Poet, Kitaka Alex

Published on 21 May 2022 at 10:31

Poet, Kitaka Alex


My name is Kitaka Alex. Popularly known as Kitaka Wa’ Kavulu.

I am a Creative facilitator, Playwright, Poet and an Actor. I am an Alumni  Tebere Arts Foundation. I hold a Diploma in Performing arts and Film from Makerere University.

I am professionally working as a Creative Director Ekobara organization. And Arts Lead Consultant TELL A STORY FOUNDATION. The later, Using Arts to deliver learning with an aim of creating awareness and boasting self esteem in the lives of displaced and marginalized karamajongs in the Katwe Kinyoro slum in Kampala. Uganda.


Resting sun, voices and scenes

On such an evening, on such an occasion.

The resting sun, left behind a trail, so warm.

a green blanket, like plenty of feathers.

I sat  with a book in hand.


a caress on my face, around my neck.

a soft rub through the plantation of my hair.

Air of purity pouring into my nostrils.


A more gentle breeze, touching and flipping the pages of my book.


Two doves, well— & woven in humility

Flew about so,


Lalaalaaas and Lalaalaaas and lalaalaaas

I loved the doves as I love the book.

I loved the sun, as I love the the book.

I loved the breeze, as I love the book.

And I love(d) — all the details about the evening.

I waved at the doves —away they flew to anonymous

… I am left with none but a book for a company.

The doves however, left behind the

Lalaalaaas and Lalaalaaas and lalaalaaas.

On an evening, I sat

A book in hand.

On an evening, I traversed.

Not with my feet

But with my mind on someone else’s wit.

On an evening, my eyes were opened

to the wonders in a book

abd I never looked any further.

On an evening, I listened to a voice.

abd that changed my whole life.

Though with words, I cut deeper than a knife.

With words still, I am gentle as a breeze.

Humble as a dove.

And I leave behind a trail like a resting sun.


Tales of This World

My head,  like that of a Giraffe

i raise to peer through the window

to catch glints of tomorrow

My eyes are met by nonchalant

wrinkles of a  descending sun

beating down on a deserted street

No man has been here before

No woman has been here before

No Child will either.

It is only me.

i see my shadow

but it is distant from me.

a gap of fear serves between us.

Tommorow is moon’s stride from earth

What do I bear in the tide?

If it isn’t uncertainty,

then certainly it is illusion.

i am holding on to the present’s moment

situating on all ports of sorts.

waking from histroy’s shame.

healing from yesterday’s pain.

No man has been here before

No woman has been here before

No Child will either.

It is only me.

I bear the physical molding of my ancestors.

I wear the sight of my tribe.

I carry the horn of my clan.

The heart—drum beat of name.

The scars on my hands

The wounds on my feet

are tales of this world.

The smiles on face

The miles I can trace

The light when I turn the next phase.

Are tales of this world.




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a year ago

I love the birds, sun, books and breeze