My name is Michael Muthaka, and I am a writer. I find immense joy in sharing stories whenever I can. I’m constantly trying to find myself within these writings, sometimes I fail. I know I still have a lot to learn, I still have many stairs to climb and doors to open, but for now I’m just having fun with it.
So Rachel Zane walked down the aisle on Saturday. And while I couldn’t be bothered to watch the proceedings I’m happy for the newly-weds. I really am. They have proved to us that fairy tales actually do exist. They’ve shown us the Royal family can stomach Catholics after all.
Their love story reads like something out of a Ladybird series. Hollywood meets Sussex. And as the lovely couple stood at the altar, looking into each other, all mushy and dewy-eyed, the rest of the world held its breath.Read More »
They finally found him. It didn’t matter that he didn’t want to be found. They finally caught him after years of snooping around. Lots of shillings had been poured in the hope of getting him. They had gone round in circles, sticking their noses in malls and coffee shops. They had chased him across town, only to be told that he had left just minutes ago. They had come so close.
But now they found him. He was seated at a clothed table near the exit. He was in the shadows, as only where one would expect him to be–in the background, away from the center.Read More »
Disclaimer: Don’t even bother with this post if all you know about football is Manchester United.
There’s plenty of things to say about 2004. Prezzo was still on our airwaves, telling the fans he loves them, and to the haters: Kuleni sembe, meza wembe. It was the year I’d finally taste a girl’s saliva. And it wasn’t as disgusting as everyone had made it out to be.Read More »
This story starts like most of them, really. I was in a mat. I was drunk. And I was on my way home. I was riding shotgun in a white van. I lost the window seat to a bulky chap whose breath smelt like boiled eggs and smokies. I was wedged between him and the driver.Read More »