In 2021, I made a tweet asking for someone to put together funding for a festival in Kano and promised that I would happily support the curation of such a dream. Like many diviners and wise people say (and here I paraphrase), the future is for those who dream it.

 Reader, I dreamt it. It would take only two years to materialize. It would come to pass. Twice.

I am writing this reflection to you on the 19th of September, exactly five days since I cried. And by crying, I mean tears rolling down my cheeks as I bid the last set of guests farewell at the airport. I, who prides myself as the queen of “hardgals,” broke character. I was teary at the thought of how beautiful the past days had been and how much I would miss my guests, especially Zurain Ali, daughter of Star Zahra and Richard Ali, who lit up the festival the way the sun lights up the day.

But a tale is not a tale until you know its beginning.

The Origins

I met Salim Yunusa on Facebook. He was one of those random people who dropped poems every Wednesday. I didn’t take him seriously at first. Then in 2018, at the first and only edition of Minna Books and Arts Festival where I was Communications Lead, we met in person. The MinnaBaf team and I had brought Prof. Zainab Alkali to headline and speak on Northern Nigerian literature, and Salim was a guest alongside Open Arts’s Summayah Jaeh. They were  my first true glimpse into the buzzing scenes of Kaduna and Kano.

When I moved to Kano later that year, Salim started inviting me to Poetic Wednesdays’ gatherings. One day I found myself moderating a chat between Umar Abubakar Sidi and Umar Saleh Gwani; a slow but steady initiation into the Kano poetry circle. It was here I met the villain of this story: the poet of light, Nasiba Babale. A slow-burning friendship between us grew, fueled by our shared fire for art, books, and food, until it became a full blaze.

In 2023, a kind of mid-life crisis (though she isn’t yet mid-life) gripped Nasiba, and she conspired with Salim (surely also in some crisis) to disrupt the everyday lives of their friends, by insisting we host a festival.

And so KAPFEST was born.

KAPFEST 1.0

Reader, we were broke.

But with stubbornness and passion, we pulled off the first Kano International Poetry Festival in July 2024. Everything that could go wrong went wrong: the hall was an oven, one of our guests suffered food poisoning, the hotel we managed to afford was… let’s just say “interesting.” Our guests and friends, the likes of Paul Liam, Carl Terver, Zainab Bobi, Rasaq Malik Gbolahan, gave us more than their time. They gave us their energy, and faith to stand with us.

Yet even in that chaos, we knew what we wanted: a festival where elders and young poets could eat from the same plate, where everyone felt at home, where every experience was intentional.

KAPFEST 2.0

After KAPFEST 1.0, we found ourselves in debt. Reader, I have never been in debt in my life, till KAPFEST. And to tell you that I was displeased would be an understatement. (Rumour has it that I am now courting debt financing for my business 😒)

So this time around, we chase funding. We consulted, begged, pitched, prayed. And just when we thought we would drown, manna fell from heaven. Funding came from OSF. The night Nasiba shared that she had received the credit notification on her phone, I bowed in sujjud to Allah. That funding was manna. Now with ammunition, we became like Moses parting the sea, leading everyone to the promise land of KAPFEST 2.0.

We designed panels six months ahead, locked in guests, sent out what I proudly call the warmest, most thoughtful emails in the business (yes, I am bragging). We wanted to give our guests more than just a festival; we wanted to give them Kano itself.

Behind the Curtains

Now, the work nobody saw. Venue hunting. Meetings. Logistics issues. Chasing tailors (God abegeth thee). Long nights of correspondence, endless coordination. And yes, fights. Stress tested our friendships. We snapped at each other, grew tired, sometimes doubted. But we came out stronger.

Which reminds me that Nasiba owes me suya. AB owes me chocolate. Some debts may never be repaid, and perhaps that is how festivals mark us; through memories and small promises.

Wearing Too Many Hats

I made a mistake, one I’ll not repeat. I wore too many hats: Communications Lead, host, moderator, and  guest. I was on my feet for hours, coordinating, then stepping on stage to moderate a panel on building safe literary spaces. Then being on a bookchat to discuss and read from my book,  Not So Terrible People. It was exhilarating, yes, but draining. Lesson learned: next time, I need a co-host. And I must choose one role, not all four.

The Beauty Itself

But oh, the beauty. An all-women panel reimagining peace and confronting the “woman cost” of conflict really pulled me in.  I never knew that one of our panelists was a survivor. She came to the panel with an open heart, sharing and pouring from her soul. The poetry dispensary where people unburdened their hearts and received poems as medicinewas also brilliant! I am glad to have recorded some of those poems and glad that it was a festival favourite.

I especially loved that poets from North Central were brought into the fold. You know our intention is to unite and heal the divide between us. And as someone who is from the North Central and raised in the North West, having them there cured a little bit of my identity crisis.

We toured the city with our guests, showing them Kano’s food, culture, and hospitality, combating the stereotypes of a North seen only as violent or backward. Our virtual panels connected us to Gaza and beyond, reminding us that crises everywhere echo one another.

And then, the headliner. Dike Chukwumerije. His closing performance was thunder. His poetry spoke to the heart, urging us to wield our art as a tool for unity. It was the night we knew we had achieved our dream.

Gratitude and Goodbyes

We presented BM Dzukogi with a lifetime achievement award. I saved this for this section because seeing him reminded me how much I missed Minna, and how art ties places and memories together. I miss the art center, ANA Niger, back when it was ANA Niger. And all the lovely people I met and knew there. Minna will always be home.

To our guests, mentors, and friends, thank you. To those who carried chocolate across cities just to see me smile, thank you. To those who believed in us and stood by us, even when our vision was bigger than our budget, thank you.

And then came the airport goodbyes.

Reader, I became a cry baby when we dropped off the last set of guests at the airport. For some reason, I wanted to wrap them ina bubble and keep the spirit of KAPFest burning for a bit longer. So, the tears came. The “hardgal” mask slipped.

Reader, KAPFEST was a convening of kindred spirits. KAPFEST was an experience. KAPFEST was homecoming.

Lessons and Looking Forward

What have I learned?

That festivals are never just about logistics, they are about love. That beauty outweighs exhaustion. That stress may test friendships, but it can also forge them deeper. That next time, we will outsource more, host less, rest more. That I cannot be everything at once, and that is okay.

But most of all, I have learned that KAPFEST is not just an event. It is a seed, planted and watered by stubborn dreamers, carried forward by poets, nourished by community.

And reader, we will do it again.

The rest of the team: Abdulbasit Abubakar Adamu, AbdulJalal Musa Aliyu, Idris Hassan, Karofi Usman, Mustapha Aliyu,  Safiyya Embee, Tahir Yunusa, Umar Bello Galadima, and our driver, Mal. Umar. Z