Bunguswa Writes.

I raise my glass to Maillu’s pen, A bottle gripped by weary men, Who drink their sorrow into song, Where joy is short, and nights are long. His verses drip like chang’aa tears, Distilled through laughter, rage, and fears— An anthem of the common tongue. He walked where gutters shone like gold, Tales of the drunk, the damned, the bold, Where sin and silence softly blend, And bottles bloom at sorrow’s end. In city corners, dreams decay, Yet from their rot, his poems sway— Uncorking truths we hide by day. This is our Nairobi psalm, Spoken with a bottle’s calm, By the dusty kiosk, the matatu horn, Where every drinker feels reborn. David sang what few would write, In drunken verse, he found the light— A mirror in the urban night. #BunguswaWrites.

Title : The Last Teardrop Author : Bunguswa Brian. The Fall The air that morning carried the heaviness of things unsaid. The jacaranda trees along the pathway to Nyumbani University bloomed purple, oblivious to the storm brewing in Brian’s life. He wore his best shirt, the one Sharon had ironed for him weeks before. That morning he had rehearsed a few lines for a poem about resilience—never knowing he’d need them more than ever. As he approached the Literature Department, the murmurs of two guards sliced through the breeze. "Are you Bunguswa Brian?" "Yes," he answered, trying to smile. "You are required at the Dean's Office immediately. There’s a matter that needs urgent attention." He followed them in confusion. When he entered the office, the air turned cold. A panel of four people stared at him: the Dean, a faculty representative, and two unfamiliar administrators. A printed paper lay on the table. " Mr. Bunguswa...

I. In the hush of dawn, he kneels on broken stone, a man cloaked not in cloth but scars unknown— his silence, a scripture, etched in ribs and bone, where hunger chants and solitude has grown. Each breath he draws is war against despair, a monk in flesh, with burdens draped in prayer, unmoved, though storms have braided through his hair. II. He walks the cloistered path of beaten men, where dreams are ashes and hope is a fen. Yet from his chest, a steady hymn ascends— not sung in sound but in how he mends. Like beads he counts his past regrets and tears, stringing them into rosaries of years, each bruise a bell the future dares to hear. III. He fasts from vengeance, drinks not from revenge, but cups the wind where peace begins to hinge. Where others rage, he bows, but not to break— his strength is forged in every vow he makes. To fall and rise is carved into his creed, his will a blade the darkness fears to bleed, a sacred oath sealed not in words but deed. IV. In silence, h...

I I ploughed each sunrise, blistering my face, Filed falling stars at an unholy pace, Let children’s laughter drift beyond my space, Traded their weekends for a spreadsheet trace, Stapled my sweat to ledgers crowned in grace, Believed each hour would weave its silver lace, Yet morning found my pockets an empty place. II They weighed my dawns with promises of gold, Spun velvet vows no winter could turn cold, Pinned shining medals on a common mold, Whispered wealth in scripts I never told, Cupped my hunger in a handshake’s hold, Fed tomorrow on a platter labeled “bold,” Then slammed the ledger, shouting the debt was—sold. III At noon their thunder inked a scar of night, A hush of daggers sharpening their might, “Ask not,” they hissed, “if you esteem your light,” Claws of silence cleaving the kite of right, My pulse became a drumbeat set for flight, Yet every wing was weighted down with fright, And justice shrank—a candle dwarfed by height. IV I walked the corridor of closing ...

      Crimson Pages I hold my heart between thumb and quill, still beating, wetter than ink can tell— each pulse a syllable straining for sky, each drop a confession too jagged to whisper, so I split silence open and let it spill. Memory sleeps like glass beneath dust, fragile until a careless breath trembles it; I breathe, and suddenly shards glitter, mirroring faces that called me unbreakable— I gather them, bleeding, to prove I feel. Night is a patient surgeon, trimming hope, suturing shadows where laughter once lived; I lie awake on the theatre of paper, scalpel-moon carving verses from marrow, trusting dawn to anesthetize the ache. Every wound owns a vocabulary of thunder— it rumbles in my veins, obstinate, raw, so I tongue the storm into rhyme and metre until lightning uncoils, gentled, becoming light enough to guide a child home. I write of rivers older than my sorrow, waters that learned to hum through stones; they teach me endurance is music, that eve...

It frowned beneath a hazy cloud, A silence thick, the sky unbowed. Dawn staggered in on shattered knees, Mournful tones rode ghostly breeze. The wind bore secrets, torn and loud— A mourning wrapped in twilight’s shroud. The dawn chorus began its cry, Shrill echoes spiraled in the sky. “They say,” one whispered, “this is grace—” But sorrow spilled in every place. A mockingbird, its feathers torn, Lay lifeless where the light was born. No lullabies, no flapping wings, Just fire devouring gentler things. The town crier, pale with fright, Chanted warnings through the night: “Awake, arise! The flames descend!” But few believed it was the end. Brick by brick, the skyline fell— Ashes rose where stories dwell. And fire, it was, that crowned the dawn— For by its light, the town was gone. ©Bunguswa™

I. She walks in like dusk—quiet and painted, Lipstick a shade darker than yesterday’s guilt, Perfume borrowed from a stranger’s collar, Yet in our home, she folds her lies like laundry, Neatly hiding truth beneath her apron of charm. II. The kettle boils with secrets never spoken, Walls echo with footsteps that don’t match her shoes, Mirrors flinch at the stories they must hold, While silence sets our table, knife and fork, Feasting on the rot beneath her wedding ring. III. We know—the night is not as blind as she hopes, We’ve smelled the fire in her morning breath, Heard whispers stitched in her sighs at dawn, But still, we set the table and pour her wine, Letting time offer grace where truth should reign. IV. Oaths once etched in gold now rust in her laughter, Kisses timed like a clock with broken trust, She sings lullabies to a house she doesn't love, Yet always returns with the moon as witness— A performance we’ve grown too numb to critique. V. But love is not the a...