He wasn’t throwing stones.
He wasn’t shouting slogans.
He stood selling masks ,
For a few coins,
For a day’s bread.

But today,
A bullet answered him instead.

Close range.
To the head.
No warning.
No mercy.
Just silence
Then screams.

He fell ..
Not as a rioter,
Not as a threat,
But as a father, a hustler,
A man trying to live
In a country that kills
Even those who choose peace.

His name might not trend,
His story might fade,
But his blood stains these streets
And our rage will not fade.

He sold masks to protect life ,
And they took his.

So we march,
Not just for bread,
Not just for jobs,
But for the right
To simply exist
Without dying
For standing still.

Ruto must go.
Because Kenya is crying.
And we will not be silent
While our people are dying.

They came in boots,
Not to guard ,but to crush.
Their shields don’t block bullets,
Only justice in a rush.

We shouted with hope,
They answered with smoke.
Tear gas, batons,
And promises broke.

We bleed in silence,
But silence will scream.
Because freedom was never
A distant dream.

Not every gunshot kills ,
Some spark a flame.
And from this pain,
We rise. Again.

War is not born in the market stalls,
where hands shake over ripe bananas
and borrowed change.
It is not whispered between neighbors
hanging laundry in the wind.

It is not the dream of the mother
rocking her child to sleep
on a mat woven from yesterday’s peace.

War is born in polished rooms,
where suits sit on swivel chairs,
swapping lives like poker chips
over coffee no one spills.

It is conjured by men
with maps and microphones,
who will never duck when the sky breaks open,
who will never cradle a body and ask why it had to end like this.

They do not bleed.
We do.

Children become numbers.
Villages become ash.
And somewhere, a screen lights up
with the word “necessary.”

But ask the boy clutching his sister
beneath the rubble—
what was necessary?

Ask the girl who writes poems
with broken pencils and no country.

They never asked for this.

They just wanted to grow.
To dance.
To argue about silly things.
To live.

But war—
war is never about them.
It’s about power
wrapped in patriotism,
and pride sharpened like bayonets.

So no,
war isn’t created by citizens.
It’s served to them cold,
by hands that never touch the aftermath.

Let it go, love.
The ache.
The wish.
The “what if.”
All the silent wars you’ve fought
beneath midnight ceilings,
the echoes you answered with shaking hands
and a brave, tired heart.

Let it fall.
Like rain that no longer asks permission.
Like sorrow that finally exhales.
You don't owe strength tonight—
just honesty.

And after that cry, come back here.
With red eyes and tender breath.
With no need to explain.

Because I’ll remind you every time:
You are not broken.
You are becoming.

Not ruined—
Rising.
Not lost—
Unfolding.

So cry, love.
But never forget:
This is not the end of you.
It’s just the storm
before the softest bloom.

I don’t want you in this life because you couldn’t hold me right…
but maybe in another lifetime, you'd know how. And we’d be happy.

I lost myself while trying to love you

You begged him to stay,
because your heart wasn’t ready to break.
You held on,
thinking love could fix what was already gone.

He begged you to let him go,
not out of anger,
but because he had already left in his heart.
He was tired—
of pretending, of holding back the goodbye.

You cried,
hoping your tears would change his mind.
But he sighed,
because he had no more words to give.

And in that quiet moment,
you both knew:
loving someone
doesn’t always mean they’ll stay.