The Editor


Fingers converse with the keyboard in little clicks like naughty pupils whispering in class after lunch. The clicks fill the room. He haunches over, hitting the buttons in the desperate rush to beat the deadline. It is 12.47. The news is supposed to be on at exactly one. So he fights, absentmindedly grabbing the cup and sips the tea. His eyes do not leave the monitor as if he is in a staring contest with the monitor.

This happens 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. He seems to love every bit of it for he sticks to his seat as if he has been glued to it. The cover of his arm chair is faded at the arms and the sitting area while the others bought at the same time are still shimmering and dark.

He gobbles every story. Internalizes it, analyses the slant and the scripts and the words. He transforms intros into catchy leads. He replaces words with weighty ones that convey the message. He trims the script until all the rodents are out in the light and then gives that crucial nod. Otherwise the story will die.

This is his playground and he entertains no mediocre players. If you can’t, then retire and let the able ones work. Once it is on his desk, he skims through it and snaps his finger. And that is where all the trouble begins. That is where the illness begins and the story either battles out or perishes in the ordeal.

His voice is neither soft nor husky. It is however somehow heavy. His cheeks are bloated; perhaps from all the frowning at the poorly done stories. His back is stooped from all the hunching. He is always in a hurry but never to leave his center where stories meet their ultimate fate.

He never looses his temper except when he is irritated by mediocrity in a story, which happens all the time. When he is, he loses his words. He takes to dismantling it and rebuilding it into something worth of air. Then when he finally gets his voice back, he issues a stern warning.

When the heat is up and people are losing their heads, he always has his to bring people back to their selves. The heat never bends him. It just can’t reach up to his boiling point. He is like a father in the middle of fighting kids.

And then he never laughs unless he just has to. His laughter is so rare it could be valued alongside precious metals like diamonds. Even when finally the story flies into the viewer’s TV. Perhaps one day he will laugh so much everyone will be disgusted. But as for now, we will make do with the quest to put a smile on his face.




Is two days before tomorrow,
The day after two days ago.
Haruki Murakami


Tomorrow I will be looking back at today wondering what good I ever was in making the world a better place. Today I am looking back at yesterday like a character in Haruki’s Yesterday, and still miss the clear vision of those moments that really matter.

Back then I was so young and plump. Not certain about the elusive future. I peek back and all I can see is a large dark cloud of worry. My worry was justified for I am still chasing after that cloud barring me from having a view of my tomorrow.

Academics called, I heeded the call and struggled to put a finger on the far stretched grades that would open the creaking gates of a university education. That meant Helb loan to help offset monetary issues and, well, a better chance in the congested world out of a university.

I have been reading fervently in order to spell out any misfortune that might be waiting on my inclination and evade them. The books light up that candle of hope in my writing career. Offering a glimpse of what might be lying ahead. The light though is too frail to break the chains of darkness that is draped all over it.

Haruki’s character regretted for never having had time to record the lyrics spit out by his weird friend Gitaru in the wake of the strengthening of his growth rings. My memory seems to be lying that it is strong but I would not fall into such pit traps. As long as it is sharper than the focus of a magnifying lens, my memory will someday try to fail me. That is when I will drag it to the torture chambers and clip off its hazy edges.

Yesterday is indeed two days after tomorrow. But what does it hold? What key to what door does it hold to the sealed gates of tomorrow? I might have a clumpy past. It might be heart breaking. It can as well go on to be a riddle to be uncovered by a young brain. But of what use is it?

Governments use their yesterday wounds to heal tomorrows looming ones. Companies use their past to project their future prospects. What do I do with my yesterday? Do I sit back and wait until history repeats itself among my future generations so I can come back to try and alter the coarse course of it? Will I let them use time machines to travel back to me and enlighten me on the implications of my undeterred yesterday?

The idea of the power of the pen was once given unto me so that my yesterday may not perish but have an everlasting tomorrow, okay maybe. I may write about the politics of hatred changing shape daily in the current world. I may write about the romance of extravagance engulfing the young mind today. I may write about the Eurobond and saga in the same sentence. But I will also remember to hoist a portrait about my yesterday. So the colors of the painting may give a reflection of a better tomorrow.



silence pic

It is yet another grey evening. Sickening. Simple. Straight. We’d play music but there’s no energy to dance. We’d shout but we are devoid of a voice loud enough. We’d fall in love but there are no women in the bar to ignite flow with their heart shattering giggles. if they were there, their beauty would merge superstitiously with the sweetness of the hour.

And so we drink in silence. Shutting off the voices that try to drown our silence and serenity.

We sit cozy in the uncomfortable wooden chairs listening to the sound of silence. And air as it gathers and turns into wind that would whisper by our naked ears. We listen to the sound that the crisp cold beer makes as it drops down our throats leaving us euthanized. We listen but don’t learn. There’s nothing to learn anyway.

We are tempted to make calls but we are too strong for that. The caring voice of those who would pick the calls are just too much to handle. We want to drown in our drunkenness and in the morning only one person will wake. And sober as I would be, I won’t refer to myself as we.

