Ngartia Returns Home With Dai Verse

Between Ngartia’s last show and his April 21 return, Dai Verse, he became a pillar of Kenyan history storytelling and theatre in the name of the beloved Too Early For Birds (TEFB), a collective that also had a comeback show in November 2022.

How time flies.

On November 19, 2015, he staged Losing Grip at the Goethe-Institut auditorium. Told in letters, it was a poetry and storytelling performance show about a young Festus Kamau (Kamaa) who leaves the village for the city to pursue his music dreams. After not being the star he imagined, frustrations, and a producer stealing his to-be hit song to give it to another artist, he realizes his naïveté. Nairobi, alias the concrete jungle, is a vicious place. The greenness of the young rapper encounters the harsh reality of a callous city. Similar elements emerged in Dai Verse creating some notable parallels in these two showcases characterized by autobiographical elements.

Almost nine years ago, his cast comprised Flowflani – who was in the audience for Dai Verse and was part of the TEFB comeback cast, Ciano Maimba, ach13ng, and Laura Ekumbo. The Dai Verse cast included Chemutai Sage, Tim Arinaitwe, Vini Ngugi, M³, Septad, Sho, and Marichu Muturi. Sage, Tim, Vini, and M³ were also part of TEFB’s show. So was Chadota, Dai Verse’s stage manager, and its director, Nyokabi Macharia, who paid the cast a visit during rehearsals.

Last year marked Ngartia’s return to storytelling performances since 2019, albeit solo. He staged two performances at Alliance Française. The first was a storytelling session in the library, Rysto za Histo, on July 14, where he told the story of the legendary Them Mushrooms and the Gĩkũyũ and Mũmbi myth (a work in progress), and the other was “A Final shaw-down,” a riveting crime tale involving Danson Gachui and Patrick Shaw that he narrated on October 14 in the auditorium during the three-day NYrobi Book Fest. But apart from storytelling, he regularly shared poems online towards the end of 2023 and at the beginning of 2024.

Dai Verse was building on this momentum.

In a The Star interview, published two days before the show, Ngartia mused, “I feel like the prodigal son in the Bible, who, for a while, wandered in unfamiliar territory, trying to find something for his heart, but in the end, he still went back home.” This home was Ngartia’s springboard for Dai Verse, a performance that was an amalgamation of poetry, spoken word, storytelling, music, and theatre, hence “diverse.”

Photo courtesy: Pichad

It started with a grey-suited Ngartia holding a pencil in hand seated at his desk, stage left, writing. Slowly, one word poured after another. He repeated what he had just written, verbalizing to see if it made sense before he proceeded. Torn pieces of paper littered the floor. We were in his room watching his creative process. Before he could stage two shows on the same day at the prestigious Braeburn Theatre on a rainy Sunday afternoon, it all began in solitude, trying to make sense of words. As he stood from his desk – a metaphor for his artistic evolution – his conviction growing, he gradually moved to the center of the stage. The spotlight followed him as synchronously, Septad entered from his left with a microphone on a stand, and Vini Ngugi from his right to take his pencil and paper; a precise and seamless action. The poem was a dedication to poetry and the word and a dedication to song. His entire cast joined him on stage. Some accompanying songs were Ayub Ogada’s “Koth Biro” and Sema’s “Leta Wimbo.” He depicted his artistic journey while also highlighting various art trends. They sang and danced and celebrated poetry.

Dai Verse was segmented into parts and chapters threading a connected whole. Its two main parts had about seven segments each. These one-hour-long sections were separated by a fifteen-minute intermission. It was an intricate showing. With spoken word prowess, storytelling command, and theatrical flair, Dai Verse explored among other concerns: dreams, fears, family, crime, love, police brutality, politics, and mental health.

