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WHEN POWER TURNS ITS BACK ON HUMANITY

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There are moments when silence becomes cowardice, When neutrality becomes betrayal, And when the human conscience must rise And say plainly: This is wrong. Wrong is wrong Even when it is announced by authority. Wrong is wrong Even when it is dressed in the language of law, Security, Politics, Or national interest. A people who have already fled fear Should not be made to live in fear again. A refugee should not wake each morning Wondering whether the next knock at the door Will take away the little safety They struggled to find. A trader should not be treated as a criminal Simply because of where they were born. A child should not inherit humiliation Because adults have chosen To turn identity into a weapon. And let us speak honestly: No political order gives ordinary citizens The moral right to persecute, threaten, humiliate, Or victimise innocent people. No speech from power Should become permission for cruelty. No presidential order, No political slogan, No wave of publi...
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postponed laughter

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When I listen to hashed tones of dispair, I count how much life's been fair, Since dawn and dusk is not a guaranteed affair— I wish away any path that wishes I unprepare. Crimson rays rejuvenates my view of morrow, With memories I oft° stayed awake to borrow, Through views of unwanted dreams so narrow, But hope flowed in my bones like living marrow. I'm unwinding what I wound in unforgotten miles— Miles I trudged in agony that devoured smiles, When my tears soaked pages of open files, Watering down dreams engraved in tones of stone piles. Thence, in postponed laughter it tear'd through clouds, And taught my weary soul that hope survives in shrouds. ©Bunguswa™
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African Voices

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Three giants. Three voices. One enduring legacy. Chinua Achebe, Wole Soyinka, and NgΕ©gΔ© wa Thiong'o remind us that literature is not merely written—it is lived, questioned, and used to shape the conscience of a people. Their works continue to inspire my journey with the pen. — Bunguswa Writes
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We keep rising, everyday.

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The storm may bend the branch, but it teaches the roots to hold deeper. Resilience is the quiet poetry of survival. — Bunguswa Writes
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Thank you Wits University.

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I am humbled πŸ™
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ODE TO MOTHERHOOD.

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Motherhood is the oldest hymn ever whispered by the earth. Before kings wore crowns of pride, before rivers discovered the language of the sea, before the moon learnt how to comfort darkness, a mother had already mastered the sacred art of sacrifice. She is the first homeland of humanity. The first heartbeat we ever hear. The first shelter against fear. The first prayer spoken over trembling flesh. A mother is not simply a woman— she is a season of mercy. She is rain arriving in drought. She is fire guarding a freezing house. She is the tree that continues offering shade even when wounded by storms. And today, as the world gathers flowers for Mother’s Day, I gather words from the deepest chambers of gratitude to honor the women whose love became bridges beneath our feet. First, to my mother, Beatrice— woman of resilience clothed in gentleness, keeper of impossible hope, builder of futures from almost nothing. You carried I, Ann, Allan, Mercy, and Kelly through diffi...
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Vasco da Gama Returns to the Ballot

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They said he left— Vasco da Gama— buried in the salt of another century, his compass folded into museum glass. But I see him again, not on the Indian Ocean, but in the ink of promises, in the rehearsed smiles of men who arrive like ships at dawn— quiet, convincing, carrying “development” in the belly of their speeches. He docks at our shores differently now: no cannons, no крСст-shaped flags— just manifestos perfumed with hope, just microphones that bloom like false prophets in the market of hunger. And we— we are still Calicut, still Malindi, still the soft coast that welcomes strangers before asking the cost of arrival. He has studied us well. He knows our tides: how quickly we forget the last storm that emptied our nets, how easily we trade tomorrow for a louder today. So he renames conquest— calls it agenda , calls it bottom-up , calls it hustle , and we clap, because the chains now sound like opportunity. But listen— the ocean remembers everything. It remembers how map...
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