The Great Scripts

Welcome to the Plastic Republic,
Where the national tree is a shopping bag
Stuck on a fence, waving in the wind,
And our rivers don't flow—they CRUNCH.

We've achieved what no colonizer could:
We've wrapped our own necks in chains we PAID for,
Five shillings at a time.

They banned the bags,
But somehow the bottles multiply like rumors,
Every street corner, a plastic graveyard,
Every drainage, a tomb of Cola and good intentions.

And us?
We sip our sodas through plastic straws,
Post from phones wrapped in plastic cases,
Then throw the evidence in the nearest bush
Like Mother Nature has infinite forgiveness.

But here's the uncomfortable truth:
The companies keep producing,
The government keeps "planning,"
And WE keep consuming—
Then wonder why fish taste like packaging.

Listen—
We are ONE generation away from drowning in our convenience,
From leaving our children a country
Where "ocean view" means seeing plastic to the horizon.

The question isn't "Can we change?"
It's "Will we?"
Before the Plastic Republic
Becomes our permanent address.

©The Great Scripts

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Another revolution around the sun completes itself, marking time with the quiet persistence of seasons turning.
The candles multiply on tables across years, each flame a small beacon against the gathering dusk of uncertainty.
I stand at this threshold, twenty-three doorways behind now, each one teaching you something about the weight of your own footsteps.
The mirror reflects back someone who carries both the lightness of dreams and the gravity of knowing that dreams require more than wishing.
Today the earth tilts towards me with all its possibilities, whispering that transformation lives in the space between one breath and the next.

The destination I hunger for remains distant, a shimmering mirage that shifts each time I think I've pinpointed its coordinates.
But my feet have learned the rhythm of forward motion, even when the path curves away from where I thought I was heading.
The compass in my chest spins not toward magnetic north but toward something truer—the pull of becoming whoever I'm meant to be.
Some mornings I wake feeling like I'm walking through thick honey, progress measured in millimeters rather than miles.
Yet here I am twenty-three trips around this spinning rock, still moving, still growing, still discovering that the journey itself is sculpting me into someone worthy of arrival.

Ukienda kwa Mosque unafaa uende na majibu ju Kila mtu anaswali 😅
Great Scripts/Entertainments