Zafrina Nyawira Muthoni Njenga is a poet, writer and psychology major from Nairobi, Kenya. Her poetry has been featured in Lolwe. Find her on Twitter @the_name_is_z_
Precious Okpechi: Hello Zafrina, it’s great to have you as our featured poet for the month. First, I would like to talk about your poem “The Silencing”. I especially loved how you captured how threatening silence can be in these lines: There are other screams born of the same evil. / These screams come in threes / The scream of metal, the scream of agony, and the scream of silence, in that order. Tell me more about this poem.
Zafrina Muthoni Njenga: Hello! I am so happy and honoured to be the featured poet of the month! Phew, yes, The Silencing. I tried to capture how menacing silence can be, how chaotic and violent. I’ve always felt a guilt surrounding the kind of mass acceptance of many things in our society that are absolutely unacceptable; this poem seeks to shine light on some of these injustices, our socialisation to ignore them, and the truth of the matter that looking away from them does not undo their existence.
Precious Okpechi: There is the theme of childhood trauma prevalent in the poems you published on Lolwe. Can you talk to me about this and poetry as a mode of expression?
Zafrina Muthoni Njenga: Poetry, for me, has always been the only weapon I can wield in my fight against the psychological suppression of trauma. Somehow even the darkest horrors that hide in the depths of my subconscious can, through poetry, be dragged out of the shadows and splayed on the inescapable whiteness of paper. It is not an easy feat facing ones’ trauma, but this kind of expression has afforded me, if not healing, a clarity about what I need to heal from.
Precious: There is the idea that poets write when they are overcome with inspiration and just pour everything out in one go. Is this the case with you? How do your poems come to you?
Zafrina: I am incredibly envious of every poet who writes in that way. My poems are fleeting things that come to me seemingly when I am at my laziest or most tired and I have no motivation whatsoever to write them down. The procrastination demons are strong with me, and my memory isn’t all it used to be; I’ve lost many poems in this way sadly.
Precious: Nigerian writer, Hauwa Shaffii Nuhu, once said: I am only alive, and functioning this eloquently, because of all the writers and poets who were brave enough to share their experiences, their lives. I feel like I have a duty to be that writer for another person. What is your opinion about this?
Zafrina: This quote resonates with me deeply. I hoarded my more intimate poetry for a long time, and it was not until a very good friend said to me that my work may be a comfort to someone else—to let them know that they are not alone in their pain and experience—that I felt a very real moral obligation to find the bravery to share.
I wish, when I was going through the worst events of my life, that I had the knowledge that I was not alone and that my feelings were valid, and human, my outrage justifiable. I only hope that my work can be that for someone else.
Precious: What book(s) do you find yourself going back to reread for its treasures, and why?
Zafrina: One book I find myself going back to is the Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. There is a warmth in it that I’ve clung to since I first read it, an innocence and wisdom that really speaks to both the child and the adult in me. It reminds me that as I grow older the priorities of adulthood will try and rob me of my childlike delight and distract me from what truly matters. I must resist this at all costs, I must force myself to remember: ‘All grown-ups were once children, but only few of them remember it.’
I wish, when I was going through the worst events of my life, that I had the knowledge that I was not alone and that my feelings were valid, and human, my outrage justifiable. I only hope that my work can be that for someone else.
– Zafrina Nyawira Muthoni Njenga
Love
I want love.
Give me the seeds of the fruit,
the core of the stuff,
that I may grow my private supply.
Give me the mud,
that I may sink my feet into it,
and laugh like a child untouched by fear;
that I may rub it over my skin,
feel the warmth and the safety of being covered.
I am cold.
I want love,
give me the scent,
that I may bathe wild in it—
free myself,
high on its essence;
surrender, surrender.
I am lonely.
I want love,
to look into my lover and be looked into.
Accepted.
I am insatiable;
love, give me the pure stuff,
uncut,
that it may not clot my veins
and hurt my heart.
I am human.
I am worthy.
I am starved.
I want love.
I want love.
I want love.