Sometimes in April

Sometimes when it rains, my mind travels back to the past in a melancholic time capsule. A past that imposes its nostalgia on me every time i come-a-knocking on its door. It’s like opening this closet I keep somewhere in my mind and sack loads of nostalgia come pouring out of it covering me from head to toe.

Matilda Dimples.

The Storymoja monthly short story callouts have been a wonderful experience; this is my third story so far, all of which have been shortlisted after every submission.

Ubuntu: Live and let Live.

Why were we created? What’s our purpose in this life? When Almighty God set us on this earth did He know that we would cause mischief and destroy this lovely planet? Is it human nature to sin, to oppress, to marginalize and kill others? What goes on through the mind of someone while he is taking another’s life?

We have failed you, Madiba!

We all loved Sarafina. Loved, admired and adored her for the active role she played in the movie depicting the struggle for independence in the apartheid period. Love for what she represented- a young South African doing what she could against the oppression meted upon the natives by the Afrikaans. And didn’t we all love the way she sang and danced? My sister in law especially loves the part where she is talking to Madiba through the mirror as if she was seeing him!

Mombasa lovin’

If Maasai Mara is the Kenyan gem hidden in the tranquillity of the vast Mara conservancy, then Mombasa must be the significant noisy other! A tale of two places in one entity but so torn from each other that they appear to be galaxies apart. If they were brothers, Mara would be the elder, suave, collected, decisive one who listens to Jazz and Country music taking extravagant sips of exotic French wine, a sucker for women in high heels too

Once upon a time there was a pit latrine

The rain spluttered away with no evident sign of ceasing anytime soon. Pelts of thunder roared from a distance. I was scared of it, the thunder, made me feel as if the heavens were breaking apart. At times i wondered what would happen if the heavens did break; would the angels fall from up above, hanging on grey clouds for dear life, wings drenched in rain?

For Skirt And Glory.

Men love skirts. That is pretty obvious. It’s never about the design or color of the skirt, men don’t bother with trivial matters like mauve, lavender or a thousand shades of grey. No they don’t. Their fascination with skirts is more intricate

Imagination; supreme master of art.

People on the outside think there’s something magical about writing, that you go up in the attic at midnight and cast the bones and come down in the morning with a story, but it isn’t like that. You sit in back of the typewriter and you work, and that’s all there is to it.