PAINTINGS AND DRAWINGS:
1. RESILIENCE
By BRIAN MUUO
Resilience explores peace as a tension held rather than a silence achieved. While I was making this piece, I wanted the model to be bound yet unbroken, almost in a state of limbo between fragility and strength.
The bandages wrapping around her, are usually symbols associated with injury, recovery and vulnerability, yet she remains upright and composed.
The movement suggests instability, reflecting the turbulence that can surround the challenges around health and wellbeing.
Peace here is portrayed as not an escape from hardship but instead emerges from it.
The intravenous line,the oxygen mask, the stethoscope as well as the doves are both literal and symbolic; a representation of medical care, support, nourishment and the unseen systems that sustain us through adversity. Healing is therefore relational and not solitary.
The contrast within the composition mirrors the experience of wellbeing, light and shadow, vulnerability and endurance, stillness and motion.
The work invites reflection, is peace softness or is it a discipline of remaining? Is strength loud or is it quiet persistence?
In this tumultuous space between rupture and restoration, resilience becomes its own form of peace.
Through this work, I offer an invitation to the viewer to experience resilience through my lens.
2.PEACE IN SMALL BEGINNINGS
By; BASWETTY.K. JOAN
"Peace in Small Beginnings: Going Home in Grace explores the collective journey of neonatal survival and restoration. At the centre of the composition, a mother holds her premature child a quiet embodiment of resilience shaped through vulnerability. The embrace represents protection, warmth, endurance, and the sacred bond that sustains life in its most fragile state.
The presence of medical elements acknowledges the multidisciplinary team whose vigilance, skill, and compassion made survival possible. The visual transition mirrors the emotional shift from uncertainty to peace.
This work Honor’s not only the discharge of a baby from intensive care, but the shared grace that follows the relief of a family restored, the quiet fulfillment of healthcare professionals, and the profound stillness that comes when life prevails. It reflects the peace found not at the absence of struggle, but at the end of it.
Closing remarks:
“In this ward, grace is measured in grams gained and heartbeats sustained.”
“The smallest beginnings often carry the greatest victories.”
“Why this title?”
“Because peace is not the absence of machines but the presence of survival. And going home is grace earned.”
Dedication: for mothers, families, and medical teams.
3.WAR AND THE COST TO HUMAN WELL BEING
From the battlefield to the heart, war leaves marks unseen. Healing begins when peace takes root.
"War is often measured in casualties, destroyed infrastructure, and political outcomes. This artwork shifts the focus to its most enduring impact: the human body and mind. The first image portrays a heart at war—injured, scarred, and marked by violence—yet bordered by flowers emerging from its wounds. These flowers symbolize healing, resilience, and the possibility of recovery when peace replaces conflict. They reflect the role of care, compassion, and safety in restoring physical and emotional well-being.
The second image presents a soldier seated in silence, observing destruction from a distance. His stillness conveys exhaustion, psychological burden, and moral injury rather than heroism. Though the battle continues around him, the greater conflict exists within. This figure represents the long-term mental health consequences of war, including trauma, emotional numbness, and isolation, which often persist long after physical fighting ends.
Together, the two images emphasize that war does not remain confined to battlefields. It enters hospitals, homes, and communities, affecting healthcare systems, mental health, and everyday life. Healing, in this context, becomes an act of peace, and peace itself becomes essential treatment for humanity."
CROCHETING CONSCIOUSNESS
"The piece serves as a direct tribute to the IPPNW (International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War), weaving together the medical profession's duty with the universal pursuit of peace.
This balaclava transforms a garment historically associated with concealment and conflict into a symbol of global unity and peace. Traditionally linked to protection or protest, the piece reclaims the narrative by presenting the face covering as a canvas for dialogue rather than division.
The design integrates a subtle world map wrapping around the head, symbolizing shared humanity and interconnected destinies. The word “peace” is embroidered in multiple languages across the surface, emphasizing that the desire for harmony transcends borders, cultures, and political systems. A reimagined gas mask motif is incorporated as a softened outline rather than a harsh symbol, representing the urgent need to protect life from war, violence, and environmental destruction.
By covering the face, the balaclava removes markers of identity such as race, gender, and nationality, inviting viewers to see one another as equal. Its minimalist aesthetic reinforces clarity and intention: peace is not loud, but it is powerful.
Ultimately, this piece challenges viewers to reconsider what protection truly means not shielding ourselves from one another, but safeguarding our shared future."
ESSAYS AND SHORT STORIES:
ON WEDNESDAYS
She drags herself, shuffling her feet through the wide entrance to Accidents and Emergency. Her right cheek appears larger than it should be and the tangy metallic taste of blood lingers on her tongue. This time there’s a gap where a tooth used to be. She is holding her left side and her head is throbbing. She pauses at the doorway for a few minutes, holding onto the frame to steady herself, then lowers herself onto the examination bed with difficulty. The night shift nurse looks up from her phone casually. “Ni wewe tena?” she asks, as she pauses the Tiktok video she was engrossed in and pockets her phone. She grabs a new triage chart and thermogun, shifts the gum in her mouth and proceeds to start the assessment.
