Raw Earth, Rising People

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 resistance.

We are not our fathers’ silence.

We are the echo of withheld justice.

A man may be hunted,

but an idea cannot be cuffed.

You cannot arrest the wind.

You cannot jail a vision.

Natembeya stands taller in absence

because his people now walk in his name—

and they have found their voice.

What did you hope to capture?

A spirit? A people’s fire?

You only sharpened their defiance.

You only stirred the hive.

Now the hills hum with purpose,

and the fields whisper revolt—

because you forgot who owns the soil.

This is not just Trans Nzoia’s fight.

It is a call across the map—

from Busia to Bungoma, from Kisumu to Kilifi.

Let every home light a fire of unity.

Let every hand lift another.

Let every voice carry the truth.

© Bunguswa