The Stage is ours.

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 flowers.

Their pens sign darkness into policy,

but our ink swells with untamed light—

the kind that haunts closed doors.

A nation asleep in suits and sermons,

lulled by hymns of development lies.

We slap it awake with monologue and drum,

chanting the truth they banned from syllabi.

Let them ban, let them burn our props—

we are the story they fear to hear,

unfolding without permission.

They treat art like a crime scene,

searching for rebels in every rhyme.

But we are too many, too loud,

dancing barefoot on broken laws,

casting truth in stolen stages,

each gesture a refusal to kneel,

each breath a brushstroke of defiance.

For every girl silenced, a thousand scripts rise.

For every stage shut, a million voices open.

This is theatre as gospel,

as resistance, as resurrection.

We won’t stop until the lie falls flat,

until justice finds its spotlight—

and the final curtain reveals their shame.

So yes, let it go on.

Let it rise from the ashes of mockery.

Let the playwrights plot revolutions,

let the actors anoint the truth.

We are the mirror and the matchstick—

lighting fires where they built prisons.

We are not done. We will never be.

©Bunguswa™