Kenyan artist M. Rumbi has released a new single title ‘Shida Inanibeba’ featuring Zawadi Mukammi.

‘Shida Inanibeba’ is one of M. Rumbi’s most vulnerable and haunting works to date – a song that doesn’t glorify giving up, but instead captures what it feels like to reach that point. Here, “giving up” becomes a euphemism for suicide – an act spoken through exhaustion rather than dramatization.

The title translates to “troubles carry me away,” and that refrain becomes the song’s emotional anchor – a surrender, not out of weakness, but from the crushing weight of endurance. Yet, in contrast to its lyrical heaviness, the track moves with a light, almost deceptive brightness. Built around warm folk-rock guitars, soft drum programming, and subtle African percussion, the sound carries a gentle optimism that sits uneasily against the words – as if the music itself refuses to give up.

Sonically, the song contrasts despair with life. The rhythm is slightly upbeat, the guitars shimmer, and Zawadi Mukami’s harmonies wrap around Rumbi’s unvarnished lead, while Kamore’s layered bass, drum programming, additional guitars, and percussion programming give it its pulse. The co-production between Kamore and M. Rumbi (Thenairobihnomad), mixed and mastered by Rumbi himself, keeps the song raw but intentional – bright enough to move, sparse enough to ache.

Lyrically, ‘Shida Inanibeba’draws its emotional power from euphemism and double meaning.  In “Nimebana hili wito” – “I’ve latched onto this calling” – kubana suggests clinging to life’s burden rather than embracing a purpose, an acceptance that every day is heavy. “Naona nikihepa” translates loosely to “I see myself escaping,” another euphemism for suicide, phrased gently as if spoken under one’s breath.

 Then there’s “Kaza shingo” – a chilling double entendre that translates both to “tighten your neck” (a reference to hanging) and “tighten your tie” (prepping for work). Two interpretations of the same phrase, one about death, the other about routine – an unsettling reflection of how close despair and normalcy can exist side by side.

Speaking on the song, Rumbi shares: “It came to me gradually as I worked with Zawadi and Kamore – we kept adding more elements instrumentally and vocally, letting the song breathe into what it needed to be. Once the words clicked, I knew I had to let it stay as bare and real as the feeling itself.”

At just over two minutes, ‘Shida Inanibeba’captures that quiet, internal collapse – where giving up isn’t an act of defiance, but a whisper of surrender. Yet, in its openness, the song becomes something else entirely: a recognition of unspoken struggle, rendered with empathy, melody, and light.

Lyric breakdown – ‘Shida Inanibeba’

Chorus 1

Mateso yaniweza

Translation: “The suffering overwhelms me.”

 The song opens with quiet exhaustion – not anger or drama, but resignation.

“Mateso” (suffering) becomes personified, as though it physically overpowers him. This sets the emotional tone: the narrator is no longer fighting the weight; he’s acknowledging it.

Na hii maisha sitaweza

Translation: “This life, I cannot endure.”

 The line is a confession of breaking point. “Sitaweza” (I can’t) is simple but final – it’s a statement of fatigue, not self-pity. The use of “hii maisha” (this life) rather than “maisha” (life in general) makes it intimate, pointing to his personal version of struggle.

Na vile shida inanibeba

Translation: “And how troubles carry me away.”

 The central metaphor of the song – “shida inanibeba” – implies being swept away by one’s problems. It’s not an active decision to leave, but a surrender to the current. The imagery feels like drowning, not running – pain as something that lifts and drags, not chosen but consuming.

Naona nikihepa

Translation: “I see myself escaping.”

 “Kuhepa” means to run or flee – but here, it’s euphemistic. The “escape” isn’t physical; it’s an imagined exit from life itself. It’s the closest the song comes to naming suicide, yet it does so gently, almost with shame or disbelief – as if he’s observing the thought rather than acting on it.

(This section repeats – reflecting how hopelessness often loops in the mind, where the same thoughts replay with no resolution.)

Verse

And I’m holding on and not sure exactly (why)

This line bridges Swahili and English – a moment of global familiarity in the universal language of despair. The parenthetical “(why)” feels like an internal voice interrupting, an echo of confusion. It’s the moment of consciousness between endurance and surrender.

Think I’m far too gone to make it back safely

This is the emotional midpoint – the line that captures detachment. The phrase “make it back safely” implies a journey – as if he’s drifted somewhere far from himself, unsure if he can return.

I’m giving up, up, up (repeated)

The repetition mimics both escalation and fading – rising in tone but falling in meaning. It’s surrender layered in melody. Despite the grim words, the delivery is lightly melodic, aligning with the song’s folk-rock brightness, creating that uneasy sonic contrast: despair sung like a lullaby.

Chorus

Mateso yaniweza  Na hii maisha sitaweza  Na vile shida inanibeba  Naona nikihepa

The return to Swahili reinforces the cyclical nature of depression – thoughts that come back unchanged. There’s no narrative progression, only persistence. The instrumental lightness underneath keeps it from sinking fully into darkness, as though the music insists on life even when the words do not.

Verse 2

By this point, the repetition feels like a mantra – numbing, ritualistic, almost trance-like. The emotion becomes suspended rather than intensified.

Kila siku ni mzigo

Translation: “Every day is a burden.”

 A moment of pure truth. The line strips away metaphor – no longer about drowning or escape, just the heaviness of existing.

Nimebana hili wito

Translation: “I’ve latched onto this calling.”

 Kubana here is key. It doesn’t mean embracing a divine purpose, but clinging – holding on to life’s weight. It’s a quiet acceptance: every day will hurt, and I’m still here.

Heri ni kaze shingo

Translation: “Better to tighten my neck.”

 A double entendre. On one hand, “kaza shingo” can mean tightening a tie, bracing for another workday – a symbol of resilience, routine, and performance. On the other, it can be read darkly – tightening the neck as in hanging oneself. Two readings, both tied to survival and surrender. The ambiguity is deliberate: it’s about the thin line between coping and collapse.

Outro

Mateso yaniweza  Na hii maisha sitaweza  Na vile shida inanibeba  Naona nikihepa

Musical Context

While the lyrics lean into despair and fatigue, the instrumentation – built by M. Rumbi and Kamore, with additional vocals by Zawadi Mukami – paints a different world. The folk-rock structure lend a sense of movement and warmth.

The acoustic guitars shimmer, the bass anchors, and the African percussion and drum programming pulse softly – making the song feel alive even when the words speak of giving up.

The result is emotional dissonance – a song that sounds like survival but feels like surrender.

Summary

“Shida Inanibeba” isn’t a call for help or a romanticization of despair – it’s a quiet document of the moment before breaking. Through poetic Swahili euphemisms, soft melodies, and layered meaning, M. Rumbi turns vulnerability into reflection, not spectacle.  It’s the sound of someone standing at the edge and choosing to sing anyway.