Happy Poetry Day part 7: Angie Ngugi.


We’ve made it to the last day of this celebration. And I have to say that this did me so much more good than I thought it would. So thank you for tagging along. Now for the finale! Today’s featured artist is Angie Ngugi!

“My name is Angie Ngugi, a poet, writer, feminist and medic who is passionate about telling stories and personal experiences through poetry.”

It’s not that you weren’t perfect, you were.
It wasn’t the fact that you weren’t enough, you over flowed.
You made me feel loved.
You were gentle.
I saw you today.
I was a bit surprised to see you since last I heard you had moved to another part of town.
Yet here you were,
Right in front of me.

It had been two years since I last saw you, so a lot was going through my mind.
You had changed, a little.
You had a new spring in your step, you looked happy.

I was having a bad day so you were the last person I needed to see.
I couldn’t faceyou, especially after how we ended things.
My first instinct was to run and hug you.
Muscle memory, I guess
I wanted to ask you if life had been kind to you.
Whether you finally accomplished all your dreams,
Dreams that used to be ours
But it wasn’t my place, anymore.

I watched you walk away from me, again
I wish I hadn’t let you go but all I would have said was
“It’s not that you weren’t perfect, you were.
It wasn’t the fact that you weren’t enough, you over flowed.
You made me feel loved
You were gentle.”

And it just isn’t fair to drop that on someone Especially after two years, the AUDACITY.
So I let you go,
Like I did, two years ago.

Thank you all. For helping me grow in hope. I needed this.


Mutheu wa Sumbi

Happy World Poetry day: Part 4

Hey everyone. I hope you are keeping safe and practicing social and phsyical distancing. And quarantined if you are infected.

Stay strong.

The Artist I’m featuring today Jon Mwangi. He is a poet, singer and event organiser.

Here is his piece.

Just Mercy

I’m guilty from the moment I’m born, i’ve been a white man’s shadow for too long, the lion in me has been tamed, caged but still longing for air.

I’m not allowed to speak, when I’m pulled over the only thing I should do is put my hands on my dash board and make sure that the police is not threatened.

I have lived in fear, my consolation was not the stars, it was music, church and family.
Cause you were guilty not by evidence but by the way you looked.

I’m sorry, I guess my dark complexion is intimidating cause I’m only built for greatness cause I know you scared of me, the way I aim for the stars still pushing Luther’s dream, sad to say

I’m a customed to pain, greatness has been my daily struggle, I have concived it and the only thing I’ll give birth to is only black excellence cause i’ll moon walk myself out off this chains of oppression so call me Django Unchained

Keep being creative. Keep being hopeful.


Mutheu wa Sumbi

Sweet sense of self

Maybe I don’t like you in the way that you think I do. Maybe I just want to be calm… Like you.

Your level of zen makes me question myself.
What I want
Who I am
I hadn’t met you before now
But that quiet in your eyes
That stillness on your lips

The way you craft silence out of words
The way you attract my attention

Your lips, still but speaking to me
The flutter of your eyelashes calling me

I am not into you in the way you think.
You aren’t my muse… But damn I wish you were.

I am not asexual.
I am not sexually attracted to you.
But damn I wish I was. That would explain everything.

This heart ache would make more sense

This love in my heart would make sense.
These dreams where I hold you close… Make sense.

I don’t love you.
I want to be you.
Does that make sense?

MUTHEU wa Mbula


Until now.

I am starting to see life for what it is.
A series of mistakes, that if repeated, lead to destruction of self.

Languishing in it makes misery my home.


I could push past myself and love me ’cause I’m lovable.

I am starting to see love for what it is, not what I want it to be. All the words I hold in my tongue so I don’t offend you and the decisions I make despite your advice. And the frustration you have with my ways.

My frustration with you not being on my side.
You won’t love me to my death bed, I heard you say that.

I don’t want to be the kind of person that constantly surpresses who I am and what I want to fit into a world that couldn’t care less.

I don’t want to run away from things that haven’t happened yet.

