Bunguswa Writes.

It frowned beneath a hazy cloud, A silence thick, the sky unbowed. Dawn staggered in on shattered knees, Mournful tones rode ghostly breeze. The wind bore secrets, torn and loud— A mourning wrapped in twilight’s shroud. The dawn chorus began its cry, Shrill echoes spiraled in the sky. “They say,” one whispered, “this is grace—” But sorrow spilled in every place. A mockingbird, its feathers torn, Lay lifeless where the light was born. No lullabies, no flapping wings, Just fire devouring gentler things. The town crier, pale with fright, Chanted warnings through the night: “Awake, arise! The flames descend!” But few believed it was the end. Brick by brick, the skyline fell— Ashes rose where stories dwell. And fire, it was, that crowned the dawn— For by its light, the town was gone. ©Bunguswa™

I. She walks in like dusk—quiet and painted, Lipstick a shade darker than yesterday’s guilt, Perfume borrowed from a stranger’s collar, Yet in our home, she folds her lies like laundry, Neatly hiding truth beneath her apron of charm. II. The kettle boils with secrets never spoken, Walls echo with footsteps that don’t match her shoes, Mirrors flinch at the stories they must hold, While silence sets our table, knife and fork, Feasting on the rot beneath her wedding ring. III. We know—the night is not as blind as she hopes, We’ve smelled the fire in her morning breath, Heard whispers stitched in her sighs at dawn, But still, we set the table and pour her wine, Letting time offer grace where truth should reign. IV. Oaths once etched in gold now rust in her laughter, Kisses timed like a clock with broken trust, She sings lullabies to a house she doesn't love, Yet always returns with the moon as witness— A performance we’ve grown too numb to critique. V. But love is not the a...

     photo courtesy: Bunguswa Brian This is a powerful and evocative poem by  Bunguswa Brian , capturing the complex layers of deception, endurance, and eventual renewal within a broken family. His powerful use of imagery and symbolism—mirrors that flinch , walls echoing false steps , and a wedding ring feasting on rot —is haunting yet elegant. Each stanza builds tension until the final hopeful crescendo in stanza VII, which affirms healing without bitterness. Title: “Evening Returns” The title itself is metaphorical. “ Evening ” implies a cycle—like her deceptive comings and goings. The word “ Returns ” signals both repetition and inevitability, evoking resignation and emotional fatigue. Structure and Tone : Seven stanzas reflect stages of realization, from quiet observation (I–III) to confrontation and emotional awakening (IV–VII). The tone shifts from subtle bitterness to quiet strength, portraying the speaker’s growth. Key Literary Devices : Simile ...

You sip from my cup with seasoned grace, Yet poison my name in a stranger's place. You wear the cloak of friend so neat, But your heart walks with serpent feet. You pluck my sighs like flowers in spring, Then trade them cheap for gossip’s ring. Each laugh we shared now feels like smoke, A veil you wore, a silent cloak. Your ears were gates to my private rains, Now rivers spill from your tongue in chains. Behind your smile, a dagger slept— And while I bled, you softly wept. The wolf that walks in sheep's attire, Feeds not on flesh, but trust and fire. I named you "brother," made you kin— But you sold my truth for shallow sin. So may your mirror never crack, Let it remind you what you lack: A soul that dances in the light— Not one that feeds on borrowed night © Bunguswa ™

Vultures rose with the breath of day’s wind, Aligned with the order to devour the holy and kind— These watchers cloaked in the robe of night, Our cries stirred their urge to bite. Again they circled as the wind soared high, A solemn omen written across the sky. A moment hushed, our fate cast wide, For even the wind had learned to hide. The sun refused to rise that mournful morning— Was it a call to dawn, or a deeper warning? Yes, it set before it dared to rise, It bowed before the bloom of skies. And behind the hill, a shadow grew proud— So furious, like a provoked flood-cloud. ©Bunguswa™

