Bunguswa Writes.

The night whispers, cloaked in fear, Children vanish like stars from the sky, Their cries are drowned by the roar of silence, As plainclothes walk with masks of lies. The president speaks, his voice a distant echo, "Let the youth be careful with their words," But the chains of truth are in his hands, Wrapped tight around the throat of the world. The streets are filled with shadows, Where hope once danced in the sun, Now only agony blooms in the hearts of mothers, As the cost of corruption weighs a ton. The economy stumbles, broken in the dust, While pockets are lined with stolen gold, The people’s tears are forgotten rivers, As the hungry grow tired and old. Yet, he promises again, "End it, I will, if they learn to behave," But who will stop the silence from feeding, The monsters he says they must brave? In the midst of a nation torn asunder, The truth lies heavy, a stone on the chest, Governance is a mirage in the distance, A leader who swears but bring...

Beneath the cobalt dome where shadows linger, I see your smile, a flame on the edge of memory's finger. Oh, Lynnet, you were the hymn my heart hummed In the unbroken dawn of youth, when we danced Through corridors of laughter, Chasing echoes that rippled like sunlight on water. Your name was a bird perched in my chest, Its wings unfurling with every heartbeat, A melody only I could hear, Yet now, its song is silenced by distance's cruel hand. We were rebels against the winds of fate, Planting dreams in fields our families forbade. But those dreams were plucked by storms, Their petals scattered in the ache of separation. Now, you wear another’s name, And I, a keeper of our yesterday. Your whispers find me like mist, “I miss you,” you say, a fragile confession That falls like rain on the parched plains of my soul. I miss you too— Not just the you of now, But the you that belonged to the golden haze of high school, The you that cradled my first fumbling love With hands...

Despite the cries that pierce the skies, The stolen dreams, the muffled sighs, The youth are vanished, one by one, Their shadows lost beneath the sun. A force in plainclothes prowls the land, With cold resolve and iron hand. The cries of mothers, fathers’ tears, Are drowned beneath their reign of fears. Yet still we rise, unbroken, strong, Our spirits blaze, they sing a song. You take our youth, but not our fight, Our hearts still burn with freedom’s light. O president, hear this nation’s plea, The chains you forge will never be. We will not rest, we will not tire, Until we quench this raging fire. The streets will echo with our call, Until your walls of silence fall. No mask can hide, no cloak conceal, The truth we know, the pain we feel. For every voice you try to still, A thousand more will climb the hill. We’ll fight with courage, hope, and grace, Until justice finds its rightful place. © Bunguswa ™

In the hollow of my chest, a storm brews quiet, A thunder without sound, a flame that cannot riot. The moonlight falls like shattered glass, Painting my solitude with shards that pass. The road before me bends into mist, Each step a whisper, each breath a fist. The one I cherish is a ghost in the air, A silhouette of longing, a love laid bare. Loneliness, the cruel artist, carves its lines, Etching the silence with aching designs. The wind hums songs I cannot sing, A melody of loss, a tear on its string. Yet even in this hollow, I find a spark, A fleeting glow in the deepest dark. Though much is broken, undone, and awry, The stars still gather to light the sky. So, I write my sorrow, let it bleed, Words like rivers, meeting my need. For somewhere within this shadowed art, Lies the seed of hope—a mending heart. ©Bunguswa™

In the shadowed streets where whispers grow, A silent scream begins to flow. Young voices rise, then fall away, Stolen by night, turned cold by day. Chains unseen now bind the land, Freedom crushed beneath cruel hands. Dreams are drowned where rivers meet, Blood stains the ground beneath our feet. Our cries are thunder, yet you do not hear, Justice buried deep in fear. A nation mourns, its heart laid low— Dear President, let our people go. Like leaves in a storm, they vanish and fade, Lives uprooted, promises betrayed. The law stands blind, its scales untrue, Truth strangled by the will of the few. But even in silence, our spirit remains, Hope rising stronger than shackles or chains. For every voice you seek to still, A thousand more will rise with will. Dear President, let our people go, Restore the light, let justice show. For a land in chains can never be free, And freedom's call will roar like the sea. © Bunguswa ™