A week later, Resian is preparing to walk out through the same doors. This is the fifth time the same doctor signs her discharge sheet. He does not look up as he hands her the card with a helpline number again. Resian tosses her painkillers into a carrier bag. The pills rattle. As she walks towards accounts to pay the Ksh 9,600/= bill, she presses her thumb where the new stitches pull at her lower lip. The clerk stamps her SHA form and slides it back with her ID card. An hour later, she is at the matatu stop near the hospital gate. She can feel her heart pounding beneath the fresh bandage when she boards the No. 8 which is already half full.
Back home, she changes into her sweatpants. They hang looser at the waist though they used to fit, and she lowers herself onto the bed. Her neighbor Mama Wanjiru knocks on her door. A tired Resian welcomes her in but she doesn’t look Mama Wanjiru in the eye. In the thick silence that ensues, Resian’s breathing breaks, she sobs and leans forward into the older woman’s chest. Mama Wanjiru’s faint scent of cooking oil and soap is comforting. It began with a raised voice here, an insult there, then a slap…until on one of those occasions, she woke up to the smell of antiseptic, the hospital gown and the white walls she had come to know so well. She called her manager at work to report that she had a funeral to attend. An excuse here, a lie there… but here and now in Mama Wanjiru’s arms, her stitches, scars and bruises press against the old woman’s kitenge. She heaves and clutches onto the helpline card.
She lifts the cup with both hands, sips the milk tea and bites into the mandaazi. The aroma of cinnamon from the steamy tea hits her nostrils. Mama Wanjiru’s kiosk is really busy today. Crowded, bodies move in and out, brushing at the small entrance. Coins clink at the counter. Resian breathes steadily, some lightness in her chest. Her cheeks are fuller and her clothes fit again. She got off from work early today to visit Mama Wanjiru. And she brought along a friend, Achieng, whom she met at the Maisha Women and Girls Safe House. After telling stories and laughing with Mama Wanjiru, the two young women prepare to head back to the Safe House. Mama Wanjiru wraps some maandazis in old newspaper for the younger girls at the rescue center. As Resian wipes sugar from her lips, some particles fall into her handbag, where there’s an envelope with the document confirming the date of the court hearing. Not even ‘kitu kidogo’ was enough.
Resian retires to bed. She whispers a short prayer in the dark. No aching sides. No endless painkillers on the bedside table. No snoring boozy body turning toward her in the night. No
tears-soaked pillow case. Tomorrow is Wednesday. She looks forward to the session with Nyokabi, her therapist. And she smiles at the thought of office gossip during lunchbreak. The room is quiet. She falls asleep.
~ASHLEY ODIAGO
I DID IT
“Hey sweetheart, mom just got out of surgery, they said she’s going to be just fine,” I remember telling my wife vividly. I had just finished my cardiothoracic residency, and our two daughters were seven and five years old then. For so long, I had struggled. I yearned for the day it would all work out, and finally the day had reached. Haha! I remember after that my wife screamed, “OH THANK GOD LETS ALL GO OUT.” She invited everyone, and I mean everyone, even offered to pay for the less fortunate ones. That was probably the best weekend of my life. God, we had fun.
“Hey, baby, I can’t sleep.” My wife woke me up on that fateful day. It was on January 26th, the day that marked the onset of her condition. However, I only came to understand that later. “Just go drink some water, sweetheart, it will be all right,” I told her. A few days passed, the insomnia had subsided for a while, all was well. Or so I thought.
“Violet, Violet, Violet!” my wife shouted while clearly staring at our firstborn, Aileen. Her words slashed through my heart like a blade. “No, it can’t be, not her,” I said to myself. The smartest person I’ve ever met, the brightest mind I’ve ever encountered could not, no! should not have been confusing names like that, especially not her daughters’. “Insomnia, confusion, what on earth could it be?” I thought as we rushed her to our neurosurgeon, a dear friend of mine. “It’s too early to say anything. Kindly call me if the symptoms get worse,” he said.
A few prayers, a few precautions and then we continued living. I kept a very close eye on her, sometimes, regrettably, neglecting our daughters. No, it was not neglect, their mother needed me more. Her health never returned to its peak. Her condition worsened with each passing day. I had to take a break from work, from writing, from everything. “We know what’s affecting your wife,” the neurosurgeon started. I hopefully stared at him, wishing, begging, but most importantly, praying that it was a curable condition. “She has fatal familial insomnia.” To this day, I’m not sure whether he spoke another word after that or not. All I remember is collapsing to the cold hospital floor. I could no longer see nor hear. Then I cried. Oh God I cried. “Of all the neurological disorders, why? Why this?” I thought. The following days were a blur to me. All I know is that I closely stayed by my wife’s side, never once letting her leave my side.
