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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Long post ahead.

Two Mondays ago, I was in traffic court. I spent the whole day, and I found myself wedged between a boy who really looked like a girl and another boy who smelt of piss and mouth decay. My crime: I didn’t have my seatbelt on. And as such I was putting my life in danger. At least, that’s what the fat policeman who took us in told us.Read More »

The help

By Boris

I used to love the show ‘Fresh Prince of Bel Air’. Will Smith was sort of the big brother I never had. He was this funny charismatic guy who somehow always got his way with the ladies. In that respect I guess you can say Will Smith is the anti- Johnny Bravo.

Will and Geoffrey–the butler– always had this ongoing banter, making fun of everyone in the house. Uncle Phil had his girth, Hillary her ignorance and Carlton for being Carlton.Read More »

Number 2

The death sentence in Arkansas is very much like the one we have in Kenya. It doesn’t work. Instead, you sit in jail doing nothing as you wait for your human system to cave in from all the weevil infested meals. I hear in Kenya the death sentence means you get exempted from doing any community work and so I assume the criminals who are meant to go under the rope must be really bored in there, and that they’re the ones who keep sending fake jackpot text messages to the rest of us free birds.

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You know how you walk past someone in the street and then a little ways further down you stop and think, “Hold on for a cotton-picking minute. I think I know that guy.”? That’s how it was when I first saw Simon King. He had a round innocent face and a grey T shirt and dark jeans, with a bag slung over his shoulders. That day, I was running late to God knows where and I really couldn’t afford to turn back and run after him and say, “Say, si you’re Simon?” At the time, he had just moved from WordPress and onto a self hosted site: thegaps.co.ke

So what I did was, I shot him a DM on Instagram to congratulate him because well, that’s the dream isn’t it? And then the other day I was caught between a deadline and hard place so I asked if he could come on as a guest. He did, and this is what he had to say…Read More »