In the shadowed halls where justice sleeps, A heavy silence, its promise keeps. Gideon drew with ink of truth, Peter spoke with the fire of youth. Now their voices, stolen by night, Flicker faint, like a dying light. The lion roars, but its roar is hollow, A throne built high on pain we swallow. Chains unseen, yet we feel their weight, Dreams crushed beneath the hand of hate. Oh, the song of freedom, a ghostly tune, Drowned beneath this regime's monsoon. In the land where rivers ran bold, Now blood runs colder than the gold. A courtless trial, a voiceless plea, A nation shackled, longing to be free. Who will answer the cries of the lost? What price do we pay? What is the cost? The quill of the cartoonist now lies still, A weapon feared more than the kill. The tongues of dissent, they seek to bind, But can you silence the storm in the mind? For even in darkness, the truth shall rise, A spark ignites beneath the skies. Dear president, your palace of glass may gleam, But c...

They said you were friends, a bond unbroken, Words exchanged, promises softly spoken. Kevin, a dreamer, to Nakuru he came, Chasing whispers of fortune, lit by hope’s flame. Seth, the host, with a sly, serpent smile, Offered a welcome, drowned in deceit's guile. "Come, let us drink, let us toast to your start, To the job I’ve prepared, to your trusting heart." Beers flowed like rivers under a midnight moon, Laughter danced in the shadows too soon. Kevin, unaware, walked paths of fate, Into the night, through betrayal’s gate. Home they returned, silence thickened the air, A blade glinted cold, stripping trust bare. Seth struck with fury, a dark, vicious flame, And left Kevin lifeless, draped in crimson shame. Oh, what beast awakens in man’s hidden shade, That friendship’s sanctity is cruelly betrayed? The walls bore witness, the night held its breath, As innocence drowned in the depths of death. Now a family weeps, the year’s light grows dim, A chorus of pain si...

Rashid sat in his small apartment, the dim light from his laptop casting shadows on the walls. The article that had put him in the spotlight, “ Constance: The Predator Behind the Fame,” had stirred a storm. It wasn’t just the exposé that made him famous but the courage it took to write it. Constance, the celebrated athlete, had turned his charisma into a weapon, preying on vulnerable college girls. Rashid’s investigation had brought the truth to light, leading to Constance’s prosecution. The aftermath, however, wasn’t easy. Rashid had received death threats and lived in fear of retribution. That was until the National Intelligence Service (NIS) reached out with an offer that would change his life forever. Rashid met Agent Kamau in a nondescript café downtown. Kamau, a man in his late forties with sharp eyes and a calm demeanor, slid a manila envelope across the table. “We’ve been following your work,” Kamau said, his voice low but firm. “Your exposé on Constance showed you...

Beneath the crushing weight of the night, Where dreams wilt under shadows’ might, I have walked paths that tore my feet, Yet whispered hope where pain would meet. The winds howled harsh, a mournful tune, The sun betrayed me far too soon, But still, I held my fragile flame, For storms don’t last, nor skies stay the same. The soil drank tears where seeds were sown, Roots tangled deep in fears unknown, Yet whispered leaves through rain and strain, “We shall rise, again.” Bruised by burdens, scarred by loss, Life’s crooked road, a bitter cross, Still, rivers carve their way through stone, So shall I, though winds have blown. The echoes of despair may call, Mocking each rise, each hopeful fall, But mountains bow when hearts remain, Determined to rise, again. And when the dawn unfolds its grace, Wiping the night from every face, The broken, bruised, shall wear their pain, Like golden crowns in endless reign. For though we struggle, bend, and cry, We’ll climb through storms that b...

They say love is a kind of freedom. It unshackles you, allows your soul to soar beyond what the eye can see. For me, love did precisely that. But it also built a cage—an invisible prison of longing, regret, and shattered dreams. My name is Rashid, and this is my story of how a beautiful love transformed into a haunting incarceration. It began on a rainy afternoon, in the middle of a crowded bookstore. The scent of damp pages and freshly brewed coffee hung heavy in the air. I was thumbing through a collection of old poetry when I first saw her. She was standing by the window, her eyes scanning the spines of books as if each one held a secret meant for her alone. She wore a green dress, the color of new leaves after a storm, and her dark hair cascaded down her back like a midnight river. I don’t know what possessed me that day, but I walked up to her, my heart pounding so loud I feared she'd hear it. "Looking for something special?" I managed to ask. Her eyes me...

