Bunguswa Writes.

Even though you're hurt; son, take heart. Do not wail, some day all will be well. Confront today with a jolly face  and before destiny present your case. They say it's all predetermined. This sucks, our efforts are undermined; when we can't move for fate's sake, and our pure dreams to the gutters we take. Listen and rise up for tomorrow, dust your knees, stand tall and you'll grow. Even though you're broken, again rise up, face the sky, float like a plane- to your destiny the winds of hope will blow, fate and tomorrow will embrace, shine and glow. Shed tears to the core of your heart, they build strength to battle the hurt. ©Bunguswa Brian ™

My dad drove through the gate furiously. I calmly sat in the back seat, my eyes clouded with tears. I heard people wail. They cursed it in the strongest terms. I didn't know the car had stopped, until my father opened the door and stretched his arm at me.  "Son, we're home. Let's go to the house." He held me by the shoulder and led me to the house. People stood in clusters. Their cries had subsided when they saw us come in. Everyone remained motionless. Some looked at me with pitiful eyes. It was as I no life stirred.  In the house; my aunt, Jackie, sank in her seat oblivious of our arrival. She was more affected than I was. She was completely lost in her thoughts.  "Maria, kindly lead us in a hymn and pray." Mama intoned in horse voice.  Maria, a notable lady in our church cleared her throat and began. For I dare not go alone,  I must feel his presence near me And his arms around me thrown. Then my soul shall fear no ill Let him lead me wher...

In the many fields of heaven he runs With the sun, roses and wild flowers He quotes dreams of his given days and loves all, all the hours. He lived, he slept, he loved he wept for every single breath he said be long,for his will was strong we'll wait for him in death. Growing, he spent time by our side He never truly left our place and he wished us a big life Within his up most grace. He lived, he slept, he loved he kept a close eye to our hearts for all the wildest flowers and the sun Gathered none to part. He is the glory of our days, in particular those of the Rising star, for all the beauty that he possessed, was a flower all but one. His grace and love lives on beyond the timing of his death, for we are strong and so be long, he gave us his last breath. FARE THEE WELL DIRECTOR EDDIE. © Bunguswa Brian ™

Chapter one . I reminisce my meeting with Camillah as one of the greatest epics of my life. When I was shortlisted as one of the competitors in "Nurturing a contemporary writer," a writing competition sponsored by the University of Nairobi, my aim was to emerge the best of the junior writers of that time. The competition was aimed at nurturing contemporary authorship of the short story, as a fast growing genre of written art. As we sat in the auditorium where the winner would be announced, anxiety was evident on everyone's face. Next to me was a beautiful young lady. She was calm and composed.  Loose, wavy brown hair hang down to her shoulders. She had a fringe over her forehead that almost hid her beautiful brown eyes. I loved her nose, definitely it was her best feature-pointed and beautiful. She had a set of regular cristle white teeth and she was full-lipped. Her fragrance and dressing heightened her status in society. She was a noble. Camillah was simply ...

Amuliodo! Daughter of her mother; why hold your waste for my elders? Before my elders you've messed, on toes of our ancestors you've stepped- when I'd have talked you out on this.  Daughter of her mother; see now! Cleansing, I'm told you need be, to purely purify you in our ways. But now where is the black goat? Had the priest demanded a sheep, of your swinging waste we'd make a black sheep. Daughter of her mother; how cursed is thy waste? Daughter of her mother, elders murmur in hushed tones; of my neighbor breaking your limb, but on your two you're standing- swinging it on a disabled hind quarter. Daughter of her mother, why the unseen limb, broken yet rocky hills you climb.  Before the ritual tomorrow, elders say you should cook. Daughter of her mother, cook! That I should eat and mend the broken limb. Amuliodo; cook! But remember not my neighbor, My ship will no longer deck in his harbour. ©Bunguswa Brian™

The village stream is boiling, fish and river reeds are dying- but our food baskets are yonder the stream. For generations the stream has been pure; we drunk and bathed in its flow of cure, but our stream is boiling- and the future blurring. Our stream was cold with a gentle flow, lush were its banks that could glow. Now hot and rushy like a desert snake, bites but no cure for our wounds. Are the mountain gods angry, when king and kin are appetized and hungry? But our baskets are yonder the boiling stream. If to hunger we will succumb; or yield to thirst that's come, remember our baskets yonder the boiling stream. © Bunguswa Brian ™

