The acclaimed writer and poet died aged 65. Here, leading contemporaries pay tribute.
Michael Rosen (British author and poet): ‘He nudged people into seeing the world through the eyes of the oppressed.’
Benjamin was a hero to millions of people all over the world. His mix of poetry, novels, wisdom, humour and sheer presence grabbed us and delighted us. I first saw him when he was starting out in the poetry clubs, dancing a poem about his mother, voicing his poetry in a voice I hadn’t heard before: Brummie-Caribbean. It was an honour and treat to work with him many times over the years, on videos, radio programmes, and when he MC’d an award ceremony run by the British Council for the best examples of English teaching. Then and often elsewhere, he loved reflecting on his journey from being a semi-literate teenager, getting into trouble, to someone feted at the highest levels for his literary achievements and force of personality.
His poetry is full of power, humanity and belief. He was a Rastafarian in belief and practice and loved talking about what that meant to him. I hope he won’t mind me saying that his love of all things living reminded me of William Blake. People will remember him, I’m sure, appearing on Question Time gently and wittily batting experienced politicians to one side with his comments. I once asked him how he did it, how did he encapsulate “big” stuff in such pithy, seemingly simple ways. He said that he imagined himself talking with his mother: how would they talk about it, he said?
He wrote novels for teenagers. Refugee Boy – as it sounds – takes the point of view of a refugee and the struggle that people in his area have of winning him asylum. One of the great moments in the book is when the boy reflects on what “problems” the local British boys seem to have compared with the problems he is going through.
That’s what Benjamin did over and over again, nudge people into seeing the world through the eyes of the oppressed.
Some of his wonderful performances are up online. Please look at them as your way of paying tribute to him. My own personal favourite is Rong Radio. I once asked him where he wrote his poems. He said, “I don’t write them. I make them up in my head when I go running.”
I am devastated by this news. I admired, respected and loved Benjamin and I learned so much from him.
Colin Grant (British author and historian): ‘He was the people’s poet.’
It was raining heavily at the Hay festival 20 years ago when I first saw and was mesmerised by Benjamin Zephaniah. The marquee was filled to the rafters with hundreds of people who it seemed were attending not a literary or racial sacrament but a spiritual one. Rain outside; eternal sunshine within.
Benjamin was the trailblazing epitome not of the reductive “ethnic writer” but of the global majority writer who refused to be categorised. In any event, though kind of ordinary, his uniqueness – a karate, yoga and dominoes-loving Rastafarian poet and storyteller – made it impossible to box him in.
For young black writers, he was the answer to literary gatekeepers who claimed there were no commercial prospects for writing that spoke to social deprivation, marginalisation and racism with a plain-speaking honesty and humour.
There was also the realisation that here was a brotherman who’d been a rascal in his youth but had reinvented himself and been saved by literature; that writing could transform the self as well as readers and listeners.
Benjamin was a one-love Rasta, not guided by any kind of separatism. Today, as some default to silos of separation, his porous writing showed how you could speak to an unimagined cohort with poetry and prose. He was, in essence, what Jamaicans call a “simple sense man”; he spoke to youngsters and elders with the same intensity.
The seeming guilelessness of his writing made some wince and claim he was not a real, learned poet. But when you stopped to listen, or clean your glasses, or dry your eyes, you’d find yourself in the presence of a fierce and fearless emotional intelligence. Benjamin’s spoken and written voice was the expression of a writer who was extraordinary in his ordinariness. He was the people’s poet; a groundbreaker who broke bread with everyone.
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