem from exactly one such moment—one such artist, and such work —but, before i read it, i want to say that… it's about the feeling: this work, the things it's talking about, and what it's saying; how do these feel to me? do they feel like me? how do they make me feel? do they make me feel more myself? or rather, now that these pieces of work exist, does it feel easier, more possible, to be me? to be true, true me? when i met Chelenge's work, for example, like the poem describes, i felt seen and heard. i felt like i could be, more and more. would you like to hear it?

Yes. You said this is about work by Chelenge van Rampelberg?

Yes, and the poem shares a title with the work i was responding to. [They read through “They I and They II (both, 2007)”]

They I and They II (both, 2007)

part ii:

i did not expect to see myself,

split in half, a

diptych on two plinths, a

vision in jacaranda wood. 

i did not expect that

i could be legible, an elaborate

song, a song sung 

in a voice different, older, more

material than mine. 

i didn't expect to feel loved, sitting

on the floor in the art gallery. 

part i:

Akwaeke (they/them) writes,

   “Understand this if you

     understand nothing:

     it is a powerful thing

     to be seen.”

(Freshwater, p. 213)

part iii:

I is 115.5cm tall,

II is 135, yet

their impact cannot be 

fathomed/mentioned/assessed

by the ruler(s).

at once anatomic, and

genderless, they stretch

themselves in space,

in time, in praise, in rhyme:

“here we are,” they say,

“here we have always been.”

“here, borne of the earth

and our other Mothers’ strength;

here, here, here, and

since time immemorial:

here we, and you, have always been.”

listen, 

and here we will

always

remain. 

               free.

                          wheeeee –

here we are, here we

go, unconstrained and

vivified, imagined back into

life. here we are,

and here we go! 

                         wheeee! 

5th, 8th Feb ‘24

between javas,

part ii, Rosslyn Riviera; part i & iii, Lavington,

nbo metro area

 i really enjoy performing this poem.

It's a lot of fun to read, and to hear, too! Yes, I hear this idea of finding yourselves made more possible. The poem says, “unconstrained and / vivified,” and, “imagined back into / life.” Why do you think it's important for people to find their ancestors?

First, this statement, “we must find our ancestors,” is true for everyone. of course, i am talking to Children of Africa with every work i make, every breath i take, but it's true for all humans, and the institutions they find themselves in. but, anyway, i was thinking about this [earlier] – starting with people like me: artists, queer, and trans people—and i wrote a few sentences down:

“We need a rooting +  grounding in deep understandings of ourselves, we artists, we queer folk, we children of Africa, because what is coming needs / will best be navigated via being truly ourselves, 3000%. And we need to root in a real place, secure, safe, with/in ourselves, in order to take that posture.”

i would say that to take a posture of authenticity requires us to know—and love—who we are and whom we have come from.

The Artist, Sitting Between Theresa & Tabitha, II

Invocation, II:

i, valiant / waiyaki / wamuoyo, welcome to me all that is in alignment with me, with all of me.

i settle into myself – breathe, deep, into my being; breathe, deep, into the Earth. 

i extend, from my heart, an emotion, an emanation, an intention, of love.

and i open, open, open to receive, from the World of Benevolence around me, what guidance, informations, wishes, light as i need to connect with and stabilise into my path, my highest path, my most-loving path. 

here, as myself, 

i reach out,

and i choose life. 

Because to choose life is to, necessarily, choose to make it beautiful, to make it worth living, then to choose life means, necessarily, to choose art.

now, i am 

learning that i have a Mother.

i am learning that i come from somewhere,

and i am learning that there is a Somewhere

that holds me in love:

that, that is how i am here. 

and, now that i am here,

now that life has chosen me,

and i have chosen life,

now that i know that i have a Mother who has chosen (to have) me,

now, i must learn to be the most delicious thing

i can have:     /     that can be had:

me.                all of       /       who i am

And, because who i am is come from Somewhere, i wish to find my ancestors, in life, in beauty, in art. 

[We took a break, to dance, listening to “Yiri Yiri Boum” by Gnonnas Pédro.]

So, what are your hopes for “We Must Find Our Ancestors?” What do you hope for the ekphrasis? Could you explain to us what “ekphrasis” means?

For sure. for me, “ekphrasis” refers to making artistic work about, or in response to—really, because you have been moved by—other artistic work. so, for me, i feel like i have a venerative practice of ekphrasis: i feel that work that has moved me has helped shape who i am as a person, and i like to write poetry in ekphrastic communion with the work of those i consider art ancestors. 

So, specifically with this project of Finding Our Ancestors, i love that, when i enquire of my ancestors, my Spirit Team, i hear them say to, “dream big!” i dream of meeting these three artists, whom i think of as my Art (Grand)mothers: Chelenge van Rampelberg, Tabitha wa Thuku, and Theresa Musoke. i dream of interviewing them: sitting with them, talking about their lives, their work, their careers, and reading to them some of the ekphrastic work i have written about their work. i would love (parts of) these conversations to be recorded; i would love for the interviews [to be] transcribed. i dream of these written interviews—conversation interspersed with poetic performance—being published, flowing among images of the pieces of work being responded to. i dream, even, of an exhibition—artistic discourse around lineages and lineagework—even, specifically, the works of these three incredible women in conversation with each other. 