Deep tears under the sea; burns but no one can see, nor feel or touch the soaked face. Tears under the sea are a haemorrhage- that breaks men with character and image, and smolders them to the bone; flesh without and thin. Tears under the sea blinds the mind; binds the soul to a devil of its kind, interring hope when the day's fecund. Tears under the sea conceal fears, of life's ambers that are fierce- brooding tragedy within, that knows no master or king. I'll shed tears under the mid-day sun, blurring but mild like the moon, that shines for mine star to thrive. ©Bunguswa Brian ™

Uncut, wholly you've eaten the cake, now another one you can't bake. You can't eat and have it- it's all lost to your zest. You chewed and swallowed in haste devoid of our ancient feast. You'd have waited, at least for my sake. Though I might leave, with me an empty shell I take. It's oft° sweet when cut by a maiden; but you've left me crumbs that are forbidden, meagre for my peacock stature- and another cake you can't bake for the future. Although your whims have reigned, before life's wrath you will be arraigned. ©Bunguswa Brian ™

Not every promise is a bed of roses; roses too have thorns that pierces- and we know time heals, but times change sometimes time kills, wrecking bonds once golden. But stormy seas have calm moments, like a dull sky that craves for the morning sun, our goosebumps will be smooched. We've gardened roses, our palms intones anguish of the thorns- thus, arms interlocked we walk, United over thorns and ripe roses: Now and forever. © Bunguswa Brian ™

                                   Chilled by the still morning,            unmoved,           the weather wàs sad-                  to the untamed            came the reverbration so famed.         I thought it was chilly,      to wear a jacket so warm-   to cover a borny frame,  weightless!      But the  jacket was penetrative;    cold caught my lungs chilling  me to contraction,     to suffocation,       albeight the heavy armour.            Now the sun might rise,        so the jacket I'll get off;          but I'm shrunk-                 ...

                It could have been enjoyed,         not in malice-      but with joy undelayed.      From my arm it should have slid,        before a gulp I took,           from the poisoned chalice.            Had I been a monk,       of the ancient Greece-     I'd have prayed before; to pacify the turbulent sea.  Will they mourn?     Will they?       Will they laugh and scorn?         The ignorance will be interred,      may the truth never be impugned,    for the past to shield the legacy.       Let the good be undecampaigned;          for my sorjourn to many was an efficacy.             Should this be the end;     ...

I've laughed, smiled and cried.       Yes! For the unseen-           for the imagined.     I've penned in red, I've oft° implored my mind to think- beyond memories that hold, truths and lies once lived. I've once penned and shredded the mind        to pieces of their kind;   the unheard,    the untold-       the good, bad and ugly. Amid the unrelenting drizzle;   rhythmic with the dancing pen,    I reminisce.     I echo the memory-       when smiles warmed frozen hearts. ©Bunguswa Brian ™

If I should never see you, like a rose that blooms at night; to wither when time's not right, then, cleanse my tears with the morning dew. Your glamour I've seen in the dawn dream; a dream that dissolutions the day, and I pray, if for my sins I've to pay, let me see the rose blossom. To a beautiful hedge you're curved, dear Rose- amid cataracts for mine sun never rise, welcoming a new dawn so frazzled. Dear rose that thrives in the night, Witness my heart's toughest fight. ©Bunguswa Brian™

I've seen them cry, wail and pry- but where do their tears go, for the happiness they forego? Behind sullen eyes manifests grief- of hearts ladden with sadness not so brief. And the cry emerges again, surging with bitterness and pain. Where do men's tears fall? Behind hilltops like mock rainfall? Or behind their eyes, like melted ice? I search my mind, to understan a mystery of its kind; men's tears- a manifestation of great fears. They always will cry, to soften hearts cold and dry; of the tender feelings- oft° absent in life's happenings. To oblivion they've been consigned, pittied by those never concerned. They wail in silent lamentation; with hearts engulfed in deformation, and the repurcasions are tragic- if embers of love were once intrinsic. ©Bunguswa Brian™

The skeleton in my closet's shrunk. I've added a pound of flesh; I've grown an appetite greater, so you can tone up the lashing- of a tongue that excites my anguish. I've added a pound of flesh, from the oasis of your sainthood. Pardon I if I've left you a skeleton, I crave not for the snow or white cotton- but for you to have a test, for the skeleton in your closet. I've grown an appetite greater; my weight's now better, mightier to be blown- by the wind that impedes my muse. ©Bunguswa Brian ™

