Onjalazbroz- Testing the Foundation of Knowledge

I remember him. A man who carried his suffering like old coins in his pocket— quiet, heavy, never spent. He educated them— all his children, sons and daughters— filled their mouths with books when his own stomach growled. Loved his girls a little more, not because they were weak, but because he knew the world would treat their softness like something to peel apart. Now he sits in his silence, a chair creaking under the weight of their forgetting. "Mama, take the money," they say. "Men waste it on women and drink." "Baba was a drunkard," they say. "Baba never worked hard." But I remember. Baba, it wasn’t the alcohol that drowned you— it was their mouths, always pouring blame, never swallowing their share. Yesterday, she paid the rent, and now the whole neighborhood knows my pride fits in her purse. Her mother called, said: "Stop bleeding my daughter dry." As if love is a wound, and I am the knife. She left. Took my Brian with her. All be...

The spectacle of Donald Trump and Kim Jong-un’s nuclear standoff was never truly about disarmament. For those who understand the long shadow of colonialism, it revealed something far more familiar: the age-old struggle between imperial domination and national sovereignty, where the powerful dictate terms to the weak under the guise of moral authority. When Kim Jong-un capitulated to U.S. demands to dismantle North Korea’s nuclear program, it was not a victory for global security—it was the latest chapter in a long history of imperial coercion.   The fundamental hypocrisy is glaring. The United States, which possesses the world’s second-largest nuclear arsenal, has no moral standing to police other nations on nuclear weapons. If these weapons are truly as catastrophic as Washington claims, then why does it continue to modernize its own stockpile? Why do American leaders speak of non-proliferation while simultaneously investing billions in upgrading their nuclear capabilities? T...

The news of Marjorie Oludhe Macgoye’s passing arrived quietly, slipping into public consciousness with none of the fanfare befitting a writer of her stature. It was not announced with solemn tributes on national television, nor did it trend on social media. Instead, I stumbled upon the fact of her death a full year later, while searching for details about her life online. The realization struck me like a physical blow—another literary giant had departed, and Kenya, the country she loved and documented with such unflinching clarity, had barely paused to notice.   Marjorie was not just a novelist; she was a historian of the everyday, a witness to the promises and betrayals of post-colonial Kenya. Born in England but Kenyan in spirit, she immersed herself in the Luo culture with a depth that put native writers to shame. Her masterpiece, *Coming to Birth*, was more than a set book for high school students—it was a mirror held up to a nation stumbling through the chaotic aftermath ...