A toast in the streets.

I raise my glass to Maillu’s pen,

A bottle gripped by weary men,

Who drink their sorrow into song,

Where joy is short, and nights are long.

His verses drip like chang’aa tears,

Distilled through laughter, rage, and fears—

An anthem of the common tongue.

He walked where gutters shone like gold,

Tales of the drunk, the damned, the bold,

Where sin and silence softly blend,

And bottles bloom at sorrow’s end.

In city corners, dreams decay,

Yet from their rot, his poems sway—

Uncorking truths we hide by day.

This is our Nairobi psalm,

Spoken with a bottle’s calm,

By the dusty kiosk, the matatu horn,

Where every drinker feels reborn.

David sang what few would write,

In drunken verse, he found the light—

A mirror in the urban night.

#BunguswaWrites.