Bunguswa Writes.

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...

I might have tried, not good like the rising sun, to overcome what couldn't be overcame. I've battled it to the last breathe, while dying will not be proof of my effort; when gone they'll say I gave up, when giving up was the only option. How does it feel when one fails? Failing is a term too cloudy! But in a battle you are bound to win; albeit the reverses of negative energy. When overwhelmed you can be defeated; enduring pain that's unknown to winners, when overwhelmed you can be defeated, of much annoyance it can be to your spectators. But how does it feel to be defeated, when dedicated you've been to winning? I am not giving up when the latter is an option. I am not dying even though it is a battle for life. But who'll tell people if I die trying? We know not you tried your best they'll say. We've seen many surrender to death they'll intone . But dying I don't want to die! When my dream hasn't come off my sleep. Death I don...

Remember when I could sing, in a resounding melody, of your name? Tall you grew but for my song, crippled was my name in so cheap fame. My melody grew wiser and tender; massaging your poison-appled heart to the core. Like a pianist's fingers that are slender, I yearned for my melody softer you'd grow. But again you waved a ticket to a Piper's heart, lighting a rather girlish grin on my face. I cleared a froggy-becoming throat- that once exalted you in a reaffirmed world space. Amazed be not, if my melody will twist: piercing to the bosom of your heart- to contravene your never-rivaled peace. ©Bunguswa Brian™

You shuttered my dream before I rose- you must have kept vigil in my mind. But you forgot to inter the optimism; I thus dust my knees, and rise toward the morning sun- like a desert flower, over the sandstorms I'll not cower.  Had you slept in my mind: you'd have shared the dream, you'd have shaped the hope, but solemn insomniac gave you away- to shred the vision to pieces. Blankly we stare at the bare sky; the abyss, embracing the blinking hope. If our tears should sour  the bosom of our hearts, like rain water on a rotting thatch, the weed will bloom. If sour rain should blanket our eyes, depriving us the nourishment; thirsting us frail, then, brace no more to wail. © Bunguswa Brian ™

Nangekhe , the little one of my mother; we call her small - every whim of hers gets us on toes. When Nangekhe coughs, a glass of water is at her reach, to water her dry throat; a throat that never spares us when mama returns. Nangekhe is papa's heart, her shrill gets papa on twos as if he's hurt- retorting as though the eagle has snatched his chicken. This beautiful Nangekhe, small and treasured- like a lone quail's egg. Yes, little Nangekhe always a guest at papa's table. She shares in papa's plate; we? our stomachs grambles-  salivates for dinner's remains. Nangekhe supervises our bathing, and to mama she narrates,  how we throw water- to escape cold that pierces like a sharp needle. Today in turns we carry Nangekhe to church, holding our breathe we do, for Nangekhe we must be strong- to have a better day before the creator. © Bunguswa Brian ™

Do not cry, look at the hazy sky and say goodbye. Do not mourn, at your whims to curse the unkown- look at my still frame and smile, for in laughter you'll be condoled for a while. When I'm gone, reminisce the shared bone; that lit our once sullen faces, when joy was in meagre traces. Inter the bones but keep my name, to live for posterity in fame. As you intone dust to dust, reconcile me with my past- recollecting the good; and, the bad abound, sealing my nobility not so deep in the mound. But when the red mound starts to fade into the earth, let good memories be an after mirth. ©Bunguswa Brian™

My brother read the white wisdom, of men and women overseas- and he called it a civilized civilisation. He says he crossed oceans, in a flying motoka° he ate, drunk, danced and dined with the whites; these baby-skinned creatures. My brother came back a white in black skin, on the village walk-ways he avoided dirt darkened handshakes; that previously shared in his plate of posho° This civilized brother, looking at my bare feet with disgust- he forgets my sweet native name, he calls me Nanii°- so he does my language. He speaks through the nose, as though with a cold in a rainy August- when roast corn is our daily bread. ©Bunguswa Brian™

The grave at the back lay further, it housed the father to my grandfather. It was unattended, guarded by shrubs and not cemented. My father said it was a tradition, living in modernity was a complete fiction. So a ritual was conducted- embracing great grandpa and the affected. On this day they slaughtered a goat, sojourning at the graveyard for a feast. busaa was siphoned from the magical gourd; and the mirth after was evident of a people misguided. His name was invoked, repeatedly to cushion him from the piercing cold. Wangila was great grandpa’s name, so I am, sharing his character and fame; no more proof for reincarnation, my existence was an adequate affirmation. In great grandpa I lived; in me he exists, life after death. © Bunguswa Brian™

We drank from the same pot; of the clean and dirty, quenching our thirst- jointly succumbing to stomach upsets. Mindless we swum in a frosty ocean: the murky waters, turbulent waves, oblivious of imminent drowning. We've exchanged the cockpit, and above the clouds rejoiced- over the beautifully beautified gardens below, illusioned for a safe landing. In conjoint oblivion we say goodbye: to the faulty plane, the beautiful-dirty pot; and the murky waters- to an end so near. ©Bunguswa Brian™

