SHARDS

Listening to him was like looking at herself in a broken mirror, its edges digging into her hand and her breathe covering its’ surface so that her image was blurred. His brokenness, so much unlike hers except in its very being rang into her ears and sent shivers down her spine resonating in her brain which then seemed paralyzed, unable to believe that somewhere, inside the man she had found unable to talk about anything other than sex was a semblance of feeling – a warped, hopeless deluded one, but one nonetheless…

Stupor (Stupid?)

‘When things morph, they morph’ he would say in between hiccups trying to balance on one leg as though his metamorphosis would make the other vestigial.

English was his measure of adulthood, the wings with which this ugly butterfly (moth?) flaunted nature to the world. If the sentence was complete, without any Kiswahili words thrown in between, the egg had just broken out of the shell…

7 years a prisoner: An abortion story

I am about to have my first abortion. Sorry. I am about to have an abortion. I do not want to give you the wrong impression of me. It is not a thing I plan to be doing every once in a while. It is not on my ‘to do’ list or anything. Become best programmer ever, Climb Mt. Kenya, Kill a foetus… that’s not how it is supposed to be, but, here we are nonetheless…

ON MATURITY AND EMBARRASSMENT

She is not an open book. She is not what would be described as a warm personality especially if what you are going on is the first impression. She is rather like a bad case of malaria, terrible on all fronts except for when you get to read a book or two undisturbed during your bed rest. Then, you learn to rejoice in its silver lining, and maybe, when the fever is gone, wish it back sometime if only for the forbidden joy of a good book. Sometimes even, when by the doctors’ assessment you are as fit as a fiddle, you fake its continuance, often as a headache just to keep at your books before life takes over your sanctum.

CHAPTER II: THE EVENT

…He opened his jar full of drink and let the smell fill the room. The response was sudden. The dark round hut was lit, the beads that separated the room into halves jingled, a wooden window was opened, a dove flew out through the window and a huge man with one eye stepped in front of Bandi…read more…

CHAPTER II, PART II

…Life in Tirakosta was a humdrum. As earlier stated, everything about their culture could be summarized in two words, gossip and jealousy. But culture is almost always a broad perspective. It is usually the concept you can’t quite seem to grasp, the gait of young men and women at the height of adolescence…read more…

CHAPTER I, PART I

If timing was an art, then Hanna Bankuku was the most art-less person that ever lived; always arriving either too late or too early. To start with, she had been born an immature child, which was her first early arrival, and arguably…read more…

Pic-story: Selfies

We burst into laughter, like we had done so many times before. Mary high-fived Kate, Kevin cackled like a witch, Bob bobbed up and down and I…did what I usually do, I faked a boisterous laugh. Ian faked modesty as though he had not just cracked the funniest joke ever. He was a funny man this…read more…

Through her eyes: Dealing with rape

The suffocating rancid odour of something rotten pervaded the room waking her up. The fetor intruded, nearly thick enough to see, causing her to choke and sputter. The potent stink, like sulphuric brimstone, burned her nostrils. It smelled like it had then, like sucking puss out of a festered wound. And yet, it was only…read more…

Church, pretend and barriers OR how I learnt to trust

I moved closer to the window to have a better look. Watching her was always a paradox. Delightful and repulsive.
Today, I am focusing on the good. I resolved.

She went on with her activities as if oblivious of my presence. She said hi to one person, turned and smiled at the next. She laughed at a joke and paused to listen to earnest observations from yet…read more…

All I want to do is dance

My name is Santana Klaus. I am a Kenyan girl. I know that my names do not sound it, but they are what my parents gave me. Sigh! I love to dance and I love to sing. I act pretty well too, as I have been told. Maybe those saying were just biased. Or maybe they have not seen better actors. Either way, they still said it. Sometimes…read more…

The ‘Alehandro’ of she (Part 2)

She watched Kavindu confidently take the seat next to him and begin a conversation without skipping a beat. She cringed a bit jealously wishing she possessed as much courage. She then shifted her concentration to the food stained, once white tables that were now theirs to use. She brushed aside…read more…

Confessions of a convicted murderer

Every good story begins at some point, perhaps at the end of another terrible one. Mine began the day that dad died. His was an untimely death on the hands of armed robbers. Fast, almost painless, as though death itself was having a party when welcoming him home. He believed in heaven, I do not. He was a foolish man, needing the illusion of faith to be able to get through…read more

Of art: fictional stories

She walked to and fro looking confused. She wished there was something she could do about everything. She had not always been like this. She had not even believed that anyone could ever be like this. To her, life had always held quite the deep allure, the promise of a better future, until she met him…read more…