Comedian and provocateur Ziwe has serious main character energy. Whether she’s executive producing and starring in her eponymous talk show (which ran for two seasons on Showtime), walking the Mugler runway in Paris, or releasing an album of satirical songs, Ziwe is, without fail, iconic.

In her new essay collection, Black Friend (Abrams Image, October 17), which Kirkus gave a starred review, Ziwe reveals the intellectual foundations of her comedy. The goal of the book, she writes, is to explain what it feels like to be a “black friend” who, despite society’s attempts to sideline her, insists on remaining the “protagonist” of her own “perfectly imperfect story.” This witty, poignant collection showcases Ziwe’s literary prowess as well as her impressive knowledge of history, theory, and literature.  

Over the phone, Ziwe and I discussed vulnerability, pop culture, awkwardness, and Celine Dion (her dog, not the singer). Our conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

How did it feel to write this book as Ziwe the person rather than Ziwe the character?

I think it demands more vulnerability that I’m not necessarily inclined to give to strangers. But that’s what makes a really compelling nonfiction book: when you’re able to connect with yourself and with others. People want to connect with reality. It was really difficult, but hopefully I accomplished it.

I definitely think you did. The book kept me returning to your self-professed investment in awkwardness. What role did awkwardness play in constructing these essays?

Awkwardness is a real element of humanity that we try to ignore. Like, if you’re meeting people for the first time, you talk about how everyone hates small talk, because the underlying sentiment behind that is that small talk is awkward so it’s the worst part of meeting. I am attracted to awkwardness because it’s this one part of human interaction where we can all connect to how deeply uncomfortable it is.

In terms of what role it played, I think it’s just part of everyday life for me, and it’s something that I am very adept at acknowledging. Even though I hate it, I can still admit when it’s happening to me.

You write, “The truth is, I create art to heal my inner child.” Would you say this collection brought you healing?

I think the process of being honest about your memories is healing because—well, I can’t go into the past and change anything. But what I can do is process it. The ability to just take a step back from my experiences—whether that’s privately or publicly—that in itself is a part of my process.

Pivoting here—your songs are amazing. “Men,” for example, is one of my favorites.

Thank you! I wrote that at 7 in the morning.

What? I wish I could write like that in 7 in the morning! Now I totally get why you once told Trevor Noah that you identify as a pop star. How did songwriting affect the way you approached writing your essays?

I think that comes back to my background in poetry, which actually is what started my experience in comedy. Poetry and comedy are really similar because they’re about things like economy of words and lyricism and meter. It’s about how sounds and visual elements are essential to my writing.

Toni Morrison is probably the first Black woman I ever read where I really encountered this. In Sula—that was my favorite book as a child—I remember how visual Morrison’s writing was. I’ll never be Morrison, but I can imitate her. I apply the musicality of my life to these essays because I’m such a fan of Morrison’s words.

Speaking of Morrison, in a recent interview on Dua Lipa’s podcast, you described your comedy as “deeply referential.” You’ve often discussed your pop culture references, but what are your most important literary references?

James Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time is one of my favorite books, because it was so crystal clear. If I could write a book that has even one one-hundredth of his observations about America, I would be a very happy person. That was the biggest inspiration.

Also, I remember thinking bell hooks’ All About Love was really compelling because of the way that she used personal anecdotes to back up her ideas about theory. Writing Black Friend was such a genre-bending process—I actually started with theory before I injected my personal experiences—and hooks’ book was a guide for me to understand how to connect theory into something centered in identity.

But I read everything, and I read a lot growing up. Plus, I have this weird encyclopedic memory for certain things. So it’s not that I’m constantly revisiting, for example, Junot Díaz’s The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. It’s just that it stays in my head.

Another thing I love about this book is how you talk about your experience as the child of immigrants, which I rarely see in books about race. Why do you think you were drawn to writing about this aspect of your life?

What a great question. I think it’s about how this is uniquely my own.  I mean, my name is Ziwe, and I had a roommate in high school named Peyton Wilson, and she was from Oklahoma. We were two Black girls, but we had such disparate experiences—like, her great grandparents were murdered in the Tulsa riots, and my grandparents died of famine during the Biafran war. Sure, colonization is at the root of both of these, but it’s coming from two different sides of the spectrum.

But also, how do you separate it? Because being Nigerian is intrinsic to what I eat, to what I think is appropriate to talk about in conversation—it is my fiber. To separate it, I would have to have been born a different person in a different home.

How do you think growing up in an immigrant household shaped your relationship to pop culture?

Pop culture is how I relate to people. It’s actually the only reason why I started watching Real Housewives! I was such a snob about unscripted television, but I had nothing to connect with my peers in school about until I started watching Lisa Vanderpump. Pop culture is how I can connect with others.

Only recently did I start appreciating the fact that pop culture is a form of American history. We had these commercials about things like don’t do drugs! And we all have that shared experience. I’ve learned that my memory of these useless commercials is just me archiving the ’90s and the 2000s.

Last question: I am now deeply invested in your Chow Chow, Celine Dion. How is he?

I realized as I was writing that essay that I should say my dog is meaner so people don’t murder us. He has yet to attack anyone, but who knows what the future holds! 

Mathangi Subramanian is the author of A People’s History of Heaven, a finalist for the Lambda Literary Award.