It was sommer better waiting in limbo. When solace and solitude embraced tenderly and serenity resoundingly echoed his brother peace. We smiled- but then missed what we never had. We hated honey for the bees stung, and the gods scarced the nectar; hunger shrinking our potbellies. The gods returned, swallowing what we chewed- intering appetised souls day by day. In our wailing,  we cursed what we knew not. © Bunguswa Brian™

The heavy cloud of dust swept across the street, firm on the ground we held our feet. The land was dry, the gods had rejected our cry. Desperate were the urchins, on street walls they held their chins. No one to drop a coin of fortune, no moment to them was opportune. The little ones shead tears, But at parentage were their peers; nothing to feed on, nothing to sleep on, So in unison they cry- desperately till their tears run dry. Then, a dark cloud appeared in the horizon. The blazing mid-day sun retired to the clouds, dry leaves and litter scattered in the stormy winds. The urchins ran for shelter, nothing descent than the street gutter. Heavy drops! Expectant hopes! Thick rivers on the street, it rained. ©Bunguswa Brian™

He'd shone bright that morning, when dew on the morning grass glittered bright; and our primrose child smiled beautifully. But profound darkness engulfed my sun, casting blurred rays of doom. My sun disappeared in the heavy cloud- sufforcated he must have been; he cried, a silent cry that washed my strength away. I wanted to help but couldn't, a mid showers of his tears, I mourned, who killed my sun? ©Bunguswa Brian™

I am a gardener, I trim and water roses greener. Tulips and morning glory intones my name- with my bruises and cuts I've gardened to fame, crying not for a tattered soul; tattooed with my red leaving my skin coal, for I look at the rising sun -and to their ambience I touch gently like a fading moon. My roses are fulfilling- mending broken hearts to loving, yet I know not the joy of a dancing heart mine skips rhythm with so much hurt, but I relent not in care giving; for man's antidote is resident in my gardening. © Bunguswa Brian™

Vagaries and vagrancy attracts no fame, intoned by many in speech as a word game. Poor me, on the isolated street walkways I stride, head bent; in tatters with no pride. arm-stretched I beg, to casual onlookers I'm just vague; some stare at me in total spite, my future frazzled never to be great. With my wreked frame I walk in anger, eaten nothing, my belly bites with hunger. So from a vendor I snatch a fruit, to bribe hunger that's so brute but then, every stool pigeon picks a stone- these stooges for the rich, our normal street rules they breach. With my frail steps I have to run, but with an affirmation that my end has begun. ©Bunguswa Brian™  

Harmony and balance are rare, every hue is a construed truth. But truth is strange; Shreds hearts into pieces, truth is bitter- wrecks harvoc a mid tranquility. Our whims reign supreme, resigning hopes to desperation. Love, life and hatred are in delicacy of our palms, our universe dots with anger; tongues lashing bitter manifestations  of our dumpen hearts, so we speak, sing and dànce- to the destructive tune of our lives. But then, our qualms are never a hinderance, to the cutting trap that leaves out open in red. Mocked intelligence fills our air; stuffy! Self importance distorts  the future of reason. Stepping back we've sworn not to, as we inter our souls- in pits dug by our ignorance: Destroyed. © Bunguswa Brian™

It was a training session, one in a rare occasion. She held me by her hand- arms interlocked; into the arena, 'walked without fears abound. But I felt my air escape, As on my four I crawled like an ape. The pain was unforgiving, I was helpless; deep down, I was dying. Master broke my rib, With a jolly face, she watched me whisked in the fragile crib.  I might be crippled, maybe to death, if shortly I'll not regain my breath. Should I succumb to a lung injury, allow me rest in cursory. Permit not master's dance on my  grave, to mock my spirit that wasn't so brave. But tears! Master saw my tears, dying, I had manifested innate fears in tears. These tears spoke of my rib's pain- when my lung was ripped in disdain. Was I wrong to cry, to let out pain that left me dry? The pain; the fear of death- now, think of my heaven in depth; think of my Chinese or Indian heaven, where broken ribs and torn lungs find it a haven; only to return in solemn silence- that sil...

Rhythmic chain-beats soothed the song, Mulongo had been sang for a distance so long. Half-naked, painted chalk-white, I danced to the tune with no fright. The processional singers led me to uncle Mukhebi , Omukhebi was a circumcisor; often dressed in shabby. Uncle was mama's senior brother, but to her he hauled insults with no bother. "Our son, don't be a cowered like women. In our clan bravery is written on our chests as men. Tomorrow you will face omukhebi's  knife, stand still son. Don't shame the pride of my life." He smeared stench dang on my chest, breathing faintly, unblinking, I stood a'rest. Dangling in my neck was a ball of meat, reminiscent of uncle's love since we met. So the soloist called the tune, jubilant villagers reiterating in a solid tone. "HAAHO! HAHO! HAHOOO!" it could be heard from a distance, exhausted, I danced on giving pain no chance. The journey to manhood bad just begun, uncle was ecstatic, stupefie...