Bunguswa Writes.

Bunguswa Brian, though relatively new in literary circles, has garnered attention for his poignant and transformative storytelling. His works reflect a nuanced understanding of human emotions, sociopolitical issues, and the cultural ethos of contemporary African society. This essay critically examines his literary style, the recurring themes in his work, and their relevance to the contemporary world. Style of Writing Bunguswa Brian’s style is marked by a rich blend of simplicity and profundity . He employs an economy of words that belies the depth of his narratives. His prose is often lyrical, with poetic undertones that evoke vivid imagery and resonate deeply with readers. Brian has a knack for balancing the vernacular with formal English, which lends authenticity to his characters and settings . This duality in language use mirrors the hybrid identity of modern African societies, caught between tradition and globalization. His narrative technique is often introspective, ...

Upon the river’s mournful breast, The tide bore you, our scholar blessed, Fifteen weary miles from home, To waters deep where dreams would roam. Who dared to silence wisdom’s flame, To shroud your light in whispered blame? The quills you wielded, sharp and true, Have left a mark in hearts that knew. In lecture halls where minds took flight, You lit the way with truth’s own light, Modern poets, drama’s stage— You turned each line, each fleeting page. Your words, like rivers, carved their way, Through stone-like hearts, the minds of clay, In your discourse, the sparks would soar, We drank your wisdom, thirsting more. O mentor, guide of verse and prose, Your life, a manuscript that flows, A tragedy we could not pen, A tale cut short by unknown men. But rivers speak, though silent seem, They carry truths, a poet’s dream, And though you rest where currents sweep, Your words shall rise; they will not sleep. Rest, Omuteche, in earth’s embrace, Your lessons live, they leave a trace...

In the market of shadows where whispers trade, A chorus rises, of loyalty frayed. The mantra beats like a drumming heart, "Kugongewa ni constant," a bitter art. I. The Breaking of Eden Once, the hearth was sacred, A garden lush with promises untainted. But famine crept, the fruits waned thin, And love's soil cracked where trust had been. She, the keeper of the fig leaves' fold, Now seeks rivers where silver flows. And he, the builder of walls and towers, Stumbles, his crown weighed down by hours. II. The Dance of Deceit The mantra sways in the village square, Draped in silks of scandal, the crowd laid bare. "It is justice," some say, "a punishment deserved," For dreams deferred and duties unserved. He tills the land of endless grind, Yet finds her grazing where wealth reclines. Her laughter echoes in another’s arms, As his ego crumbles, a breached alarm. III. Society's Wager The elders sit beneath the baobab shade, Counting sins as ...

I wrote my heart where the sisals swayed, Threads of longing in the roadside dust, Hoping the wind would carry my name, To the stream where her dreams were thrust. She carried my verses like water in a calabash, Each syllable rippling her quiet stream, And when dusk fell heavy on my youthful nights, Her reply became the marrow of my dream. Her feet danced soft on the village path, Reading my whispers etched in the sand, Each word a seed in her gentle heart, Each line a promise too frail to stand. The sun would sink, and stars would rise, Yet her silence spoke where words could not, Her gaze, a river of untamed skies, Held truths my youthful tongue forgot. But the years, cruel years, stole our symphony, Built walls where our whispers used to roam, Her shadow slipped into the chasm of memory, And I was left in the ruins of home. Now, I walk paths haunted by fading footprints, Trace the sisals, their messages erased, The sand yields no echoes, no secret replies, Yet I yearn fo...

The moon spills silver secrets onto the trembling palms of night, its glow a shy lover’s breath, tracing shadows on the skin of the earth. Trees bow in solemn reverence, their whispers a hymn to eternity, leaves fluttering like untamed prayers, lost between the crevices of starlight. The wind, a restless wanderer, carries stories of forgotten seas, where waves kissed the shore’s cheeks and vanished like promises. Time limps through the meadow, its footsteps soft as regret, while dreams coil in the corners of the sky, yearning to unspool their broken wings. Tell me, is it the night’s sorrow we hear? Or the laughter of dawn waiting to be born? © Bunguswa.™

When the shadows of failure loomed near, And the world I knew turned cold, unclear, even when the  kingdom withdrew its hand, You, dear papa, chose to stand. Your silence spoke what words could not, A steadfast love that time forgot. Through struggles deep, you held the flame, Though pain was etched into your frame. The world conspired to pull me low, But you believed I’d one day grow. A whisper, a nudge, a steady guide, Through storms, you stayed there by my side. Excluded, broken, left behind, In you, a sanctuary I’d find. Though struggles etched their scars on me, Your faith became my victory. Papa, my anchor, my guiding star, Your love remains where others are far. For in your silence, I found my way, A debt of love I can’t repay. ©Bunguswa™

In the heart of corrugated dreams, where tin roofs clink with whispered screams, Majengo stood—fragile, unarmed, a tapestry of lives, now charred. Flames danced in cruel defiance, their orange tongues in fiery alliance, devouring wood, iron, and bone, leaving despair where hope was sown. The night split open, a wailing choir, as mothers clutched their young to the fire. Smoke braided with prayers, unanswered cries, beneath a sky of indifferent eyes. Ashes now kiss the ground like snow, each speck a story, each ember a soul. Dreams dissolve in the choking air, grief’s heavy hand leaves no room to spare. Who shall mourn for Majengo’s dead? For the child who wept on a borrowed bed? For the builder who labored under the sun, only to see his life undone? Majengo burns, and so does our shame, a city’s neglect now etched in flame. But will the embers whisper, or scream, when tomorrow wakes from its haunting dream? ©Bunguswa™