Emotionally, I was not strong, and neither was my wife. We would put up a facade when talking to everyone else, our friends, colleagues, and most importantly, our daughters. However, only we knew our true emotional state. She would cry in my arms as I would in hers. Oh how I wish we could rewind time; I yearned for the days gone by. We had always been staunch Christians before her diagnosis, but after it, our faith increased even more. We prayed, we read the Bible, we fasted, we donated. Anything, anything that could have been done, we did. She then rapidly lost weight, but what hurt even more was her dementia. Slowly but surely, my dear wife forgot chunks of information.
“Don’t worry sweetheart, you’ll be fine,” I said.
“Who are you?” Were the last words my wife said to me before she fell into a coma. That was the last I ever heard of her. She passed shortly after, and on January 20th, almost two years after the onset of her symptoms, I laid my wife to rest. What followed after was the worst few months of my life. It got so bad that my mother had to temporarily take away my daughters, whom I had been severely neglecting, failing my fatherly duty. My heart couldn’t take it; nothing brought me peace. I cried. I screamed. I shouted. I cursed the world. I cursed the entire medical field at its ‘incompetence’.
“I have lost my wife, my daughters and my sanity! What am I supposed to do, pastor?” I shouted.
“Just continue seeking the Lord your God and all will be well. He will grant you peace.” He replied and with that marked the end of my faith. Seek him? That’s exactly what I was doing till my wife’s demise. I immediately renounced Christianity and continued on my never-ending search for sanity.
“Yes, I want the kids back. Don’t worry mom, I promise I’m good.” My daughters were back, and so was my job. With all these factors present, I could run from the storm within. I could evade my feelings. I could lie to myself that once again all was well. For a while, things were starting to look okay again, albeit sometimes the grief would come back, however, I was trying. A few days turned into a few weeks and now a year and a half had passed since I lost the love of my life. Hesitantly, I had allowed myself to smile again, to laugh again, and fully care for my daughters. “Yes, all is well, my wife is also, she… She is dead.” It was as though I was losing her for the second time. I didn’t understand what was happening or rather, I refused to accept. I hadn’t it completely healed, because I ran away from the grief. I kept it hidden in a locker and threw the key away and just when this realization was hitting me, my phone started ringing.
“I am so terribly sorry.” My mouth moved, but no sound left it. “Aileen has sadly passed away in an accident, her school bus hit a lorry, leaving no survivors.” A single tear rolled down my eye. My world had once again been shattered, and this time the cracks reached the innermost parts of me, completely obliterating my very sense of self.
“Peace doesn’t exist, does it?” I calmly told my psychiatrist as I walked out of his room. Quickly, I rushed to the balcony and stood on the ledge of the seventh-floor unit.
“This life isn’t worth living,” I thought as I stared at the cars below. The psychiatrist and his nurses came rushing.
“Please, think about your family, your daughters,” he said.
“They are dead.”
“All of them?”
“No. Violet wasn't in the car crash.” That's right, my Violet is still there. My baby, I'm so sorry, dad is coming. The news devastated her. She's the only reason I'm alive, I constantly thought. My mother permanently moved in with us, to help us however she could. Unlike with my wife's passing, this time it didn't get better. Violet was the last straw I was clinging to, to stay alive. All passion, peace and whatever was left of my sanity was gone. What remained was a shell of a man who once lived.
When Violet was then also diagnosed with fatal familial insomnia, I simultaneously prepared my eventual suicide. I would hang myself the day she died. What I didn't know at the time was that her diagnosis was, ironically, the best thing that had happened to me in a few years. Neuroscience had exponentially improved in the years following my wife's demise. “This time, you won't lose her. This time, you will win,” my neurosurgeon friend told me. I completely broke down for the first time in a long while. He cried with me. I cried for my wife. I cried for my firstborn, Aileen. But most importantly, I wept for my Violet. “Could it be true? Could I finally win?”
She fought. The doctors fought. The condition fought back. However, the condition wasn't beating neuroscience this time. My daughter was cured. The first person in the history of the human race to be cured of fatal familial insomnia. Say her name! Shout her name! Let it be known: Violet Ngugi defeated the undefeated. Her recovery marked a turning point in our lives. We were rejuvenated. We would live again. We would indefinitely carry the memories of my wife and Aileen, however, we wouldn't stop living. It's now been a decade since she was cured, and although I hate admitting that I'm wrong, I was. Peace does exist.
~NDOHO ROMAN NGUGI
WHEN THE DISHES ARE DONE
“Clink!” The plate slides into place.