The epitaph epitomised epic life lived, his demice marking end of an epoch. The era was marked, with no good but bad abound. No one mourned, for the epitaph spoke. The epitaph was well-penned; right and left, on the tombstone it stilled- solid. A rose it was, but thorny were interred memories- Gone. We wished not for the after-thoughts, the good, the bad, the ugly. The torment that engulfed tormented hearts, covered in red earth,  we extirpated the unwanted. Now we might sigh, not with relief, nor grief- but with an affirmation its a past; like time, that tick tacks, going-not returning. ©Bunguswa Brian™

If I had a right to life; I'd unbuilt myself- to rabbles irreparable, exterpating pain that's unbearable. I'd feel no more pain, nor succumb to destruction again. Uprooting the chaff I would; to let the unwanted off. Dear God, take me away as this life on a balance sway, let me survive not for others' fun- to giggle at me with disguised frowns. ©Brian Bunguswa™

Of the past I admire but it isn't nostalgia, for today I'm not proud I forgot this culture. Look at me, unpredictable with no vision for the future, where is the culture that adorned my past with stature? Maybe thrown to the gutters, irretreavable; in shumbles and tatters. Today I make a turn not so good but bold, to attach my name to a stronghold- where men and women treasure their roots as gold, Whereas mine litters the goldmines already sold. To my ancestors I shall return, even though they exist not, my heritage I'll earn. I'll have secured my posterity when I'll be gone; to avade a cultural crisis that's unknown. Listen to my second name that's unheard of, in it engulfed is grandpa's epitaph. From today I'll carry grandpa's name in admiration, maybe in my character and image we shared an imagination- fulfilling the mystery of reincarnation, at a time this thought was unheard of in our generation. ©Bunguswa Brian™.

I've read books with pages unending; trudged on this route with vast miles unwinding, I've looked at the blue sky, often beyond my eyes seeing- and I know how frosty the beautiful ocean is, at times impossible of swimming. But I forget not the journey that's broken my bark, albeit the cardinal rule of never looking back. I've witnessed rain bless my desert mind I know the storm that's once flooded my soul without limits abound. Detrimental has been my salty flow, even to the blind; for an ulcer begs not for a lemon drop even for a second. Listen as I recount my heart and mind's rhythm, Conflicted, dancing to life's destructive whim. I leak the wounds and curse the scars, from seasons I've shed tears that blurs beckoning scorn from those who never cares, of the blinding pain of the two rivers. They're always salty, catastrophic in their abundance to a journey already faulty. I look not beyond my eyes, over this cold sea that warm air flies...

When I sit under the mango tree; breathing air that's free- I oft° smile at the whirling wind, wishing away the turbulence in my mind. When I listen to the morning joke, off my neck I unchain the yoke- this that weighs bow my bony frame; so I smile not to impress, but my anger to tame. I greet not with a sullen face, even though I've known no peace. I've a consuming flame within; embers of anger smoulders me thin, but then, oft° revere the violence- resident in my silence. ©Bunguswa Brian™

Teach me. Don't tire reminding me- the core of humanity that knits me. Teach me the beauty  resident  in my silence; show me the light  silent loughter gifts the universe. Bless me with a soul, mind and heart  that reciprocates a slap  with a smile. Let me learn to touch, tenderly like a newborn. © Bunguswa Brian ™

When you made up your mind; that chilly morning, you bed me goodbye- albeit the piercing drizzle. My plea couldn't salvage you from the sharp, razor breeze, and in fright of losing a black Pearl, I dashed after you- only to be cuddled by utter numbness. At your nose-height, you peeped back in disguise. Like a serpent, you had chosen- along a cutting-trap to die bleeding. Frozen I was,  when I saw you socked in your red of a split body. Had I seen the trap; I'd have warned you, but loathsome as you were, could you have listened? ©Bunguswa Brian™

I am Mathew not Hamisi, call me Mwanaisha not Daisy. Listen to my cry brother, my unemployment should be a bother. Criminalize not my stay in Garissa, I strike with no alert in Mombasa. Brother! Judge not Omar by my curly hair; light skin Wanjala I maim and kill in black skin. To Raso you invited me for a tin of flour, in Hiirima I was a sparkling flower. And to Mogadishu I returned a soldier decorated, maimed in Mandera when tension escalated. I don’t want a comeback to kisimayu Eel Dibi my employer I warn you! I don’t want to kill, stop my recruiters in Mombasa ,I appeal. Extremism where is thy head and tail? You bite by the venomous Al-Qaeda, Al-shaabab gallops our youths via the porous border. extradite Maghreb of the Sahara, to rid our state of incitement to terror. Extirpate Mujahidin from territories of Kenya, and free our youths in Ugenya. Beat not the head nor tail, Boko Haram is a blind snake you will fail. Mama support my schooling the epicentre of critical think...