Bunguswa Writes.

I might have tried, not good like the rising sun, to overcome what couldn't be overcame. I've battled it to the last breathe, while dying will not be proof of my effort; when gone they'll say I gave up, when giving up was the only option. How does it feel when one fails? Failing is a term too cloudy! But in a battle you are bound to win; albeit the reverses of negative energy. When overwhelmed you can be defeated; enduring pain that's unknown to winners, when overwhelmed you can be defeated, of much annoyance it can be to your spectators. But how does it feel to be defeated, when dedicated you've been to winning? I am not giving up when the latter is an option. I am not dying even though it is a battle for life. But who'll tell people if I die trying? We know not you tried your best they'll say. We've seen many surrender to death they'll intone . But dying I don't want to die! When my dream hasn't come off my sleep. Death I don...

Remember when I could sing, in a resounding melody, of your name? Tall you grew but for my song, crippled was my name in so cheap fame. My melody grew wiser and tender; massaging your poison-appled heart to the core. Like a pianist's fingers that are slender, I yearned for my melody softer you'd grow. But again you waved a ticket to a Piper's heart, lighting a rather girlish grin on my face. I cleared a froggy-becoming throat- that once exalted you in a reaffirmed world space. Amazed be not, if my melody will twist: piercing to the bosom of your heart- to contravene your never-rivaled peace. ©Bunguswa Brian™

You shuttered my dream before I rose- you must have kept vigil in my mind. But you forgot to inter the optimism; I thus dust my knees, and rise toward the morning sun- like a desert flower, over the sandstorms I'll not cower.  Had you slept in my mind: you'd have shared the dream, you'd have shaped the hope, but solemn insomniac gave you away- to shred the vision to pieces. Blankly we stare at the bare sky; the abyss, embracing the blinking hope. If our tears should sour  the bosom of our hearts, like rain water on a rotting thatch, the weed will bloom. If sour rain should blanket our eyes, depriving us the nourishment; thirsting us frail, then, brace no more to wail. © Bunguswa Brian ™

Nangekhe , the little one of my mother; we call her small - every whim of hers gets us on toes. When Nangekhe coughs, a glass of water is at her reach, to water her dry throat; a throat that never spares us when mama returns. Nangekhe is papa's heart, her shrill gets papa on twos as if he's hurt- retorting as though the eagle has snatched his chicken. This beautiful Nangekhe, small and treasured- like a lone quail's egg. Yes, little Nangekhe always a guest at papa's table. She shares in papa's plate; we? our stomachs grambles-  salivates for dinner's remains. Nangekhe supervises our bathing, and to mama she narrates,  how we throw water- to escape cold that pierces like a sharp needle. Today in turns we carry Nangekhe to church, holding our breathe we do, for Nangekhe we must be strong- to have a better day before the creator. © Bunguswa Brian ™

Do not cry, look at the hazy sky and say goodbye. Do not mourn, at your whims to curse the unkown- look at my still frame and smile, for in laughter you'll be condoled for a while. When I'm gone, reminisce the shared bone; that lit our once sullen faces, when joy was in meagre traces. Inter the bones but keep my name, to live for posterity in fame. As you intone dust to dust, reconcile me with my past- recollecting the good; and, the bad abound, sealing my nobility not so deep in the mound. But when the red mound starts to fade into the earth, let good memories be an after mirth. ©Bunguswa Brian™

My brother read the white wisdom, of men and women overseas- and he called it a civilized civilisation. He says he crossed oceans, in a flying motoka° he ate, drunk, danced and dined with the whites; these baby-skinned creatures. My brother came back a white in black skin, on the village walk-ways he avoided dirt darkened handshakes; that previously shared in his plate of posho° This civilized brother, looking at my bare feet with disgust- he forgets my sweet native name, he calls me Nanii°- so he does my language. He speaks through the nose, as though with a cold in a rainy August- when roast corn is our daily bread. ©Bunguswa Brian™

The grave at the back lay further, it housed the father to my grandfather. It was unattended, guarded by shrubs and not cemented. My father said it was a tradition, living in modernity was a complete fiction. So a ritual was conducted- embracing great grandpa and the affected. On this day they slaughtered a goat, sojourning at the graveyard for a feast. busaa was siphoned from the magical gourd; and the mirth after was evident of a people misguided. His name was invoked, repeatedly to cushion him from the piercing cold. Wangila was great grandpa’s name, so I am, sharing his character and fame; no more proof for reincarnation, my existence was an adequate affirmation. In great grandpa I lived; in me he exists, life after death. © Bunguswa Brian™