Month: November 2015

The Story



Charity woke up with a start. She was panting and wet with sweat. Pitch darkness wrapped her room and she couldn’t look. She tried to recount the dream in her head unsuccessfully. All she could see was a struggle. And darkness. She dismissed these as a mere dream but deep down she was shaken.

After turning the lights on, she checked on her roommate, Faith, lying innocently on the lower deck of the bed unperturbed by the events in the room. Not even the bright glow from the florescent tube hanging from the ceiling. Charity turned to grab the Bible which was resting amply on the table next to her notebook.

She opened the bible diligently. It was as clear to her as the writings in the holy book that she had no particular section to read in mind. Her pastor had always insisted on the revelations brought about by random verses. God conveys His messages that way.

Psalm 34:4; I pray to the Lord, and He answered me. He freed me from all my fears.

And so Charity prayed and went back to sleep feeling much at ease.

Charity understood the power of faith. She believed without questions and trusted on the lord to guide her ways. She devoted her life to worshiping; believing strongly in her heart that all the mercy she had thus came from God. Even when everyone else was claiming to have fun drinking and fornicating without compromise, charity prayed hard that she may be delivered from temptation.

The next time she woke up, it was to the incessant churn of her alarm. It was 5.00 o’clock; time to go pray. Charity had known the divine power of prayer and devotion. Her life in college was a wretch without purpose. And she purposed to lead a pleasing life in the eye of the almighty God.

Darkness outside merged with her form and she vanished. While she strode silently, she hummed distinct worship songs; songs that melted her heart. This way, she had learnt from her pastor, she would not have to stray into evil thoughts. Those that threatened to loosen grip onto salvation. She could even quote from the holy bible but the exact verse escaped her memory.

Charity came to an end of the last song she could remember that morning. Not even a chorus could come to her mind for the remaining few meters to the church. Suddenly she hesitated. Her heart gradually entered a pounding phase. Fear landed on her and refused to leave.

Something was lurking behind her in the shadows of the darkness, probably the same thing that had robbed her of the hymns. She wanted to take a bolt but from what? Everything fell so silent that she could hear her own blood gush in their vessels. Charity rushed into the church.

Leaning against the shut double doors inside the church, Charity let out a long sigh of relief. Her chest eased down slowly as if she had been holding her breath. She opened her eyes to intricate pews and a narrow aisle leading a raised podium with a stand in the middle and a large purple and white curtain covering the whole of the wall behind the stand.

“Oh lord, lead me your poor child. Guide me when it is dark and let my heart not cow. In the name of Jesus Christ. Light up my paths, direct my feet so I may walk in your grace. Father….”

Her dry, husky voice echoed down the empty hall.

Outside, the leaves rustled. Tree branches roared in their fight against the strong wind. The iron sheet roofing hummed and creaked as if negotiating with an unknown force. A calendar hanging on the wall of the chipped wall swayed back and forth and dropped.

(Part 2 still brewing) Enjoy!


Who wants to play this way?


I just finished weaving the ball, who wants to play?

I’m preparing to go to church, who wants to pray?

The sun just stopped shining, who wants the hay?

The weekend is finally hear, who wants to stray?

We still need a potter, who wants the clay?

We have to make a rainbow, who has the ray?

They are running away from the economy, who wants to stay?

They are feeling the heightened heat, who wants the spray?

I feel lost in the social media, who knows the way?

It is all about hate speech, who wants to fray?

Concord just turned into eggs, who wants to lay?

Just melted this rhyme, can I get some yay?

Rest In Peace Your Majesty

what a heart break

what a heart break

A guy in a blue jersey passes the ball in between the legs of a charcoal black guy in a maroon jersey. Then he runs fast past him, loops the ball to a guy who connects it with the net. Jamie Foxx says ‘you changed me’ and I order a crisp cold Tusker.The smell of freshly fried chips hit my nostrils and I feel dizzy. I turn and behold a spectacled yellow woman with extra large breasts. She is chewing passionately while tweeting this magical experience away.

