THE AFRICAN SAGE

From where do you rise, O fire in my chest, Unbidden storm that shatters my rest? What fuels your flame, what draws you near? Whisper to me, why you appear? I come from wounds too long ignored, From justice starved and spirits floored. I rise when truth is caged in lies, When silence chokes the rightful cries. But why so fierce, so quick to flare? You scorch the tongue, you burn the air. Is your rage always fit to wield? Why not wait , why not yield? Because I am the cry unheard, The clenched fist behind the word. I am the heat when patience ends, The broken trust that will not mend. I do not choose to be refined I’m born when peace is undermined. Yet look at the ruins your tempest brings Friendships frayed and reckless things. Of what use, then, are you, if pain Is all you leave in your red-hot reign? I am a force, not fate nor law, A mirror held to every flaw. When wielded blind, I fracture ties But channelled clearly, I sharpen eyes. I move the masses,...

I saw you today, strong hands on steel, Pushing weight down a dusty street, Sweat like medals on your brow A silent soldier with tired feet. But brother, do you ever pause to dream? Beyond the load, beyond the day? Do you know there's a wheel behind a screen? That turn fortunes another way? Not all men dodge the dust and sun, Some must toil just to survive. But oh! If you could grasp this truth , That knowledge wakes the soul alive. The line is thin, not etched in stone, Between squalor’s grip and a rising tone. It’s not in muscle, not in might, But how you think, and where you fight. Money's not made by magic hands, It grows where daring men will stand , To package thought, to see a need, To build a system from a seed. Take your handcart, look again: Could it be more than just a pain? Could it deliver more than goods? Could it build empires in your ‘hood? Uber was once just idle cars, Facebook started behind dorm bars. They scaled ideas, they t...

He walked once, mind full of sky, Barefoot in dawn’s slow whisper. A wind sang secrets in the grass He heard them all, then listened past. But came the word, the wheel, the fire, A story carved in stone, in lyre. He lingered near the hearth too long, Lost in another man’s old song. The wireless hissed its morning hum, Crackling truths that never come. He tuned the dial, his hands grown still, Chained gently by the voice’s will. Then vision flickered in a box, A flick of wrist, a world unlocks. Empires laughed, and lovers cried, While dreams outside the window died. A man passed, walkman in hand Beats and bass in headlong land. Head bowed low in urban streams, He danced alone through other’s dreams. Then phones were smart and life was not. The now became a scrolling plot. A thousand friends, yet none to touch, A world that never asked too much. Now reels and pods and filtered face, A tap, a swipe , our time, erased. The dinner cold, the child unheard, Th...

At the heart of the human experience lies a profound mystery , the ‘I’ . The self. The consciousness that says “I am” , echoing the most ancient declarations of being. This ‘I’ is the seat of all awareness, the node through which we interpret the world. It is the most intimate reality we know , yet, paradoxically, it is also the root of all that goes wrong in our shared human endeavour. Human life is, on its surface, a celebration of being. The richness of existence flows from the full embrace of experiences , joy and sorrow, gain and loss, love and grief. There is a strange wisdom to pain; it sharpens pleasure. There is beauty in contrast; the light means more when we’ve known the dark. But beneath this dance of being, there lies a deeper struggle: the battle between the self and the other , between I and you . The I naturally seeks fullness , expansion, expression, and elevation. It desires to be good , even great . But greatness is rarely pursued in isolation; rather, it is so...

  I boarded the matatu with exact fare and a podcast in tow, Headphones on, the world tuned low , “Karibu, Mzae,” the conductor said. Who? Me? Mzae? As in, the old one ? A mirror wouldn’t lie , The retreating hairline, The silver squadron above my ears, the way I sigh when I bend to tie my shoes. But still , Mzae? I tiptoe through WhatsApp groups now, Where “big bro” lands like a velvet slap. “Daddy” at the kiosk, “Fathe” at the garage, “Mbuyu” from a youth selling airtime. Is there no refuge left from reverence? No corner where I’m just a man , Not an age bracket, not a lesson, not a past? I want to shout: “I’m a customer, not your patriarch!” “I’m a brother, not the council of elders!” Let me be anonymous in this line, a wallet, a joke, a quick goodbye. Did I do this too? Did I Mzee my way through others’ prime? Did I honour or harm with those sudden elevations? Now, I sit with my strong tea cup , watch steam rise like the thoughts from my scalp ,...

From the slopes of Elgon’s sacred rise, To where the rivers Sio, Khalaba, and Nzoia glide, We wake with joy, our hearts ablaze, And lift our voices in thankful praise. The winds from Wabukhe whisper grace, Through Malemo’s mud, You made a place. You bore our burdens, walked our road, A silent strength that shared our load. Wele oli Wele, Papa oli Papa , You hear our cry, both near and far. With litungu’s hum and drumbeat’s flight, Our spirits dance into the night. Though life has bruised, we still arise, We breathe, we eat, we touch the skies. Oh Wele Khakaba, ever the same, We lift our hearts in Your great name. We’ve stumbled, Papa, lost our way, Yet still we kneel, still we pray. The rains have come, the harvest near, Your hand has brushed away our fear. We hear the cows in Naburereya ’s fields, We see the joy that freedom yields. With every beat of heart and drum, We know how far we’ve truly come. Wele oli Wele, Papa oli Papa , You hear our cry, both n...