In contrast to the confident and reminiscent Ngartia who acknowledged the power of poetry, we subsequently witnessed a Ngartia disintegrating under the weight of his daunting fears, embodied mainly by Sage, together with Septad and Tim. They were all in black. When the scene began, the center of the stage was a dim blue. Only seeing their silhouettes, Tim was to our left, Septad our right. Seated center stage, Sage was retwisting Ngartia’s hair, cradled between her thighs, singing, “Lala mtoto lala.” At some point, he shouted, “I am tired!” distressingly. His words were a mere reflection of his state as we saw it. But he uttered those words while breaking away from Fear’s grip. However, regaining his self was not that easy. Not for one who knows “fear like a fish knows air.” Tim and Septad constricted him as he moved, restraining him physically and figuratively. Ngartia fought. His will proved mighty in this mental warfare the second time he stated, “I denounce you, Fear!” later followed by “I burn you out of my soul.” Like Tim and Septad, who previously coughed and choked when Ngartia attempted to deplore fear, Sage staggered and her lullaby’s delivery turned staccato. By the time he finally declared, “Go back where you’re from, Fear!” he had traded positions with Sage, caressing her head while she sat between his thighs.

Photo courtesy: Pichad

Lumbering across the stage, the fear trio resurrected as zombies to the rousing sound of guitar strumming, succeeded by Sage singing “Killed a Monster.”

Then we shifted to the theatre’s left aisle. Ngartia’s entry was lively. The spotlight followed him to the stage as he narrated “Za Timau.” Reminiscing on listening to Maxi Priest and Yvonne Chaka Chaka, he accompanied Tim’s guitar tune, singing, “Ng’ombe za kwenu hazina magoti,” a bastardization of the South African legend’s “Umqombothi” hit, which the crowd gladly joined. Shortly, the euphoria turned into misery. Under orange lighting, Ngartia recounted traumatizing memories of a helpless six-year-old witnessing an abusive father assault his helpless mother. Immediately the story started, during Ngartia’s entry, I was transported to May 28, 2022, an evening that found me seated in the same theatre for Mufasa for President. First, Mufasa used some poems to reveal his family background. Second, once Ngartia revealed the father’s character, I recalled Mufasa narrating his father’s sudden departure, leaving his family in disarray. How typical of men, I thought.

Fun fact: Ngartia was featured in Mufasa for President.

Eventually, he proclaimed a succinct, “Sitanyamaza anymore,” signaling a reclamation of his voice, and his mother’s humanity. His narration combined the poet, storyteller, and actor in Ngartia. A blue light emitted, in tandem with a hopeful tune sang over guitar strums. “Amua, inuka, funganya, toka.” Vini encouragingly led. The seat in “Fear” was a seat in “Za Timau.” It transformed into a bed (stage right) at a lodging facility somewhere in River Road, where “rooms ni ka stall, uki-stretch unaeza vunja walls.” Initially, a young man sat on the bed alone, a white vest and pants on, before he was joined by a lover in black tights and a light white robe. Ngartia and Sage were the couple.

By telling his lover his childhood stories growing up in Makutano – highlighting his strict Christian parents’ guardianship – and his dreams as a youth, we learned how he came to the city, his involvement in crime to seek a way out, the actions of rogue police officers, and how an abrupt street raid led to the couple ending up together. We left the lodging scene to experience the vitality of this encompassing tale. Ngartia wore the jacket next to his bedside, continuing his narration as he walked to the center of the stage. Sage had to exit only to reappear as a random attractive lady in the streets of Nairobi who enamored a hustler Ngartia. She asked the quintessential, “Unajua pahali Afya Centre iko?” He seized the opportunity to express his obvious interest. Suddenly, cops appeared. Amid the commotion, he counted his luck. He quickly advised her to hide with him at a certain safe place.  And we were right where we started: Ngartia sitting on the width of the bed while Sage placed her head next to his thighs, lying along the bed’s length. Brilliantly, he remarked, “Aliskiza kwenye alieza, aka-doze off penye haikumpendeza.”

