Bunguswa Writes.

The night weeps, but not for them. A candle flickers, not in grief, but in quiet rebellion. The streets do not wear black, no dirges echo in the alleys. Only the sound of empty stomachs, growling like distant thunder, warning of a storm long ignored. Graves open, not with sorrow, but with laughter, bitter and sharp. For once, the earth does not mourn the weight of a fallen giant. It simply swallows, without tribute. They built walls so high, they could not hear the hunger, could not see the eyes, hollow like abandoned wells. They sat on golden thrones, while the streets became dust. Now the wind carries their names, whispers them without reverence. And the people, once voiceless, speak in unholy celebration, in songs of broken chains. A mother in the market sighs, not for the dead, but for the living, for the child clinging to her ribs, a question in his sunken eyes— Shall we eat today? And still, they wonder why the drums beat, why laughter spills into the night, why the p...

Do not carve sorrow into stone, do not kneel at the shrine of broken yesterdays. The past is a weeping god, thirsty for your tears, but you are not its worshipper, you are the wind meant to wander. Shatter the chalice of regret, let its poison kiss the dust. Unbind the ghost hands clutching your ribs, for memories should be lanterns, not shackles rusting in the marrow. You were never made for mourning altars, never meant to cradle wounds like relics. Let the river of time cleanse your scars, whisper your sorrow to the ocean’s ear, watch it swallow grief without question. See how dawn spills gold upon your skin, how the trees undress without shame, how the sky does not beg the stars to stay. Even the moon lets go of its light, trusting the sun will return. So unlace your heart from yesterday’s grip, step away from the temple of sorrow. Do not build a home where only echoes live, for the wind calls your name forward, not back to the dust of the undone. Let go, as autumn unbut...

The soil is dry, cracked like lips in harmattan winds, but the hoe sings against the earth— a chorus of blisters, a hymn of sweat. Coins do not rain from idle skies, nor do blessings bloom in empty palms. A man who waits for golden rivers dies thirsty at the banks of deception. See the girl with stars in her eyes, plucking empty promises like wild berries. But bitter is the fruit of shortcuts, poisoned with whispers of regret. See the boy chasing shadows in alleys, trading his dreams for dust and silver, but a borrowed sun never shines long, and debts of dignity weigh heavier than gold. So, rise before the rooster’s cry, let your hands speak the language of labor. For the sweat of the honest is the ink that signs tomorrow’s harvest. And when the wind hums your name in fields of plenty, you will know— not all riches jingle, some grow.

She stands like a lighthouse at dawn, Casting rays of warmth upon the weary, A voice that stitches broken dreams, A hand that lifts without measure— Oh, Simakulu, daughter of my aunt! Pauline, a river that never runs dry, Quenching thirsts of hope and need, Flowing past walls of doubt and fear, Carving paths for those who follow— Oh, Simakulu, daughter of my aunt! She walks with the stride of the sun, Lighting paths for the lost and longing, Pauline, a beacon of boundless grace, Guiding us through storm and shadow— Oh, Simakulu, daughter of my aunt! Her voice, a drumbeat in the night, Echoing strength in silent battles, A melody of faith and resilience, Singing hope where sorrow lingers— Oh, Simakulu, daughter of my aunt! She gathers hearts like seeds in her palm, Scattering kindness upon barren lands, Pauline, the keeper of selfless dreams, Sowing joy where tears once fell— Oh, Simakulu, daughter of my aunt! Her name is a torch in my story, A pillar that held when the wind...

Senge—rooted deep, where rivers of kinship swell, a hand not just held but steadied, a presence, not just near but woven. Senge, the hush before the storm, whispering strength into weary bones, feet pacing beside faltering steps, lips sealing doubt beneath a smile. Seasons bent, eleven circling moons, a harvest delayed, yet never denied. Senge, the tiller, the watchful keeper, counting dawns, unbraiding despair. Time stretched thin, yet you thickened hope, knitted resolve where it unraveled, threaded patience into my shaking hands— Senge, the quiet blacksmith of will. Your voice, a lantern in fogged corridors, each syllable a map to the door, each question, a gentle tether, pulling me back to the land of becoming. Senge, the unclaimed laurels belong to you, stitched into my story’s spine, pressed into the ink of my name, standing tall in the echoes of my victory. And so, I speak your name, not as a memory, but as a monument, not as gratitude, but as gospel— Senge, the name ...

The tide once swelled our woven strands, a net pulled taut with silver gleam, each thread entwined in knowing hands, each knot a vow, each cast a dream. But winds are fickle, waters shift, the currents stretched our lines apart. Not torn, nor lost, nor left adrift, just loosened by the sea’s own art. A lean net now, yet still it lingers, soft as dusk on salted air, its empty spaces hold no sorrow, only light that wasn’t there. The weight we bore was never burden, nor was release a bitter tide. The ocean sings in quiet motion, not all that leaves was meant to hide. No tangled ruin, no frayed surrender, just strands that learned to bow, not break. The sea returns what it remembers, and love is all it ever takes. So go, O net, where morning calls you, catch new winds in open hands. The tide that swept us into splendor still hums where silver memory stands. And if some eve the waters shimmer, soft with echoes, wild yet free, know I will smile upon the shoreline, blessing all yo...

In the heart of the Rift, where harvests rise, Stands a leader unshaken, with fearless eyes. His words, like thunder, shake the land, Not of whispers nor shadows—he speaks to stand, A force untamed in the storm of change. Natembeya walks where roads were once but dust, Laying paths of stone, rebuilding trust. Schools rise where silence grew, The young now dream in colors new, For futures shaped by steady hands. The corridors of power know his tread, A voice that echoes where few have dared. Truth, a spear he casts with might, Scattering those who shun the light, Unbowed, untamed, a lion's call. The fields of Trans Nzoia sing his name, In markets bustling, in farmers' gain. Water flows where thirst once burned, Bridges span where rivers turned, And progress marches on his path. Yet foes conspire in hushed retreat, For fear his steps, too bold, too fleet. They tremble at his piercing gaze, No lies endure beneath its blaze, As he carves the future unafraid. O Kenya, be...