Bunguswa Writes.

We'd once burnt our butts, in a quest to relieve a life sanctified but on blisters we sat uncomfortably long, nursing injuries of a turn so wrong- those were wages of dignity deferred, torn and drizzling in inconsistent spurts. And we thought we had nothing to fear, our hearts and mind were numb from the pain, but we're now afraid of the fear that shreds us to pieces: this fear that never ceases, we're afraid our efforts might never gain, life's golden prize that we held dear. We've been dragged in anguish with no place to hide, like an ambushed and homeless mice; we know the futility resident in our running- for with renewed vigour we ended up crying, beckoning tears that fall behind the bravery of our eyes, reminiscent of the struggle that is oft° subjugated. ©Bunguswa.

Whoso desires listen to the song; this that shrinks our muscles tiny, this that salts our every ceremony, this that faints where we belong? For so long our yearning's been wrong- when our usual dance's been declared a felony, and we reminisce when we were brainy; and the power of choice was a weapon so strong. deafening was the echo of our wisdom: our strength in overcoming attrition, rising over turbulent waves of tribulation, but today we brood, resigned like an old broom. In our prayer, strength from above we seek, a cake walk be our journey to the peak. ©Bunguswa .

Let me off the hook; this that holds me imbalanced, against the turbulence of life's tribulations. Let me go,  when my voice can still sing you. Unchain my feeble arms; give me a chance to breath afresh- one last gulp of the acrid air, before my lungs you deflate, by your mass- over my resigning frame. Let me go; though for my voice you are famed, through my palms you've thrived- to heights that crush my bare head.  Unchain me, when I still can stare, when my lungs can still bare, the scarcity of fresh air. ©Bunguswa.

Even though you're hurt; son, take heart. Do not wail, some day all will be well. Confront today with a jolly face  and before destiny present your case. They say it's all predetermined. This sucks, our efforts are undermined; when we can't move for fate's sake, and our pure dreams to the gutters we take. Listen and rise up for tomorrow, dust your knees, stand tall and you'll grow. Even though you're broken, again rise up, face the sky, float like a plane- to your destiny the winds of hope will blow, fate and tomorrow will embrace, shine and glow. Shed tears to the core of your heart, they build strength to battle the hurt. ©Bunguswa Brian ™

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 ...