If airports were poems, then my arrival at Dibrugarh Airport was a haiku—short, sweet, and steeped in meaning. There was tea, laughter, and a sense of déjà vu as though the spirits of writers past had gathered to welcome me.
The first sip of Assam tea is a baptism. Rahul Jain, our ever-gracious host, met us with that golden elixir; his smile first and his assuring warm presence. Then there was Dhruba Hazakira—jovial, effervescent, like a literary festival embodied in a single human. He greeted me with such infectious enthusiasm that I nearly forgot the fatigue of travel. It was as if I had stepped into a carefully curated novel where every character was imbued with purpose and warmth.
I come to get to know Ann Morgan as the festival’s literary alchemist, wielded the power of listening as if it were a sacred art. Between panel discussions, she conducted what can only be described as séances—not of the supernatural kind, but the deeply human kind. She made every writer feel seen, heard, and understood. If literature is about evoking the human experience, then Ann embodied it in full measure.
And then came the Tapi Rouge—a space where words became fire, where poetry was more than recitation—it was an invocation. Writers, some seasoned, some emerging, stepped into the limelight and found their voices amplified. Here, the written word became flesh, and the stage became a portal into untold realms.
Every adventurer needs a guide, and Alfiza became mine. She was not just my festival assistant but my bridge to the vibrant spirit of Dibrugarh University. With boundless energy and an ever-present smile, she led me through the campus, introducing me to inquisitive students whose questions had the weight of philosophical debates and the charm of youthful curiosity. Their hunger wasn’t for answers but for dialogue—proof that literature breathes not in books, but in those who dare to question.
The students of Dibrugarh University were not merely attendees; they were seekers. Their questions danced between literature, history, and existential dilemmas. Their thirst for knowledge was palpable, their insights profound. It was a reminder again that literature does not belong to the past but lives vibrantly in the minds of those who question and dream.
My new friend and colleague Joachim Arena took the microphone and, in his thoughtful way, wove the often-ignored history of the African diaspora into the conversation. Why not? This year the festival was dedicated to African voice and perspectives. His words carried weight, peeling back layers of forgotten narratives and exposing the richness of a history too often overlooked.
And then, like a character reappearing in the final act of a novel, Tété Kpomassie Michel entered the scene. Twenty years had passed, yet time had not dulled our shared passion for storytelling. From global politics to his unwavering solidarity with the people of Greenland, to our shared memories of our late friend, Zimbabwean writer Chenjerai Hove—our conversation was a rare collection of past and present, woven together with the threads of memory.
Voices from Afar: Ernis, Inga, Lucy, Carla & the Happy Samurai
From Cameroon stormed Ernis—a spoken-word titan whose verses crackled like wildfire, leaving audiences half-terrified, half-ready to join the revolution. Australia dispatched Inga Simpson, a novelist whose pen is less ink-and-paper and more rooted-in-the-earth—think Tolkien meets Tim Winton, but with a PhD-powered obsession for trees. Her work doesn’t just describe forests; they make you smell the eucalyptus from miles far. Lucy Caldwell? A conversational wizard who could turn a chat about the weather into a metaphysical deep dive; Carla Fernandes, meanwhile, was the resilience guru—her words hit like a koala hug: unexpectedly strong and impossible to shrug off.
And finally, the Happy Samurai—a man so enigmatic, his backstory probably requires a Netflix docuseries. For now let’s just say he’s the festival’s “To Be Continued…”
—a memory that I shall cherish, the encounters I shall forever remember
As the festival drew to a close, I felt the weight of parting, but not as an end—rather, as a comma in a story that continues. Saying goodbye felt inadequate, so I turned to Kiswahili: Kwaheri. Not farewell, but an affirmation that we shall meet again.
DUILF 2025 was more than a festival. It was a palaver of souls, a place where solidarity was stitched into every discussion, where healing happened between the lines of poetry, and where the voice of humanity, often silenced, was given a stage to reclaim its power.
So, kwaheri to all,
until our ink flows together once more.
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