sunset saga

 By Brian Mbanacho " Who is this?" is never a good question to be asked.  Mostly because it's a question only asked when it's clear you are assuming your identity is already known to the other party. Like when you take a girl's number at an event and you even call her so she, too, can have your number, only for her to ask, "Who is this?" when you call her the next day.  Or when the love of your life tells you they need time to work on themselves and so you give them two days because no one needs more time than that to work on themselves, unless they make Chapo-malenge, in which case they should take two weeks. On the third day you WhatsApp her only to be slapped with, "Who is this?"  Kwanza you think it's a joke, so you say, "Surely, it's me!"  "That doesn't say anything. Please introduce yourself properly." "ITS ME!" "And who are you?"  "Your boyfriend." You see her typing but no me

Nala doesn't want to be rude. So, she (begrudgingly) poses for this photo in the KQ 100, Nairobi to London. Nala isn’t going to London. She’s working. Her job is to make sure you don’t carry any form of narcotics in the plane, not in your luggage and not on your person.  She has been in this grind for a hot minute so she has a nose for it. Nothing gets past Nala. Doesn’t matter if you’ve done yoga for years and worked on your breathing, she will look at you and think, that chic with small darting eyes is nervous and she has drugs in the lining cups of her bra. You could say Nala’s got a dogged determination. She works either of two shifts; the 6pm to 9am or 5am to 2pm during which she works on four flights. She prefers the 5am to 2pm shift because she’s a morning person. And because her concentration is not as long as, say a crocodile, she can only do 30mins before she goes out to the grassy patch on the runways to pee and play with a ball. (We have this in common). She didn’t know

Happy are they who have their shirts tucked in by the women they live with. Blessed are the gallant soldiers who were promised chapattis, because women rarely promise things they can't deliver. The rest of us can now go and find out how the trade winds cause el ñino. The thing you imagine during your single days is that, when you finally start living together, she will be coming to the mirror as you tuck in your vest dressing up for work in the mornings and playfully poke your arm with her manicured nails and whisper to you, “I will ask Maria to make chapos and beef stew just the way you want.”   You don't know who Maria is, but you believe her because women rarely make promises they can't fulfill. Well, apart from her telling you to give her your number then she will call you— when you are trying to get her to be your woman. That one you will wait. Because she won't. There are gallant lores of gallant soldiers of our gallant gender that have been promised gallant calls

We want to cook something.  Robert and I want to prepare a meal, only that the kitchen place is still alittle messed up. It's gonna be something I don't know when but the why is so definite.  Today we don't talk much because, on 9/9 a little rebell turned two. A little princess that owns her father. You can already tell that she's everything he ever wanted.  Isn't she Robert? It's a little late birthday wish, but I hope this sends her all the love and blessings the world has for her. Dear Joy, Because without your consent "they" made  you join us, may this jungle we call "home" be your favourite place. Let's journey around the sun   because you have no reason not to. Happy birthday ! To my little munchkin, Happy Birthday baby, Someday when you're grown and know how to read, you'll pass by this page and get these messages from some of my friends. All these were sent on this App we used called WhatsApp back in the day. "Happy

You don't want to miss anything that Biko writes. Because it's Sabbath let's go...  I  wrote about this chap — Steve Muchiri — four years ago. Dunno if you remember him. He had led a life of astonishing tragedy when we met. When he was five years old, his sister who was three died suddenly. He doesn't remember much of that event other than his mom crying all the time. Seven years later - when he was 11 - he got a brother - a small baby brother with chubby feet. He fell sick and died before he turned one.  Three years later his mom — shelled by death — fell sick & died. He was 14 years, yet feeling like he'd been around for decades. "It felt like being buried alive." But thank God he still had his dad. However, the following year his dad got cerebral malaria. He would scream and cry the whole night. One day he told him, "Son I'm going to die but God will take care of you." He died soon after. He was all alone now, drenched by death at 15.

  By Eddy Ashioya  Mombasa is hotter than a pack of titties in a black Gikomba bra. I don’t understand this town. It is rather small but packs quite the ego, like one of those boys who promise you fireworks in bed and end up delivering baruti. I am one of those boys. Most of the buildings are unfinished, a ragtag gang of blocks and structures, sitting side by side like passengers in a crammed Umoinner matatu; this one here stalled because of a court order, that one the owner died, ile paleeeee vijana wa hio familia walikula pesa kwa anasa. In a way these rectangular stones, steeped in humidity, seemed to be a kind of print of their own images, reflecting the ambitions of the people, that it’s okay to fail, as long as you do so spectacularly. There are no birds, just tuktuks and Nissan notes squawking in deep openly humorous voices, and a trash can and a wall breaking into conversation. Hapa Shallo tu, the wall says, and Kazi Kwanza, the trash can beside it quickly responds. Both seem t

If you're into crazy stuff this is a thing for you  cc. Ted Malanda  Our first dates, for those of my generation, were tense. You've gathered 50 bob and taken your babe to some joint. You want to make the best impression, cheat her that you are polished; a gentleman who speaks, dines and wines like one. But who is Satan? The first four mouthfuls go down real smooth. Then God's phone rings.  God: "Yes, Peter. Wozzap?" Peter: "Sorry, My Lord, it's Captain Uria and King David. They are fighting again." God: "Saitan! Kwani where the hell is Samson? He's supposed to keep an eye on those two shenzi types 24/7. And didn't I tell Solomon to sit down his dad and stepfather and tell them to grow up? You guys should learn to solve small problems without bugging me. I have the Cold War, the famine in Ethiopia and lots of other hairy stuff to deal with. Nkt." Peter: "Lord, I haven't seen Samson since that Pharisee slayqueen checked into