Bunguswa Writes.

My dad drove through the gate furiously. I calmly sat in the back seat, my eyes clouded with tears. I heard people wail. They cursed it in the strongest terms. I didn't know the car had stopped, until my father opened the door and stretched his arm at me.  "Son, we're home. Let's go to the house." He held me by the shoulder and led me to the house. People stood in clusters. Their cries had subsided when they saw us come in. Everyone remained motionless. Some looked at me with pitiful eyes. It was as I no life stirred.  In the house; my aunt, Jackie, sank in her seat oblivious of our arrival. She was more affected than I was. She was completely lost in her thoughts.  "Maria, kindly lead us in a hymn and pray." Mama intoned in horse voice.  Maria, a notable lady in our church cleared her throat and began. For I dare not go alone,  I must feel his presence near me And his arms around me thrown. Then my soul shall fear no ill Let him lead me wher...

In the many fields of heaven he runs With the sun, roses and wild flowers He quotes dreams of his given days and loves all, all the hours. He lived, he slept, he loved he wept for every single breath he said be long,for his will was strong we'll wait for him in death. Growing, he spent time by our side He never truly left our place and he wished us a big life Within his up most grace. He lived, he slept, he loved he kept a close eye to our hearts for all the wildest flowers and the sun Gathered none to part. He is the glory of our days, in particular those of the Rising star, for all the beauty that he possessed, was a flower all but one. His grace and love lives on beyond the timing of his death, for we are strong and so be long, he gave us his last breath. FARE THEE WELL DIRECTOR EDDIE. © Bunguswa Brian ™

Chapter one . I reminisce my meeting with Camillah as one of the greatest epics of my life. When I was shortlisted as one of the competitors in "Nurturing a contemporary writer," a writing competition sponsored by the University of Nairobi, my aim was to emerge the best of the junior writers of that time. The competition was aimed at nurturing contemporary authorship of the short story, as a fast growing genre of written art. As we sat in the auditorium where the winner would be announced, anxiety was evident on everyone's face. Next to me was a beautiful young lady. She was calm and composed.  Loose, wavy brown hair hang down to her shoulders. She had a fringe over her forehead that almost hid her beautiful brown eyes. I loved her nose, definitely it was her best feature-pointed and beautiful. She had a set of regular cristle white teeth and she was full-lipped. Her fragrance and dressing heightened her status in society. She was a noble. Camillah was simply ...

Amuliodo! Daughter of her mother; why hold your waste for my elders? Before my elders you've messed, on toes of our ancestors you've stepped- when I'd have talked you out on this.  Daughter of her mother; see now! Cleansing, I'm told you need be, to purely purify you in our ways. But now where is the black goat? Had the priest demanded a sheep, of your swinging waste we'd make a black sheep. Daughter of her mother; how cursed is thy waste? Daughter of her mother, elders murmur in hushed tones; of my neighbor breaking your limb, but on your two you're standing- swinging it on a disabled hind quarter. Daughter of her mother, why the unseen limb, broken yet rocky hills you climb.  Before the ritual tomorrow, elders say you should cook. Daughter of her mother, cook! That I should eat and mend the broken limb. Amuliodo; cook! But remember not my neighbor, My ship will no longer deck in his harbour. ©Bunguswa Brian™

The village stream is boiling, fish and river reeds are dying- but our food baskets are yonder the stream. For generations the stream has been pure; we drunk and bathed in its flow of cure, but our stream is boiling- and the future blurring. Our stream was cold with a gentle flow, lush were its banks that could glow. Now hot and rushy like a desert snake, bites but no cure for our wounds. Are the mountain gods angry, when king and kin are appetized and hungry? But our baskets are yonder the boiling stream. If to hunger we will succumb; or yield to thirst that's come, remember our baskets yonder the boiling stream. © Bunguswa Brian ™

Deep tears under the sea; burns but no one can see, nor feel or touch the soaked face. Tears under the sea are a haemorrhage- that breaks men with character and image, and smolders them to the bone; flesh without and thin. Tears under the sea blinds the mind; binds the soul to a devil of its kind, interring hope when the day's fecund. Tears under the sea conceal fears, of life's ambers that are fierce- brooding tragedy within, that knows no master or king. I'll shed tears under the mid-day sun, blurring but mild like the moon, that shines for mine star to thrive. ©Bunguswa Brian ™

Uncut, wholly you've eaten the cake, now another one you can't bake. You can't eat and have it- it's all lost to your zest. You chewed and swallowed in haste devoid of our ancient feast. You'd have waited, at least for my sake. Though I might leave, with me an empty shell I take. It's oft° sweet when cut by a maiden; but you've left me crumbs that are forbidden, meagre for my peacock stature- and another cake you can't bake for the future. Although your whims have reigned, before life's wrath you will be arraigned. ©Bunguswa Brian ™