I was 15 when I next saw her. I was a young teenager with at least three prominent pimples on his skinny face at any one time. A mass of hormones and confusion. She came to visit on a cold Saturday morning, typical of the month of June in the Kijabe escarpment; a time when …
I attended a funeral when I was about six years old. The younger sister of my classmate, Martin, fell in a well and drowned. On the day of the funeral, dozens of young boys and girls trooped to the nearby Catholic Church. We were dressed in our signature khaki shorts and shirts, and blue sweaters. …
The man laughs maniacally as he hits the keyboard and stares at the screen. He is killing them and he loves it, or rather, he cant control himself. The urges. They will never catch him, he kills as he wills, and they can do nothing about it. They are born when he says they are …
Three intriguing cases made it before the lethargic Kenyan judiciary this week, all three representative of the hypocrisy of our moral (or immoral, if you will) culture, and our pathological tendency to yell generic arguments whenever we are faced with issues that are ‘new’.
A man walks into his home at the end of another long hard day at work.. He doesn’t know why he feels so on edge, or whether there is anything good left in his world. His five boys back at home, waiting to be fed.
To the creative writer, there is something morbidly inspiring about morgues and barstools. Morgues because dead men tell no tales, as the saying goes, and the man looking for inspiration wants to tell tales. Barstools because, well, just barstools.
An adage long past claims that a man has but one day of birth One day during the seasons when he came into this world When he left his mother in pain and agony Screaming for dear life