Bunguswa Writes.

We bled for truth in the mouth of wolves, feet bare on cracked streets, dreams splattered against iron and smoke, their bullets feasting on our names, the soil drinking from our broken skulls, and still — we rose, with fists that remembered the sun. The Blood Government sits fat on stolen breaths, tongues like razors, laws like nooses, they built prisons out of hunger and silence, mothers bury their sons with trembling songs, while power sharpens its blade on our grief, but even in death, we whisper louder than their guns. We counted bodies like fallen stars, names erased before they were ever sung, the rivers clogged with our cries, and in the darkness, they laughed — drunken on our mourning, but our ghosts do not bow, they march. They think fear will rot our bones hollow, but we are carved from rebellion, from the ancient fires of Mau Mau forests, from mothers who never forgot, from fathers who wore exile as armor, we will stitch their lies into banners, and burn them und...

They sit in boardrooms with blood on their sleeves, plotting the death of a man who refused to bow, a man who planted his feet in the red soil of Burkina Faso and said — No more. They watch with cold eyes, calculating how to slice another wound into the body of Africa, to make us bleed again, to drink from us like leeches. Ibrahim Traoré — you are not alone. We are the fists pounding against centuries of chains, we are the fire that devours your blue and red flags, we are the rage that will not be caged. If you touch him, you touch the living heart of a billion souls. You strike him, you summon the thunder of every village, the cry of every child born under stolen skies. We remember — the ghosts of our grandmothers sold in chains, the rivers that carried away our stolen names, the fields soaked with the sweat of slaves. But now, we are no longer bowed. We have sharpened our voices into spears, our dreams into banners, our unity into a storm that no empire can tame. We are t...

We gather where curtains rise, not fall— our voices, unlicensed but loud with truth, burn scripts written in silence, for Butere’s daughters who dared to speak. Let not their courage be buried in the hush, we are fire in footsteps, echoes in wings, our stage defies your gags and guards. The president walks draped in delusion, his courtiers clap at his bare parade, palms itching for crumbs from the crown. They sip ignorance like fine wine, while the nation limps under their feast. We write rebellion in verses and plays— our lines don’t lie, they bleed. We saw classrooms turned into war zones, girls punished for daring to feel, to voice, to question the gospel of greed. And we—we who breathe art like air— refuse to bow to bureaucratic blades. Our stages bloom where power fears light, and scripts tear through stitched mouths. This isn’t mere performance—it’s protest. Each spotlight is a sun refusing to set. We name the wounds they photoshop, our metaphors spit fire, not flower...

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 ...

I have danced with the ruin, kissed the sharp edge of regret, but no more shall I sip from the poisoned wells of yesterday— no more shall I befriend my own undoing. The night once held me hostage, a prisoner in the echoes of my sins, but dawn came, a silent prophet, whispering in hues of gold: "Rise, for the sun does not beg the past to shine." I have burned the bridges of sorrow, let their embers write new verses in the wind. I am not a ghost in my own life, I am the architect of a road unknown, a traveler on the back of redemption’s wings. Let the world murmur its doubts, let them paint my scars with their own fears, but I am not who I was— I am the thunder in a sky once silent, the seed that cracked stone to touch the sun. So hear me now, O shadows of yesterday, I do not kneel at your altar anymore. I walk forward, not to return— for even the broken bird learns to fly, and I, too, have wings unseen. ©Bunguswa™