Of exams and a firefighter

It is now a few minutes to 10pm. Sunday. There’s a hot soupy plate of githeri next to me and balls of meat are floating on the broth. I can count the number of beans in this thing. I can hear the fridge hum and the microwave is drowning out the voice of Yvonne Okwara on TV. It’s a slow and chilly night, the kind that makes you want to snuggle up in bed, light incense, and write some dark poetry in a blue notebook. The moon is a sharp crescent and I don’t like how cold the floor feels against the soles of my feet and I’m too lazy to go grab a pair of socks.

We have a new house help, by the way. Read More »

Becoming; the foreskin

By Boris

My last year of primary school was a tumultuous one. It started with me transferring to a new school. A boarding school. A school tucked safely away in Kiserian’s shirt pocket. A school called St. Pats. My parents had decided I needed some ‘boarding school’ experience before I went to high school, which to me sounded like they telling me I was soft or something. Like there was the slightest chance that my sheltered existence of going to private day schools all my life hadn’t toughened me up. But I didn’t mind. I absolutely loved the idea of boarding school.

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