Sunday, 25 January 2026

Mawut Achiek, a Writer, Poet & Medical Practitioner

Author’s Hangout with Zizi


Mawut Achiek, a writer and poet from South Sudan, writes with raw intensity and unflinching passion about the truths he holds dear. His voice is a powerful instrument of advocacy for women and the girl child. Through his writings, he challenges societal norms and confronts injustice wherever it thrives in his country.

As a medical practitioner working in a war-torn nation, Mawut witnesses pain, suffering and grief. These experiences profoundly shape his poetry, giving rise to what can only be described as emotional outbursts, his verses showcase a heart burdened by the ugliness of society, the weight of manipulation, and the presence of cruelty and the effect of suffering on the masses. When such emotions accumulate, they must erupt. For a writer, writing becomes the only sacred release.

Mawut Achiek is a writer who consistently lays his bleeding heart bare for his country and for its women, using his writing as a voice of advocacy. This commitment resonates deeply in his latest poetry collection, Her Message to the Sun, a work that stands as both a lament and a beacon of hope.


Can you tell us a little about yourself and how your writing journey began?

 

Mawut Achiek, a South Sudanese multi-nominated award-winning poet, medical practitioner and social activist. I am a self-taught learner. My writing began in 2018, and online writers whose writings I fell in love with inspired me. I started writing with prose poetry before I learned other types of poems and their techniques. Later in the same year, I published my first five poems. In 2021 my co-authored book, "Behind the Scenes”, a collection of short stories launched me into the creative space.



Do you remember the first poem you ever wrote and what inspired it?

 

✓ Economic downfall

A situation in South Sudan's economy that kept deteriorating daily inspired economic downfall. 2018 was the worst year and the beginning of South Sudanese economic collapse, which was galvanised by corruption among the leaders and others who had a chance at the national resources. 

 

What motivated you to write your poetry book, Her Message to the Sun? And why the title?

 

Her message to the sun was inspired by what I witnessed as a medical practitioner. During my clinical practice, a three-year-old baby girl was brought in, defiled by a thirty-five-year-old soldier and as the lead medical personal it broke me the most. So many other atrocities that women and girls face daily, such as rapes and forced marriages. The title is a protest to the natural existence; I used the sun literally as a personification of “God” 


How would you describe your poetic voice or style in a few words?

 

I’d describe my poetic voice as clear-eyed, associative, and quietly lyrical—grounded in plain language, attentive to patterns and images, and more interested in resonance than ornament.


What themes or ideas do you return to often in your poetry?

 

In my writing, I write several themes, however, lately gender issues and womenfolk's voices have engulfed me. In my first poetry collection, I wrote about the political turmoil of the South Sudanese, the second book was on love and finally the rest on marginalised voices. 


My debut poetry collection, Pinnacle of Love, was one of the books recognised by the Honoree African Authors Award in 2023. I explored the themes of love, betrayal, war and its woes with other fiery passionate themes based on the well-being of the disadvantaged especially marginalised womenfolk and estranged girl-child. My dedication to my craft is testified by my plethora of publications in several anthologies and magazines within and beyond my borders.


What does your writing process look like — do you write daily, or only when inspiration strikes?


   My writing is unpredictable; it depends on the mood, whenever there is no writer's block, I write daily.

 

How do you know when a poem is truly finished?

    The meaning of the poem lies in the reader's mind. Poetry, just like any other art, is subjected to multiple interpretations, which at the end, tie up to the common end. It is not the length or wording that makes the poem a poem; it is the diction choices and the message conveyed in the poem however the poem doesn’t give meaning when the choice of words and the message it carries are poor.


Which poets or writers have influenced your work the most, and in what way?


Carolyne Afroetry ma (Ugandan) and Mufasa poet (Kenyan) their writing is not tied to the rules but freely write their thoughts without constricting the mind, when I first read their poetry collections, I learned my writing is in the range, and with this, I freely write any thought without constraint.

Are there any non-literary influences, such as music, art, film, or personal experiences, that shape your writing?


Yes, music is my greatest non-literary influence, whenever I am down I listen to music especially RnB and Hip-Hop genres of music and the personal experience gave me most of my writing ideas because my writing was almost entirely out of day-to-day experience.

 

How has your poetry evolved from when you first started writing to now?

 

I would say I have improved. When I first started writing, I was an amateur without a background in literature, guidance and reference, but now I can freely write with ease.


What poem or collection of yours do you feel best represents who you are as a poet today?

