Globally known by her pen name, Alhanislam, Maryam Bukar Hassan is an acclaimed Nigerian performance poet, spoken-word artist, storytelling consultant, and social entrepreneur. Born on December 25, 1996, in Kaduna State with roots in Biu, Borno State, she holds a Bachelor of Science degree in Information Technology from Radford University College in Ghana.
Renowned for her dynamic stage presence and emotionally charged poetry, Maryam fuses art with activism to champion gender equality, peacebuilding, maternal health, and youth empowerment. She is the founder of True My Voice, a community initiative and UN SDG Action Award finalist designed to train young poets and creatives in digital advocacy and storytelling.
In July 2025, Maryam made history by becoming the United Nations’ first-ever Global Advocate for Peace for the UN Peace and Security Pillar. Over her career, she has performed on major international platforms—including the UN General Assembly, COP28, and the World Bank Youth Summit—and released spoken word albums such as In the Heart of Silence (2017) and Layers (2021). Named one of the 100 Most Reputable Africans, she continues to stand as a leading contemporary voice for young African women and creative changemakers across the continent. In this interview with Yinka Olatunbosun she opens up about her craft, identity and how she represents the voice of the unheard.
Your stage name, Alhanislam, carries a powerful presence. How did you arrive at this identity, and how does it shape the person you become when you step onto the stage?
Alhanislam was born from two things that have always shaped me: sound and faith. “Alhan” means melodies, and for me, poetry has always been a form of music, a way of carrying emotions, memories, and truths. Over time, the name became more than a stage identity; it became a responsibility.
Islam is peace, and that understanding is deeply woven into how I carry my name and my voice. When I step onto a stage as Alhanislam, I don’t become someone else. If anything, I become more myself. The stage gives me permission to speak the truths that many people carry silently. It reminds me that my voice is not just mine; it belongs to every girl who has been overlooked, every community that has endured hardship, and every person searching for hope. The name keeps me grounded in purpose.
Spoken word relies as much on rhythm, silence, and tone as it does on text. When you compose a piece, do you write for the page first, or do you hear the spoken performance in your head right from the start?
Most of my poems arrive as sound before they become words on a page. I often hear the rhythm first: the pauses, the breath, the emotion hidden between sentences. Sometimes a single line stays with me for days before I write it down.
Spoken words are deeply oral, and I think my upbringing contributed to that. I grew up around storytelling traditions where meaning wasn’t just in what was said, but in how it was said. So when I write, I’m already imagining the audience. I’m thinking about where silence should sit, where a voice should tremble, and where a line should land. The page is important, but the performance is often living in my mind from the very beginning.
Your poetry frequently navigates heavy themes like trauma, loss, and resilience. How do you protect your emotional health while repeatedly stepping into those deep, painful spaces for performance?
I’ve learned that healing and storytelling must coexist. In the beginning, I thought I had to carry every story alone. Over time, I realised that vulnerability without boundaries can become exhausting. Today, I prioritise rest, reflection, prayer, and meaningful conversations with people I trust. I also remind myself that I am a storyteller, not a saviour. My role is to create space for difficult conversations, not to carry the weight of every pain I speak about.
What keeps me going is witnessing how stories create connection. When someone tells me a poem that made them feel seen or helped them process something difficult, it reminds me that even painful stories can become pathways to healing.
Many of your performances blend English with Hausa, nuance, and Northern Nigerian cultural texture. How do you balance staying deeply rooted in local storytelling while connecting with international audiences?
I’ve never believed that authenticity limits global relevance. In fact, I think the more honest we are about where we come from, the more people connect with us. Whether I am performing in Kaduna, New York, or Geneva, I bring my full self into the room. The language may differ, but emotions are universal. Love, grief, hope, belonging, and resilience transcend geography. I often say that people don’t need to understand every word to understand the heart of a story. By remaining rooted in my culture, I am not creating distance from global audiences. I am inviting them into a world they may never have experienced otherwise.
You’ve spoken about the profound impact of growing up between Borno and Kaduna, witnessing the reality of conflict early in life. What are some of those early influences that shaped your voice as a writer?
Growing up between Borno and Kaduna exposed me to both the beauty and the fragility of community. I witnessed how conflict can disrupt lives, but I also witnessed extraordinary resilience. Some of my earliest memories are of people finding ways to continue loving, learning, and dreaming despite uncertainty. Those experiences taught me that stories are powerful. They preserve memory, restore dignity, and challenge the narratives that often reduce people to statistics.
My voice as a writer was shaped by ordinary people, the mothers, teachers, children, and community leaders whose courage rarely makes headlines but deserves to be remembered.
