Bunguswa Writes.

Title : The Last Teardrop Author : Bunguswa Brian. The Fall The air that morning carried the heaviness of things unsaid. The jacaranda trees along the pathway to Nyumbani University bloomed purple, oblivious to the storm brewing in Brian’s life. He wore his best shirt, the one Sharon had ironed for him weeks before. That morning he had rehearsed a few lines for a poem about resilience—never knowing he’d need them more than ever. As he approached the Literature Department, the murmurs of two guards sliced through the breeze. "Are you Bunguswa Brian?" "Yes," he answered, trying to smile. "You are required at the Dean's Office immediately. There’s a matter that needs urgent attention." He followed them in confusion. When he entered the office, the air turned cold. A panel of four people stared at him: the Dean, a faculty representative, and two unfamiliar administrators. A printed paper lay on the table. " Mr. Bunguswa...

I. In the hush of dawn, he kneels on broken stone, a man cloaked not in cloth but scars unknown— his silence, a scripture, etched in ribs and bone, where hunger chants and solitude has grown. Each breath he draws is war against despair, a monk in flesh, with burdens draped in prayer, unmoved, though storms have braided through his hair. II. He walks the cloistered path of beaten men, where dreams are ashes and hope is a fen. Yet from his chest, a steady hymn ascends— not sung in sound but in how he mends. Like beads he counts his past regrets and tears, stringing them into rosaries of years, each bruise a bell the future dares to hear. III. He fasts from vengeance, drinks not from revenge, but cups the wind where peace begins to hinge. Where others rage, he bows, but not to break— his strength is forged in every vow he makes. To fall and rise is carved into his creed, his will a blade the darkness fears to bleed, a sacred oath sealed not in words but deed. IV. In silence, h...

I I ploughed each sunrise, blistering my face, Filed falling stars at an unholy pace, Let children’s laughter drift beyond my space, Traded their weekends for a spreadsheet trace, Stapled my sweat to ledgers crowned in grace, Believed each hour would weave its silver lace, Yet morning found my pockets an empty place. II They weighed my dawns with promises of gold, Spun velvet vows no winter could turn cold, Pinned shining medals on a common mold, Whispered wealth in scripts I never told, Cupped my hunger in a handshake’s hold, Fed tomorrow on a platter labeled “bold,” Then slammed the ledger, shouting the debt was—sold. III At noon their thunder inked a scar of night, A hush of daggers sharpening their might, “Ask not,” they hissed, “if you esteem your light,” Claws of silence cleaving the kite of right, My pulse became a drumbeat set for flight, Yet every wing was weighted down with fright, And justice shrank—a candle dwarfed by height. IV I walked the corridor of closing ...

      Crimson Pages I hold my heart between thumb and quill, still beating, wetter than ink can tell— each pulse a syllable straining for sky, each drop a confession too jagged to whisper, so I split silence open and let it spill. Memory sleeps like glass beneath dust, fragile until a careless breath trembles it; I breathe, and suddenly shards glitter, mirroring faces that called me unbreakable— I gather them, bleeding, to prove I feel. Night is a patient surgeon, trimming hope, suturing shadows where laughter once lived; I lie awake on the theatre of paper, scalpel-moon carving verses from marrow, trusting dawn to anesthetize the ache. Every wound owns a vocabulary of thunder— it rumbles in my veins, obstinate, raw, so I tongue the storm into rhyme and metre until lightning uncoils, gentled, becoming light enough to guide a child home. I write of rivers older than my sorrow, waters that learned to hum through stones; they teach me endurance is music, that eve...