BEYOND THE MIC a poetry workshop by Sitawa Wafula


The headless aftermath..

Gloria Mwaniga.

That golden moment,
When the magic lantern of my heart,
Illuminated my minds eye
And on you, it settled.
And my heart missed a beat.
I knew that I could take in,
anything ,
Even a broken heart,
Of a loveless future.
As long as I,
Got to spend,
A sacred hour,
Or a half
Lying in your tender arms,
My world would be,
Just perfect,
And I could face,
The headless aftermath,
With your bittersweet magical scent,

Poem: When this Poet Kicks the Bucket

Written by Rayhab Gachango

When I finally kick the bucket,
And go to hang out with my heavenly papa,
I want to go down in blaze of glory,
And I don’t mean being cremated,
Although I would love that,
So that I can ask for my ashes to be scattered,
In all my favorite places.
I am a living seed,
I don’t want to go down with my potential,
When they write the history of poetry and writing in Kenya,
I don’t want to be a footnote,
I want to have my own page, or even a chapter,
But if we are many then a long paragraph will do.
This body shall not live forever,
But I want my work to live forever,
In the hearts and minds of those who loved me,
And those who never meet me,
But met and fell in love with my work.
When they bury me,
And the preacher says dust to dust,
I want to be buried with my books,
And I don’t mean the ones I read,
I want to have written many books,
And instead of throwing dust first,
I want my close family and friends to throw in copies of my books.
Cover me to sleep eternally,
With what I loved most my words.
I just bet that if I was a bookworm up here,
There must be bookworms down there,
And they need something to consume,
So they can eat my books,
And we can have a party underneath the ground,
A bunch of bookworms hanging out together.
It may sound ambitious,
My dreams and how I want to be buried,
But for too long I squashed what was in me,
Buried it 6 feet deep,
And I am alive.
So now that I am living and breathing,
I want to uncover my dreams,
And live them.
I don’t want to die,
With all the books and stories that are in me,
I want them in print and electronic copy.
For an eulogy,
I want them to read a piece of prose,
Of my life,
I don’t want it to be dull,
That I came, I ate, I lived, and then I died,
I want it to be filled with awe,
Showing all the literary awards that I got,
And the people I impacted.
So this is my dream,
Though it is abit selfish,
That I shall never be forgotten,
But that though I die,
I shall live through my work forever.

This will not be me!

I dont want to die with books still inside of me as dreams

Poem: Love…life…

Written by Margaret Muthee


Up in the fields,

Down in the valleys…

No barley…no lilies…

Roses that once led to a toast.

Causing smiles across miles…

Are there ghosts?

Serenity no longer in the city…

What a pity!

Who dug the pit?

The filth is disgusting,

For a city bustling with life.


Will someone save us?

Stand out!

Let trees enjoy a cool breeze…

People, animals too. It’s free…


Unveil the true essence of life…

Care for the environment…

Then, we shall truly celebrate,



Listen to the sounds…

Birds chirping, rivers flowing…

Watch the butterflies…

Talk of true beauty!


Poem:What Time Does Time Heal?

Written by Victorine Ndinda

They say that Time heals


Especially broken…..hearts?

But they never say the exact time

He does

And it has got me feeling that

He is African, Time

And a man too

Taking his sweet time, not in a hurry like



And so I wait for Time,

To heal my broken heart

Am getting impatient though

But my heart insists,

That we wait

‘He has the best medicine’,

My heart says


And so we wait,

We shall, me and my hurting heart

For time

Poem: The Irony of Love

Poem by Victorine Ndinda

………. And this I find

To be the irony of love.

That the strongest are afraid to love

That the most loving will be hurt

That the wildest can be tamed by love

That those afraid of getting hurt

Let chances pass by, and the best lovers go-

Blocking everything. And everyone.

Never wanting anyone to get in

(Sad, that they will never know the joys

Of loving and being loved)



……. That those who are ready to love

Don’t easily and readily

Find that love

They so crave for


But I know these to be the beauty of love

The secret smiles, little kisses, loving touches, wholesome hugs,

Love notes, love poems

Morning texts, and mid night calls

The giggles and laughs

Shared with someone you love


Yes, you may get hurt,

But never


Be afraid To love.

Because, again, the irony of love

Is this

That it is better to have loved

Than to have never loved at all



My African Wife….

By Gloria Mwaniga.

She ….

Whose eyes are bright as stars in a dark sky,

Whose eyelashes are long as a cat’s

Whose eyebrows are thick and unshaved,

She has gazed her way into my heart.


She whose lips are round like an egg hatched by a traditional chicken,

Whose smile is like the winding of the river Naromoru,

She, whose gap is like the path to a forest,

She has laughed her way into my heart.


She, whose hips are well rounded like a well molded clay pot,

She whose waist is like an ant’s,

She, whose breasts are small and firm like a young coconut,

She has got my heart beating like a drum.


She, whose calf is strong and tough,

She whose feet are quick to help,

She, whose heart is tender and kind,

She has woven a spider’s web in my heart.


She, whose skin is smooth as pounded yam,

She, whose hair is rough and rolled up,

She, whose hands are tough because of digging,

She will become my mother’s relative.


For I have been to the city and back,

And seen many girls both dark and light skinned,

But her beauty surpasses all of them.

Her rich laugh fills up her thick fleshy neck

Her big heart draws me to her African bosom