In previous reflections, you mentioned that poetry lives in spaces where you feel at peace. Where or what is “home” for you today, and how does that space fuel your output?
Home has become less about a physical place and more about a feeling. It is wherever I can be fully present with myself, my faith, and the people I love. Sometimes, home is a quiet room with a notebook. Sometimes, it is a conversation with family. Sometimes, it is a gathering where stories are exchanged freely. Peace creates room for creativity, and creativity helps me make sense of the world. No matter where I am, I carry fragments of Borno, Kaduna, and every community that has shaped me. Those memories continue to nourish my work and remind me why storytelling matters.
Northern Nigerian women in performance arts often face unique societal expectations. What hurdles have you encountered as a visible female spoken word artist from the region, and how have you navigated them?
Like many women, I have had to navigate assumptions about what I should or should not be. There have been moments when people questioned whether a young Northern woman should occupy public spaces so visibly or speak so boldly. What helped me navigate those challenges was clarity of purpose. I understood early that representation matters. Every time a young girl sees someone who looks like her using her voice confidently, new possibilities become imaginable.
I’ve also been fortunate to have people who believed in my journey. Rather than allowing limitations to define me, I chose to let my work speak for itself. Over time, excellence becomes its own response.
Being appointed as the United Nations’ first Global Advocate for Peace is a historic milestone. What does this position mean to you personally, and how do you plan to leverage it to drive positive change?
The appointment is both an honour and a responsibility. Personally, it represents the possibility that voices from communities often overlooked can shape global conversations.
As the first United Nations Global Advocate for Peace, I see my role as a bridge between policy and people. Peace cannot remain an abstract concept discussed only in conference rooms. It must be translated into everyday realities: access to education, dignity, inclusion, dialogue, and opportunity.
I hope to use this platform to amplify youth voices, support peacebuilding initiatives, promote social cohesion, and encourage storytelling as a tool for understanding. Lasting peace is built when people feel seen, heard, and valued.
In what ways do you believe spoken word poetry can help in resolving conflict or fostering peace where policy talks sometimes fail?
Policy can shape systems, but stories shape hearts. Both are necessary. One of the strengths of spoken word is its ability to humanise experiences that might otherwise feel distant. A poem can help someone see themselves in another person’s story. It can create empathy where there was once misunderstanding.
Peacebuilding begins with listening. Poetry creates opportunities for people to listen deeply, not just to facts, but to emotions, memories, and shared humanity. Sometimes that emotional connection opens doors that formal negotiations alone cannot.
You have performed at major global political forums, including the African Union and the UN. How do you approach performing in front of world leaders compared to performing in intimate community spaces?
The audience may change, but my intention remains the same: to tell the truth with honesty and compassion. When I’m performing before world leaders, I recognise the influence they hold and the importance of speaking with clarity. But I never want the stage to make me forget the people whose stories inspired the poem. Community spaces are different because the connection feels immediate and personal. Still, both spaces matter. In one room, a poem might influence policy conversations. In another, it might help someone feel understood. Neither impact is more important than the other.
Gender-based violence and girl-child education are central issues in your platform. What is one misconception about young women in West Africa that you constantly work to shatter through your art?
One misconception is that young women are merely beneficiaries of change rather than leaders of change. Across West Africa, I meet brilliant young women who are entrepreneurs, artists, researchers, organisers, and innovators. They are not waiting for permission to contribute; they are already shaping their communities in meaningful ways. Through my art, I try to tell stories that reflect their strength, intelligence, and agency. The goal is not simply to inspire young women, but to challenge the narratives that underestimate them.
The African spoken word scene has grown exponentially over the past decade. What infrastructure is still missing for emerging poets across the continent?
Talent is abundant across Africa. What many emerging poets need is access. We need more sustainable funding opportunities, stronger creative institutions, literary residencies, mentorship networks, publishing pathways, and platforms that allow artists to earn a living from their craft.
We also need greater investment in documenting and archiving our stories. Africa has no shortage of voices. The challenge is creating systems that help those voices thrive, travel, and endure.
If you could put together a dream creative collaboration—whether with a musician, visual artist, or fellow poet—who would be on that list and why?
I am drawn to collaborators who are deeply committed to storytelling and social impact. People whose work not only entertains but also invites reflection. If I could dream freely, I would love collaborations that bring together poetry, music, film, and visual art to tell stories about identity, memory, peace, and belonging. The names matter less than the intention behind the work. The most meaningful collaborations are the ones that leave people feeling more connected to themselves and to each other. Those are the kinds of creative partnerships that excite me most.