Rashid stood on the edge of the university courtyard, eyes drifting toward the low, grey clouds gathering above. The afternoon air was thick, as if holding its breath. In the distance, literature students debated beneath the jacaranda trees, their voices a melody of intellect and passion. He had once belonged to that world, a place where ideas flourished, but now everything felt distant—like a half-remembered poem. Sharon emerged from the lecture hall, her slender frame framed by the door's wooden arc. Her simple elegance caught the soft light of the sinking sun, and for a moment, Rashid felt time pause. Her steps were measured, delicate, as though she glided above the ground. It was that grace, the quiet beauty in her silence, that had first captivated him. He pushed away his troubled thoughts, forcing a smile as he walked to her. "Let me walk you to the hostel?" he offered, his voice strained but steady. She nodded, her lips curving into that rare smile, a r...

Upon this day, where sun and ink align, A guiding star was born, whose steady beam Lit labyrinths of language, line by line, And steered my soul across the endless stream. Your voice, a river murmuring with lore, Awoke the quiet verses in my veins; Each word a seed you sowed, then so much more— A root, a branch, a thought that breaks its chains. You breathed in paper clouds and gave them flight, Your eyes, twin lanterns on the path of prose; A midwife to my muse, who lent me sight, To birth the dreams I dared not to compose. So may your birthday unfold in endless rhyme, For you are the architect of written time. © Bunguswa ™

Dear Shalvin , In dawn’s delicate cradle, you once bloomed, Soft petals of obedience, kissed by the gentle sun, A melody whispered from hearts to heavens, You smiled — an enchanting hymn, a tender balm, Now silence threads through the weft of our song, An ache too young to have borne its sorrow. Shalvin, you walked among verses, stitching stories of light, Eyes alight with hope, tracing lines of wonder, Each word you spoke, a feathered stroke on time's canvas, Yet time betrayed us, tore your script too soon — The ink still glistening, the pages still turning, Yet here we stand, where the story’s breath falters. Choral notes hang — heavy, unfinished chords, Your voice, once bright, now haunts the hollow air, We search for echoes among the memories, But echoes flee where only shadows dance, The choir stands, shivering in an empty dawn, Yearning for warmth only your smile could bring. You, who wore grace as twilight wears its hues, Left fingerprints upon our fragile hearts...

When I look at a congregation that listens, my mind is oft miles away, anchored to storms the preacher can't calm, adrift on seas the sermon won't sway. I sit with the faithful, but my thoughts scatter like seeds on barren clay. The choir's voices rise like incense, their harmony a ladder to some heaven I can't reach. I see mouths moving, hands raised, eyes shut tight, while my own heart aches beneath a silent breach. Their prayers weave tapestries of hope, mine unravel — a tangled mess I cannot teach. The Word rains down, sharp as arrows, aiming to pierce doubt, shatter despair. But my mind is a broken window, the message flies through, vanishing into thin air. I am here, but not here, a shadow seated, but lost elsewhere. I ponder my troubles with a bowed head, not in reverence, but in resignation’s clasp. The pulpit calls for faith, for surrender, for joy, but these feel like smoke I cannot grasp. The promises of light feel distant, as I wrestle with darkn...

By Bunguswa Brian I. Silence— A still pond, rippling beneath unseen winds. Whispers weave into the tapestry of dusk, Ancient echoes threading the void, Where words falter, the truth finds breath. In the absence of sound, A chorus of meanings waits. II. Darkness carries it softly, A muted breeze brushing your thoughts. The quiet holds mirrors, Reflecting what lips dare not speak. Empty, you think, but no— It cradles secrets like a mother holds her child, Eyes closed, but seeing everything. III. There’s a rhythm beneath the hush, The pulse of unspoken confessions. Listen— To the tick-tock of your heartbeat, A metronome measuring regret and wonder. In that space where noise cannot follow, Silence answers with a knowing nod. IV. When the world retreats behind its shutters, Questions dance in shadows. The void swells with unsaid syllables, Filling cracks in your doubts. It hums of forgotten wisdom, The language of stars unseen by day, Waiting for eyes brave enough to look. V. Be...

