Blood on the badge.

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 land is ours, we won’t forget—

We rise, resist. We won't relent.

©Bunguswa™