Bunguswa Writes.

The nation walks barefoot on thorns of its own making, A mother with milkless breasts, still singing lullabies. Her rivers run red with the patience of the poor, While palaces bloom where forests once stood. The drums of power beat louder than truth, Yet beneath the soil, a stubborn seed listens. They said silence was peace, But silence became a prison without windows. Every whisper of justice is chased like a fugitive wind, Every question branded a wandering fire. Still the night cannot swallow every star, For some lights refuse the discipline of darkness.   The vultures have learned the language of suits, Their claws hidden beneath polished speeches. They circle above villages and call it leadership, They measure land with the hunger of kings. But the earth remembers every footprint, And the soil knows its rightful children. Some tongues have been purchased like cattle at the market, Their songs now echo the master's trumpet. They dance in borrowed robes of loyalty, C...

I’ve oft wept with the cloudy sky, Cried when it thundered so loud, With each drop, a tear too drop'd, Reminiscent of my prolonged cry. Dawn smiled as it rises But deep a gully has formed With fears so handful to be crowned. As a storm my mind praises. Every stride I take with stress, I’m a living bumpy ride — Of sadness, penning each with pride For life’s abundance in meagre traces. Today dusk shuts a dark curtain, Sinking hopes once so certain. ©Bunguswa ™

                     For the Liberation Drum of Kenya O hear, O soil of Kenya, Land watered by sweat before rain, Land whose children still wait For justice promised at dawn. From the green ridges of Western Kenya Rose a procession not of silence— But of voices sharpened by hunger, Hope marching barefoot into history. At the front stood Edwin Sifuna, Bearer of the people’s petition, A son forged in debate and defiance, Calling the nation to remember itself. Behind him walked James Orengo, Keeper of liberation’s memory, Whose voice once rattled prison doors So freedom could learn its own name. There too thundered Babu Owino, Fire of the restless generation, Speaking where fear once slept, Refusing the quiet surrender of youth. From Trans Nzoia’s vigilant hills came George Natembeya, Guardian of forgotten borders, Declaring that leadership must kneel Before the suffering citizen. And the people gathered with Emmanuel Wangw...

                               By Bunguswa Brian In the quiet ache of Forgive Me That I Didn’t Come by Iyana, Africa hears a familiar voice—not merely of a lover delayed, but of a people long interrupted. The song becomes a confession shaped by distance, a tender explanation offered after history has already moved on. Africa’s story is crowded with absences. Sons taken to plantations across oceans, daughters marched into alien names and tongues, kingdoms summoned to meetings they never consented to attend. Colonialism did not only conquer land; it engineered non-arrival. Whole civilizations were prevented from showing up to their own futures. In this light, the song’s apology stretches beyond the personal. It becomes historical. “ Forgive me ,” Africa has had to say— to traditions disrupted by the gun and the cross, to timelines fractured by borders drawn with rulers and greed, to ancestors whose...

They thought power lived in titles, in stamped letters and locked offices— they forgot fire does not resign. They tried to exile truth from the party room, to drown courage in polite applause and staged unity. But some men arrive already allergic to lies. Sifuna spoke when silence was profitable. He stood when kneeling was rewarded. He named the rot even when the house was still smiling. They took away the chair, thinking the voice would sit down with it. They miscalculated— you do not sack an echo from the mountains of the people. Now the streets are awake. The nation is leaning forward. From factory floors to lecture halls, from dust roads to digital squares, a million throats borrow his courage. This is not defiance— this is duty. This is a man reminding Kenya that leadership is not loyalty to comfort, but loyalty to conscience. In this new dawn, we will listen. Not to rehearsed promises, but to the voice that chose truth over survival.

The chalice meant for celebration Was lifted in borrowed faith, Not brewed in malice or temptation, But hope, too eager, sealed its fate. I wish it shattered at my feet Before my lips consented wrong— Now ash rehearses on my tongue As heaven and hell dispute my song. Had I been schooled in ancient vows, A monk of Athens or of Rome, I’d bless the cup with careful brows Before I named its poison home. Will they mourn, knowing I agreed To fate disguised as honest wine? Or laugh, then bury guilt in soil Where ignorance blooms red with time? Let truth not fracture at the grave, Nor history revise my name. Let goodness stand, unbought, unbraved, Though rumor plays its petty game. For though my stay was brief to some, I healed where silence used to be— A passing remedy, perhaps, But still an act of efficacy. If this be where the curtain falls, Midway through promised happiness, Then count my thoughts as fertile fields Awaiting joy in lateness. I am not courting death by will— Let ...