Photo courtesy: Pichad

He juxtaposed a quiet night in vis-à-vis the chaotic bustle outside. Don’t be fooled by the indoor façade of blunts and sex. The city tales highlighted the many unachieved dreams of the youth. Aptly, Ngartia observed, “Si wote ni ma-dreamer na hii city ni wild / Kujitaftia legally ama straa zenye si halali… bora tusirudi ocha kulima.” Despite what happens, even losing comrades to police, the resilient youth vow to succeed in a city that doesn’t care about them. “Ki-danger ndio na-love my life,” as Ngartia stated. While hanging out with his boys in Makutano (played by Tim and Septad), where Sage made her exit, they were chewing miraa when Septad suggested to Ngartia a job offer from his weed supplier. If successful, the drug operation – transporting weed – would turn him rich. Unfortunately, that morning, their kingpin was arrested before they could complete their mission. So, after brainstorming on a few work options that proved futile, the group of recruits stranded in the city resorted to petty crime.

In Losing Grip, there was a similar trope. Kamaa’s friend suggests a one-off robbery that will be a panacea to his plight, seeing that all his plans are failing. While the heist transpires, four robbers are gunned down whereas one escapes with gun wounds. Another similarity was the protagonist’s entry into the Nairobi CBD in both stories. Kamaa was thrust into the city with loud confusing club music and a busy people; telling us, “So picture me niki-land Nairobi,” hoping for a successful drug operation, the Dai Verse scene immediately turned chaotic due to the cacophony of pastors, hawkers, city county staff, and reggae music, as a discombobulated Ngartia stared at tall buildings, eliciting laughter from the crowd.

A premonition of his manifested before us. There was no love between him and Sage and anything could happen. In the lodging room, the sensuality of watching them stand close as Sage sang Erykah Badu’s “On & On” quickly became a rift once she pushed him away. The stage was partially dark; Tim, on guitar and vocals, and Septad, on saxophone, emerged in the single gallery. Tim sang, “Won’t you go easy on me / Take me as I am please / I’m barely holding on.” Ngartia mimed, seemingly attempting to overcome insurmountable hurdles. Accompanied by the guitar, his subsequent poem, “Light Work,” was an empathetic heartfelt reminder. It was a note to the listener to “be gentle with yourself” and to himself, too. Because “I, too, have darkness in places I wish were bright.” Briefly, Vini entered from his left to play Ngartia’s reflection, mirroring his body movements, whereas his younger self (Sho) entered from his right, towards whom he afterward walked. He squatted to whisper to the ten-year-old him, among other sentiments, “Let’s take it a healing wound at a time.” The mantra to his present adult self was, “Light work, Ngartia.” For most of the poem, he gestured a beating heart in his hand while a mimicking heartbeat sounded in the background.

As if to continue the romantic strand introduced earlier, Sage, Vini, Septad, and Sho set the scene for the next story. They were a friend group whose entry was marked by Vini singing Bensoul’s “Nairobi.” Our attention shifted from them sitting center stage to Ngartia who began the scene on the left spiral staircase before moving to the top of the wooden structure upstage. It had an appended L-shaped stairs to the right. The shift from the couple of Sage and Vini, who were left behind once the rest left, to Ngartia, was precise. He narrated their story; the couple partly conversed and acted. The positioning and lighting of the three were excellent. Vini persistently tried to establish a deeper relationship but Sage only “uses him for therapy.” An examination of the walls we build and masks we wear, the poem ended with Sage walking out on Vini after she texted to inquire whether he was indeed okay and he replied, “Mi niko poa.”

Before also exiting, Vini was left in reflection. Once he left, Sho emerged in the single gallery singing a wholehearted song on guitar. He encapsulated the just-ended story, as the stage went dark.

