sunset saga

This is not why I sleep in women’s houses, but it’s also not not why I don’t. See if heaven had another heaven inside it, the inner sanctum, holy of holies, that would be a woman’s bed. First, they ensure their beds are soft because of all the wickedness they [the women, not the bed] carry. And it’s a King-size bed, because every little girl still dreams of being a queen. The mattress is not the one that can break your back—that’s your boss, and no, not in that way. That mattress is like knowing someone in government—or someone who is known in government. And look, men are told many things when they sleep in a woman’s house: “Oh, the owner, the one who pays rent will catch you.” Mara, “A real man will never sleep in a house he doesn’t pay rent”. Anga, “Oh, what will you even wear in her house?” First, I have fallen asleep in Indimanje matatus when they were overlapping at Outer Ring Road while playing high-decibel Jamaican ragga and you think nodding off at a memory foam mattress with

One thing I've constantly wished for and prayed for so much since I began my parenthood journey is the gift of life to be able to raise my human being . Never in my darkest thoughts have I ever imagined leaving my son behind prematurely. He's been my reason to wake up every single day and work off my @$$ so bad. Having a child is like plucking off a piece of you, a whole half of you and throwing it to the world. You must always keep a steady and sobber eye on it lest it get swallowed by this unforgiving world. May we parents have abundant life. May we never leave our angels prematurely and so may our angels never depart before us.  **** They wanted three names when I was registering for my KCPE. I had two; Lucy Wangeci. I said, “Use ‘Jesus’ as the third name - Lucy Wangeci Jesus.” They said, We can’t! I asked, “Why not?” They said, Because it’s Jesus! I said, “But he’s like our father.” Eventually, I picked another name; Irene.  I grew up in an orphanage where I was given thos

You can always smell a newlywed couple even in supermarkets. Not by their honeymoon glow, not even by their gleaming wedding bands which they brandish like a trophy but by the compromises they make to impress, to show the other that this is more for better than for worse. The gent in front of me for example, just bought an entire sack of sunlight detergent, and he did it all with a smile, even though he can’t tell you what it is for. He removed his card and punched it in probably without calculating the amount of beer and nyama choma he could have bought at Kikopey with that cash. And just when he was putting it back, his brand new wife came hobbling with two packets of chicken. She was short and shapely, with yellow braids and even yellower skin. The type you don’t say no to unless you’re blindfolded. She came to the counter panting. Like she had won a marathon or was back from saving the world from inflation. “We forgot these, weh!” she sighed while putting the chicken on the counter