How to tell a story about a story


I sat alone long after I’d finished reading the short story feeling lost in the real world. Cheated. The outline had put my hopes higher than any flag in the land. It made me walk away into a sanctuary hoping never to come back. Away from the touch of human kind,away from bother and deep into a silent land where characters spoke in their muted conversations only accessible through written words.


In the hiding, the only thing that brought humanity close to me was the sound of lorries grunting at the highway, murmuring at the burden of the red gravel weighing down upon it and the far away whimper of a child and the parachutes wobbling in the air like a group of rainbow color hunting eagles.

Cricket chirps were rampant, stealing away the short-lived stillness from the conversations between the birds. I could also hear a dove woo a mate in its deep husky grunt of lust.

I sat on a boulder, ready to lose myself to the read. I was easily a saint kneeling in the church waiting on God’s voice. My legs hanged out my balls to the pleasant lick of the evening sun. In a posture that my biology teacher would have readily discouraged and even pull your ear just to emphasize his stand. The wind blew gently and bananas danced amply as if imploring me to share the sweetness.

The intro was witty. It carried promises of worthwhile rewards if only you hold your calm. However, it warned whoever could not get past the common 148 characters on Twitter and even fewer on Whatsapp that are mostly abbreviations. The enticement in it roused my pleasure cells and they opened up like flowers’ bloom in anticipation of morning sun.

The writer gave me a maiden entrance into the world of his lead character and I was impressed. I smiled. I blessed the Lord for giving us good writers who never let us perish in the wake of plunging economy but give to us the opportunity to get lost in gripping stories. the thud in my chest softened and became steady, only fluctuating on hitting a bizarre line that deserves a reread.

I read on, gobbling even the mundane parts of the story. Letting myself sink into the appalling tentacles of the snappy sentences. With the thirst of a drunkard, I gulped down the suspenseful paragraphs. And the story, told from the heart and passion of a storyteller, drifted silently past my eyes.

The rhythm in the story edged away the one in my aura. I lost track of time and everything else. I geared to claiming my well deserved award. And when the time came,after all the patience,after all the thirst, after all the wait, my zeal was not for nothing.

For the twist in the story left me laughing at myself.

The story lingered on in my head for a very long time. I wished I’d been the one to tell it and still paint the picture without losing a single color. Or detail. Or crucial dot.

Please Spare the Ink


Be careful not to spill the ink. I will be mad and in the event lose my sanity.  I don’t have anymore left and I don’t know anyone who can spare some. That look is ugly,Stretch out those lines on your face, they make you look old. And dumb.

My heart almost jumped out of my chest when I had an urge that you would paint my desk black. I know you won’t because it’s black alright. But the lose would bleed my soul dry of peace. It would wring me of purpose.

Get a better handle of those fingers which won’t rest at a spot for a moment. They are all over. Touching. Sifting. Turning. And now they are graduating to spilling. Or they almost did was it not for my refined sixth sense.

I hate those liquid eyes. Their stare is gruesome. They are cold and evil. I think it offers me an insight into your heart. Although it is dark in there, I can barely make out it’s shape. it is a horrible sight to behold.

When you speak of love you plant hatred in me. Your cracked lips certainly don’t know how to spell the words well. It is the way it comes out it suddenly turns sour, a transformation I loathe.

I am getting another baffling note. That you are against my penning of the letter to that beautiful girl in my dreams. It makes your stomach churn this letter. It raises a giant wave of jealousy in you like yeast does the dough. It makes your insides cook with anxiety.

And with those thawing eyes in the chill of the evening I can feel that you hate that you love me and that is why I love you. But please spare the ink.

Fade Out


This gone be quick. Forgive me for all the hurry and apparent errors.

The evening strolls in lazily. And the sunset happens in style. The sun is as red as the devil’s eye. like that of those revelers who have been on the wait in bars since 25th. It lingers a little at the edge of the globe. Licking the last moments of the year off the surface of the earth. After all this is the last evening of the year.

The euphoria can be smelt mixed with aromas of roast beef and chapati. Loud music can be heard,hitting the air as if its rumble would stop the year from wearing off. People are eager to update their calendars after the expiry of the old one.

Rumor has it that the new version would be no different from the one used in 1984,when the idea of a smartphone was treated as pervasive. Social media memes are making rounds like nobody’s business. They are creative,appalling and most importantly hilarious.

The only thing on the lips of earth dwellers is the aging off of the year and the birth of a new one. A year anticipated to come with fortunes, fulfillment of dreams and so much more. Most people are excited. Most people are eager. But many are anxious for they know not of the contents of these mysterious basket. If only they could look into the future.

It is however common sense that with the new year persists old grind. That which has been witnessed over the years with resolutions fading away in notebooks and diaries. And then it starts all over again like a gentle whirl.

Finally when the sun sets and darkness comes in to veil the unveiling of a whole new year,drunk people will make a toast,they will shout out some fast decided resolutions and get stunned at the beautiful lights of the fireworks dying away into a dark sky like the ultimate fate of their so cold new year new leaf imagination.