As I turn to my side to pick up the next dish, there is no more “phewks!” I let the warm water run over my hands and let the peace sink in. No more dishes! “Finally!” I exhale deeply, and it feels as if the whole world is exhaling with me. The mess is gone. At
the very least, this calls for a movie night with a friend. I deserve a treat, don’t you agree? Not that I need approval either way. In a world where conflict stretches far beyond battlefields, these small acts of care remind me that peace is deliberate. I’ll make my coffee. I let the heavy scent of it bloom in the air and carry me somewhere softer. The rhythm of the swirling kettle is music to my ears now. I am just in utopia, and I almost forget to turn it off, but only just in time, before it boils over. I pour the dark liquid into my favorite ceramic mug and pause, letting the warmth bloom through the ceramic and into my hands. The warmth steadies me, and for a moment there is nowhere else to be. I gather my thoughts, and it feels like well-deserved grace that has been lacking for many days. The bitterness of the strong beverage is softened by the steam, and I can just take it all in and savor the moment.
It is astonishing how small tasks, once completed, ease the edges of my mind. As the clatter clears in the physical space, so does it in my psychological and emotional space. Peace comes from the little victories. I wish it could linger and stretch endlessly, but the day comes in ripples and each task in its own time. For now, I choose to stay with this moment. This comfort feels like it is meant to be shared. It invites a lot. A clean place and a cup of coffee create room for laughter. Perhaps soon someone will sit with me. It’s easy to imagine another cup on the other side of the table with the steam rising. Pour a second cup and the conversation pours itself. This is the strange magic of coffee. Inviting someone to peace is more than the gentle gesture of the warm cup of coffee; it’s a calling to allow them to see that life is best enjoyed at an unhurried pace.
Already anticipation is brewing. A movie night feels like a well-deserved celebration after a hectic day. Choosing a film is becoming its own ritual, scrolling through the options, imagining which story might carry us away. I can already picture the echoes of laughter filling the room. I can already feel the walls creeping
nearer.
So I sit, letting the peace wash over me. Perhaps not tonight, but tomorrow, the movie can wait.
Tonight, the victory is mine—but tomorrow, peace can ripple outward, shared with others, reminding us that even small gestures matter in the pursuit of a calmer world.
~JUASTONE KYULE
THE QUIET REBELLION: CHOOSING INNER PEACE IN A NOISY WORLD
Trust me, I am one of them. The ‘awkward swan’ in a pool of ‘ducks’.
Abby, why don’t you go out?
Abby, why are you always elegantly dressed?
Abby, have some fun, you only live once you know?
Over the years, I realized I prefer a nature walk to a party, and stillness to constant stimulation. I am at peace with who I am. While many people speak of FOMO (Fear of Missing Out), I have come to embrace JOMO (Joy of Missing Out)
Let us put our thinking cap on and analyze my hypothesis. Since the advent of social media, the search for what I call ‘artificial dopamine’ has intensified. People take pictures for likes not memories. Friendships and relationships have become transactional instead of pure. Digital platforms, reward speed, comparison and excess. In the process, individuality is diluted and the world adopts a one-size-fits-all version of fulfillment.
What happened to self-love? Pursuing the state of nirvana? Not being slaves of our own thoughts? Despite the fact that this conflict does not resemble war in its traditional form, it is a conflict waged quietly against the human mind and body. Constant comparison, overstimulation and pressure to perform keep the society in a state of psychological alertness. This escalation has led to anxiety, burnout, emotional fatigue, sleep disruption and inner unrest.
I encountered this reality personally when I was asked what I do for fun. My answer was writing, music production, Pilates, research and spending time alone with my own thoughts. The reaction I received was telling. A mixture of surprise and discomfort. The encounter was a confirmation of my observation. Many of us have been conditioned to equate constant stimulation with happiness, even when it leaves us unwell (physically and mentally) and disconnected from ourselves.
Choosing natural dopamine (fulfillment drawn from creativity, nature, movement, meaningful work, rest and reflection) becomes an act of resistance in such a world since it is out of the norm. It is not being a wet blanket but a conscious decision to protect one’s health by regulating the nervous system, reducing internal conflict and rebuild emotional balance.
For a long time, humanity has been taught that peace is external. Peace has to be achieved, displayed or acquired. Perhaps it is time to change the narrative. Inner peace is not passive. It is a form of conflict resolution that begins within, reducing harm before it spreads outward. When individuals are at peace, empathy deepens, care becomes possible and healthier communities can emerge.
If being at peace with oneself makes one an “awkward swan,” then so be it. Come, let us be two.
May peace (and inner peace) prevail.
~ABIGAEL NDIRANGU
POETRY SUBMISSIONS:
IF PEACE WERE A PILL
By JOHN NGUNJIRI
If peace were a pill,
Doctors would prescribe it daily.
One dose in the morning
For the children who wake to sirens,
Another at night
For minds that refuse to sleep.
If peace were a pill,
Hospitals would breathe again.
Beds would not overflow with grief,
Walls would hear fewer cries,
And hands meant to heal
Would stop shaking from fear.
War is not just bullets and ruins,
It is anxiety in waiting rooms,
Depression in quiet homes,
And trauma stitched deep into memory.
