Amina Jama is a 20 year old Somali-British writer and is Roundhouse / BBC Radio 1Xtra’s Words First London finalist. Amina was raised in Bow, East London and is a member of WOC poetry collective Octavia and is a Barbican Young Poets alumni.
Amina revisits themes relating to displacement, negotiation of dual cultural, identity and family. She wants to make her audience challenge what they think they know about poetry and make them fall in love with words just as she has. It has been said that her work is brave and humble with a warm intimacy both on stage and on the page.
She is a co-host of Boxpark Shoreditch’s spoken word night: BoxedIN. Her work has been published in a Saqi Books anthology, The Things I Would Tell You, and a Otter-Barry Books anthology, Rising Stars. She has also been commissioned by the likes of the BBC and the Queen's Gallery.
Poem For My Subconscious
In my dream my mother said,
don’t fall, don’t wake up, don’t leave.
She whispered the same thing to the petals on my left
and the tree I’m laying under.
Don’t fall she said to the blue day.
Her lips created tender shapes
and I swear her breath clouded the pain.
In the dream my mother held my hand.
She pulled the skin from her arms
and showed me how stretched her resilience is,
showed me her snow covered hair
and made a point of how she’s met death,
of how she’s felt skin cut in places the West would never imagine.
In my dream my mother told me
a woman dies 4 times,
once when she is born,
once when she is mutilated,
the third when she lets a man in
and finally when she brings child into world.
She says Womanhood is Immortality
but I have near death to look forward too.
In my dream my mother sent me a text message,
There’s no need to start a fire when there’s no smoke.
She said move on.
This is part of your plan.
Your uterus, womb, nipple, skin and future are still intact.
Your thighs rubbing together is keeping an earthquake
Just keep them closed and you’ll be safe.
In my dream there was a forest in my hand.
He grew and moved and evolved.
He shared my air.
His name was Saturday and he gave me comfort
from the earthquake that I was keeping hidden.
Like some sort of ritual,
he sang to me till I woke.