 


I can simply say, “HER MESSAGE TO THE SUN” this collection is the best because it has conveyed my heart to the world. Since it had been my dream to fight for the marginalised society and be their voice.


What message or emotion do you hope readers take away from your book, Her Message to the Sun?


At its core,
Her Message to the Sun is asking readers especially women to live courageously and know that they are Seen in their quiet emotions—the ones that don’t always have language, and be Reassured that longing, grief, love, and hope can coexist and finally Encouraged them to keep speaking, even when the world feels too vast or indifferent to answer back.

 

How much of yourself do you pour into your work? Do you write more from imagination or lived experience?


Imagination is my engine; lived experience is my archive. I recombine memories into scenes that feel lived—leaning on both emotional and autobiographical truth. When something rings as authentic, it’s because I’ve learned how people sound when they’re afraid, in love, grieving, or hopeful. After all, I’ve been leaning on the imagination world.

 

Do you see poetry as personal therapy, social commentary, or both?

Both—but with different weights depending on my writing.

For many people, poetry begins as personal therapy: a way to metabolise grief, love, anger, or confusion. Even when it’s private, that act already has social implications, because naming an inner truth pushes back against silence or isolation.


Social commentary often comes next, sometimes unintentionally. A personal poem reflects the world that shaped it—politics, power, culture, language—even if it never names them outright. In that sense, the most intimate poems can be the most political.

From my perspective, poetry is more therapeutic and a form of translation; turning felt experience (real or imagined) into a language that others can recognise themselves in. When it works, it heals and reveals—helping an individual feel less alone while quietly saying something about the world that made that feeling possible.

 

What has been the most powerful reaction you’ve received from someone reading your work?

The most powerful reactions aren’t praise or analysis—they’re moments of recognition.

People sometimes say things like “I didn’t know how to say this until I read it,” or “This feels like something I’ve carried but never named.” When a reader feels seen rather than impressed, that’s the deepest response my work evokes.

 

What challenges have you faced in publishing or performing your poetry?

 

Lack of Access to publishing opportunities

 

Traditional publishing can be a gate-way howsoever its competitiveness, and slow getting into make it hard to access, while self-publishing requires money, marketing knowledge, and technical skills however In both paths, the challenge isn’t just talent—it’s navigating systems that require access, money, time, and insider knowledge in addition to creative ability.


How do you handle creative blocks or moments when words won’t come?

When words won’t come, I treat it less as a failure and more as a signal.

For human writers, creative blocks often come from pressure—trying to be original, meaningful, or good all at once. One way through is to lower the stakes: write badly on purpose, switch forms, or describe something ordinary without symbolism. Motion matters more than brilliance. Another approach is distance. Stepping away—reading, walking, listening to music, or even resting—lets language refill itself. Many blocks aren’t emptiness; they’re exhaustion.


How do you see the role of poets in today’s South Sudanese society?

In today’s South Sudanese society, poets play a role that is both ancient and urgently contemporary.

They are keepers of memory. In a country shaped by war, displacement, and fractured histories, poets preserve stories that might otherwise be lost—personal losses, communal struggles, and the quiet resilience of everyday life. Poetry becomes an alternative archive when official records are incomplete or politicised. They are also witnesses and truth-tellers. Poets can name pain, injustice, and hope in ways that are indirect yet powerful, especially in contexts where direct criticism may be dangerous or ignored. Through metaphor, song, and rhythm—forms deeply rooted in South Sudanese oral traditions—poets speak truths that can travel safely and widely.


At the same time, poets serve as bridges: between generations, ethnic groups, languages, and the diaspora. Writing in English, Arabic, or indigenous languages, they connect local realities to global conversations while affirming cultural identity.

Finally, poets offer imaginative possibilities. In a society often defined from the outside by conflict, poetry insists on complexity—love, humour, beauty, and future visions. It reminds people that survival is not the only story worth telling.

In conclusion, South Sudanese poets are not just artists; they are cultural stewards, quiet activists, and shapers of collective consciousness.

 

What’s your assessment of the South Sudanese (or African) poetry scene today compared to a few years ago?

✓ Compared with a few years ago, the South Sudanese poetry scene has grown in both depth and visibility:

 

◇ It’s more organised socially, with regular poetry gatherings and communities forming.

◇ Spoken word and performance poetry are gaining traction.

◇ Themes reflect both personal and collective experiences in ways that resonate locally and increasingly beyond.

