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For Echoes of war

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They came with boots louder than our drums, thinking silence could be stitched into our tongues. But our voices are wild rivers, and even when caged, water finds a crack. The script inked in defiance still breathes. We are not children scared of shadows— we are the shadow that grows teeth. They cuffed the playwright, not the pen, but a pen is never alone—it births storms. We watched them guard rehearsal rooms like gold vaults, forgetting memory lives in the marrow. The lines we learned in whispers still bloom in our mouths. You cannot handcuff a heartbeat. You cannot police the pulse of truth. Our stage is not theirs to gate. Each blocked entrance is a call to another door. What they ban becomes sacred. Every denied rehearsal is a revolution rehearsed in soul. They fear what the girls have become—mirrors. We reflect the rot, the rage, the reckoning. We are what they want erased. Echoes of war do not fade, they ferment. Every silence they force feeds the fire. This is not a ...
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Blood on the badge.

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A son of soil, voice of the street, Dragged from dawn into death’s deceit— Albert Ojwang, the name they silenced, Truth-teller caged in state's defiance. He held no gun, just words like fire, Scorching lies dressed in empire's attire, Yet cuffs clanged louder than his pen, And silence fell on brave young men. From Homa Bay's breeze to Nairobi's rot, They drove his body, soul forgot— No justice in that steel-tomb ride, Just sirens screaming truth had died. The badge was blood, the law was fear, He vanished into thin State air. No charge, no crime—just dared to speak, Now he lies cold for being meek. We ask you , Mr. President , look: How many more beneath your book? Does power swell when voices die? Do mothers' tears not make you cry? A father's hands built stone from dust, Dreams carved for sons in silent trust— Now all he holds is grief and rage, A coffin sealing youth and age. Kenya bleeds beneath your chair, And we will shout—we still dare! This l...
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I was the shelter, not the storm.

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She left like a match dropped in dry season, and called the fire “my temper.” Now her timeline blooms with thorns she names “my wounds,” each caption a soft lie dressed in lilies. I read them like weather reports of a storm I survived, wondering how the lightning learned my name, and why the rain keeps apologizing. I was the clay cup that held her thirst, yet she says I was the crack. She gathers sympathy like beads for a rosary of regrets, counting my flaws as prayers. But I remember the nights she borrowed my sunrise, then returned only the shadows, and said darkness was my design. Her posts are mirrors she polishes with blame, reflecting a man she never met. I am a river she crossed on her own reflection, then claimed the water drowned her. The world drinks her version like sweetened tea, while my truth sits, unsipped, cooling beside the memory of her hands. Let her rewrite the sky if it gives her peace, I have already learned the language of clouds. Pain is an ink that ...
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