If peace were a pill,
It would not cure everything
But it would reduce the pain,
Slow the bleeding,
And remind the body
What healing feels like.
Some of us study medicine,
While already bleeding inside.
Until then,
We create peace where we can
In words,
In art,
In care,
Because health cannot exist
Where peace is absent.
Artist Statement / Summary
If Peace Were a Pill uses poetry to explore the deep connection between peace, health, and human well-being. By comparing peace to medicine, the poem highlights how essential peace is for both physical and mental health. Just as medication helps the body heal, peace allows hospitals to function, caregivers to work without fear, and individuals to recover from trauma. The poem emphasizes that war does not only cause visible destruction but also leads to psychological suffering such as anxiety, depression, and longterm trauma. These effects often remain unseen, yet they deeply affect individuals, families, and healthcare systems. Through simple imagery drawn from medical settings, the poem shows how conflict overwhelms spaces meant for healing. Although peace is not presented as a cure for all suffering, it is portrayed as a vital foundation for recovery and dignity. The poem ultimately encourages the audience to recognize peace as a basic necessity for health and to reflect on the role of art in expressing, promoting, and sustaining peace in society.
PEACE AT LAST!
By BEATRICE KINDIVYO
Peace, oh Peace,
Having you can be taken for granted.
When you are here with me,
I can smile, I can read,
I can think clearly, I can lay my head down,
I can socialise, I can be productive.
Peace, oh Peace,
When you left me,
I carried hidden wounds,
The ache of never being enough.
I wore the "I'm okay" mask,
While my heart bled quietly,
My mind trapped in turmoil.
Every night, my pillow soaked in tears.
When will I ever be perfect?
I had nowhere to turn,
Home chaotic, school in despair.
I was a ghost in my own life,
Alienation seemed to be my solace.
Peace, oh Peace,
When you left me,
I was always in defense mode,
Sharp words, sharp moods, always scared.
Maybe I pressured myself too much,
Chasing perfection that was never enough,
Measured against their impossible standards.
Maybe no one truly understood me,
Everyone expected nothing less than perfection.
Perfection was exemplary performance,
Without perfection, I was invisible.
Invisibility came with a cane on my back,
With words: "This is good, but not good enough!"
I am not okay. Peace, I need you.
Peace, oh Peace,
When you finally heard me,
When you came to my rescue,
A hand held me tenderly, gently,
Giving me motivation.
I opened up,
I finally saw the light.
The external pressure that clouded my mind,
That forced me to meet others' expectations,
Instead of pursuing my dream, my passion.
That pressure, draining my focus, my productivity,
Vanished at last.
Peace, oh Peace,
Now I have you.
I can smile, I can talk,
I can read, I can lead.
My heart is leaping with joy,
My body relaxed, my mind focused.
At university, pursuing my dream.
Productive without comparison.
I can be myself, I can lay my head down.
Peace at last, I found you.
THUS WAR SHE SOUNDS
By FRANCIS SEAN
Thus war she sounds! A demon on the steps of the doctor my mother visited,
She took him first, strangled the life out of him asking him to pay with the tablets he gave till he
had none,
The calluses on his thumbs when he pressed the syringe empty and devoid of healing, tales of
time passed through a horror,
He stood tall this doctor of my mother's, till he saw a broken doll bleeding and a man crying for
her to return to life!
The madness had not hit him then till his wife was a memory in the town square when a bomb
dropped,
And even then he had time for tears, he had time to worry about his soul and time to wonder
about the future,
She was 8 with a smile that spoke of a day the sun wouldn't stop shining,
The demon kept its demands, its hands ready for more payment,
But he had run out of oxygen tanks and the patience to see blood on his coat, he told the
demon not,
And when it turned to her…
God took her home.
Thus, war she sounds! But my mother's doctor with poison in his blood heard it not.
Thus war she sounds! The loudest drums you ever heard on the governor's door,
She didn't take his mother because a foreign hospital clutched her so tightly in its arms,
The governor only had to tell his people what the president said on TV in a calmer voice, with
words only his county folk could understand,
He had not yet heard the drums of war!
In his suit, he was safer than Jesus on Crucifixion day! For no men called him a Messiah from
the war, only Mr. So and So who said President So and So said we're safe from the war,
And so, we must be safe from the war!
It was the illusion he painted in his walls with the cash he so smartly robbed, war does not come
to the rich,
They buy guns and cars and maybe aeroplanes to fly above the fighting men,
Deaf to the drums of war!
Till the madness took the President over the phone, his ministers running around screaming
here comes the war!
Here comes the war! He heard the drums marching to his door,
Here comes the war, the airports are gone. Mr. Governor had forgotten to build a helipad like
the rest!
Suit still on he saw his people in his dreams, headless folk and bleeding bodies in the town
square!
And when the fighting men stormed down his doors, the madness had overtook him,
For when they brandished guns and sprayed the bullets all he cried for was for the drums to
stop!
