Happy Madaraka Day

 

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.  

We spit their lies back into their throats.  

The war never ended—  

it just put on our skin,  

learned our tongue,  

stole our gods,  

and now sits at the table  

eating from our children’s plates.  

We remember.  

Not with flags, not with speeches—  

with teeth bared,  

with the old fire still burning  

in the pit of our stomachs.  

The forest taught us how to fight.  

The graves remind us why we still must.