I fell into the darkness I thought was myself and couldn’t get up.

Until now.

I am loving myself. It means looking her in the eye every day and giving her pleasures she’s never had.

And that’s okay.

Rafiki (2018)

Hate is looking her in the eye and saying you love her, but you can’t be with her cause the world doesn’t accept this.

I just watched a story of love and found myself pan handling for change.

I am now both teary eyed and hateful.

It’s so unfair that such a beautiful thing is faught against with such vigor.

Oh… the energy you spend on banning a beautiful film, spend that on bettering our economy, fill in those pot holes, keep those damn corrupt politicians IN FUCKING JAIL.

Paint those god forsaken buildings, preserve national heritage sites, improve the fucking sanitation in CBD, get rid of the fucking pit latrine, stone-age-esk plumming situation by Ambasssader.

Fill out hearts with pride when we think about you.

Make me happy to be Kenyan.

But instead, you deprive us of the Rafiki movie, you don’t support art. You cater to the select complaining masses in Lavington , but not us… The artists, the so called bright future that you CONSTANTLY dim with the array of shit you throw around…


Ironic, you are an unsupportive friend.

YOU are a fucking fake friend.

You don’t have to agree with it to publish it, you don’t have to eat art up and swallow it to support it.

If you let people be who they are, oh my GOD what a wonder we would live in.

Hate is depriving ourselves from the opportunity to change.

Stop hating yourself Kenya.

Please, stop…

Yours Angrily

Mutheu wa Mbula

To my babies.

Baby, it’s too early in the morning for resentment.


Please have your tea, eat your brekie and breathe.


The world and its shit will be there when you are done with your me time.


So let the apple cinnamon tea in and take your time with your conquest.


Your magic isn’t short lived or fast acting.


It’s slow and savory, and succulent, sour and sweet.


And slow acting, slow in speech and has grammatical errors and unfinished sentences…


But it is your poems Ivy.

It is your magic Susan

It’s your power Joy

It’s your picture Sieg

Its your genius Nick

It’s your heart Eu.

It’s your love Srishti.

It’s your words Alex O.



I dedicate this post to my tribe.

And to the five years I have spent on this Platform.

To WordPress for allowing me to

Pour myself out for myself and for you guys, and for my readers.


This space has opened up my eyes, heart, soul and mouth. It has given me courage.


I love you all.






Ivy sumbi




When did it become the norm?

To expect silence

To expect malice like a welcome guest

We laugh with glee when she arrives

Give her a seat at the table and a cup of tea

She teaches us how to sit well with everything

Training us to go against our own

We let those from without win

And within we have let our blood run on

I don’t know when it happened

But that was the day our hearts changed

The day our smiles became that pretty China

That you only bring out for visitors

More accessible to strangers than neighbors as we sit at that table


Nursing our cups filled with bitter tea


A drink once served to servants of a land that once was free

We were twice sold to masters we still serve

Now that our doctored votes keep cutting us out what will be left of this forest?

Mother would be so ashamed of us

How addicted are we to charity?

Cuban coffee left us coughing

And there is still not enough land to hold our dying bodies


It was that day that laughter left our lungs

It flew away like scared sparrows after a loud sound

Everyone around us became a source of insecurity, an object of suspicion

Distrust was the meal of the day and we consumed it insatiably

It left our stomachs full, our taste buds acrid

And how our hearts burn

All internal problems that needed internal solutions

And you know when you ask for help when you don’t need it?

I’ll repeat it, we asked for help we never needed

We couldn’t see ourselves

I mean If you can’t see the gold in your eyes, don’t be surprised when I see it as mine


On the surface we have left our pain comfortable in what is left of our skin

It germinated, grew into our scars

Through these blood streams entangling out beating hearts

A nation hypoxic

Craving solutions like oxygen

As cruelty sits on our blue tongues ready to strike

Strife rules our minds

We are the underlings of our own vile thoughts

No peace is found here

We long to fill up a hollow we dug out ourselves and we can’t even hear our own bodies cry out for help

We are sick

Kenya is sick.