The Poet Who Archives Memory — Ofem Ubi | Proof of Life, Episode 16

A conversation on grief, growth, and the creative spirit that refuses to fade.

I met Ubi on the cold hills of Obudu Cattle Ranch during a wedding. Back then, he wore a crown of Afro hair and carried an unshakable dedication to making art through the lens of a camera.

We’ve been friends ever since—living for the days he’d drop his one-pager Instagram poems or bless us with his “I swear it’s not a hit” track, Boys Like Us (Kendrick Lamar, take notes). He is grace and dedication personified.

Ofem Ubi

Our running banter often lands on his uncanny resemblance to Paul Pogba—though I call him Pogbooofem. But this conversation isn’t about our bond; it’s about opening you up to the mind of a creative genius whose work dances between poetry, memory, and the timeless human experience.

Ofem’s journey hasn’t been the easiest. From a childhood marked by loss and self-reliance, to carving out a place for himself in Nigeria’s creative scene, to now finding fresh perspective in the quiet of Finland—his story is one of patience, persistence, and proof that art can be both anchor and compass. You’ll see it in his words: a man who has lived many lives, but never stopped creating.

The best part: We’ve inserted lines from some of Ubi’s brilliant poetry here…

I hope you enjoy this as much as I did.

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You know you’re part of the inspiration behind this entire series, right? So, let’s start here—what does Proof of Life mean to you, especially as someone who holds memory, grief, and moments in such reverent regard?

Back in secondary school, I used to think that students who wrote their names on classroom walls or desks were just recalcitrant and silly; without question, I would do same if I could turn back the hands of time. As you age and begin to make a case for yourself in the world, you learn that defiance is a variant of self-love, and you must establish presence or become subject to erosion in real time.

Excerpt from Spiriting:

I’ve lived my whole life archiving deceased faces

I wear my father’s name to reduce the casualties

Let the younger blood take attendance for the older

How else do you kill two birds with one stone?

I liken myself to the proverbial cat with 9 lives, but with a little twist: I think of myself as a storehouse for all the people that I’ve lost and say to myself they’re in there somewhere.

In that vein, I have commissioned myself to living for many people, and doing so especially through my work, documenting and ensuring that their lives and times are not forgotten.

So, Proof of Life to me is a way of saying “I was here”, but in the present tense.

You’ve shared a lot about your childhood—the struggles, the early independence, the quiet resilience. How has that season of your life shaped the way you create art today?

Excerpt from Blessings & Glory:

There are days I unzip myself into a trinity:

Boy the Father; Boy the Mom; Boy the Son

This is one a many attempt at self-parenting

But tender hands know not how to carry water

They make a flood of everything and drown in it

I somehow have managed to stay afloat

When you grow up without the people whose primary responsibility it is to take care of you, your biological entitlement –at least for the early stage of your life– is found wanting, and so are you.

With this knowledge, you learn to stay fluid because adaptability is your greatest asset – the same goes for my work. In my practice as a poet and artist, I am interested in the many ways poetry can be experienced.

This entails finding the nexus between poetry and other artforms and building the emotions that make depth possible In the course of my work I have employed all fruits of the spirt and then some: grit, introspection, belief, audacity e.t.c These traits are not alien to me because they’ve been instrumental to my survival.

You once said rap music raised you. Who were those lyrical figures that gave you language when you didn’t have the words? And how does rap still influence your poetry today?

My literature was first sonic because I grew up in music, it was the only constant thing. In fact, it seemed to have followed me everywhere despite my nomadic living as a child; I can still remember where and when I first heard what. In every house or compound I lived in, music of any and all kind sipped its way into the fabric of the environment and I was always present, taking it all in, sometimes without my knowing. Music then became the placeholder for all of my memories; to this day, anything I plug the music to, I never forget.

For rap, I would give props to my uncles a lot for the induction. At the time, they were just university students who would always return home from the city (Calabar) to the village (Ugep), during semester breaks. Whether by design or not, my uncles seemed cool to me– rapping these songs and vibing to them, especially to the pleasure of the girls who hung around them.

Every chance I could get to watch a music video from the CDs they bought, I relished. But it would soon dawn on me that these hip-hop stars whom I only ever saw on Tv, would soon found their way into song books and the Barbershop catalogue and yet again, I would find myself in the places the music needed me to be: right place, right time.

Excerpt from Collage:

Of that first time you ever saw 50: a black rapper’s photograph in a barbershop catalogue & then Nas, & Jay-Z, &______ , & Luda & ______ & Pac, & Usher & ______ & Akon & ______ & Diddy... & You.

As I grew up and began fancying the pen, I realized writing came natural to me. Even back in school, I never had to ask the teacher what they said during dictation, I just remembered it. But my love for writing didn’t exist in a vacuum, I had been storing up rhythm in my body way before I knew what a metaphor was. That influence has stayed with me. Even now, as I have become the curator of my own aural leisure, I find myself still fascinated by the many worlds ,words can build in the mind of youth, and much of that is courtesy of rap music.

With that said, 2Faces’ “U No Holy Pass” and “Nfana Ibaga” is rap to me.

“The Last Time I Called” was a powerful piece on grief, pulling from your grandmother’s passing. What led you to channel loss through poetry—and what was something unexpected it taught you?

Grief is an August visitor; it shows up without knocking, and even when you show it the door, it lurks at the corridor (Ghetts come outside!)

