By Bruce Ndung’u

Again. It had happened again. What was the fucking problem?

The dress hugged her. Cleavage peeking out just enough to prove she’s not a man. Her legs were a paradise upon which no hairs could dwell, and her skin a palace with no room for blemishes, but yet, here she was in that same situation again.Read More »


A letter to my father

I have an old picture. It’s of you balancing me on your belly, with my back to the ceiling. I couldn’t have been more than a year old. A steamy cup of tea is on the table with a spoon pierced inside, and the TV is frozen at CNN.

I have a memory. Of me waking you up every night and saying I’m hungry so we can go have tea and bread. I remember how you’d spread one slice with jam and butter on the other. And you’d dip it in tea so I could chew faster and let you go back to bed.

Sixteen, seventeen years later, and I still spread my bread like that.

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