The deejay, weighed upon by young dreadlocks, fidget with his paraphernalia and bewitches us with cool hip-hop music. Namagua wine hidden away on the lowest shelf stares at me as if it is my fault I am not holding it in my glass. It takes two to tango but for me it takes one and an intoxicated brain. Some guys can be heard choking in a hearty mirth. The kind that only resurfaces when one is at last able to convince his new catch to have sex with him without involving a condom.

The cold drink streams down my throat as if aware of my thirst. I wet my lips at a Meek Mill ft Nicki Minaj song and smile. It seems to last longer than their fractured love. Less than my sobriety. The drink sinks into my nerves and I feel like calling my ex. I want to tell her how beautiful she is and how stupid I was to let her go. But I am distracted by a Dej Loaf voice. Soon I forget all about it.

I stare at a fridge and Elephant heads stare back. Besieging me to drink them all before they lose their tasks to cold-blooded poachers. I drink tusker because I adore Elephants. That doesn’t mean by any way that I don’t love Mount Kenya. How can I not adore the thawing summit named after veteran legends of the our community? Look, my neighbor is drinking White Cap. Someone has to stand with the Elephant. What do you stand by? 

In my next life I will come back as a Lion. And I promise not to kill any Elephant in my territory. We will exist like a single bride no matter how much hunger will try me. However, I will hunt down all the poachers and crush their bones like a machine transforming a tusk into a jewel. I will force him to come back as a big tusked Elephant. His task will be used to make a spell bound ring and its clicks against the glass of the wearer will be thunderous in China. I will let my roar counter the beating of his heart. In that life I will eat grass and poacher’s meat. I promise to mark the whole of Africa as my territory. 

I hate to think that someday the wild will have to exist without the trumpet of a family of majestic Elephants. I hate to envision that void that the extinction of these animals will leave behind. For anyone who identifies with my fears and can see the sparkle of my tears, I say we have to deal with this elephant in the room. For the dead Elephants and orphaned infants, I say Rest in Peace your majesty.

Tomorrow Morning


Memories. Bitter like the roots of a medicinal herb. As I sit with my cheeks clasped between my palms I feel like I am drowning or will soon drown in these sad memories I loathe. I might as well drown in my tears. My heart is sinking away into my stomach. My head is spinning like a wheel invented in 4500 BC. Slowly but painfully. Soon I will be under attack. Palpitations, piercing pain, vehement denial and loneliness will all kill me in their well orchestrated mob justice.

I want to scream my pain away but my voice fails me. The taste of tears in my mouth is sweet supped against the flaring tribulations. Questions after questions prick my soul like a hooked bramble. As I struggle to untangle, it grabs me tightly sinking its honed edges deeper into my skin. The bush will swallow me; I want it to swallow me and finish me. For the gush of the tears will only wet my blouse but won’t wash away these memories.

Memories of fallen comrades. I can not find a way to fathom  how they had to depart without a word. I understand the pain of letting go but I do not know how to receive news of departure. I do not know how to wave and will not learn. The memories of the warm mirth they carried on their graceful faces. Those sharp questions  again, slicing me up ruthlessly. I’d rather hunch over the Guillotine. I’d rather raise my hand above the face of the wrath of a blazing inferno. I’d rather die, like Kimunya would, than resign to the fate of these harrowing questions.

I hate the echo of silence that is splitting my eardrums. Where are their sweet voices which used to sooth in the midst of pitch darkness? How can I bear the weight of my burden laden heart even when the Lord invites us to bring thee burdens to him? How Can I exist with a poisoned brain and an orphaned existence? Somebody please…

The breeze is sweeping over my face as if begging the tears to stop flowing. The rays of the setting sun is shinning over my eyes emphasizing the drops of tears lingering in my eyes as if afraid to roll out. They did set like that sun but for them and… me there is no hope for rising again. At least the sun takes its time to lick the sweetness off tree tops and skyscrapers and busking skins and flowing tears. They sunk with a single strike like the bursts of fireworks. The jolly sway of tree branches won’t tease me into ease. The classical chant of the birds won’t rid me of the memories either.