There’s something to learn from your losses, material or immaterial: you learn that mourning is a lifelong practice, but so is joy, and the best way to operate is to feel your feelings as they come; do not postpone joy and damn well do not postpone grief.

You recently contributed to Earth Rising, the concept album introducing humanity to itself. When you think about your contribution to such a global project, what does that do to your sense of self and legacy?

My work proves to me that I’m not just here to be here and the “Earth Rising” album reverberated same sentiment. It made me appreciate how far I’ve come and understand how farther I have to go. But more than anything, it challenged my creative pattern and helped me explore differently, whilst working with a very supportive and equally passionate team that joined in creating the poem for the album.

The making of Earth Rising…

Let’s talk about friendship. You’ve kept a close-knit group of people around you, many from your early photography days. What have those friendships taught you about survival, success, and softness?

By virtue of my childhood I have never been a people person, but I am learning the mechanics of community and what it means to be held by people and vice-versa. Relationships are an anchor, and if you’re lucky enough, life pairs you up with scaffoldings in human form.

Excerpt from untitled:

I have seen heavy days - witnessed the rapturing of time and you have been here all along. lifeline. brother. comrade. roommate. colleague of salvation. I remember days you made a podium off your back so I could stand upon. You - idiom. syrup. three-eyed raven. blessed be the nights we walked distances or slept off to the lullaby of a mikano or ate on loan or stole soup or missed the test or had beef or covered our grades with the blood of Jesus or dealt with heartbreak and anointed night with the ointment of music...

I am grateful for my friends, also grateful for the craft that brought us all together and has slowly become the least thing that keeps us because with time, we have formed stronger ties and bigger reasons to be each other’s keeper. We take turns to show up for each other in the ways we can and it is a gift to see everyone holding their fort and making way for the finish line.

You’re now in Finland, and the culture shock has been real. What’s been the wildest difference between Nigeria and Finland so far?

It shouldn’t be a culture shock but it is: things actually work and they’re meant to work for everyone. When you live in Nigeria all your life, you’re primed to believe that certain things are above your pay grade and you’re required to work twice as hard to achieve them.

We’ve gone as far as privatizing our basic amenities because only then do you have full control. A working system makes you realize that your privileges were your right all along.

A Finnished man...lol

Before Finland, there was Lagos—the land of chaos. Tell us about the Lagos chapter: the house-hunting drama, the noise, the adjustment. What did Èkó ò ní bàjé force you to learn?

On my X (formerly Twitter) account, I did share that I owe myself a Memoir on my experience, house hunting in Lagos. If I ever get to it, my opening line still stands:

Everybody is an agent: a house agent or an agent of destruction.

Lagos forces you to stand up for yourself – which is a good thing – but in some cases it also takes away that sense of agency and leaves you helpless.

The formula is to stay creative in finding the middle ground and straddling your way through. To keep up with the city, you need to reinvent yourself as many times as it requires: there’s a personality for every situation and that helps to avoid stories that touch.

You’re currently experiencing love in a way that feels gentle and grounding. How does that warmth shape the way you create now?

It’s a gift. My partner is one of the most brilliant people I know; that’s a thorough blessing because every day with her is pure class.

She’s such a phenomenal (in Charles Okocha’s voice) woman, leading her life with so much grace and pursuing her passions with precision. Being with someone who challenges you to be better – by support, thoughtful critique or their own way of life – is such a valuable thing, and that penchant for excellence bleeds into your creative life as well.

You’re a Chelsea fan—so you know all about heartbreak. What keeps you going back? Is there any link between football loyalty and the kind of emotional resilience you build in life and art?

One thing you learn in football is the art of comebacks; there are no absolutes.

I live for the Remontada. I adore the fact that this footballing concept can also be applied to real life. Through football, you learn to grind until the final whistle, and that is what life demands of you: your best. If ref never blow whistle, game never finish. Think Aguerooooooooooooo!!!.

As a poet who also creates visually, what does a perfect piece feel like to you? Not perfect in form, but perfect in impact—what tells you a work is “complete”?

I have been reading Rick Rubin’s The Creative Act: A Way of Being. It really speaks to the tussle creators have with viewing their work as imperfect or unfinished.

The artist is the first audience of whatever he creates. A work of art is never complete and according to your creative impulse, there is always something to subtract or something to add. Every new work you make, is an effort to inch into perfection. When you think about it this way, you never attain perfection, but you probably get better at every attempt and that’s how growth happens.

What tells you a work is complete?

Some say they feel it; I don’t. I think of my work as a repository of my life and that informs the way I make – I must see a part of me in them. So, through the commonality of human experiences, I am certain that what held me up in the work will equally hold others.

What advice would you give to young Nigerian artists who are tempted to give up or pivot just to survive?

Being an artist in Nigeria is an extreme sport but I’d say take the pressure off making money from your art, at least in the beginning. When art is your sole source of income, the need for money precedes the joy of making, which in turn affects the kind and quality of work you make.

Of course, your art should be able to put food on your table, but when it initially isn’t, it’s no crime to do other things that support your living, which then supports your art, until it becomes a viable means for sustainable living.

Finally, drop one random thought you’ve been carrying lately—about art, life, love, Chelsea, Nigeria, whatever. Something that’s been quietly demanding your attention.

What goes up must surely come down no be for 9ja politicians.

Ubi has been such a graceful guest, I have nothing more to add.

Drops mic

Exits stage backsliding like Michael Jackson!

The End…Akwere…Finito!