Today, we drape the sky with flags, Colors bleed hope, as drums beat loud — But beneath the noise, an aching silence, Where scalpel-wielding hands fold into fists, Healers striking against empty promises, Their oaths suffocating under unpaid bills. Millions of shillings bloom into banners, Fireworks flare while pockets tear, The horizon bursts in dazzling hues, Yet classrooms crumble, walls whispering collapse, A university choked by greed, The root rot concealed by unity slogans, Ethnic vines wrapping around funds, Squeezing life until knowledge gasps. Independence — sixty years heavy, The word hangs hollow as shadows lengthen, Masked figures sweep dissent off the streets, Where freedom is cuffed and bundled into dark vans, Liberty gagged by the very hands That once lifted the flag. And still, women scream beneath the stars — Their cries lost in clouds of tear gas, Justice disperses like smoke, Arrests scribbled over their grief, While the dead still whisper from graves un...

They lay beneath the sky of twilight's veil, A breath unbroken, a heart that does not fail. Eyes closed gently by night's tender hand, Dreams tucked in shadows, ambitions unmanned. Their stories etched in invisible ink, Hopes threaded through cracks, on the edge of the brink. Labour's rough hands clutch empty air, Toil whispers promises — but none to spare. They built castles in their weary minds, Brick by brick, though the mortar unwinds. In silence, they fought storms without a sound, Carrying weight that pulled their spirits down. When sleep’s velvet tide swept over their frame, Their struggle forgot to give struggle a name. They sailed on dreams, soft as a cloud, Not knowing the night would weave them a shroud. For life has a cruel, muted refrain, A choir that hums songs of quiet pain. Some walk unseen, through trenches alone, Footprints fade where no seeds are sown. Last night, health dressed them in calm disguise, Breaths unaware of final goodbyes. Who kne...

In the cradle of frames and echoes, Where shadows dance on silver screens, There rises a hand that shapes the unseen— A sculptor of moments, a weaver of dreams. Robdee Walela, your name rolls like a river, Coursing through the veins of eager youth, You take raw voices, tremors of vision, And cradle them gently in the arms of truth. Director by title, yet more than a title— A compass for the lost, a spark for the dim, Scriptwriter of destinies, editor of futures, You cut away doubt and let brilliance brim. Through the lens, your eyes see potential, Where others glimpse merely the blur of the crowd, You magnify whispers to thunderous echoes, And craft silent talents to speak strong and proud. In your forge, young artists are embers ignited, Songs become rivers, stories find flight. Marketer of hope, champion of voices, You paint every canvas with purpose and light. Robdee, your work, a bridge through the chaos, A beacon where creativity learns how to stand. Rwana Online TV—yo...

The oracle rises, robed in flame, The pulpit echoes a truth untamed, The winds of justice now uncoil, A nation groans beneath the soil. Ancient tongues have found their place, To challenge shadows in high space, A whisper loud, a thunder deep, For hearts that wake while others sleep. Where is the crown that bears the weight, Of voices silenced by the state? Our streets are swept by foreign hands, Ghosts that haunt these battered lands. Citizens vanish, night consumes, The air is choked with heavy fumes, Yet silence from the throne remains, A barren echo — empty reigns. Sellout echoes in the halls, The gilded chair no longer calls, For duty bound by sacred oath, A leader's word, a nation’s growth. Instead, defiance dressed in pride, The voice of people cast aside, The mirror cracks — who shall reflect? When power’s face forgets respect. Sovereignty like misty morn, A flag now torn, a people worn. The stranger's boots imprint the ground, Yet justice sleeps without a s...

The moon hangs like a guilty lantern, Spilling secrets onto the battlefield's canvas. Shadows crawl, not of men but of intentions, Each whisper a dagger, each silence a noose. Promises crafted in polished halls, Now rot in the mud where truth lies buried. "Serve your nation," they chant with fervor, But the anthem’s tune twists, Dancing to the rhythm of hidden purses. The trenches murmur with voices unseen, A congress of ghosts and conscience. "We fight for a flag," the soldier recalls, But whose colors? Whose emblem? Whose profit? Blood stains the soil, Its worth weighed not in lives but in ledger lines. Every bullet fired a receipt for the rich, Every sacrifice, a footnote for the forgotten. At night, the stars become spies, Eyes watching, recording, betraying. "Keep silent," they warn, For the walls have ears And the wind carries more than dust. They fear the soldier’s tongue, That unguarded weapon sharper than bayonets. Each word unshea...