◇ Cultural exchanges and forums are bringing external attention and participation.

 

How has social media changed the way poetry is shared and experienced in your country?


Yeah, social media has played a crucial role in expanding poetry in my country, social media has inspired most youth to embrace poetry in their writing and expression without fear.

In 2021, 2024, 2025, poetry, especially performing poetry, had changed the social and political perception of South Sudanese.

 

Do you believe poetry still has the power to spark change, and if so, how?

Absolutely — poetry still carries the power to spark change, though often in subtle, long-term ways rather than instant revolutions, this is how it works; Shaping consciousness, Creating empathy, Preserving memory and culture, Inspiring dialogue and action, Imagining alternatives, Beyond critique, poetry creates visions of what could be—justice, equality, peace—allowing people to imagine and strive for a world different from the one they inhabit.

 

What advice would you give to aspiring writers who want to find their voice?

 

My advice to colleagues is that no one writes better than you do; therefore Read widely, write consistently, pay attention to your emotions and obsessions, experiment with forms, share your work for feedback, embrace reflection, and be patient—your unique voice develops over time through practice and persistence.


How do you overcome self-doubt and maintain confidence in your art?

 

Self-doubt is every writer's problem, it depends on how one handles his or her situation. For me, I write in self-healing and meditating before I presume others/readers being me and with that; it gives confidence in my craft.

Procrastination is the best friend of self-doubt,whenever one doubts their creativity he/she procrastinates the work, and it keeps coming back blocking the path to improvement. 

Practice builds confidence easily. I have surely gone through all this self-doubt however I overcome it with daily practice.


What’s one lesson writing has taught you about life or yourself?


Writing teaches me that clarity and understanding often come through patience and reflection—that by observing, naming, and shaping experience, I discover truths about myself and the world.

 

How many books have you written? Are all poetry books? Which of your works means the most to you and why?


I have so far written 6 poetry collections and two plays and 1 short stories, however, among these collections, I can simply say “HER MESSAGE TO THE SUN and MY COUNTRY AND HER MUSING NEIGHBORS” mean a lot to my writing career, my country and her musing neighbors being my break through to the writing arena and her message being my voice that I adore the most.

 

What can readers expect from your future work or upcoming projects?

 


They can expect the voice that is calling out for equality among the youths who are facing challenges in life, irrespective of gender. 


Finally, where can people read your poems and connect with you online?

My books are available on

www.selar.com and www.nuriastore.ke

Fb. @mawut achiek.  


Thursday, 22 January 2026

Beat Her to Submission.


The argument started like many others, with raised voices, wounded pride, and words spoken in anger. But this time, it ended differently.

Ikechukwu stormed out of the house, his face tight with frustration, his heart burning with wounded ego. He drove straight to the neighbourhood bar, where his usual circle of friends gathered every evening to drink, laugh, and exchange “life advice.”

When they noticed his gloomy mood, one of them asked,  

“What happened to you, my guy? You look like someone just stole your peace.”

He took a long gulp of his drink and began to narrate everything—how his wife had challenged him, how she refused to agree with him, how she spoke back instead of submitting quietly.

The bar fell silent for a moment. Then the advice came, thick and heavy like smoke in the room.

“You're too soft,” one of them scoffed. “That’s why she dey talk to you anyhow.”

“Beat her to submission. That’s how I trained my wife. Today, she doesn’t open her mouth when I’m talking. She knows who the boss is.” Another boasted proudly.

A third laughed and added,  “Women don’t need soft hands. If a woman is stubborn, reset her mentality with a hot slap.”

“Try it,” someone concluded. “She’ll respect you. You need to show her you’re the man in that house.”

Ikechukwu listened quietly, nodding. These were the same friends he trusted—men who shared their struggles, their secrets, and their so-called wisdom over bottles of beer. Their words sank into his heart like poison disguised as medicine.

A week later another issue came up. His wife, calm but firm, tried to explain her side. She wasn’t shouting. She wasn’t insulting him. She was simply speaking her mind.

But to him, it felt like disrespect.

Suddenly, two slaps landed on her cheeks.

The room went silent.

His wife froze, shock written all over her face. In their four years of marriage, he had never laid a hand on her. Never.

Her eyes filled with tears, but none fell. She said nothing. She simply turned and walked out of the room.

Ikechukwu felt victorious.  His friends were right, he thought.  The slap had shut her up.

What he didn’t know was that long before she became his wife, she had made a promise to herself: “The day any man raises his hand against me is the day the marriage ends.”