Thus, war she sounds! The endless drumming bleeding the governor's soul.
Thus war she sounds! The sea that swallowed my mother's clan and their sons,
It started with words about the other clan, their horrid ways and how much they do not deserve
any land,
My mother's father's grandfather did not know why, but he remembered when the white man
had smiled more at the other clan,
At least his cousin's uncle's father told him so,
He had talked about the job's they missed out on and the tracts of land they lost because and
the power of government!
The cousin's uncle's father had pumped his fist into the air his voice loud, but no one in his
family ever took time to learn what governments were really about,
And words flew some more, vile creatures called the Agpesaa and the stupid ones called
Jofishermen!
They could not be neighbours even in a land that Allah had separated for them with a lake,
It should have been a sea, it should have been a sea!
They did not ask Allah for this sea and instead sought to make one with arrows, angry politics
and stones!
My mother's clan called to their boys healthy and strong, the ones who knew more about video
games, movies and music than how to throw a stone,
The ones who had rallied for a good political cause a few years back rolling with the campaign
of "No tribe but one tribe, my Country! "
No tribe but one tribe remained as they each fought for their country while the old men yelled
into radios!
The leader of them all had advised against the TVs very strongly because TVs carried pictures
that showed how large the sea grew,
So they fought a little at a time, picking up the sand as they went, in schools and late night
events,
The hole they dug kept growing ,so much sand they dumped into it laying the bed of the sea,
Till one spilled the blood and they all kept coming,
My mother's countrymen fell to stick, word and stone while the big boys dined and chatted about
it!
With each drop grew the sea, the sea that swallowed my mother's clan and their sons,
Thus, war she sounds! Beneath the sea that swallowed my mother's clan were the heavy
burned bones of their daughters too.
Thus war she sounds! The man behind the camera told of the smell of bullets and sound of
dying men,
But they were not just dying men, no my charred dictionary said they were something called
journalists,
The brave men and women who made the world their diary, telling of the atrocities man wrought
from the hate in his hands, the greed in his heart,
Foolish, the man behind the camera called them too,
Idiots who thought holding up a mirror to the people of the world would be enough to recognize
themselves and the truth!
You are war! They are war! He is war! She is war!
They all said in different languages and with different captions, but my favourite remains '
President Orange face declares war on men not as orange as his face! "
You are war! The man behind the camera kept yelling when asked what is war?
He had seen it all, guns and bullets, rockets and bombs, jets and tanks on the street,
Yet after he showed the world his documentary films, he kept saying war is the creatures of
flesh, bones and a little brain,
You are war! Only human creatures make war!
Ere his death he spoke of leaving his town hungry for a story about hungry children and tired
women who held them their backs to the soldiers’ guns,
He had been young and radiant, a little boy,
But the war aged him a thousand years old, cursed to relive the days of every life his camera
saw fall,
His eyes grew old with every family he saw burnt to death, his ears by the sounds of screaming
women the soldiers raped and his hands by the weight of his partner's body,
He was an old man when he spoke his last words to me, I remember my mother was younger
than him,
The words he spoke are words that the war could not turn to smoke, "There is a madness to
war, and the madness is that only men are war, only men are war!"
Thus, war she sounds! The man behind the camera told of what made a war, only men are war.
Thus war she sounds! She is still loud upon my mother's grave,
Just as she was when my father didn't come home from the clan member's meeting,
He was nobody's son, so he was not counted amongst the dead in the sea,
She is still loud as when she stopped going to market because the farms and their farmers were
all burnt and dead,
She could do without tomatoes for a day, a week, a month,
My mother did not sit down at the table for bread in the morning for a year before her death,
Allah had made her black as coal, yet after a month of bombing and planes her eyes seemed
darker than the devil’s soul,
She mumbled about her husband coming home, "My Johnny will come home soon. I must make
his favourite meal. "
I wish I had been brave enough to tell her that the soldiers had shot her chicken laughing in her
face.
When she called her doctor on her final weekend, he answered screaming that he had no more
tablets for her broken brain,
I'd like to believe that it was his words that finally condemned her to the grave, (my favourite lie)
I did not cry when she went, I had wasted my tears on the pages I wrote about my country and a
girl I loved forever,
So, think about me please, the madman under the tree mumbling about peace and love when
you think of war,
Think of me when you write up your agendas of war,
Think of me when you beat your partners and your children,
Think of me please when you dream of new gun designs and your fake peace deals,
I do not dream of war,
For when war she spoke to me, I discovered she wore a man's face!
SHAIRI SUBMISSIONS:
Kwenye kambi ya wakimbizi, mpakani pa nchi, kunatokea kijana mmoja anayesimulia athari ya vita vilivyotokea kwao, na vilivyowasababisha kuwa wakimbizi wa nchi yao. Anasimulia madhila wanayopitia kwenye kambi. Kambi ile inajumuisha vijana, wazee, ajuza hasa, Watoto wachanga na wengine wengi. Japo mapito yale ni ya kutamausha, miale ya matumaini inaonekana ikiwakodolea macho, pengine ‘siku njema’ ikawadia.
