In strict terms, our story begins at Kayole. In the depths of truth and nature. Have you ever asked what laws dictate nature? Nobody knows. My landlord recently repainted his house and renamed it from Hard Work House to Leafy Runda Villa. He said nature is change. Now I no longer live in the old brown apartments even though I still live there. If you get lost you just need to say Runda and they will bring you to the Runda painted green on the front side and red in the ribs and behind. Continue reading “Return To Sender”
Your wife is a serial sadist. Common chaps could have their version but this is the sad truth. The jovial woman who moves with long dresses and who laughs even at flies is a first-rate witch. A devil.
When she meets people she smiles and shows them her white teeth. She hugs strangers and gives a lot to charity. She talks about God so much and says good words to everyone. Except you. Continue reading “Matilda Okwimbikiti”
Keeping quiet is a powerful exercise to the mind. But the girls sitting next to me don’t know anything about this. Over the last hour they’ve howled, cried, shrieked, mooed and I don’t know what else is in store for the remaining distance. I’m traumatised already. Next time I’ll think hard before accepting to sit in a bus next to girls with small painted lips. Instead of planning how to take progress to the village, I’ve been reduced to a man in need of a psychiatrist’s number. Continue reading “Birthday Queen”
There are nights when, for lack of better things to do, I find myself dreaming of peaceful and welcoming streets in this damnation of ours. I dream of spectacular sunsets and warm night breezes and nights where I can see the beauty of the moon and stars in the sky. Sometimes in those dreams I am a towering creature with giant rolls of eyes that rotate over my head and see everything, and an authority which dwellers of this forsakenness revere with all might. Sometimes I am a dwarf, a nobody, but caught in the assurance that I am home and home is good. My soul hovers around assured that as long it is not peeing, dreaming is good. And in this good I see the good of our place.
Yet the city remains what it was in 1496: an untidy, noisy jungle with concrete heights where hearts should have stood. Continue reading “Bound”