The next evening, he returned from work to an empty house.  

No wife.  

No children.  

No explanations.

Only silence.

Confused and angry, he rushed back to the bar.

“Don’t worry,” his friends said casually. “She’ll come back. When she gets tired of staying in her father’s house, she’ll come begging.”

So he waited.

One month.  

Two months.  

Three.  

Four.


No calls.  

No messages.  

No word from her family.

That was when fear replaced pride.

He went searching for them. After several attempts, her family finally allowed him to see his wife. But the woman standing before him was no longer the same.

She was calm. Firm. Unshaken.

“I’m done,” she told him.  “I have moved on with my life. I advised you do the same.”

His pleading and apology failed to move her. She was resolute with her decision.

The slap he gave her lasted only a second.

The consequences took him two years to fix.


—-


The bottom line.


Violence doesn’t build respect.  

It destroys trust.  

And once trust is broken, some things can never be repaired.

What works for others might not work for you.

Saturday, 17 January 2026

When love becomes a burden and not a blessing.

The truth dawned on Amara slowly, the way most painful truths arrive; quietly and in moments that seem ordinary until they pile up. She was always the strong one. The one who listened without interrupting, who stayed calm when emotions ran high, who knew exactly what to say when everything felt like it was falling apart.

In the beginning, she didn’t mind. Love, she believed, was patience. Love was endurance. Love meant staying even when it was hard. So when he leaned on her, she stood firmer. When he doubted himself, she spoke with confidence for both of them. When he fell apart, she held the pieces together with gentle hands and tired smiles.

People praised her for it. You’re so understanding. 

He’s lucky to have you.

And those words made the weight feel meaningful—at least for a while.

But slowly, love began to feel like labour.

She noticed she was always the one checking in, apologising first, smoothing things over. His growth depended on her encouragement. His peace depended on her silence. His happiness depended on how much of herself she was willing to give up.@

When she spoke about her dreams, he changed the topic. When she needed comfort, he offered distractions. His attention was always somewhere else—on his phone, his plans, his world. Whenever she tried, the conversation circled back to him—his stress, his past, his struggles. Her needs felt like inconveniences. Her exhaustion went unnoticed.She stopped sharing her worries because there was no space for them. 

The realisation came on an ordinary afternoon. He was upset again, and she reached for the familiar role; comforter, fixer, anchor. But this time, her body resisted. Her chest felt tight. Her hands felt heavy. And a quiet thought surfaced, clear and undeniable. She took her bag and left.

That night, Amara lay awake, replaying conversations, wondering when love had started to feel so lonely. She missed the version of herself who laughed easily, who spoke freely, who didn’t feel responsible for another adult’s emotional survival.

Weeks passed without calls. Days slipped by without messages. One night, she called him.

“Hey,” she said. “I haven’t heard from you for a while.”

“I’ve been occupied,” he replied, distracted. “Work, friends, stuff.”

“Do you ever get occupied with me?” she asked.

There was a pause.

“Amara, don’t start this again.”

She swallowed. “I’m not starting anything. I just want to feel like I matter to you.”

“You’re being dramatic,” he said. “You know I care.”

But his voice didn’t sound like he cared.

Later, she sent one final message: “I’ve been feeling neglected.”

His reply came hours later: “You’re overthinking.”

One evening, Amara sat alone at the bus stop, watching people rush past. A boy ran toward his girlfriend, smiling, holding her bag, laughing at something she whispered. It wasn’t loud love. It wasn’t dramatic. It was present.

That’s when the truth settled in her heart. Feeling neglected wasn’t a misunderstanding.

Feeling uncared for wasn’t imaginary. Men invest where their hearts are.

And his heart simply wasn’t with her.

So Amara stopped begging for attention. She stopped shrinking to fit into someone’s half-effort. Instead, she chose herself.

Because real care doesn’t make you feel invisible. It makes you feel seen.

Love, she understood then, was never meant to be a one-person effort. It was supposed to meet you halfway, not rest entirely on your shoulders. It was meant to nourish you, not slowly drain you dry.

She took a calm decision to stop carrying what was never hers to hold. She expected guilt, but what came instead was relief. Deep, unfamiliar relief.

With time, she felt lighter. Her laughter returned. Her voice grew stronger. She learned that real love doesn’t require you to disappear to keep it alive.

And she never forgot the truth she gained through experience: love that needs you to carry it becomes a burden, not a blessing.


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