Bunguswa Writes.

The soil is dry, cracked like lips in harmattan winds, but the hoe sings against the earth— a chorus of blisters, a hymn of sweat. Coins do not rain from idle skies, nor do blessings bloom in empty palms. A man who waits for golden rivers dies thirsty at the banks of deception. See the girl with stars in her eyes, plucking empty promises like wild berries. But bitter is the fruit of shortcuts, poisoned with whispers of regret. See the boy chasing shadows in alleys, trading his dreams for dust and silver, but a borrowed sun never shines long, and debts of dignity weigh heavier than gold. So, rise before the rooster’s cry, let your hands speak the language of labor. For the sweat of the honest is the ink that signs tomorrow’s harvest. And when the wind hums your name in fields of plenty, you will know— not all riches jingle, some grow.

She stands like a lighthouse at dawn, Casting rays of warmth upon the weary, A voice that stitches broken dreams, A hand that lifts without measure— Oh, Simakulu, daughter of my aunt! Pauline, a river that never runs dry, Quenching thirsts of hope and need, Flowing past walls of doubt and fear, Carving paths for those who follow— Oh, Simakulu, daughter of my aunt! She walks with the stride of the sun, Lighting paths for the lost and longing, Pauline, a beacon of boundless grace, Guiding us through storm and shadow— Oh, Simakulu, daughter of my aunt! Her voice, a drumbeat in the night, Echoing strength in silent battles, A melody of faith and resilience, Singing hope where sorrow lingers— Oh, Simakulu, daughter of my aunt! She gathers hearts like seeds in her palm, Scattering kindness upon barren lands, Pauline, the keeper of selfless dreams, Sowing joy where tears once fell— Oh, Simakulu, daughter of my aunt! Her name is a torch in my story, A pillar that held when the wind...

Senge—rooted deep, where rivers of kinship swell, a hand not just held but steadied, a presence, not just near but woven. Senge, the hush before the storm, whispering strength into weary bones, feet pacing beside faltering steps, lips sealing doubt beneath a smile. Seasons bent, eleven circling moons, a harvest delayed, yet never denied. Senge, the tiller, the watchful keeper, counting dawns, unbraiding despair. Time stretched thin, yet you thickened hope, knitted resolve where it unraveled, threaded patience into my shaking hands— Senge, the quiet blacksmith of will. Your voice, a lantern in fogged corridors, each syllable a map to the door, each question, a gentle tether, pulling me back to the land of becoming. Senge, the unclaimed laurels belong to you, stitched into my story’s spine, pressed into the ink of my name, standing tall in the echoes of my victory. And so, I speak your name, not as a memory, but as a monument, not as gratitude, but as gospel— Senge, the name ...

The tide once swelled our woven strands, a net pulled taut with silver gleam, each thread entwined in knowing hands, each knot a vow, each cast a dream. But winds are fickle, waters shift, the currents stretched our lines apart. Not torn, nor lost, nor left adrift, just loosened by the sea’s own art. A lean net now, yet still it lingers, soft as dusk on salted air, its empty spaces hold no sorrow, only light that wasn’t there. The weight we bore was never burden, nor was release a bitter tide. The ocean sings in quiet motion, not all that leaves was meant to hide. No tangled ruin, no frayed surrender, just strands that learned to bow, not break. The sea returns what it remembers, and love is all it ever takes. So go, O net, where morning calls you, catch new winds in open hands. The tide that swept us into splendor still hums where silver memory stands. And if some eve the waters shimmer, soft with echoes, wild yet free, know I will smile upon the shoreline, blessing all yo...

In the heart of the Rift, where harvests rise, Stands a leader unshaken, with fearless eyes. His words, like thunder, shake the land, Not of whispers nor shadows—he speaks to stand, A force untamed in the storm of change. Natembeya walks where roads were once but dust, Laying paths of stone, rebuilding trust. Schools rise where silence grew, The young now dream in colors new, For futures shaped by steady hands. The corridors of power know his tread, A voice that echoes where few have dared. Truth, a spear he casts with might, Scattering those who shun the light, Unbowed, untamed, a lion's call. The fields of Trans Nzoia sing his name, In markets bustling, in farmers' gain. Water flows where thirst once burned, Bridges span where rivers turned, And progress marches on his path. Yet foes conspire in hushed retreat, For fear his steps, too bold, too fleet. They tremble at his piercing gaze, No lies endure beneath its blaze, As he carves the future unafraid. O Kenya, be...

The poet walks where justice sleeps, A lantern lit in blinded streets, Weaving words like sharpened spears, Piercing through the iron veils, Where truth is caged and silence reigns. They paint the cries of the broken land, On walls where leaders dare not glance, Verses rise like a raging storm, Stripping thrones of golden lies, And shaking cities built on sand. Ink is fire upon deceitful tongues, A rebel’s torch in hidden caves, For where the ballot lost its weight, And voices drown in hollow cheers, The poet roars with borrowed breath. They echo hunger’s bitter wail, As children beg on paved deceit, While hands that swore to heal the wounds, Now feast on dreams they swore to guard, The poet counts each stolen dawn. The elders sit on brittle thrones, Lulled by hymns of stolen wealth, Yet poetry cracks the painted masks, Unmasks the wolves in silken robes, And calls the youth to rise as one. So let the rulers call it rage, Or brand the truth a rebel’s song, But when the poet...

You left like the tide, fading into silence, pulling the warmth from my hands, leaving me to gather the broken shells of promises you never planned to keep, salt in my wounds, whispering your name. I learned to walk without your shadow, became the wind’s quiet companion, stitched myself from the echoes of loss, stood on sand that shifted beneath me, but never let myself sink. Then you returned, gold dripping from your skin, carrying stories I was never part of, while I stood, hands empty but steady, watching you peel back my stitches with the same careless grace as before. You burn through me like a reckless flame, taking my warmth but fearing my fire, daring me to let go, but never too far, always reaching back when the cold sets in, always leaving when the night turns soft. You speak of choices like open doors, yet your footsteps still find my threshold, taking shelter in the home I built alone, while telling me of places you could be, as if my walls were not enough. Still, I give, t...