Mugabi Byenkya is an award-winning writer of poetry, prose, essays, drama, comics, and songs. His writing has been published in Carte Blanche, Best Canadian Poetry, and Skin Deep, among over 35 other publications. He has been interviewed on Voice of America, NTV Uganda, and Urban TV and other media outlets. Mugabi’s writing is used to teach High School English in Kampala and Toronto schools. He won the Discovering Diversity Poetry Contest in 2017. In the same year, his award-nominated debut, “Dear Philomena,” was published and he went on a 43 city, 5 country North America/East Africa tour.

In 2018, Mugabi was named one of 56 writers who has contributed to his native Uganda’s literary heritage in the 56 years since independence by Writivism. Mugabi wants to be Jaden Smith when he grows up.

Precious Okpechi: Hello, Mugabi! I am glad to have you as our featured poet for the month. Your poem, “Mama calls me Tennis Ball Because I Always Bounce Back” has this line: Being disabled requires lying in bed by the / side-lines for the duration of your life. Can you talk to me about the experience this metaphor draws from?

Mugabi Byenkya: Hello, Precious! I’m incredibly glad to be your featured poet for the month! I’ve been a big fan of the 20.35 Africa anthologies since its inaugural edition; it’s an honour to be featured on the New Poets series! The line you referenced in “Mama Calls Me Tennis Ball Because I Always Bounce Back” is drawn from several experiences I’ve had since childhood. I had my first stroke at the age of nine and was taken out of school for a term, as I was always moving between doctors and physical therapists. As they tried to get control of my situation, I spent a lot of that time in bed because the right side of my body was completely paralyzed. The longest I’ve ever been bedridden was from March 2020 to April 2022. It felt like I was on a side-line, watching other people live their lives, while mine was at a standstill, influenced by my stroke. Recently, I was bedridden for two months when I got COVID-19 for the first time, which later exacerbated all my extant disabilities.

The aforesaid aforementioned imagery is in comparison with the first line of the previous stanza: “Ball boy, duty requires kneeling by the sidelines for / the duration of the match.” I wanted to compare the physicality of being a ball boy – alert on the sidelines – to being Disabled. I’ve missed several amazing opportunities due to my health. It is a perpetual struggle not to scold myself for something beyond my control, but when I’m largely bedridden, on the sidelines of my life and other people’s lives, it’s a tough pill to swallow. I used to be able to bounce back after a day or two. On my debut mix tape, Song for Wo(men) 2, I wrote this:

“crashing for days turned into crashing for weeks turned into crashing for months
but I always bounced back
Mama calls me tennis ball because I always bounce back”

Precious Okpechi: What role does the personal play in your work? How do you navigate vulnerability when writing about an experience that’s both personal and collective?

Mugabi Byenkya: The personal plays a significant role in my work. Writing is a way to process everything, so I write about these experiences often. Whenever I struggle with something that I can’t talk through with anyone, I write about it. When my father died in 2005, one of my aunties called to offer her condolences to my mother and siblings. She asked me, “Are you still writing?” I responded with, “Yes!” She told me to write about my grief, and I wrote a poem I have never shared with anyone. It helped me process my emotions.

Also, by writing about my experiences, I’m able to write for the confused, Disabled, Black, and Neurodivergent. The personal is inherently political because of the body I was born in. Through writing about my experiences, I’m able to connect and resonate with people who have similar experiences, and people who don’t. I’ve had several people come up to me after a performance and tell me things they’ve never shared with anyone. This is a testament to the power of words, and how that power must be used responsibly.

Precious: In writing, the moon represents a lot of things to different poets: muse, beauty, hope, mother, etc. What do you draw from the moon when you think/read/write about her?

Mugabi: I have a line from a rap song that I wrote and performed titled “Friends & Lovers”: Girl, I got you like the moon got tide. That’s what I draw from the moon when I think/read/write about her. The moon’s gravitational pull causes the tide to ebb and flow across the world, and how steadfast, consistent, and reciprocal such a relationship is. This is what I aim to be in my platonic and familial relationships: to be like the moon for anyone who calls themselves a close friend or family member; they will always know that “I got you like the moon got tide.”

Precious: The pandemic hit the world five years ago, and I believe everyone is still healing from the rippling effect. Can you tell me about your healing process and how it affects your writing?

Mugabi: When the pandemic started, I dealt with the worsening of my existing disabilities and chronic illnesses. This rendered me largely bedridden from March 2020 to April 2022. In those times, I was in so much pain and couldn’t sleep. I had intensified chronic fatigue, increased photophobia, hyperacusis, and issues with processing text, which left me unable to write anything creatively for two years.

I’m still healing from how the pandemic showed how little the world cared for Disabled people like myself, still healing from jobs telling me that working won’t be possible, and still healing from how Black and Brown communities were disproportionately affected by the pandemic in North America. I’m still healing from all the racism displayed when Western countries learned that the majority of the African countries had handled the pandemic better than them. I’m still healing from all the so-called friends in Kampala who ghosted me the minute I couldn’t leave the house. I’m still healing from all the doctors who wanted someone to film me having a seizure and trust them with it! I’m still healing from all the doctors who dismissed me as stubborn and difficult.

They have all affected my writing. I’ve written about the pandemic, and how it affected me, on my aforementioned mix tape. This has ironically shifted the ways people approach me now: a lot of people who’ve listened to my mixtape are now respectful of my needs. Why did it take listening to my mix tape for that to happen? Why didn’t folks listen to me when I told them the first time?

Precious: Who are those writers you read over and again for their richness and how they teach you to be a better poet and an occupant of the world?

Mugabi: One of the writers, I read over and again for their richness, is Fatimah Asghar. Since I write across genres, one of the things I admire them for is the way they write across genres, including screenwriting, prose, and poetry. Seeing another writer not constrained by a single medium is liberating. I return to Fatimah’s work because of how relatable and poignant it is; they teach me to be a better poet through their immersive sense of longing, and how I’m able to lose myself in their poetry. As a Disabled writer, they teach me to be a better occupant of the world through their work ethics. From consuming their work from afar, I see that they are a hard worker. They work when they can, while protecting their full self. They seem to create the space and time to pour into other parts of self that are spiritual, emotional, mental, and physical. I consistently compare myself to my able-bodied peers. It is also evident that they have cultivated a community of artists across mediums, who act as sources of support in artistic spaces that are highly volatile. This is something that I try my best to cultivate as well.

For Elee Kraljii Gardiner, it is with the way they do not bother explaining, situating, or putting a disclaimer for able-bodied folks. Instead, they write to centre Disabled and Neurodivergent life in such a refreshing way. They’re the definition of “For Us, By Us.”

Spoiled Milk

creeks of tears high dive off
the cliff of my cheekbones and crash
into my bowl of cornflakes
“excellent form!” the judges proclaim

wracked by inconsolable sobs, I hunch
over the bowl, which is more tears than milk
the judges can’t keep up
I can’t keep up

today it smells like grief