Bunguswa Writes.

                               By Bunguswa Brian In the quiet ache of Forgive Me That I Didn’t Come by Iyana, Africa hears a familiar voice—not merely of a lover delayed, but of a people long interrupted. The song becomes a confession shaped by distance, a tender explanation offered after history has already moved on. Africa’s story is crowded with absences. Sons taken to plantations across oceans, daughters marched into alien names and tongues, kingdoms summoned to meetings they never consented to attend. Colonialism did not only conquer land; it engineered non-arrival. Whole civilizations were prevented from showing up to their own futures. In this light, the song’s apology stretches beyond the personal. It becomes historical. “ Forgive me ,” Africa has had to say— to traditions disrupted by the gun and the cross, to timelines fractured by borders drawn with rulers and greed, to ancestors whose...

They thought power lived in titles, in stamped letters and locked offices— they forgot fire does not resign. They tried to exile truth from the party room, to drown courage in polite applause and staged unity. But some men arrive already allergic to lies. Sifuna spoke when silence was profitable. He stood when kneeling was rewarded. He named the rot even when the house was still smiling. They took away the chair, thinking the voice would sit down with it. They miscalculated— you do not sack an echo from the mountains of the people. Now the streets are awake. The nation is leaning forward. From factory floors to lecture halls, from dust roads to digital squares, a million throats borrow his courage. This is not defiance— this is duty. This is a man reminding Kenya that leadership is not loyalty to comfort, but loyalty to conscience. In this new dawn, we will listen. Not to rehearsed promises, but to the voice that chose truth over survival.