Bunguswa Writes.

We built our tomorrows with trembling hands, Wearing promises like wedding bands of dawn, Yet somewhere between our laughter’s pause, A hush began to haunt the edges of your eyes, And I mistook it for peace, not pain. The moon knew what I didn’t — That silence is a wound that bleeds without red. Your words became feathers floating nowhere, And your smile, a curtain hiding slow goodbyes, While I sang to ghosts of our engagement. I sent you poems wrapped in unasked questions, But your replies came in echoes too faint to hold. The wind carried your absence like a letter, Stamped with something the living can’t deliver, And still, I waited at the altar of denial. Your laughter had once been the rhythm of rain, Now it fell in whispers against my chest. Leukemia — your hidden thief of hours — Was sipping light from your veins in secret, While I mistook your stillness for healing. How foolish the heart that prays without listening, That calls your quiet a form of grace. I thought ...

CHAPTER ONE: THE MAN WHO REFUSED TO BEND. Kenya remembers him not as a man, but as a season. A long, defiant season that refused to end when the clocks of comfort demanded silence. When history bowed before tyrants, one voice—trembling yet unbroken—rose like thunder beneath forgotten clouds. That voice was Raila Amolo Odinga. I, the land that birthed him, have known his footsteps before I knew his name. They were the kind that pressed the soil not in haste, but with purpose—as if even the dust beneath his feet needed awakening. In those early mornings by the lake, when fishermen cast their nets into uncertain waters, his mother whispered a prayer to the waves: Let this one carry the weight of justice like a calabash of fire, and never spill. The year was 1945—an age when the world still reeled from war, and Kenya’s sky hung heavy with the smoke of colonial grief. In Maseno, where the grass bends to the whispers of wind, a child cried. But his cry was different. It was long,...

Kenya wakes in black scarves of dawn, her rivers kneeling, whispering your name RAYILA. The sun halts halfway through its duty— it too cannot believe a torch can dim. You were the storm that learned to speak gently, a lion who roared through prisons of silence, your voice a wind bending history’s spine, your eyes—two moons over the valley of struggle. Today, the soil remembers your footsteps, each grain trembling beneath Uhuru’s tree. The wind from Kibera hums your unfinished hymn, and Lake Victoria weeps into her blue shawl. Even stones, those proud witnesses of time, crack open—revealing red roots of remembrance. We the children of your stubborn dream, walk barefoot through your legacy’s ash. O Raila, son of Odinga, freedom’s last syllable rests upon your lips. You taught us that dying is not defeat, but the final verse of a people’s song. Sleep now, baba wa taifa, beneath a sky stitched with your own courage. The tears we shed are not of despair— they are rivers returnin...