It was on a beautiful morning. When we all had goals to achieve. When we all had dreams to chase. When we all had families to love. When we all had education to pursue. When we all had a future put in order. When we all had a God to worship. That ill-fated morning when the blood of the innocent comrades painted the floors of lecture halls red. That color that has since haunted my days, injected horror in my nights and placed my sanity on an edge.

It was on that nippy morning that the sound of gun shots mingled with screams of horror to bring forth pain, death, suffering, suicide, blame game and petrifying memories. It was in those crisp cold water, awakening my skin to yet another day of the chase, that I was cursed into the narrow dale of uncertainty. It was in the uncomfortable heat of that closet that I survived on rough smoothness of body lotion that I was reminded how fragile this life is, how savage a human being can be and how the light at the end of the tunnel can be switched off abruptly.

I harbor zero desires for vengeance. These memories tell me that the loss I uncured can never, in the face of the earth, be directly propositional to the gains I will get from it. I suffer from bluffer inflicted on myself in my shaken monologue. The tales of the memories of the shrill of the screams I heard that morning will be in my head tomorrow morning. The sight of the puddles of blood solidifying under my feet will be in my dreams tonight. The darkness of a future laid to rest will always get thicker. In this jaundiced memories, I languish.

Almost Ep2

The world's dirtiest man

The world’s dirtiest man

I curled in my sleep

Like a fetus in a womb

And I had a dream.

I was ALMOST becoming a law maker

Or like Boniface Mwangi calls them; a healthy fat M-pig

And I knew I would make my stomach more round.

Like a tick

I would suck the bleeding economy dry.

Like a robber

I would put a sack over the heads of those nosy journalists.

Like a sharp shooter

I would nay down any motion meant to tame the party.

Like a Kleine-Levin Syndrome patient

I would finish up my dream on the cozy parliament chair.

Like a wounded lion

I would ferociously protect the thrive of kitu kidogo.

Like Iddi Amin

I would potently ‘fry’ any positive big mouth.

Like a Pope

I would bless all those who know how to own neglected land.

Like Martin Luther King, Jr.

I would be ingenious enough to give eloquent oration of hate speech.

Like Amou Haji

I would bath in all the good things associated with any MP.

And why won’t I break those laws that I would later remember to reverse?.



He walked briskly as if late for a corporate meeting. Inside, he successfully quelled all the yearning to usher himself into the mouth of the dragon.He was not afraid of fire. In his head he visualized how it must be in there with all the women in pieces of clothing for skirts and baby crop tops. He could imagine the yellow thighs, yellow like the succulent flesh of a ripe paw paw. The red, dark,maroon and green lips. He could not picture a human with green lips but he knew for certain that they existed in the joint.

The blast of explicit music hit him as he walked past the entrance looking around suspiciously as if someone who knew him would materialize and command him to freeze. At the corner of his left eye he could see red and blue lights flickering like a broken florescent tube.

After holding his breath all the way to the end of the building, he decided he was not going  to head home without having a peek at the ladies in the mysterious place. He was going to mobilize all the confidence he could get his hands on and saunter straight in without a debate. And so he went round the block past focused women  boarding buses and youth with purpose hurrying in all directions whom he decided intimidated him.

He took in a large gulp of air, looked around and walked towards the entrance hoping to slip in without qualms. As he approached it, he found himself walking past faster than he had in the first instance. A woman with very wide hips and thick weave strolled lazily past him and his gluttonous gaze followed her all the way until she disappeared into the joint. He wanted to turn back but opted to make one more lap around the buzzing city, just to confuse whoever had spotted him making swirls around the condemned place, and then prowl back and immerse himself in without thinking about it.