When I look at stars that shine, these that break every whim of mine— I reminisce the essence that perfumed yesterday, the subtle breeze that mine misfortunes cooled everyday. But gone is the hour I sipped coffee, that moment that spoke clearly to the sea— Tides have risen in fury of revolt, sweeping offshore the chaff and dirt. And I dumbly stare back in awe. Unknown is what my mind fights for. For to oblivion I’m now consigned— to unknown dream my mind is resigned— Now I sink deep in the mystery of my dreams, the unknown growing at their whims. @Bunguswa™

A son of soil, voice of the street, Dragged from dawn into death’s deceit— Albert Ojwang, the name they silenced, Truth-teller caged in state's defiance. He held no gun, just words like fire, Scorching lies dressed in empire's attire, Yet cuffs clanged louder than his pen, And silence fell on brave young men. From Homa Bay's breeze to Nairobi's rot, They drove his body, soul forgot— No justice in that steel-tomb ride, Just sirens screaming truth had died. The badge was blood, the law was fear, He vanished into thin State air. No charge, no crime—just dared to speak, Now he lies cold for being meek. We ask you , Mr. President , look: How many more beneath your book? Does power swell when voices die? Do mothers' tears not make you cry? A father's hands built stone from dust, Dreams carved for sons in silent trust— Now all he holds is grief and rage, A coffin sealing youth and age. Kenya bleeds beneath your chair, And we will shout—we still dare! This l...

TAWE, the thunder rolled from hills of the West, A guttural roar from lips too long sealed— We have danced to silence, fed on patience, Now tongues crack open with truth, sharp and unpeeled. We do not whisper anymore in market alleys, We chant in storms, in sweat, in barefoot defiance, For even silence grows fists when truth is starved. WANTAM, the breeze from the mountain spoke low— One term, they say, just one! Then let the land breathe. No throne is nailed down when hunger speaks louder, No golden sash can silence boiling grief. They came with promises braided in sugar, Left us with bones and battered belief, But now, the soil remembers—so do we. Hi Cousins! echoes down forgotten paths, Mocking laughter masked in a handshake’s grin. A greeting? A warning? A crack in the mask— We know how wolves can wear the wool of kin. Yet still we smile, teeth sharp with memory, The cousins have woken, the joke grows thin, And riddles now rot in the mouths of thieves. The rivers are st...

I do not name you— not for lack of knowing, but because the stars don’t whisper the name of the moon they orbit. You are the hush beneath thunder, the pause before breath becomes word, and in your silence, I am found. You are the candle that doesn’t beg to be seen—yet rooms remember you. Even the shadows lean your way, as though they seek your warmth. I bring you broken hours, you give me time that listens, and make my scars feel sacred. When I have drowned in questions, your voice—a soft rope in the flood— pulls me toward shore, without asking where I’ve been. You love like roots love the earth, quiet, unseen, and deep— holding me when I don’t know I’m falling. Others speak in flowers— you are the soil that never forgets spring. Not a muse, not a miracle, but the marrow in my hope. Your presence is a prayer that doesn't beg, only becomes— and I kneel to the life you breathe into mine. I do not call you love— that word has worn too many masks. You are more: the echo tha...

The world stares with folded arms—stone-eyed, mute, when dreams wear shoes too big for your feet. They laugh at stumbles, sip your sorrow like sweet fruit, naming your becoming as defeat. Their words, thorns hidden in golden vines, wrap ‘round the ribs till breath resigns— yet still, the heart drums war into the dark. I carried silence like a coffin on my back, as voices carved scars I learned to stitch with hope. Even the mirror doubted me—cracked, showing a face learning how to cope. But seeds do not scream while underground— they wait, they swell, they break the bounds— and rise in green despite the stones thrown down. Now I walk—not to prove, but to become, with scars worn soft like prayer beads in palm. The sun is no longer a stranger's drum, it sings of harvest, not of harm. Let them talk—I have tuned my ears to truth, and built my tomorrow on ruins of youth. The path is mine, and I tread it, unshaken. ©Bunguswa™