The mic crackles. A young woman sits in the audience, heart pounding. The host just whispered to her, “You’re next.” She walks up to the mic, trembling. The crowd cheers, then hushes, leaving behind a silence that begs to be trusted. “This one is for my father who never apologized,” she begins. The words shoot through with weight. But no attendee is scaling. The silence isn’t polite, but personal. People aren’t just listening; they’re relating. Open Mic has surpassed just entertainment. It’s a room of strangers offering each other the right to be honest. For some, it’s their first time sharing anything aloud. For others, like the gentleman waiting his turn, it’s a ritual. He’s been here before, although he still trembles every time his name is announced. He always comes because it’s more than a performance; It’s a release. He brought three workmates tonight. This city’s open mic culture wasn’t always this loud. It began humbly with Spoken Word Rwanda, founded by Diana Mpyisi and friends, who gathered poets, musicians, and storytellers at venues like Heaven Restaurant and Ishyo Arts Centre. That spirit grew. By the mid-2010s, cafés like Inema Arts Center, Borneo Coffee, and Acacia Book Café opened their stages to high school graduates, university students, and returning diaspora. Spokenword Rwanda has been the only consistent open mic platform for the longest. Their monthly events gave a voice to Kigali’s creative undercurrent. Renowned artists like Kivumbi, 1Key, Manzi le Poete (Mvaknow) have appeared on their stage multiple times before their fame outgrew cafe halls. Then came the pandemic, the pause. But after the lockdown, flyers reappeared on Kigali's social walls, inviting people to each other’s presence again. One flyer was by Ingabo Café, announcing a Poetry event featuring one main artist and a mic open to anyone between sets. I wasn’t sure if what I wrote even qualified as poetry, but I went. That night’s feature was Zulah. She spoke like someone who had known the crowd for years. She didn’t mince her words. But what struck me most was that she said it all aloud, straight to anyone’s face. We sat in near silence, eyes forward, breaths held, occasional snaps when the words sizzled. Then, laughter broke out, full, delighted, and shamelessly loud. And in that moment, I realized: I envied attention. Not the shallow kind, but the kind that comes from being truly heard, too. When King, the host, invited someone from the audience, I stood. My first piece was about a concept of individuality. I’d posted a voice note of it online during lockdown. The feedback surprisingly nudged me to write more. From the first word to the last “thank you,” I felt a sensational lift from talking about my feelings without interruption. Some might call it attention-seeking. But even mental health journals agree that every human being needs a healthy dose of attention. Feeling seen by the world around us gives us the security to contribute back to it. On the other hand, destruction often begins with individuals who feel neglected. We need spaces where vulnerability isn’t penalized. Open mics let people voice letters to absent fathers, messy breakups, childhood fears, or journeys that wore out their shoe soles. The language is fluid—Kinyarwanda, English, French, slang, and even broken grammar. And that’s the beauty. Nobody is editing emotion here, which is necessary for inner transformation. These spaces reward vulnerability. Sometimes there’s applause, other times, just stillness. For many, Open Mic is the first place where softness isn’t shameful. Sure, you can pay a therapist to listen to you through a tough season. But in the age of platforms, a public confession can take you a bit as far. That’s what happened when Open Mic Weno launched in 2023, a weekly event by Hottempah Collective and Moonchild Bee (Belinda Uwase). It isn’t just another stage, it’s a mirror. And many young Rwandans are stepping into the spotlight so that in being understood, they can see themselves. Uwase herself first performed at one of Spoken Word Rwanda’s events. Now she has created space for others to do the same. Open Mic Weno’s flyer alone doesn’t just announce an event, it calls for your voice. I met Brian Bazimya there on Wednesday night. He’s been writing poetry and has attended Open mic events for some time now. We talked after the show, still inside under Cocobean lamps. He said, “What influenced me most was my personal life... I speak my mind now because life changed me emotionally, physically.” His voice wasn’t trying to convince anyone; it was simply making peace with being heard. He told me he can’t stick to one topic anymore, not since digital exposure widened his sense of what’s relevant. “Rwanda is pacing with the world,” he said. “Whatever I use my voice for will always reflect where we are, culturally, politically, even digitally.” Jessy Mugisha, a Kigali resident and poetry enthusiast, said something that stayed with me, too. He’s the type who attends to watch and engage in introspective conversations. He told me how hard it is to attend a show in the middle of the week, but somehow, people still come. Then he looked around the crowd and said, “The fact that people can come here and talk about things, that’s mental health.” And he was right. What we were watching wasn’t therapy. It was a relief. Ingabo corner expanded to a museum in by the end of 2022. I kept performing the wave to Spoken Word Rwanda. A year in, I was proud enough to compile a poetry anthology. One of the pieces was about my dad. I’d read it many times in public. Then one night, it struck me: I’d forgiven him. Not because he asked. But because speaking my truth helped me hear it, too. Before publishing the book, I visited him. I had three days, but none of the questions I’d prepared felt necessary anymore. Searching my heart, the old anger was gone. In its place was recognition of my own human flaws. That’s what Open Mic does—it teaches you that some situations don’t need closure, just compassion. This isn’t your usual night out. But if ever your drinking buddy doesn’t pick up, and you’re carrying something too heavy, consider sharing it with a room full of strangers. You might just meet your friend next to me in the second row. I’m writing this because I once wanted to be heard. And now, I’ve learned to listen. When I do, someone else’s story sometimes mirrors my own. So, go. Step into the room. You just might find yourself in the mind of someone you’ve never met. And that moment could shape your next day. That day could shape your whole life. Open Mic isn’t a political revolution, but it is resisting silence. And in a culture still unlearning shame, that matters. One can only hope the mic stays open.