Vini returned a few moments later in a different capacity. Joined by Tim and Septad, the three were part of a men’s army or regiment of sorts. Ngartia, who had attended the Men’s Conference two months before, was the leader of this all-black donning unit. The “Mwanaume” performance was an interactive and humorous satire on masculinity. Well, half of it. It evolved into a heartfelt conversation among men redefining masculinity. They went from stern faces, performing a haka and chanting mantras such as “Ukivunjwa roho unatafuna pilipili, unaskiza Wakadinali, unakumbuka we ni mkali!” to Tim crying, “Venye huu msee ananichapachapa… me I just want a hug” – referring to Ngartia slapping him, reflecting on their relationship and mortality, and telling each other, “I love you.” They broke free from the masculinity that “ni kamba ina-swing kwa giza” by denouncing societal expectations of manhood, declaring exhaustively, “Na kama hiyo ndio kuwa mwanaume… sitaki mimi,” to the audience’s applause. So, when Ngartia noted, “Ni ushenzi kukatsia mapenzi,” he was correcting his earlier mistake of deriding Sho the “R&B artist” who had arrived late for the parade and was slapped for it. That bit wittingly tied to the previous story which ended with Sho’s singing.

Photo courtesy: Pichad

To the audience’s pleasure, their bow and subsequent curtain draw didn’t signify the show’s end. Rather it was an intermission.

With the wooden structure the only prop on stage, the second part of the performance began gently. An image of stars on the wall and a high-spinning disco ball reflecting the theatre lights implied nighttime. Sitting on the stairs, the cast sang euphoniously creating a meld of choral voices and soft guitar. Their “Be true to you” refrain was reassuring. “So why did you stop singing, hummingbird?” Ngartia began “Sing Again,” lying down on a shuka and pillow. I thought of Wangari Maathai’s hummingbird fable. His space imagery was a defining character, mentioning the likes of universes, an explosion, and nuclear fusion, to denote the subject’s expansiveness. There was a lot of sentimentality, reverence, and longing, captured in the line, “I really, really, really hope you sing again, hummingbird.”

Marichu’s “Haiya, si mnalipwa,” as he beckoned the cast to move forward provoked laughter instantaneously. It broke the sentimentality of their reassuring song that succeeded Ngartia’s poem. They transformed into a choir performing at a government function. Marichu led Sage, Sho, Tim, and Vini, all renting the air with the patriotic “Tushangilie Kenya.” Then Vini became an MC who introduced Ngartia, of the “Fear,” “Disturbed Moments” – a witty callback to his poems – and “mashairi mengineyo hali kadhalika” fame, to perform a new poem, “State of the Nation.” He wore the same garb he did in the masculinity satire segment. This time the severity differed. We no longer live by “Tenda wema nenda zako.” Instead, we have become “Honga jamaa, uma tender, kula vako” and more, and are getting worse progressively. The self-proclaimed hustler government is a burglar government whose philosophy is “Kusema na kututenda, kusema na kututenga.” This was TEFB Ngartia. The Ngartia of thought-provoking online commentary pieces and posts. Contrary to the resolutions of most of the poems and stories up to that point, he concluded “State of the Nation” with a statement question: “Za kwangu tafash Mkenya, sijui zinakupeleka aje pande ya kwako.”

Photo courtesy: Pichad

The choir returned with the popular gospel song, “Mataifa Yote.” Their “Upande ya kwako zinakupeleka aje?” parody was an apt prelude to the satirical “Kata.” “Kata” was an exhibition of absurdity. But the ridiculousness of Ngartia’s prescriptions and the actions of his cast, dressed in black and representing government cronies, are our political reality. “PAYE, VAT, withholding, za housing levy, we kata… Kata tu na wakiteta walete juu… Usipeane sababu kwani ni nini wanaeza dhubutu kuduu?” Throughout, the cast mimicked hyenas’ cackles. At some point, they jumped to the audience’s side, roaming, as Ngartia told them which coffer to devour from next. He blended the popular coastal “Kata (Mwanangu Kata)” tune with the children’s game, Nyama Nyama Nyama; a brilliant twist. After hungrily devouring artist’s monies, they became full and woozy. I remembered the Boondocks episode on the itis. But the government is insatiable. As Ngartia continued adding to the list of target funds, they surrounded and pulled him as he slowly crouched. Finally, they overwhelmed him. He lay down and they ate him, too, as the stage darkened.

It was such a profound and visceral performance that left the crowd in awe.

