Bunguswa Writes.

They say the collar shields no man— but we believed, believed that God would keep his chosen ones untouched by the smoke of guns, the steel of hatred. Father Bett— your name still echoes in the cracked walls of the parish, your voice trapped in the pews, where your footsteps once whispered prayers louder than sermons. You died in the cloth, bleeding into holy ground. A man of the Host— torn by the hostilities of men who never heard your homilies. Did they see the cross when they looked at you? Did they hear your silence, or just the stillness they mistook for surrender? Who kills a shepherd as he feeds the flock? Only wolves, only those too lost to know what mercy looks like in the shape of a man. We lit candles, but none can burn long enough to bring you back. Your absence tolls like a cracked church bell— never whole, never right. Rest now, Father— in soil more sacred for having drunk your blood. And may your soul haunt the hearts of the wicked, until they learn what it m...

They came with boots polished and batons raised, in the name of law but with the face of fear. Sirens howled like hungry dogs— but the people did not kneel. They poured out, barefoot and loud, barring the path with truth, refusing to watch another dawn stolen. A lie dressed in a warrant is still a lie— fabricated guilt stitched by trembling hands of men who forgot the people's memory. Natembeya was already smoke in Nairobi’s air, his silence louder than sirens, his absence a presence in every chant. They played checkers. He played chess. You thought he was alone? But Trans Nzoia woke up like a storm. Mothers carried rage in baskets. Youth blocked the armored path with bare skin. Old men rose with fists full of the past. Every street corner became a courtroom— and justice spoke in shouts, not robes. The days when fear walked in a uniform— are buried under red Kenyan soil. This generation eats intimidation for breakfast, digests it, and spits it out in the form of resista...

They cuffed the boy who dared to cry, Said, “Real men never tear the sky.” I watched him break beneath the strain, But silence sang a softer gain. My mouth stayed shut—I wore the chain, For thunder hides its deepest plea— And silence turned a man of me. They mocked the man who chose to feel, And labeled healing as unreal. He wore his heart without disguise, But I wore masks to win their prize. To weep was weak, to talk unwise. I bit my truth to let it be— And silence turned a man of me. They dragged the drunk who lost his spark, A shadow stumbling through the dark. He once had dreams—like fire, bold— Now glass replaced what he can't hold. I said, “He’s weak,” and watched him fold. But I drank pride instead of tea— And silence turned a man of me. They broke the dad who stayed at home, And mocked his seat beneath the dome. A man, they said, must rule the tide, Not rock the cradle by her side. I laughed, though pain was hard to hide. I feared they'd see the dad in me— ...

We bled for truth in the mouth of wolves, feet bare on cracked streets, dreams splattered against iron and smoke, their bullets feasting on our names, the soil drinking from our broken skulls, and still — we rose, with fists that remembered the sun. The Blood Government sits fat on stolen breaths, tongues like razors, laws like nooses, they built prisons out of hunger and silence, mothers bury their sons with trembling songs, while power sharpens its blade on our grief, but even in death, we whisper louder than their guns. We counted bodies like fallen stars, names erased before they were ever sung, the rivers clogged with our cries, and in the darkness, they laughed — drunken on our mourning, but our ghosts do not bow, they march. They think fear will rot our bones hollow, but we are carved from rebellion, from the ancient fires of Mau Mau forests, from mothers who never forgot, from fathers who wore exile as armor, we will stitch their lies into banners, and burn them und...

They sit in boardrooms with blood on their sleeves, plotting the death of a man who refused to bow, a man who planted his feet in the red soil of Burkina Faso and said — No more. They watch with cold eyes, calculating how to slice another wound into the body of Africa, to make us bleed again, to drink from us like leeches. Ibrahim Traoré — you are not alone. We are the fists pounding against centuries of chains, we are the fire that devours your blue and red flags, we are the rage that will not be caged. If you touch him, you touch the living heart of a billion souls. You strike him, you summon the thunder of every village, the cry of every child born under stolen skies. We remember — the ghosts of our grandmothers sold in chains, the rivers that carried away our stolen names, the fields soaked with the sweat of slaves. But now, we are no longer bowed. We have sharpened our voices into spears, our dreams into banners, our unity into a storm that no empire can tame. We are t...

We gather where curtains rise, not fall— our voices, unlicensed but loud with truth, burn scripts written in silence, for Butere’s daughters who dared to speak. Let not their courage be buried in the hush, we are fire in footsteps, echoes in wings, our stage defies your gags and guards. The president walks draped in delusion, his courtiers clap at his bare parade, palms itching for crumbs from the crown. They sip ignorance like fine wine, while the nation limps under their feast. We write rebellion in verses and plays— our lines don’t lie, they bleed. We saw classrooms turned into war zones, girls punished for daring to feel, to voice, to question the gospel of greed. And we—we who breathe art like air— refuse to bow to bureaucratic blades. Our stages bloom where power fears light, and scripts tear through stitched mouths. This isn’t mere performance—it’s protest. Each spotlight is a sun refusing to set. We name the wounds they photoshop, our metaphors spit fire, not flower...

They came with boots louder than our drums, thinking silence could be stitched into our tongues. But our voices are wild rivers, and even when caged, water finds a crack. The script inked in defiance still breathes. We are not children scared of shadows— we are the shadow that grows teeth. They cuffed the playwright, not the pen, but a pen is never alone—it births storms. We watched them guard rehearsal rooms like gold vaults, forgetting memory lives in the marrow. The lines we learned in whispers still bloom in our mouths. You cannot handcuff a heartbeat. You cannot police the pulse of truth. Our stage is not theirs to gate. Each blocked entrance is a call to another door. What they ban becomes sacred. Every denied rehearsal is a revolution rehearsed in soul. They fear what the girls have become—mirrors. We reflect the rot, the rage, the reckoning. We are what they want erased. Echoes of war do not fade, they ferment. Every silence they force feeds the fire. This is not a ...