By Dories Kwamboka
We were not born in peace.
We were born in the smoke of tear gas,
In the silence of unpaid school fees,
In homes where hunger speaks louder than sleep.
We are the children of broken promises—
Of ballots that meant nothing,
Of streets painted with the blood of our friends,
And walls that echo with the names of the dead.
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You call us noise.
But this noise is our last breath—
The voice of a generation screaming
To be heard before we vanish.
We don’t wake up to riot.
We wake with fear clinging to our chests,
Praying today won’t be the day
Our mother picks out a coffin.
How do you live, knowing
You could die for holding a placard?
For daring to say:
“Please stop killing us.”
We are tired—
Tired of being brave when all we want is peace,
Of dancing with death just to be noticed,
Of writing eulogies for friends
Who should still be laughing.
Still… we rise.
We rise with voices full of grief,
With fists clenched not in hate,
But in desperate hope.
Because if we don’t fight—
Who will tell the world
That we were here?
That we mattered?
That we were human, too?