Still, he didn’t stop there. His next piece was an audiovisual, “How Your Country Will Kill You,” which followed immediately. It foregrounded police violence and other forms of societal violence such as femicide and hate crimes. We watched the harrowing images of helpless Kenyans bearing the brunt of a violent police force and listened to Ngartia’s voice while engulfed in darkness and a pensive silence. “Your country will kill you” is a refrain that provokes you to think, is it your country then?

Sho, playing Lucia, was the center of the next story. He wore a black t-shirt, black shorts, and a red silky kimono. Immediately the stage was lit blue and Vini, Septad, and Tim performed a soothing tune, he broke into contemporary dance. Ngartia entered to unpack Lucia’s story for us. “Junkie ata-do anything akae tu high / Life pia ni addictive, ili ukae hai, utadu anything.” We re-explored the relationship between youth and drugs, Lucia’s stemming from family dysfunction. Consequent to her parents’ deaths due to an accident on Thika Road when she was ten, her relatives scrambled for property and mistreated her. She dropped out of school, started businesses that failed, resorted to sex work, and began using drugs. Atop the wooden structure upstage, she slowly swayed side to side, embodying the daze her life had become. The transitions between Lucia and Ngartia at center stage were particular and engaging. “Ni possible ku-break from hell” was the optimistic resolution, a result of a preceding narrative turning point: eventually, Lucia started and thrived at a second-hand books business.

Sho danced his way down, figuratively coming down from the high. Marichu abruptly interrupted Sho, Tim, Vini, and Septad. “Enough is enough! Hamtaendelea kuimba wimbo za devil worshipper kwa nyumba yangu.” He was a stellar Mama Kinuthia. We were suddenly in a village somewhere, Mama Kinuthia preparing to welcome her rich sophisticated sister, Jemimah (Sage), from America. Ngartia was Kinuthia. When she arrived, Jemimah dismissively remarked that she almost didn’t recognize her sister because of her plump appearance. Kinuthia’s excited mother paid her sister no heed. She asked Kinuthia to recite his “memory verses” for his aunt. Initially, he was reluctant but he did it; everyone else was in a freeze-frame. His poem, “Friends & Family,” reflected on friendships and familial relationships drifting apart. The gravity of his nostalgia and reflection was superbly interspersed with and interrupted by Mama Kinuthia’s comments and her conversations with Jemimah.

What followed was a duet music performance by Sho and Sage. They sat downstage, Sho to our left, Sage to our right, holding guitars. The former started with an affectionate performance before impeccably ushering in Sage to sing the poetic “Girl in a Blue Dress.”

Shortly after, the entire cast aimlessly walked across the stage for the final piece, “Notes on Bandaging Your Soul.” It was akin to the chaos of the Nairobi CBD scene. They went on for a short while. Suddenly, Ngartia pronounced, “Slow down!” Everyone halted. They listened keenly to every word he uttered. His ethos was: slow down, remember to play, and dedicate time to yourself. The crux of his reminder echoed some prior sentiments to his younger self. Suddenly, again, he announced, “Now stop faking it!” breaking the daze of the cast. Whereas they engaged in slow bodily movement as per his guidelines, he needed them to make it honest and personal. They symbolized the listeners. Ngartia’s message was for all.

This final moment of being true to oneself was similar to the resolution of the masculinity performance. The potency of his words resonated even after he exited. “For every seed must crack to sprout / We must bury things when they’re dead… or to watch them germinate,” he finished and walked out, in the same outfit he began the show with. For a brief moment, everything remained quiet. The light blue lights illuminated the empty stage. I am not sure if it was deliberate but it seemed to mirror Ngartia’s advice on slowing down; his delivery of the poem was also unrushed. When the moment passed, the entire cast as they entered in the beginning came in, singing and dancing, free and jubilant. The Dai Verse team also joined.