KAMBI YA WAKIMBIZI
~Onyando Emmanuel Ochieng
Ninakumbuka vyema,
Siku ile ya ‘kiama’,
Mabomu yakirushwa,
Risasi zikifyatuliwa,
Majengo yaliporomoshwa,
Vijiji vikisambaratishwa,
Kote kukilipuka,
Mioto kutawala.
Tulijaribu kuhepa,
Ila Izraili alijikaza,
Bado nakumbuka,
Wazazi wangu wakichomeka,
Wanuna wangu bila shaka,
Risasi zikiwapata,
Taswira ile i hai,
Kijiji kikiangamia.
Muda ukipita,
Wakatili wakafika,
Kwa visu na mapanga,
Kazi yao kukamilisha,
Haya sikushuhudia,
Rafiki amenieleza,
Sijui nilipokuwa,
Pengine kaniokoa Malaika.
Kutoka vijiji vyetu vizuri,
Hadi kambi ya wakimbizi,
Kutoka majumba yetu ya kifahari,
Hadi mahema ya karatasi,
Sauti ya vicheko na amani,
Sasa vilio vimebakia,
Shida jua linapochomoza,
Taabu giza likitanda.
Ajuza yule jamani,
Anavyolemewa na baridi,
Blanketi lake jepesi,
Kumsaidia haliwezi,
Mkongojo wake kwake rafiki,
Jamaa zake wakiwa vumbi,
Akipoteza tumaini,
Kuchukua za mwisho pumzi.
Kijana yule tazama,
Alivyoshika tama,
Mguu mmoja hana,
Wakatili walimnyang’anya,
Namtazama kwa huruma,
Japo siwezi kumsaidia,
Chozi lamdondoka,
Hawezi kufarijika.
Vitoto hivyo vyalia,
Kama mimi ni yatima,
Nani atavinyonyesha?
Vingali vichanga,
Itakuaje hii dunia?
Bila sauti ya mama,
Ilishachaguliwa yao hatima,
Na migogoro ya watu wazima.
Watoto wanalia,
Wazee wakikohoa,
Vibanda vimebanana,
Hamna nafasi ya kupumua,
Ardhi ngumu yetu kitanda,
Twaumia japo twavumilia,
Japo yabana kifua,
Maisha yanaendelea.
Jua linapotokea,
Tumbo lalilia haki,
Haki itoke wapi?
Pengine mara moja kwa wiki,
Tumekonda na kukondana,
Nguvu zimetuishia,
Tumbo linanguruma,
Itabidi livumilie.
Siku njema,
Yamewasili malori ya misaada,
Yanazo nafaka,
Umati ukikusanyika kupokea,
Nyusoni tuna furaha,
Miale ya matumaini,
Muda si muda,
Tukianza kung’ang’ania.
Wenye nguvu wananyakua,
Wazee wanalemewa,
Mchezo huo ukiendelea,
Tunazidi kujeruhiwa,
Hawa utu hawana,
Vyote wakitaka,
Kwa utulivu tunawasihi,
Angalau kila mtu apate.
Kwenye magumu haya,
Pengine tumaini lipo,
Pengine tukarudi vijijini,
Tukazika ‘vumbi’,
Kwani hakukuwa nafasi,
Hata ya kuomboleza,
Wakiingia mazungumzoni,
Ndoto hii kutimiza.
Itakuwa siku njema,
Amani itakaporejea,
Tukiondoka kambini,
Kuondokea hili jinamizi,
Liwafikie ofisini,
Walilosababisha hili,
Mola anawaona,
Uovu waliotutenda.
Itakuwa siku njema,
Majirani kusalimiana,
Mioyo ikipona,
Maisha yanaendelea,
Ya kale tukisahau,
Usoni tukiganga,
Lisitufikie tena,
Libaki tu historia.
Msimulizi, kwa njia ya shairi anakumbuka vita vilivyotokea baada ya uchaguzi uliokuwa nchini. Yeye pamoja na wanawe wakiathirika moja kwa moja. Majumba yakiporomoshwa na kubakia vifusi huku milio ya risasi ikiendelea kusikika kwani vyeo vilikuwa viking’ang’aniwa. Vita hivi vikisababisha vifo na wengi kutoroka nchi yao. Anamalizia kwa kurai amani iimbe ili kusababisha utulivu na umoja.
IMBA AMANI IMBA
~Oyando Emmanuel Ochieng
Vilivyobakia ni vifusi,
Pengine wanangu wamo ndani,
Milio ya risasi ikisikika kwa mbali,
Kuwatafuta bado siachi,
Yananidondoka machozi,
Vumbi ikitawala hewani,
Bado ninalo tumaini,
Pengine kuwapata hai.
