Bunguswa Writes.

They say the collar shields no man— but we believed, believed that God would keep his chosen ones untouched by the smoke of guns, the steel of hatred. Father Bett— your name still echoes in the cracked walls of the parish, your voice trapped in the pews, where your footsteps once whispered prayers louder than sermons. You died in the cloth, bleeding into holy ground. A man of the Host— torn by the hostilities of men who never heard your homilies. Did they see the cross when they looked at you? Did they hear your silence, or just the stillness they mistook for surrender? Who kills a shepherd as he feeds the flock? Only wolves, only those too lost to know what mercy looks like in the shape of a man. We lit candles, but none can burn long enough to bring you back. Your absence tolls like a cracked church bell— never whole, never right. Rest now, Father— in soil more sacred for having drunk your blood. And may your soul haunt the hearts of the wicked, until they learn what it m...

They came with boots polished and batons raised, in the name of law but with the face of fear. Sirens howled like hungry dogs— but the people did not kneel. They poured out, barefoot and loud, barring the path with truth, refusing to watch another dawn stolen. A lie dressed in a warrant is still a lie— fabricated guilt stitched by trembling hands of men who forgot the people's memory. Natembeya was already smoke in Nairobi’s air, his silence louder than sirens, his absence a presence in every chant. They played checkers. He played chess. You thought he was alone? But Trans Nzoia woke up like a storm. Mothers carried rage in baskets. Youth blocked the armored path with bare skin. Old men rose with fists full of the past. Every street corner became a courtroom— and justice spoke in shouts, not robes. The days when fear walked in a uniform— are buried under red Kenyan soil. This generation eats intimidation for breakfast, digests it, and spits it out in the form of resista...

They cuffed the boy who dared to cry, Said, “Real men never tear the sky.” I watched him break beneath the strain, But silence sang a softer gain. My mouth stayed shut—I wore the chain, For thunder hides its deepest plea— And silence turned a man of me. They mocked the man who chose to feel, And labeled healing as unreal. He wore his heart without disguise, But I wore masks to win their prize. To weep was weak, to talk unwise. I bit my truth to let it be— And silence turned a man of me. They dragged the drunk who lost his spark, A shadow stumbling through the dark. He once had dreams—like fire, bold— Now glass replaced what he can't hold. I said, “He’s weak,” and watched him fold. But I drank pride instead of tea— And silence turned a man of me. They broke the dad who stayed at home, And mocked his seat beneath the dome. A man, they said, must rule the tide, Not rock the cradle by her side. I laughed, though pain was hard to hide. I feared they'd see the dad in me— ...