Husninews

In the quiet hours when memory walks like a restless spirit, I count the empty chairs. My former colleagues; Francis. Tom. Donatus. Hilary. Shakahulu. Jonathan. And so many others—once young men who we shared corridors, secrets, and the precarious privilege of serving powerful men—are gone. They have crossed into the land of the unseen, leaving only silence and the soft ache of absence. I am alone still alive today. Whenever their names surface, I lower my head and thank the God who still allows my lungs to draw breath. A precious life, I have learned, is richer than any fortune. I was not always this sober. In the early 1990s I was a curly-haired youth bristling with awkward energy and a tongue too quick for its own good. Mischief clung to me like a second skin. Two men alone possessed the rare patience to endure my quirks and smart-aleck remarks: my Dad, Elder Peter Adama Dogwo, and my uncle, retired DSP Michael D. Musa—affectionately called “Palee.” Both still walk among...