Stories of K

  By Kevin Kogo Silence Is Betrayal.   To know, to see, to comprehend the grotesque injustice the state and its machinery inflict upon its own citizens and still choose the cowardice of fence-sitting is to admit that your education, however expensive, has rotted into nothing. You are a collaborator in your own oppression.   A young man—a father, a husband, the only son of an aging parent—was torn from his humble home 400 kilometers away. Dragged onto a bodaboda, hurled into unmarked Subaru, beaten, tortured for hours, and finally strangled to death. But the monsters weren’t done. They paraded his grieving father—exhausted from a night-long journey—onto a cold bench at Central Police Station, left him to wither for hours, then spat in his face with a lie: "Your son banged his head on a wall killing himself ."  Albert Ojwang’s death didn’t just break the camel’s back—it shattered our faith in this system. We were the obedient ones. The ones who marched with f...

  By Kevin Kogo Happy Madaraka Day 13 years.   A whole decade choking on smoke and silence,   bare feet splitting on thorns,   unarmed—just fists and fury,   untreated—just wounds and whispering spirits.   200,000.   Not numbers—   bodies stacked in the mud,   mouths stuffed with forgotten names,   bones left to bleach under government sun.   The forest remembers.   The trees still hum with bullet holes,   the mugumo roots cradle old screams,   the dirt hoards the weight of dreadlocks   shorn and scattered like cursed seed.   They called it victory.   But what is a victory when the hangman’s rope   still swings in the wind 62 years later?   When the generals’ ghosts rot in unmarked soil,   and the new masters wear their faces?   Today, we scrape your memory from the dirt.   W...

  By Kevin Kogo    We never kissed.   Just stood close enough in the chaos   that your sweat mixed with mine   when the police trucks came.   You had that look—   not the kind that makes poets write shit,   but the kind that makes men stupid.   The kind that makes you charge armored vehicles   with nothing but a rock and a prayer.   I remember how you held your sign   like it could actually change something.   How you screamed yourself hoarse   for people you’d never meet.   (How I wanted to be one of them.)   Then the stun grenades hit.   You grabbed my arm—not romance,   just survival instinct.   But for three seconds,   I was yours.   Afterward, we shared water from the same bottle.   Your lips didn’t touch where mine had been.   I watched you walk away ...

 By Kevin Kogo I woke today and realized   I have been building a house inside a machine.   The walls are made of unanswered emails,   the floors—worn thin from pacing   between what I owe and what I’ve lost.   Every morning I oil the gears with my silence,   let the conveyor belt of expectations   pull me through another day   of assembling a life   that isn’t mine.   I saw my face in the bathroom mirror   at 3:17 PM—   a stranger with my eyes,   hollowed out by fluorescent lights   and the weight of pretending   this is what living looks like.   They call it "work"   but I know it by its real name:   a slow excavation of the soul,   shoveling myself into piles   labeled efficient  professional  disposable.   One day I will stop   and the machine won’t no...

 By Kevin Kogo Your eulogy was beautifully written, Grandma, in the exact tone and charisma of your most distinguished character: the storyteller. I have read it many times, in your voice and warmth, and every time, you are still seated in that recliner, with a space heater on, cruising through Nollywood films and calling out for Cherobon to serve us tea. Memories—how awkward it is to call them that because many times it's 2021 and you are counseling us on the importance of education, or it's 2015 and we are gossiping about Lenard's reckless drinking habit, or 2009 and you are taking me and Lelan for our first swimming lesson. It's too many personalities, too many places, and too much love to compress into one word: memories. Jeff says upstairs doesn't feel the same anymore. There is no "Karibu/nyoo" voice to welcome you in, there is no Nigerian movie playing on the screen or an unfinished crochet somewhere on the couches. There is no Bobby barking on the ...

  I never meant to lose her,  but somewhere along the way, I did  she sat across from me,  her smile soft, waiting for something  I kissed her cheek like I always did,  the gesture was there,  but I wasn't.  Not really.  My mind was elsewhere, cluttered, distant,  trapped in a thousand thoughts I couldn't untangle.  She asked about my day, and I gave her an answer that sounded like words,  but felt like nothing.  I could see her waiting, searching my eyes for something real.  But I couldn't find it.  I couldn't find myself.  I wanted to reach to her, to pull her closer.  Her eyes so full of hope, so full of love,  were starting to look like they were seeing through me, not to me.  I wanted to hold her,  but I couldn't even hold to my own thoughts.  When my phone buzzed, I glanced at it without thinking.  I saw her reaction in the corner of my eye, a glimpse of disappointment, ma...