Borders Are Wounds that never heal ze xperiment

Brainstorming nights with B Kigali streets

Set right back… Kigali, you just witnessed a seven-poem circus crawling out of my notebook and demanding to be taken seriously. Borders Are the Wounds That Never Heal premiered here, and yes, it was messy, slightly haunted, spiritual, and chaotic as hell. The city didn’t just host it—it awkwardly watched it be born, like it wasn’t sure whether to clap, cry, or call social services.

The start? Absolute chaos. I spread poems across the floor like confetti, scribbled sketches on scraps of paper, and tossed fabrics and projections around like a sleep-deprived magician trying to catch lightning in a teacup. Colors refused to match the feelings, shapes argued with the words, and even my plants were side-eyeing me like, bro…what is happening? Nights were worse. I stared at blank walls, muttering to myself, “Why did I think I could do this?” Spoiler: I still don’t know.

Then the magic happened. Slowly, painfully, magically, the pieces started talking back. Not just visual....they vibrated. Energy filled the room, poems pushing and pulling at each other, whispering secrets from a dimension no one told me existed. One poem turned into deep blues and golds. Another floated as light across the wall, trembling like it had secrets it wasn’t ready to spill. Shadows danced where they weren’t invited. Textures layered themselves like they knew exactly where to go. Somewhere between exhaustion, obsession, and panic, it started to breathe.

Putting together the first prototype in Kigali felt like a spiritual exhale. The emotional weight I’d been carrying finally had a shape, a voice, a body. Six physical pieces, one projection, a room humming with energy, spirit, and a dash of cosmic mischief. I may have cried. I definitely laughed (more like drunk laughed lol).... because the universe flickered a rogue projection in the corner like a ghost doing stand-up comedy.

And then the performance. The exhibition doesn’t sit quietly. It hums. It teases. It winks. I performed a spoken word piece guiding people through bruises, sparks, and flashes of light that sneak up on you like the universe is playing peek-a-boo. DJs Viper, Shamba, and Max Tassan laid down beats that made the walls breathe, while poet 1key’s voice floated in like it borrowed vibes from another dimension. People gasped, laughed, whispered, and yes, some tried sneaking selfies with the projection (cute, I allowed it).

And Kigali? Just the beginning. The plan? Take Borders Are the Wounds That Never Heal on tour. Every city, every room, every unexpected corner gets its own encounter with these poems, these colors, this energy. It’s not a show; it’s a ritual, a living heartbeat, a little mischievous spirit shaking people awake, whispering that even wounds can teach, heal, and maybe crack a joke or two.

So come in. Sit down. Step close. Hover somewhere in the back. Laugh, cry, blink too many times, or just stand there awkwardly like you always do. Leave with nothing, leave with everything, or leave feeling like the universe nudged you, whispered through light and shadow, and said: “Hey… pay attention. And don’t trip over the cords.”

And yes, when the tour hits your city… hold your drink. It’s about to get messy, magical, and metaphysical all at once.