***

Besides the show’s diversity in its interdisciplinary nature and Ngartia’s artistic journey, a critical part of the concept was the multifaceted nature of the cast members. This tongue-in-cheek behind-the-scenes video partly showed what we were to experience from them but Ngartia’s thought process, from the The Star interview mentioned above, summarizes his approach best: “Rather than bringing more people into the ship, we settled on improvising with the musicians, and using them as part of the cast, too.”

The approach made the performance layered and dynamic. In the cast’s molting and morphing, they captivated us all through. As the center, Ngartia’s dynamism was expected. From a young him reciting verses in their village home to mastering words in his room, to performing in front of crowds, to harboring disillusioned dreams and turning to crime to survive, to witnessing abuse, to falling in love, to trying to make sense of a brutal government that incessantly kills its people, to learning how to be a man, to empathizing with the pain of others, to learning how to slow down, and to mastering self, he delivered.

Sage was the soulful singer we know her to be – delivering two masterpieces from her debut Expose Yourself and more – as well as the main symbol of Ngartia’s fear, a lover, a random lady in the streets looking for Afya Centre, a snobbish love interest, Jemimah;  Tim was a guitarist, singer, an embodiment of fear, Ngartia’s village friend, a member of the men’s unit; Vini was a singer, an ignored pursuer, a member of the men’s unit, an MC; M³ was a percussionist, a CBD hawker; Septad was a saxophonist, an embodiment of fear, Ngartia’s village friend, the men’s unit member; Sho was a singer, guitarist, the R&B artist who was part of the men’s unit, Lucia; Marichu was a choirmaster, Mama Kinuthia. Each person performed in different capacities. It displayed the range of the cast and the script.

Ngartia has explored this technique before. TEFB is a great example of such dynamism. Actors exhibit exceptional range within one performance. For poetry performances, Ngartia was Ngartia the narrator, and Kamaa the protagonist in Losing Grip. He was also Jazmine’s (played by Laura Ekumbo) torturous conscience while Jazmine sat in deep contemplation waiting in line at an abortion clinic. This technique specifically, personifying the intangible, is what he employed when Sage, Septad, and Tim embodied fear.

Photo courtesy: Pichad

An interplay of varying moods and emotions was crucial to our engagement with Dai Verse. We were celebratory about spoken word in one moment then empathetic when he shared his fears; laughed as we sang, “Ng’ombe za kwenu hazina magoti,” then turned concerned for a six-year-old boy witnessing an abusive father assault his mother; relished the intimacy of a couple in a lodging room to feeling the adrenaline of survival tales in the city; savored the couple’s sensuality to reflecting on Ngartia’s loneliness and introspection as he reminded himself of self-kindness; laughed at blind macho masculinity then appreciated the tenderness of men sharing their love for one another; indulged the yearning of a reminiscing lover under a starry night then confronted the reality of the state of the country; ruminated on the severity of the government’s actions then broke into laughter at the instant humor of the “Mataifa Yote” parody; meditated upon the importance of slowing down before springing up to join the exuberant closing scene involving the entire team.

In addition to the above, there was also the interplay between reality and fiction, a meld of autobiographical and semi-autobiographical accounts.

Dai Verse used reclamation as a recurring trope. The version of Ngartia’s triumph in “Fear,” “I denounce you, Fear!” was “Ni possible ku-break from hell” in Lucia’s story. Once “Za Timau” ended, the cast came in to clean and usher us into the lodging room scene. The overt scene change was a subtle symbolism reflecting Ngartia’s decision to purge his past and break his silence after making a bold declaration, “Sitanyamaza anymore!” This intentionality for one’s well-being was the same when he observed that he should be kinder and more gracious to himself. Sage walking out on Vini after receiving a mechanical “Mi niko poa” response text signified being welcoming to a similar honesty and vulnerability. Something that permeated the reality of the men’s unit. They redefined masculinity. Appropriately, it took time before they responded to their leader’s openhearted, “I love you,” but they did and said it to each other. Someone behind me said, “No homo.”