Mlichokileta tazama,
Wenye mioyo ya chuma,
Vyeo mking’ang’ania,
Nasi nyasi tunaumia,
Utulivu mmerarua,
Nchi yetu tunaitoroka,
Msielewane mbona?
Umoja kudumisha.
Nikichoka tayari,
Zinatufikia Habari,
Wengine wako hospitalini,
Na wengine mochari,
Ila wanawatibu nani?
Hawapo madaktari,
Vitanda vyao wamelalia,
Vifo vyao kusubiri.
Vilio, mingurumo ya huzuni,
Tokeo lake Izraili,
Tukiyakubali mauti,
Twapoteza tumaini,
Wanangu tena hawaamki,
Zimewatoka pumzi,
Hivi nielezeni,
Nitawahi kupona kweli?
Vile vitoto tazama,
Vilivyobaki yatima,
Kwa uchungu vinalia,
Kwenye miili ya wazazi,
Ya kwangu afadhali,
Hili lauma zaidi,
Nchi yangu jamani,
Kwani una nini?
Uwanjani, majeneza yamelandana,
Tumefika, miili kupokea,
Eti, wametufadhili hawa,
Waliotuletea hii tanzia,
Wanatuahidi fidia,
Ishara ya huruma,
Eti, wanatuombea,
Tupate kufarijika.
Hadi lini jamani?
Kila wakati ni hivi,
Historia hatujifunzi,
Au pengine hatujali,
Basi yatukumbushe makaburi,
Ya wetu wapenzi,
Linapotokea hili,
Tunaumia mioyoni.
Hiki mojawapo visa,
Nilichopitia,
Amani ikiondoka,
Haya twapitia,
Akili inanguruma,
Moyo hauna kimya,
Picha za kale twatazama,
Utulivu kutukumbusha.
Basi imba amani imba,
Sauti yako paza,
Kote nchini sikika,
Umoja himiza,
Chuki, ukabila ondoa,
Vita tamausha,
Usilale naomba,
Bendera yako peperusha.
Imba amani imba,
Hadi kwenye ndoa,
Watoto wasilale njaa,
Eti mama kaondoka,
Usaliti kemea,
Wakuogope wabaya,
Unafiki furusha,
Ukatili kanyaga.
Imba amani imba,
Kuchoka Hapana,
Utulivu leta,
Moyo uwe kimya,
Kwenye dini usiogope,
Ndipo sote tushikane,
Palipo amani,
Afya, uzima hapakosi.
TIBA YA NAFSI
Sitini sasa nagonga, ya maisha niloishi
Huzuni imeninyonga, kwa fikira za mazishi
Ni juzi tu nimejenga, sijavinjari aushi
Ndo sasa ninajipanga, mali yangu kuidishi.
Sababu ya kuchelewa, ya mlalahai kuwa
Kwa muda nimeugua, maradhi yalonitua
Si mahoma ya mafua, ama kibovu kifua
Ni kutwa kujiumbua, maumbile nilopawa.
Na hilo lilichochewa, na kule kujicompare
Warembo walomezewa, kwa simu 'kiangalia
Tete hali ikakuwa, waja wakiniambia
Siwezi kutamaniwa, hivyo nikajichukia.
Nikajiona kinyaa, njiani nikitembea
Nikaona ninafaa, mate wakinitemea
Nikawa nawaduwaa, walionikurubia
Na kuwaona shujaa, wema wakinitendea.
Mapenzi 'liyakataa, hata nilipopatiwa
Kwa hofu tu kunijaa, wanafiki watakuwa
Peke yangu nikakaa, 'kidhani 'takuwa sawa
Ila ikawa balaa, mvivu nilipokuwa.
Ajizi nyumba ya njaa, walidokeza wahenga
Kwa ukame kunivaa, nikawa sasa nafunga
Nikazidi kusinyaa, maradhi yakanilenga
Roho yangu ikapaa, nikifa hali mchanga.
Ndo hapo kajiketisha, 'kutafuta langu kosa
La mtu 'kiwa atisha, anapaswa kujitesa
Amani kajikosesha, kwa mawazo yangu tasa
Ya umbile kuridhisha, ni bora kuliko pesa
Kuanza kujikubali, 'livyoumbwa na Jalali
Ilikuwa si sahali, mi kufanya jambo hili
Ila 'kapata morali, ilipoboreka hali
Nikanawiri kimwili, pamoja na kiakili.
Malenga: Mulhat Hamad
PHOTOGRAPHY:
AIM OF THE PHOTOS: To demonstrate how the presence of peace fosters emotional comfort, mental clarity and improved productivity, particularly within shared spaces
Photo of students playing football. Taken at Chiromo Sports Ground, University of Nairobi.
Photo of students walking while chatting. Taken near Graduation Square at the University of Nairobi.
Photos by:
BEATRICE KIVINDYO