In general, in my practice of ekphrastic work, i dream of publishing it all! in the form of notebooks, yes, and in magazine form. i intend to create, to co-found, an arts review and recommendation magazine called NGAO Mag.a.zine. if you're reading this, send good vibes and interest and encouragement (and support) to make a recurrent zine discussing and recommending artistic happenings across Africa. if you're reading this in NGAO Mag, mama we made it! and, you also already know that “We Must Find Our Ancestors” is the [theme] of our first Edition.

We invite soft rain to nourish these dreamseeds into their fullest reality.

Thank you.

Now, to close, we’ve heard some [poems]  about Tabitha wa Thuku’s work and Chelenge van Rampelberg’s work; how about Theresa Musoke’s work? How did you come across, and form [a] relationship with, Theresa Musoke’s work?

Oh, wow; i first saw Theresa Musoke’s work at the retrospective group exhibition at NCAI called Mwili, Akili, na Roho in 2022. i was struck by Theresa’s work, specifically a painting reminiscent of a cat at night. the thing i remember feeling is: wow, this feels like spirit-work. this feels like witchcraft! i love this! these layers of paint, this is layered intention; i wonder what the artist is like! and my enquiries about her, in the Nairobi art scene, make me feel like, yes! i would really like to hang out with her and share with her what i knew since the first time i saw her work—and what the [next] poem shares: that Theresa Musoke’s paintings look like how my dreams feel. 

Shall we finish with the poem “dreams” from the zine Gallery I says SHINE!?

Absolutely; let's hear it!

[They read “dreams”.]

dreams

i / grew up / a little girl, / with /

dreams / dreams / dreams / dreams.

a) if i'm ever asked, 

my dreams feel, to 

me, like a 

Theresa Musoke painting.

b) we're dancing w/ the

trees; we’re plexi, com-

bining, in honour,

in reverence, in worship

(to/of) ourselves,

we welcome what worlds we

wish to birth; we ground in

our myriad magickal occurrences. 

It's exactly like this—this grounding in ourselves, our (artistic) lineages, our myriad magickal occurrences. this is exactly what i want. 

May it come to us, swiftly, and in ease.

Thank you. 

Thank you for sitting for this interview. Is there anything that you would like to leave us with?

How about one final Chelenge poem? my desire is that the work i [make] is emotionally effective: that it moves you. so, if there is a feeling that has been generated by reading this [presentation], may i ask you to feel this feeling, grow this feeling, and even make some art from this feeling? may i invite you into some ekphrasis?

Finally, here is “Chelenge: a bit of ekphrasis”; karibuni.

[They read “Chelenge: a bit of ekphrasis”.]

Chelenge: a bit of ekphrasis

Chelenge soaks the work

in the pain / the blood / the oath

of childbirth;

parturition as the motivating 

factor, the surface from which

to project realities

(realities as she sees them,

 realities as those that see us);

Chelenge soaks the work

in sweat,

in potent intention.

This, then, is how to make spells (that work)

outside of one's self. 

Mon 5th Feb 2024,

@ NCAI, rosslyn riviera 

Thank you.

Investment/Return, 2025

III: art/life dispatch No. 1: The Invitation Into – 

Life, man. Life has a way of doubling back, of stretching forward, of shifting and warping and weaving. Back and forth, back and forth; how is time feeling for you, these days?

My, how silly, how forward of me: we have barely met, and i'm already probing into your experience of times. i beg your pardon, let me introduce myself. 

i have many names; today, i invite you to call me _______.

i am many things; today, i want to tell you that: i cultivate love, and seek wisdom, and revel in beauty; i think beauty makes life worth living; i know we have been living, of late, in a world of much ugliness; i know you and i know it doesn't have to be like that; i write, and speak, and hold space, and conduct conversation(s), towards the beautiful world that we can make, centering each other, our sovereignty, our care for the Earth, and for each other; and, i would like to talk about art, about life, about living, with you. 

Now, this invitation is addressed to: you / Chelenge van Rampelberg / Tabitha wa Thuku / Theresa Musoke –

i would like to talk about you, about your art, your life, your living,

with you. i would really like to talk to you.

Write me back, at __________________, and let me know,

if you'd like to talk to me, too. 

Meanwhile, i am currently back, sitting squarely in what is now called Kiambu County, and all its old dragons have been coming up, either to be slayed, or rewritten, re-ridden, befriended. On the long walks i have been taking, once, i found a painter-man with a radiant smile; he sells his paintings on the walls of his kiosk. Imagine going to buy eggs, and coming back with eggs and a landscape/portrait/newplaceportal? That's the life i want to live!

Wouldn't you?

---

 see “Community is all we have” by Karwitha Kirimi, here, on YouTube.