(For Dr. Jairus Omuteche) The river sang its cruel hymn, A dirge of depths where light turns dim. Your wisdom now a drifting star, Your voice silent, yet echoes far. Dear Lord here I am, take me, Where rivers cradle eternity. The ink you spilled was not in vain, Your words like seeds will rise again. Yet waters claimed your mortal frame, A scholar’s fire quenched, untamed. Dear Lord here I am, take me, To shores where truth flows endlessly. The wind laments through hollow reeds, A requiem for unsown seeds. Your lessons linger, burning bright, Yet shadows fall where once was light. Dear Lord here I am, take me, Into the arms of infinity. The books you touched now bow in grief, Their spines weighed down with disbelief. The quills grow still, the paper mourns, For rivers drown what wisdom warns. Dear Lord here I am, take me, To realms where souls are finally free. Your laughter danced like the morning rain, Now stolen by this dark refrain. The river weeps, the earth stands sti...

Beneath the iron sky, a man in a crown, Proclaims his flock as lost, weighed down. He chants of demons lodged in their bones, For daring to question the golden throne. "Why howl for bread when the jet sings loud? Why drag your feet through this earthly crowd? Your wounds are your own, your cries misplaced, For wings of steel must not be disgraced." Yet the earth groans under the burden of drought, Hospitals echo with the silence of doubt. Coins turn to dust, the air thick with despair, While shadows snatch voices that dare declare. "You speak of airports as though they were sins, But who among you has walked their winds? A land of fields, of sweat and toil, Should bow to the glory of tarmac and oil." But the earth remembers the taste of blood, From fields once green, now soaked in mud. The hands that built this gilded stage, Now blister and crack in quiet rage. Oh, crown of thorns, oh, gilded decay, The people bear scars you cannot display. Their eyes se...

In the cradle of childhood’s careless whispers, Where paper birds carried tender secrets, We carved our hearts on the wings of seasons, Mimicking dreams from flickering screens— Bold, beautiful, and naive. Through the cracks of wooden desks, Our scribbled affections flew unnoticed, Until the sharp whistle of our mentors struck, A tempest of sticks against innocent skins, A punishment shared for silence kept. Laughter dissolved beneath cane’s weight, As guilt draped like smoke in the classroom air. How unfair, to chastise the innocent choir, For they saw the notes but sang no betrayal. We bled together, bound by the ink of youth. Time, the great forger of distance, Plucked the strings of our fleeting symphony. The girls to whom we wrote— Now bound in vows to unfamiliar names, And we, to wives unlettered in our schoolyard lore. Yet in the ash of those childhood fires, A lesson lingers, smoldering quietly: What we cherished was not the love itself, But the act of loving, pure ...

The night hangs heavy, a widow's veil, Each breath a stone, each step a trail. Through the thorns of days unyielding, Hope becomes a scar, no longer healing. They leave when shadows stretch too long, The ones who sang your morning song. Friends once bound in whispered trust, Scatter like wind-swept grains of dust. Is it me, or is it the tide? That pulls them away, arms open wide. Or is it the mirror's fractured face, Reflecting a world devoid of grace? Their laughter echoes in foreign halls, While silence claims these crumbling walls. Loneliness, a patient thief, Steals the echoes, feeds the grief. Yet beneath the weight, a truth lies bare, Not all who stay truly care. For bonds that break in the fiercest fire, Were never forged with true desire. And still, amidst the bruised refrain, Life finds beauty in the rain. For earth reddens on the rain droplets, So does the ash rest in a common urn. © Bunguswa ™

Oh mind, you are the restless weaver, Spinning threads of others in your loom. Each face a tapestry, each name a hymn, Yet I, the errant master, have burdened you too soon. I stretched your fibers thin with unrelenting care, Forcing you to carry bonds that others wouldn’t bear. Heart, you are the keeper of ancient tomes, Each pulse a chapter, each beat a verse. You hold them close, those fleeting whispers, Even when they spill ink that stings and curses. Forgive me for laying trust as kindling on your hearth, Only to watch it burn and leave you charred. Mind, you wander endlessly in labyrinths of thought, Drawing maps to places they’ve already left. I fed you mirages and called them home, And now you ache, lost in the echoes of my theft. Forgive my folly, for making you a prisoner Of memories that should have been mere visitors. Heart, you bled poems into their palms, Offered gardens from soil I did not own. They trampled your blooms and left you bare, Yet you still whisper...