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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 крест-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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Power, Narrative, and Historical Consciousness: A Marxist and New Historicist Study of Citizen Hearst and the Political Life of Raila OdingaBy Bunguswa Brian

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CHAPTER ONE: INTRODUCTION. The relationship between power and narrative remains one of the most contested terrains in both literary and political studies. Biography, as a literary form, occupies a particularly complex position within this terrain: it claims to document reality while simultaneously shaping it through interpretation, emphasis, and omission. In this regard, Citizen Hearst by W. A. Swanberg is not merely a recounting of the life of William Randolph Hearst, but a constructed narrative that reflects broader ideological tensions within American capitalism. When juxtaposed with the political life of Raila Odinga , the text invites a transhistorical and transcultural analysis of how power operates through both media and political structures. This study seeks to interrogate the ways in which narrative functions as an instrument of power, as well as a site of resistance. While Hearst’s influence is rooted in the ownership and manipulation of media institutions, Raila...
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A Psycho-Social Critique of Misplaced VulnerabilityBy Dr. Lindah Nyongea, University of the Witwatersrand

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Bunguswa Brian’s Misplaced Vulnerability is a compact yet profoundly layered poem that interrogates the psychology of emotional exposure within unequal relational spaces. From a psycho-social perspective, the poem dramatizes the tension between the human need for connection and the equally pressing need for self-preservation. The poem opens with a striking metaphor: “I placed my heart / in hands that mistook it for clay.” Here, the “heart” operates not merely as a symbol of emotion but as a repository of identity and selfhood. Its reduction to “clay” suggests objectification—the speaker’s inner life is not recognized as sacred, but as something to be shaped, handled, or even deformed. This metaphor foregrounds a key concern in relational psychology: the danger of entrusting one’s emotional core to individuals who lack the capacity for empathy. Furthermore, the imagery of “fingerprints of ruin” implies that harm is not accidental but inscribed. The other party leaves marks—p...
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Critical Analysis of Misplaced Vulnerability by Bunguswa Brian

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Bunguswa Brian’s Misplaced Vulnerability is a deeply introspective poem that interrogates the fragile boundary between emotional openness and emotional risk. The poem presents vulnerability not as weakness, but as a sacred offering—one that becomes destructive when entrusted to the wrong recipient. From the opening lines, “I placed my heart / in hands that mistook it for clay,” the poet introduces a powerful metaphor that runs throughout the piece. The heart, symbolizing emotional truth and sincerity, is reduced to “clay,” suggesting malleability and misuse. This image is particularly striking because clay implies the potential for creation, yet here it becomes an object of careless distortion. The hands that “pressed fingerprints of ruin” embody betrayal, emphasizing that the damage inflicted is both deliberate and intimate. The poem continues to expand this theme through natural imagery: “I spoke in rivers, / thinking I had found an ocean.” Rivers symbolize depth, movemen...
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misplaced vulnerability

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I placed my heart in hands that mistook it for clay— they did not sculpt, they pressed fingerprints of ruin. I spoke in rivers, thinking I had found an ocean; but you were only a thirsty stone, drinking me without echo. My truths came unclothed, like dawn before the sun is ready, and you— you called it weakness, not light. So I gather my scattered softness, like broken calabashes after a careless feast, learning slowly— not every silence is safe to break. © Bunguswa ™
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Miss me but let me go.

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When a day starts without me Miss me but let me go When I come to the end of the road And the sun sets for me Don't roam in my room Why wail for a soul set free Miss me but not too long With your heads covered in low, You shall not do Remember the love we shared Writing poetry and inspirations Pondering on the philosophy of life's and times That joy we shared Miss me but let me go For this is a journey we must all take And each alone A road home As a part of the bigger plan So when your heart become full, With tears, Turn to the chapters where happiness was written upon our faces. Embrace those around And sing to psalms of praise It was a purposed event. In his greatness, the maker of everything. Miss me but let me go. Now I watch the sun resign in the horizon Night drags by, As the moon's languid eye opens mildly. I have to content with crickets incessantly hissing, To the distant scare of frogs. I watch the rafters in...
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