A story was once told
about chains that fell
and flags that rose.
The soil beneath us
breathed again
and we called it independence.
But somewhere in between
the anthem and the sunrise,
something shifted.
Victims being punished
and abusers being celebrated.
Did justice stop being
our shield and defender?
We changed the rulers, yes.
But only painted
the white picture to black.
Maybe it would have brought more ease
knowing resemblance meant safety
but everyday suits get sharper.
Gates get taller
while the people get quiet
and more tired.
Where did the promise go to?
Funds disappear like honesty
in the campaign speech
that has become a script.
A rogue story handed
to the common mwananchi
where hospitals silently whisper,
bring your own hope.
Schools try
but chalk cannot fight corruption.
Wake up.
This is the new colonization
but by hands that look like ours.
Voices that sounds like ours
and leaders who forget
they were once us.
They shake hands on stage
but the handshake
never reaches the street vendor.
The farmer watching the sky
and the youth holding a degree
and a question.
Freedom was supposed to feel different.
Not like counting coins
before boarding a bus.
Not like choosing
between food and rent.
Not like watching taxes rise
while trust falls.
The common mwananchi
carries the weight of the country
on their back
but still, we wake up to hustle
and laugh in the middle of the struggle
because here, resilience lives.
Independence isn’t a date
in history anymore.
It is safety in our streets,
truth in our leadership,
food on the table
and dignity in our daily life.
But until then,
we are not fully free.
We are surviving a system
that learned to colonize
its own people
but one day, maybe one day
the mwananchi will remember
the power of its voice
because a country isn’t built
in parliament halls.
It is built in markets,
classrooms, farms and homes.
Aluta continua,
freedom is coming.