But Ngartia chose his final poem to offer some of his most powerfully reasserting statements that resonated deeply with the audience: “There’s no making it… only into and out of” and “There’s no figuring it out, there’s only this constant becoming, only this consistent unbecoming.” Considering these several turning points, home was, therefore, more than an art form. It was also a state of mind, a resolve.

Photo courtesy: Pichad

As you may have noticed, it isn’t a Ngartia show without connections and callbacks. His suit at the start was what we wore at the end. Growing up with religious parents resurfaced when he narrated his upbringing to Sage in the lodging room. Religiousness itself came under scrutiny a few times as different circumstances necessitated questioning God’s existence. In “Za Timau,” Ngartia recalled, “Kwa corner nimegwaya nikijiuliza kama God anaona haya / Surely after hizo kesha na revival zote si at least am-keep safe.” For Lucia, “Ali-cry out in prayer aka-conclude… God hayuko / Na kama yuko, haskizangi watu wako kwa situation ka yenye alikuweko.” In the same story, in one of the conversations Ngartia had with Lucia, he stated that he was yet to understand why “Watu innocent hu-suffer and nothing can be done.” His probing of God was best summarized in “Za Timau,” when he said, “Kujua that hii dunia ni melting pot ya uzuri na uovu na ye ndio chef ilifanya nikatize maombi before nifike ‘Amen.’” Lucia’s story was part of a thread tackling youth’s deferred dreams, also emphasized in “Fear,” the Nairobi survival tales, “State of the Nation,” “Kata,” and “How Your Country Will Kill You.” It was clever when Vini listed Ngartia’s poems during his introduction at the public function. The callbacks made the performance continuous and cohesive.

His adaptation of the pieces also has to be acknowledged. Since they were works spanning his many years as a poet, they had to be reworked to fit the vision of Dai Verse. With the help of a capable team, it worked. I was impressed by the performed versions of “Kata” and “Friends & Family,” poems I’d heard online. Like in Losing Grip, music was integral in the Dai Verse equation. This time, more present and defining. They struck a fine balance between music and poetry/storytelling, employing the eclectic selection befittingly.

Regarding the set design, it changed minimally, and when it did, except during the fifteen-minute intermission, the cast did it during the performance as part of the story. There was no dead space.

Notwithstanding minor lapel mic hiccups and a boisterous crowd song or two in the end that needed better synchronicity when they began, Ngartia proved, contrary to his remark, that the stage is his home. He comes alive weaving words together regardless of the form(at) they take. All the moving parts of Dai Verse made it the memorable show it was, from the stage management to the acting, performance, lighting, sound, and directing. Working jointly with the cast, the technical team comprised Nyokabi Macharia (director), Chadota (stage manager), Nkatha Kimathi (production assistant), Shiko Ngure (producer), Ciru Njoroge (producer), Alacoque Ntome (movement coordinator & lighting designer), Tosh Herman (sound engineer), Bryan Emry (stylist), and Brian Irungu (set designer).

In June last year, Gufy and Mufasa wrote history by becoming the first spoken word poets to stage a poetry performance, Nairobi Dating Stories, on two consecutive days. They did it at Braeburn. Ngartia wrote history, as he always does, by staging a poetry performance twice on the same day, two hours apart. He replicated his Too Early For Birds modus operandi for Dai Verse.

“I knew I needed to start this decade of my life by returning to my roots. This is my homecoming. So I put together some poems I’ve worked on since I started this journey,” read part of his social media announcement for the show. A journey of stories. His and ours. Following his return to poetry performance, I can’t wait to see what the prodigal son does next. In the quoted Star interview, he stated, “I have three more shows in the pipeline. The three are on politics, mental health, and love and heartbreak. One is, at least, slated for later in the year, and likewise, will be a poetry performance. It is titled ‘Ruruma’, which means ‘roar’ in the Kikuyu language. For that, we’re still editing the draft, but I’d urge you all to start anticipating it.”

He has chosen not to die “attributed ‘anonymous’” with “these feelings untold, these stories unknown,” as fear would want it. In the meantime, check out his Rysto za Histo stories, and poems online. Usiogope kudai verse.