Fancy-A-Drink Friday

Something weird has been happening to me. Every time I press the button on the side of my phone to check the time, the numbers on the clock always read with some kind of uniformity. So maybe I would find myself awake at 3:33am, or I’d be getting home at 18:18, or I’d be getting off the toilet seat at 20:20 on my way down to the dining room for supper.

This has been going on for about three weeks now,Read More »

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Thursday.

If a close relative passes away, there’s generally a lot of work to be done. Between the time you receive the disheartening news and the time the departed is finally laid to rest, a million little arrangements will have to be made. Someone is going to oversee the whole thing, usually an uncle who likes to get on top of things.Read More »

Another Wednesday

To tell you the truth, I don’t feel like writing today. I’ve been sitting here for the past half hour trying to come up with an intro that would fly. And, just like the exam today, I’m drawing blanks. I got home not too long ago, it was already dark and for a few tormented seconds I considered backing out of this thing of posting daily. But I’m not in the business of failing twice in one day.Read More »

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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