His feeble confidence assured him of success. Who knew perhaps he would  convince someone in a tiny torn jeans short to grab his arm. Perhaps some would fight for his attention. He crossed the street past wretched beggars, past a building inscribed National Archives although he had a tad idea what that meant, past a shabby woman preaching vehemently at people lined on a concrete bench trying to suppress her voice in their heads, past a stooping statue of a veteran politician murdered by his haters and now being tortured by his tribesmen who broke off bits of the stone used in carving it, past a stinking street boy shuffling his feet on the tarmac while holding on to his trousers,past women selling groceries on the road side. And then went around two blocks and resolved he was ready for it, he was even sure from the soft thud of his heart when he thought about it.

He walked stealthily past a restaurant oozing the aroma of fried chicken and fish, past men selling old books and magazines featuring big women with bleached skins, crossed the street and again he could behold the building staring back at him as if in challenge.

He stood to catch his breath.Pretty young women walked by and he had to lust after them. He was ready except for some little stupid feeling that edged hesitantly into his heart. However, he was going to storm in like a victorious war hero. He was going to approach those women like a pimp. He was going for the kill and nothing humanly was going to deter him.

With his head high and shoulders straight, he walked towards the taunting entrance and realized suddenly that he was the opposite of confident. His heart beat as if he was a Kikuyu man addressing a Luo crowd holding shoes and chanting off- key Baba song. His brow was dripping. In his head he could only hear one sensible thing; home. He bit his index finger, peeped at the blinking lights over his shoulder and headed where he won’t have to debate over. Home.



She looks at him but do not allow her eyes to meet his.

If they collide it would bring forth an irreversible tragedy.

Hearts would turn into soaked sponges,

Breaths would break into gulps,

Wounds would bleed,

And tongues would stammer.

So she looks his way.


Her lips tremble like an unsteady chameleon.

For she knows the pieces won’t piece even with peace pleas bliss.



Voices can be heard from a distance shrouded in deep arguments. They are loud but indistinguishable. Men laughing as if they have the world at their feet. Women talking and sharp shrills can be picked from the edge of their voices. Music is struggling for a chance in the background and matatus rumbling loudly along the avenue.

You look across the street at men and women walking by unaware of the existence of the joint. They have a stooping economy to chase and the frustration is evident on their faces. Cars park, cars leave, cars get stuck at a traffic jam.

The drink is sinking deep into your system. It is unwinding all the knots in you yet tightening others so you feel a faint headache. The cold drink however streams down your throat and dissipates amply in your stomach.

You remember friends who know how to discuss issues with the grasp of sages. Men you’ve always had the pleasure to refer to as learned friends although the much they know about law is the ICC proceedings they have been following on You tube. Men who can tell your thoughts from the look in your eyes without giving an insinuation that they want to offend Robert Mugabe.

You hunch over your phone and lose yourself to the flow of the read. You nod and smile and look around seeking a party with whom you can share the sweetness. Quickly you copy a paragraph and send it to Silas, that rascal with whom you get along so well.

You sip. Everyone else sips

At the summit of I & M building, dark birds float around buoyantly as if seeking to open a bank account at this age of unpredictable economy and disguised government cash crunch and leave soon.The darkness encroach stealthily like a cat stalking a weaver bird on a tall tree. In the calm and ruckus and business, it keeps getting thicker until the light gives up and disappears hoping to fight another day.

Even in the solitude of the moment you find company in the notepad and you scribble the evening away like a journalist at a press conference. You let the hum in your head rock as you try to pinpoint the distinct notes that need be transcribed. The smell of beer bathes your lungs. The buzz from the screens fills your ears.

As the street lights begin to glow, twilight girls materialize under the yellow lights with some having one long leg stuck against the posts hoisting the lights. You soak in your beer and reads and the magical aura. The breeze sweeps through your face and its kisses make your skin numb.

Suddenly you remember the trouble you will get into with your wife. All the tantrums and unexplained silence and rhetoric questions and groggy food and hunger strikes. You thank God she has not graduated to Premier League which other women you hear on prime time news have. How would you survive without your member? The horror that’s attached to the scenario awakens you and so you stagger out while your head hangs on to the sight of pretty waitresses in red short short skirts and try to envision a shortcut into their thighs.