People will shout their voices hoarse as if the old year is to blame for their diminished dreams. They will sing soulfully and the new year Will watch while counting to ten before they all backslide and begin to wait for another new year in order to put their messy selves together. But for now, the year 2015 is fading out. Tired.

the story

Death in the Night.(Part 2)


Later in the day, Charity sat in Persuasive Communication class staring blankly. It was her norm to sit at the front row so as not to miss a word from the lecturer. Dr. Buteo was talking about the laws of persuasion. She delved on the law of reciprocation when she explained charity was sucked into her own thoughts. The deeper the lecturer dug in her analogies the more did her form and voice melt away from Charity’s attention.

She thought of her uncle who had died a week ago under strange circumstances. Something had pulled him off his car while he was driving home drunk. Then something peculiar flashed across her mind. She had experienced almost the nightmare she had had that morning days from his demise.

A tear drop squished out of her eye. It dragged itself down her cheek.

“Is everything all right?”

Charity was aroused from her reverie. It was Bargoria.

“The class is over and everyone else is gone, Charity.”

She looked around and the room was empty. Sadness and regret gripped her. Sadness for the death of her uncle, regret for having let herself dragged away in the middle of a lecture. She gave Bargoria a blank, lost glare.

“Am good.”

Then she hesitated. Was that really right? It even sounded odd to her ears. The alarming revelation of the connection between her uncle’s death and ugly nightmares she was having threw her into uncertainty. Her heart sunk.

“The lord says that He cares. He insists in the book of Psalm that He is our shepherd. Are you in fear? Do you feel lost and don know what to do? Prayer is the gateway to your communication with our heavenly father. You just need to believe and have faith. The Bible says that even with faith as tiny as a mustard seed, you can move mountains.”

Charity listened with the keenness of a judge during a sensitive and crucial trial. Every sentence hit her right in the core. Every word seemed tailor made to fit her. Under her breath she murmured little “Amens” and “Hallelujahs”. At some junctures she felt so much at peace that she mumbled a prayer, blessing the lord for His abundant promises. She wished the evening fellowship could last forever, that the soothing words of faith may sip endlessly into her heart and quench her spirit of the burning thirst for the word.

The sermon came to a disappointing end when Charity was making an entrance into the divine boundaries. Her spirit was rising off her body and waddling in the joy of the peace granted by the gospel. A feeling consumed her. She wanted to stand up and continue the sermon; to feed from her own words, to drink from the assurance of the Holy Spirit. However, she opted to lurch into prayer.

Church door cringed closed behind a dovish Charity. The stars were not shining. She could see distant street lights blinking behind tall trees swaying like ghosts dancing in a ritual and hostel windows glowing in different colors depending on the color of the curtain on them. Within, Charity had found a light that no intensity of darkness could devour.

A Conviction that something unfathomable was bound to happen but she was ready to counter it. After all if the lord was for her, who could be against her?

Her feet found way in the darkness. Charity walked with poise while she clenched the bible tighter in her hand. She was sure she was not along in the lone trek. Company was with her. But she walked on boldly. All this while, she could hear distant music coming from club F2 at Stage.

She walked past the Iron Gate into stage where the secular music was at its full blast. Students buzzed around the entrance to the club vomiting red lights like bees around a hive. The ladies were in extremely short skirts that exposed most of their thighs. A couple staggered out clumped together and walked to a vendor by the club and ordered for smokies. A guy rushed out throwing all over. Charity shook her head in disbelief and hurried past.

As the disgusting music faded away, Charity stumbled on something. She sighed and found her stability. Soon, she would be warm and cozy in her bed. She walked more cautiously, investing trust in her feet. After three years of walking the path, she was almost sure to have mastered the topography.

Then something must have moved behind her. She paused to listen and then moved on. A minute later, she stopped again. She strained her sight into the darkness and a figure appeared or so she thought. Charity laughed it off and resumed her walk. Her room was less than thirty meters away.
Suddenly, something hard hit her forcefully in the back of the head.

Charity fell instantly on her face and passed out.


Bargoria hurried for his morning prayers. He had checked on Charity but she could not be found in her room. Faith had not seen her. However she was not worried since Charity had the habit of spending most of her time in church alone or with fellow believers. Bargoria bought the idea easily due to the state he had seen Charity in after the class the day before.

The dawn light was already poking holes into the darkness. Bargoria beat himself over and over for being late for the morning devotion endless times. Suddenly, he spotted a black cloth in the dim light. It had blood stains. His pace slowed down involuntarily as he gasped in horror.

Bargoria’s heart thudded heavily as he surveyed his parameters. His tall frame shook and his dark long face went a shade darker. He could no longer feel the cold chill gnawing on his face. He saw something sprawled in the thicket. He moved closer cautiously. It was a body!

Naked. Lifeless.

Bargoria trembled from fright. He recognized the cold face right away. It was Charity. Lying there as cold as steel. Her beautiful face had traces of dreams bigger than death, hopes so vast Bargoria could not fathom its ends. Her whole body spoke of struggle both physical and psychological. Struggle for love, for peace and for life. Tears trickled down Bargoria’s face like a small stream.

A few paces away, Charity’s bible lay open. On the open page, a verse had been shaded lightly using a pencil.

2 Timothy 4:7 I have fought a good fight, I have finished the race and I have kept the faith.


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?

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?.