Denmark Adios

Night in Ukweri
Kisumu, Kenya
23rd. July. 2024

They came like shadows in the night,
No warning, no reason, no right.
Hands bound, eyes blind to the dark—
Still, I carried an ember, a spark.

Ukweri's silence screamed too loud,
A body broken, but spirit unbowed.
Each strike they gave, each lie they spun,
Could not erase what I’d become.

They called me danger, called me threat,
Labeled me what I’ve never met.
A terrorist, they claimed I’d be—
But truth has roots they cannot see.

Torture echoed through Kisumu’s air,
Pain and fear and gasps for prayer.
Yet still, I breathe, I bleed, I speak—
The voice of one they tried to break.

I am not what their fear projects,
I am the truth that hate rejects.
So let this poem be my cry—
I was stolen, beaten, left to die.

But I return with fire inside,
For every soul they’ve crucified.
Justice is slow, but I still stand—
With dignity in trembling hands.

Denmark Adios Beinomugisha.
Mbarara City South.

For the Struggle of Dr. Kizza Besigye

In the heart of a nation draped in green and gold,
A voice rose steadfast, resolute and bold.
Not for power, nor for pride or fame,
But for justice, for freedom, he gave his name.

Through tear gas clouds and prison bars,
Through silent nights under watchful stars,
Dr. Besigye stood where few would dare,
Bearing a people's unspoken prayer.

Bruised but unbroken, year upon year,
He carried Uganda’s hope through fear.
For those unheard, he raised his song—
A cry for right, a stand against wrong.

Though the journey winds and the road is steep,
And shadows gather while others sleep,
Know, Dr. Besigye, your struggle is seen—
A flame in the dark, steady and keen.

History will hold your name in grace,
For offering your life, your strength, your face,
To a cause that calls the brave and true:
Uganda’s freedom—still pursued.

Denmark Adios Beinomugisha, For Mp: Mbarara City South 2026-2031

"Kitalya Doesn’t Dream"
Ward 6, Unit 4.

Prison No. KMT/419/24/R19.
(a poem from inside)

They called me a terrorist.
No trial, just a name
thrown like a stone
and it stuck to my skin.

In Kitalya,
the walls sweat
but never speak.
Iron beds,
cracked cement,
the ceiling stares like an enemy.

They say it’s high-security —
but it’s not the walls
that keep you trapped.
It’s the silence after screams,
the waiting for a lawyer
who never comes,
the smell of beans
burned into your breath.

Men in uniform don’t ask
what you did —
they ask who you angered.
I told them,
truth is not a crime.
They laughed.
Truth, here, is sedition.

Prayer becomes habit.
A worn rosary,
a verse scratched in soap
on the cell wall.
Some nights, I hear
a whisper of freedom
in a fellow inmate’s cough.

Outside, the papers write headlines
we never read.
Families cry in languages
that never cross these gates.
Inside, we trade stories
like contraband —
hope wrapped in half-truths,
folded into hidden corners
of the soul.

I still remember
the sun before arrest —
how it touched my face
without suspicion.
Now even sunlight
must be granted in shifts,
through barred windows,
filtered by fear.

They say I am a danger.
But it’s not bombs
I ever held —
only a voice,
only a truth
they found too loud.

They tried to bury me in accusations, but I grew roots.

Denmark Adios Beinomugisha
For Mp. Mbarara City South 2026-2031.

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